Even a year later as he lay in the comfort of his hotel bed in historic downtown Charleston, Ramon Chavez could still taste the mud of the collapsed tunnel pummeling him. Even with the luxury of the high-class accommodations he’d sprung for, he couldn’t rid himself of the suffocating stench of fear as he’d clawed his way through to daylight. Having people think he’d died proved quite beneficial, however. He could move around with stealth to gain his revenge on those who’d caused him such pain.
One person in particular topped his list, a woman who had emasculated him, stolen his honor by taking him down in a fight. Honor, his manliness, those were everything to him and until he killed Nola Seabrook, he couldn’t regain his true self.
Once Rick DeMassi’s daughter had arrived, Ramon thought he would have a new tool to torture them, then…poof. They’d disappeared. His frustration had grown since that Rick had lost him with his fancy driving techniques. Where were they while he cooled his heels?
Ramon clicked off the remote control and tossed it aside onto the end table. He still couldn’t believe his bad luck in seeing the teenage girl from the diner in Texas show up here. What if she remembered him? If she saw him here and recalled him from before, the mention could set off alarms to Nola and her friend. Time to lie low and quit trying to follow them around.
He snorted. A convenient plan since he’d lost them anyway.
Still, he could set some additional traps in place for the final showdown, because eventually, they would have to return home. And when they did he would be ready for Nola.
This time away had actually played right into his hands.
Ramon grabbed the other pillow and stuffed it under his head, simply for comfort, not because his body nearing sixty years old was starting to creak. He kept in prime condition with workouts in the hotel gym and swimming pool.
He wouldn’t underestimate Nola as he had in South America. She was a strong woman. This time, he would weaken his opponent. He didn’t know where they were now, but he did know—thanks to his skill at charming a secretary in Nola Seabrook’s squadron—that her unit had planned a Thanksgiving weekend party at a local hangout, Beachcombers Bar and Grill. He only needed to poison Nola with a mild dose, just enough to slow her and dip the odds in his favor so she couldn’t fight back so fiercely.
This time, he would accept nothing but total victory. And he would take down anyone who stood with her.
Chapter 13
Keeping his emotional distance from Nola proved tougher and tougher when she looked so damn hot. Rick lounged against the dock outside of Beachcombers Bar and Grill and watched her throw back her head and laugh with her flyer pals.
The Saturday-night noise swelled with the engagement party for the Squadron Commander, Carson Hunt, and his fiancée Nikki Price. Her friends made him feel welcome, but he could only take so much of this world before he needed to pull his head together.
He could take a free moment for himself, knowing his daughter was safe with Nola and all her crew dog buddies at the party. Nola had kept his daughter glued to her side regardless of where she went and musical Lauren would enjoy the band pulsing away beach tunes.
Meanwhile, the water called to his soul, moonlight stretching a silvery channel for him to swim, to slice his arms through for hours on end. The ocean, the place where he’d felt most in control since he was a teenager diving into the surf to drown out the sound of his arguing parents. His ability to swim had stayed with him, even after the accident. In rehab he’d been able to outswim his therapists. The discovery had been a bright spot during months of hell.
Memories rained down on him like the gentle mist falling from the sky. Of dropping out of a helicopter into a stormy ocean to rescue an unconscious fighter pilot who’d ejected. Icy water, waves engulfing him.
He’d lost count of how many he’d lifted free over the years.
A thud, thud, thud on the dock interrupted his thoughts. He glanced over his shoulder and saw one of Nola’s crew members walking toward him, the in-flight mechanic…Rick searched for the guy’s name and could only come up with his call sign. Mako.
Mako called, “Hope you don’t mind if I join you.”
More like Nola must have sent the guy to look out for him and make sure he felt included.
“Just checking out this peaceful place.” It was all he could do not to dive off the dock right now. With any luck the storm clouds overhead would open and churn up the ocean for a wilder ride. “Great spot for fishing.”
“Peace is in short supply these days for us folks in uniform.” The easygoing guy pulled up alongside him and leaned against the dock, drinking his beer.
“Not for me. I’m out of the field for good.” When would that get easier to say?
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir anymore. These legs won’t be holding me up out in the field.” But in the water he could hold his own. Except his job called for more than the water.
“Whatever, sir.”
They shared a laugh, then clanked drinks together—his soda, Mako’s beer. Rick sure could have used one but couldn’t afford to dull his senses so he settled for a plain Coke tonight.
“For an easygoing guy, you’re surprisingly stubborn, Sergeant.”
“That’s what my mama says.” Mako rolled his beer bottle between his hands. “You earned the sir for life. No bum leg’s gonna take that away.”
Rick grunted, flicking a shell from the dock railing into the murky water below. Plop.