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Lu Kim asked for a show of hands, and the hikers unanimously agreed to continue their trek. Charlie noticed Abel’s hand didn’t exactly leap up with enthusiasm, which she chalked up to his hangover. The man was a hurting puppy. Sweat saturated his short-sleeved button-down work shirt—the same shirt she was positive she’d thrown out at least once. And good God, the jeans. The man refused to wear shorts, so his legs had to be sweltering in a pair of Wranglers that were worn to a frazzle around the back hem and bleached out to a blue so light it was almost white. A striation of chalky sweat lines marked his inevitable gimme cap in a historical record of previous sweaty days.
Charlie studied her husband as he unlimbered his backpack and retrieved yet another bottle of water. His eyes had a natural cant that made him appear a little sad and world-weary and as dangerous as a fuzzy stuffed otter.
But she’d seen the other Abel—the one who came out when bad things happened. It was spooky, the way Abel transformed from an amiable, warm, sincere human male into a... war beast. His skin tightened, and his eyes turned hard, glittering, and soulless. The predator surfaced, dominating his features and attitude in a way she found both disturbing and exhilarating. And she was even more disturbed to find it so exhilarating.
A primal force lurked behind her husband’s thin mask of civilization. Charlie sensed it when they made love. She teased it, the way one would court mortality by walking along the parapet of a skyscraper or toying with the lock on a tiger’s cage, testing her control of a dangerous power that could snuff out her life in the blink of an eye—though knowing he never would. Feeling that potency, that barely contained violence held in check by his utter commitment to her, humbled and exalted her in equal measure.
It’s like making love with a werewolf.
People stirred, gathering their packs and retying hiking boots. Ted Pyle, the third of the Leatherneck Legends, joined the group around Yeager. Pyle’s wife, Betty, hovered at his shoulder. Of the trio, unmarried Pettigrew was the fifth wheel. Betty had volunteered to hike the wilderness trail, while Jan Osterchuk had remained aboard the ship for a “mai-tais-and-trashy-romance-novel afternoon.”
“We ready to do this thing?” Pyle asked in the overloud voice of the nearly deaf. Ted had earned the inevitable nickname Gomer while serving in ’Nam during the same era as the television show with Jim Nabors. Gomer had a bald, liver-spotted head surrounded by a fringe of white hair that tufted over both ears. He hunched a little, carried a bowling-ball belly, and regarded the world through watery blue eyes. Two dumbbell-sized hearing aids weighed down his ears and did little to improve his colossal deafness. Betty, a sparrow of a woman with infinite patience, mother-henned him around the ship—a helicopter wife. Charlie had been surprised Gomer had slipped her leash long enough to get drunk with Abel and the other Marines.
Betty patted her husband’s arm. “No need to shout.”
“I’m not shouting!”
Osterchuk, looking like a red-faced polar bear, had parked his considerable butt on the boulder in the spot recently vacated by Abel. He didn’t look well either. “I think I need to sit a bit longer.”
That prompted a visit from Lu Kim, and Charlie tuned out the discussion. She’d known at the outset that the big Minnesotan wasn’t in shape for a hard wilderness hike. Betty Pyle must have had the same opinion. Charlie met the older woman’s eyes and shared a knowing look.
“You guys go on,” Osterchuk said to the activity director. “I’ll catch up. Or if not, I can find my way back to the overlook.”
“I can’t leave you alone, Mr. Osterchuk.” Lu Kim reached for her sat phone. “Let me call the rangers.”
“No, no. It’s okay, really.”
Charlie caught Yeager looking at her. They’d been married less than a year, and they could already read each other’s minds as reliably as two telepaths. She nodded. He winked. Communication sent, received, acknowledged.
“I’ll stay with him,” Abel said. “No need to drag a ranger up here.”
“But—”
“We got this,” Abel said in his staff sergeant voice.
Lu hesitated but hung in there. “The trail is not well marked.”
“If two ex-Marines can’t follow a gaggle of tourists through the woods, we deserve to get lost.”
“In fact, all us geezers will hang here a bit,” Winston announced. He snagged Gomer by the sleeve and tugged him closer to the rail. “Betty, you go on with them others and leave Gomer here with me.”
Betty’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t bring any beer, did you, Winston Pettigrew?”
“No, ma’am, not a drop. Swore off the stuff.”
“Bullshit.” The profanity from the prim white-haired old lady triggered a bark of laughter from Charlie. The two women shared another look, this one roughly translating as, If men didn’t kill spiders, what use would they be? “Let’s go, Charlie Yeager,” Betty said. “Leave these boys to their mischief. Come on, Lu. You’re better off not arguing with them.”
Charlie hugged her husband and found it surprisingly hard to let go. His warm, solid bulk felt so... strong. When she was wrapped in his arms, nothing would get to her. Nothing could harm her. The extended contact set off the familiar tingle below her waistline, and the urge to drag him into the bushes and claim him right there surged up from her belly. She wanted to feel him inside her—to ride the lightning and unleash the thunder.
She shook off her fancy and pulled away. Charlie smiled at the smolder in his eyes. Not only did they read each other’s minds, but they read each other’s bodies as well. It was obvious the same feelings had sparked in him, and his eyes pledged some major fireworks. Later. When they were alone.
A mini-shiver ran up her back. How long is this damn hike supposed to take?
#
THE LAST OF HIKERS trailed out of sight, and Pettigrew fished into the pocket of his windbreaker for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He scorched the tip of a fresh Marlboro faster than Yeager could have triggered off a shot from a single-action revolver. Pettigrew’s nostrils vacuumed up every wisp of smoke, letting none escape until he sighed it out in one long stream.
“Give you credit,” Yeager said. “You waited a whole thirty seconds before firing one up.”
“Twenty-nine seconds too long,” Winston said through another stream of smoke.
That far inland, away from the beach, the air stuck to Yeager’s skin like Scotch tape. Midges raved in clouds of black spots, and party-colored birds played tag through the trees. Wind stirred the upper branches, only occasionally penetrating deep enough into the jungle to breathe across his sweat-soaked shirt and provide a little relief from the muggy warmth. Lu Kim claimed the temperature was unseasonably warm for this altitude.
From another pocket of his jacket, Pettigrew produced a silver flask, sloshing the contents for emphasis. “I didn’t lie a bit. I didn’t bring no beer, but I brought a little hair of the dog, for sure.”
“Gimme that,” Osterchuk said.
Pyle grinned and held out his hand when the big man finished a long pull.
Yeager’s stomach clenched at the thought of more alcohol. He waved it away when Pyle made to hand it to him. “No, thanks.”
Pettigrew snagged his flask out of Pyle’s hand. “Did I ever tell y’all about this little camp whore, turned out to be a Victor Charlie in-feel-traitor?”
Osterchuk groaned. “Not again.”
“She shows up at Firebase Henderson at the cross streets of Fuckall and Jackshit. Middle of the boonies. No pimp. That right there should have been a clue. Not having any better sense, these boys snuck her inside the wire and got her set up inside a tent. Turns out she had a grenade stuffed up her cootch. Three white boys took a turn without noticing a thing, but the first brother that stuck it in snagged that pull ring with his dick.” Pettigrew wagged his head from side to side in pure sadness. “Man, talk about a blow job...”
The groans only seemed to encourage Pettigrew, who proceeded to roll out one dirty story after another. Uncouth, politically incorrect, racist, and in every other way inappropriate for polite company, Pettigrew’s tales always happened to somebody he knew, and he swore they were true, no matter how unlikely.
“I can’t listen to more of this,” Osterchuk groused after a fable that featured a mule and a mildly nearsighted private first class near Da Nang. “I’d rather die on the trail. Let’s move.”
Pyle forged ahead, walking point as if he was born to it, while Yeager stuck close to the big man, who seemed to have recovered his wind. Yeager made Pettigrew take the drag position so he wouldn’t have to eat the man’s smoke. The four of them fell into the rhythm of the march, as natural and smooth as any four-man patrol. No talking. No excess noise at all, for that matter. Walking and breathing, breathing and walking. Yeager let his mind go blank and opened up senses that had been dulled by domestic living for too long.
Because his warrior brain was switched on, he recognized the faint tock-tock-tock of small-arms fire several seconds before his companions. Pyle walked on, oblivious. Osterchuk took several steps before he noticed Yeager had frozen in place and was rotating his head to fine-tune the sound.
Pettigrew approached from the rear. “Who’s shooting? Hunters?”
“Shhh!” Yeager hissed.
The group had been warned not to stray from the trail, as hunters roved the forest for wild pigs and axis deer. But this was no hunter. Unless deer and pigs had armed themselves, hunters would not be shooting at them on semiauto.
Pyle must have noticed everyone had stopped. He wandered back, eyes scrunched in a question. Osterchuk held up a hand to keep him quiet.
“We’re out in the open here,” Pettigrew said, “standing around like a bunch of dweebs. Let’s get off the trail.”
Yeager nodded absentmindedly, his senses dialed up to the max. He led the way into the forest, going right by instinct, in the direction of higher ground. Yeager approved of the way Pettigrew and the others fanned out and advanced in a near-silent heel-to-toe stalking stride.
He froze. From far ahead, attenuated by distance, a very high-pitched, very female scream filtered through the jungle. Yeager broke into run.
#
LANAI RESORT, LANAI, Hawaii
Saturday, 8 May
1201 Local
One Hour, Forty Minutes before Honolulu Bombing
Dave Draper paced the plush carpet of the Lanai Four Seasons ocean-view suite and listened to Ron Gonsalves make excuses. The phone grew warm against his ear, but that was nothing compared to the heat building up from his collar as the manager of his Tustin BMW dealership continued to enumerate the reasons he was a grade-A fuckup.
“And, you know,” Ron said, continuing his litany, “with the construction on I-5, the traffic’s just down, man. We just aren’t getting the walk-in traffic like we used to.”
“You forgot to mention the Orange County economy,” Dave prompted.
“Yeah, you’re right. The economy’s been in the tank for the last three quarters here.” Gonsalves rambled on about all the reasons he wasn’t making his numbers, and Dave listened, more for tone than substance, until his general manager ran out of gas.
He took a breath then let it out. He owned twelve dealerships in and around Orange County, and the Tustin BMW location caused more trouble than the other eleven combined. Sarah Rae had told him Gonsalves was the problem, and though Dave didn’t want to believe it at first, he had to admit his wife was probably right.
Whatever. He was supposed to be on vacation, not listening to this crap. He needed a Pepcid.
“We’ll talk when I get back,” Dave said and disconnected.
Sarah Rae’s voice came from the suite’s bathroom, muffled by the closed door. “Dave? Can you call down to the desk and get some more towels?”
“Sure,” he yelled back then muttered to himself, “Thirteen hundred dollars a night. You’d think they’d have enough fucking towels.”
A commotion in the hallway interrupted him halfway to the room’s phone. Some assholes out there were yelling and banging stuff around. A bunch of fricking college kids, no doubt, though how they could afford the place was beyond him. “You’d think thirteen hundred dollars a night would keep out the trash. Like staying in a goddamn truck stop, this place.”
A banging at the door caught him with the phone still in his hand. He frowned at the distraction, considering whether to go ahead and call or answer the door. The banging repeated with even greater intensity. The solid door rattled in its frame.
“What the everlasting fuck?” Dave growled. “This is too much.”
“Someone’s at the door,” Sarah Rae called out.
“No shit, Sarah Rae. What gave it away?” Dave said under his breath. Crossing the suite, he yelled, “Who is it?”
“Hotel manager,” came a muted voice. “There’s been an emergency.”
Dave swung the security hook off and opened the door... to find a gun barrel stuck up his nose. A broad man with more tattoos than a 38th Street banger shoved his way inside, propelling Dave by the front sight of a semiauto hooked in his nostril. A second man, smaller and wearing a hotel uniform, followed close behind, carrying, of all things, a clipboard and a pen.
“Draper, David C.?” the clipboard holder asked, pen poised in the air. “And Sarah Rae Draper?”
“Wha—w-what do you want?” Dave experienced a sudden and powerful need to empty his bladder. He squeezed down and somehow managed not to piss himself. The pistol-poking Samoan spun Dave around with his free hand and kicked his feet out from under him. Dave’s face ground against the fine-pile carpeting of the Four Seasons. His hands were jerked back and zip-tied together. Sarah Rae was yelling something from inside the bathroom, but Dave couldn’t make it out. His brain was stuck in WTF drive.
Clipboard said, “We want you and your wife to join us for a short stay in the jungle, Mr. Draper. Get the woman.” The last bit, Dave was pretty sure, was addressed to the big man.
“Sarah!” Dave twisted on the floor like a landed fish. “Stay in the—”
Bam! The crash of the giant’s foot into the bathroom door shattered the lock and broke it open. Sarah screamed.
Dave goggled up at Clipboard. “Don’t hurt her!” He meant it to sound tough, but it so whiny and scared it humiliated him.
“Nobody will get hurt,” Clipboard said as the Samoan dragged Sarah Rae into the room. His wife had her pants on but no blouse. Her frothy white bra contrasted with the tan she’d been working on for the last three days. Clipboard continued speaking over Sarah Rae’s blubbering. “No, Mr. Draper, everything will be fine. Cooperate, and everyone will go home safe and sound.”
The Samoan grunted a derisive laugh.