Chapter Twelve
“The stellar universe is not so difficult of comprehension as the real actions of other people, especially of the people with whom we are in love.”
Shannon grinned playfully at Nathan, both of them still panting with effort. “Don’t try to tell me you learned that in
“All work and no play makes Nathan a dull bodyguard.” Tanaka leaned back into the pillow, looking more relaxed than Shannon thought she had seen him since they’d met. She had to chuckle at the way a lock of his coal- dark hair was standing straight up at the top of his head; he looked more like a middle manager in an electronics firm than a trained assassin.
The room was cool and dark, and Stark felt a shiver run through her from the perspiration condensing on her bare skin. She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and huddled beneath it. She could feel Nathan’s bodily warmth beside her, but not a centimeter of his skin touched hers, as if they’d been sparring and he’d carefully retreated to a neutral corner. Not that it had seemed impersonal, or cold: their lovemaking had been surprisingly friendly, as if they’d been old lovers who’d run into each other on the street and slipped into bed once more for old time’s sake. But Tanaka was a man who’d been alone for a long time, and that had created barriers that one moment of tenderness wasn’t about to penetrate.
But beyond that friendliness and familiarity, she’d also felt something she’d never experienced before in connection with sex: guilt. It seemed so strange. Had Jason gotten to her that badly? She shook her head, deciding the question wasn’t worth dwelling on until she knew whether McKay was still alive. She’d never been one to agonize over things beyond her control.
“What are you thinking about?” Tanaka asked curiously, leaning over to look her in the eye.
“I was just wondering,” she lied, “whether you had any energy left after that stellar performance?”
“Of course,” he said confidently, one finger carefully tracing the soft skin of her shoulder as if she were a piece of fine china. “All the members of my clan have been trained to draw on their
“Sounds like a load of mystical Asian bullshit to me.” She cocked a skeptical eyebrow, taking a playful peek under the sheets.
“Are you questioning the teachings of my clan?” he protested with mock indignation, pulling the linen barrier back over his privates. “How can I respond to such doubt?”
“Prove it,” she challenged, her right hand grasping him roughly. “Right now.”
“Ah, a women after my own heart.” Nathan rolled on top of her, arms enfolding her as an involuntary gasp escaping from her lips.
“Lieutenant Stark!” A violent pounding on the door accompanied the insistent voice of Jock Gregory. “Lieutenant Stark, are you in there?”
Nathan raised up, propping himself on one elbow and staring at the door in disgust.
“I could kill him and be back in bed in five seconds,” he offered, only half joking.
“Duty calls,” Shannon sighed, patting him on the shoulder as she hopped out of the bed, reaching for her clothes.
“Duty,” Nathan repeated, rolling resignedly onto his back. “I should really learn to keep my advice to myself.”
“Lieutenant Stark?” Jock called again, knocking persistently.
“Just a minute,” Shannon called, quickly slipping into the first clothes that came to hand—the shorts and T- shirt she’d removed so hastily earlier in the evening. Pulling the door open a crack, she found Jock standing in the hall, shifting from one foot to another like an eager child bursting with some important secret. “This had better be important, Jock,” she intoned, fixing him with an annoyed stare.
“Ma’am,” he said, a grin nearly exploding on his face, “there’s something you just gotta see.”
“Jock, I really don’t like surprises.”
“You’ve gotta come with me, Ma’am,” he insisted, still fidgeting excitedly. “Please, just trust me, you’ve got to see this!”
“All right, all right.” She rubbed a hand tiredly across her eyes, suddenly feeling the aggregate fatigue from the lack of sleep, her martial arts workout and her and Nathan’s lovemaking. “But this had better be good.”
She slipped carefully through the half-open door, not wanting to provide grist for the enlisted rumor mill, then quickly shut it behind her as she joined Jock in the dimly-lit hallway.
“What the hell’s going on out here?” Stark and Mahoney spun at the voice of Glen Mulrooney as he emerged from another of the small bedrooms, dressed only in boxer shorts, blinking groggily.
“You should come with us, too, Mr. Mulrooney.” Jock grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him into the corridor. “Come on, you’re going to want to see this!”
So they moved down through the shelter’s guest quarters, picking up Captain Trang along the way, like some kind of insomniac Conga line. The control center was dark and unoccupied, but Jock didn’t slow down to turn on the lights, ignoring Mulrooney’s pained curses as he stubbed his toe on a chair. Shannon could see the lights and hear the activity in the entrance bay even before they reached the double-doors that led into it, and something deep in her gut began whispering a suspicion that made her heart beat quicker.
Then Jock pushed those doors open, revealing Shannon’s little voice as prophetic. Parked in the jarringly empty space that had once held the Marines’ scout car and APC was a beat-up, dirt-coated utility rover, its windshield splintered and webbed with cracks and bulletholes, its body panels dented and scratched. Gathered around the car were a group of combat-suited Marines, their helmets tucked under arms or dangling from the barrels of their rifles. For a moment, Shannon was confused, her tired brain wondering how there could have been any more Marines on the planet—she had a brief notion that they’d been rescued. Then one of the men turned and his ebon skin and chiseled features came into focus.
“Gunny Lambert!” she blurted, her eyes wide with disbelief. She was frozen in her tracks, stunned at the sight of the big Marine, at all of them clustered around the open doors of the car, the whole team which had been in the APC she’d seen destroyed. All except Bobby Comstock, the driver.
“Howdy, ma’am,” the big man said with a face-splitting grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“But how?” Shannon shook her head.
“That stupid heroic bastard Comstock,” Lambert explained, expression sobering. “He kicked us all out of the car and took it out to decoy their fire. Saved us all. We had to hike back into Kennedy during the night, sleep during the day.”
“Where’d you find the car?” Shannon wondered, eyes travelling over the vehicle and seeing, for the first time, a slight Hispanic woman that she recognized as Carmella Mendoza, leaning against the car, her children huddled against her. “And where did you find
“Well,” Lambert drawled, the smile finding its way back onto his face, “we happened to run into a few friends in the city.”
Feeling a sudden sense of urgency, Shannon pushed through the crowd of bodies that separated her from the open side doors of the vehicle, not seeing the knowing looks from the Marines as they moved out of her way. Sitting in the front seat of the rover was Valerie O’Keefe, her clothes torn and soiled, her eyes vacant and seemingly oblivious to everything around her. Shannon barely noticed the woman. Her attention was focussed on the car’s other occupant. Propped up in the back seat, his shirt stripped away, his torso wrapped tightly in a red-stained field bandage, was Jason McKay. Her breath caught at the sight of the wound, and she thought for a moment that he was unconscious, but his eyes fluttered open and his head came up, a smile struggling its way onto his face.
“You…” he whispered hoarsely, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. “You’re beautiful.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lieutenant.” The light tone of her words was betrayed by the break in her voice as she slid into the back seat beside him. “Are you okay?” She brushed a sweat-matted lock of hair out of his eyes as she ran her fingers gently over the bandage on his side.
“He’ll be fine,” Sergeant Lambert assured her. “It was a clean, through-and-through wound, and we caught it
