up with a hell of a lot as a Navy wife. As they both were fond of saying, it was a damn good thing she loved him. A bumper sticker seen frequently on automobiles in the Norfolk area told it all: "Navy Wife—It’s the toughest job in the Navy!”
The separations were the worst, especially the unexpected ones that began with a phone call in the night. More often than not, he hadn’t even been able to tell Meagan where he was going, and only rarely could he say when he’d be coming home.
Somehow, though, she always seemed to know. Combat vets weren’t the only ones to know and use that sixth-sense instinct.
Off the bridge now, he took the Northampton Boulevard exit, escaping the slow-moving base traffic on 64 and swinging into the suburban arrays of neat homes and small yards along Cape Henry Street not far from the spires of Virginia Wesleyan College. He turned the Alliance into his driveway, set the brake, and got out.
A C&P van was parked across the street. He wondered if the neighbors were having phone problems. Nearby were several motorcycles he didn’t remember seeing before.
Curious. This was a quiet neighborhood, usually— quiet if you discounted the fact that it lay under the traffic approach lanes to Norfolk International. Pocketing his car keys, he strode up the flagstone walkway, opened the front door, and stepped inside.
"Hey, Meg!” he called, walking into the living room. "Where’s my lover?”
Then something smashed against the base of his neck, catapulting him forward onto the carpet, red-shot blackness exploding inside his skull.
Somewhere, very far away, someone was screaming.
Drake blinked through waves of pain, trying to clear his head, trying to see. He knew he’d been unconscious, but he had no way of knowing how long. He was lying face down on the living room carpet, the nap of the rug pressed uncomfortably against his cheek and nose. He tried to move and felt the cold pinch of steel against his wrists. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and his ankles were pinned by something tough, rope or tape of some sort.
"Well, well,” a voice said from above and behind him. "Our SEAL friend is alive after all!”
The voice was familiar . . . and a growing, surprised horror gnawed its way up from the pit of Drake’s stomach. Ignoring the pain in his head, he rolled to the side until he could prop himself up on one elbow, and found himself looking up into a well-known face.
"Esposito!” The last time he’d seen the DEA man had been in the jungle clearing, seconds before the helicopter opened fire on the snowdrop SEAL team. "You’re . . . dead!”
He realized as soon as the words were out how silly that sounded. If Esposito was alive, here, it could only mean that he had been in on the Colombian ambush. Drake had not, after all, actually seen the man killed.
"As they say, my friend, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Esposito said, rubbing his mustache. "Unfortunately, I’m afraid that yours will not be.”
"Chris!”
Meagan’s voice!
He wrenched himself around, horror mounting. There were four other men there, seedy, gutter-slime types in biker jackets and gang colors. Two, at least, had MAC-10 subguns. They were standing in the archway that connected the dining room with the living room. One held Meagan from behind, one arm pressed across her chest. Another held Stacy. Both mother and daughter had their hands tied behind them and were struggling against their captors.
"Meagan!” he gasped. "Stacy!” He twisted around to face Esposito. "You bastard! Let them go! Whatever your problem is, it’s with me, not them!”
Esposito continued smiling, his handsome Latin face maddeningly out of reach. "It’s a shame to have to involve your wife and daughter, I know. I’m truly sorry it has to be this way. But we have to make your death look accidental, you know.” He chuckled. “‘Accidental’ may be the wrong word. Let’s say . . . 'misleading.’
The separations were the worst, especially the unexpected ones that began with a phone call in the night. More often than not, he hadn’t even been able to tell Meagan where he was going, and only rarely could he say when he’d be coming home.
Somehow, though, she always seemed to know. Combat vets weren’t the only ones to know and use that sixth-sense instinct.
Off the bridge now, he took the Northampton Boulevard exit, escaping the slow-moving base traffic on 64 and swinging into the suburban arrays of neat homes and small yards along Cape Henry Street not far from the spires of Virginia Wesleyan College. He turned the Alliance into his driveway, set the brake, and got out.
A C&P van was parked across the street. He wondered if the neighbors were having phone problems. Nearby were several motorcycles he didn’t remember seeing before.
Curious. This was a quiet neighborhood, usually— quiet if you discounted the fact that it lay under the traffic approach lanes to Norfolk International. Pocketing his car keys, he strode up the flagstone walkway, opened the front door, and stepped inside.
"Hey, Meg!” he called, walking into the living room. "Where’s my lover?”
Then something smashed against the base of his neck, catapulting him forward onto the carpet, red-shot blackness exploding inside his skull.
Somewhere, very far away, someone was screaming.
Drake blinked through waves of pain, trying to clear his head, trying to see. He knew he’d been unconscious, but he had no way of knowing how long. He was lying face down on the living room carpet, the nap of the rug pressed uncomfortably against his cheek and nose. He tried to move and felt the cold pinch of steel against his wrists. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and his ankles were pinned by something tough, rope or tape of some sort.
"Well, well,” a voice said from above and behind him. "Our SEAL friend is alive after all!”
The voice was familiar . . . and a growing, surprised horror gnawed its way up from the pit of Drake’s stomach. Ignoring the pain in his head, he rolled to the side until he could prop himself up on one elbow, and found himself looking up into a well-known face.
"Esposito!” The last time he’d seen the DEA man had been in the jungle clearing, seconds before the helicopter opened fire on the snowdrop SEAL team. "You’re . . . dead!”
He realized as soon as the words were out how silly that sounded. If Esposito was alive, here, it could only mean that he had been in on the Colombian ambush. Drake had not, after all, actually seen the man killed.
"As they say, my friend, the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Esposito said, rubbing his mustache. "Unfortunately, I’m afraid that yours will not be.”
"Chris!”
Meagan’s voice!
He wrenched himself around, horror mounting. There were four other men there, seedy, gutter-slime types in biker jackets and gang colors. Two, at least, had MAC-10 subguns. They were standing in the archway that connected the dining room with the living room. One held Meagan from behind, one arm pressed across her chest. Another held Stacy. Both mother and daughter had their hands tied behind them and were struggling against their captors.
"Meagan!” he gasped. "Stacy!” He twisted around to face Esposito. "You bastard! Let them go! Whatever your problem is, it’s with me, not them!”
Esposito continued smiling, his handsome Latin face maddeningly out of reach. "It’s a shame to have to involve your wife and daughter, I know. I’m truly sorry it has to be this way. But we have to make your death look accidental, you know.” He chuckled. “‘Accidental’ may be the wrong word. Let’s say . . . 'misleading.’
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