“He does.” Croix’s lips twitched, as if she were fighting a grin.
With some effort, Shee stood from the low-slung Adirondack. “Did you get a name?”
“No.”
“Why not?” asked Angelina, sounding annoyed.
Croix huffed. “Sorry. I got distracted. He was super nice and—” The girl’s pupils floated up and to the right, a tiny smile on her lips as if she were remembering something.
“And what?” asked Shee.
“He’s kind of smokin’ for an old guy.”
“Old? How old?” Shee wondered if Viggo had come to them.
Croix shrugged. “Your age.”
Shee looked at Angelina. “Charming.”
Angelina chuckled. “Cheer up. If you’re old, imagine what that makes me.”
Shee motioned to Croix. “Go distract him. I’m going to go around the front to take a peek.” Croix started to move and Shee snapped her fingers to catch her attention. “Be careful.”
Croix flashed a bemused smile and slipped back inside.
Didn’t listen to a word I said.
Angelina stood. “I’ll go help her.”
“Do you have a weapon handy?”
“Croix has a gun behind the desk. I have one in my room. And if you’re going out front, Bracco has a Walther tucked in the back of his waistband.”
Shee nodded. “Okay. I’ll take a peek and let you know the threat level, if any.”
Angelina sighed. “Things were so calm before you got here.”
“Right. Nothing but headshots, comas and carting around dead guys.”
Shee jogged off the porch and headed left around the building. Reaching the front, she jumped to grab the front porch railing and hoist herself up. Bracco’s head snapped in her direction. She put her finger to her lips and he shifted his gaze forward so as not to draw attention to her.
Maybe the big man didn’t trust her yet, but the guy in the lobby was an even stranger stranger.
The sound of Croix giggling echoed from inside.
Maybe I should have been more specific about how to distract him.
Angelina’s low voice reverberated. More giggles. This time from Angelina.
What the hell?
Shee neared Bracco and the doorman lifted the back of his shirt to flash a Walther PK380 semiautomatic centerfire pistol tucked in the waistband of his khakis.
She nodded her thanks and peered around Bracco to see inside.
Croix’s description hadn’t been wrong. The stranger stood a good six-foot-three, broad shoulders, strong jaw, dimples flashing as he joked with the two women working hard to distract him.
Working really hard.
The man turned, affording her a better look at his face and Shee froze.
Oh my God.
He looked the same.
Older, sure. Bigger, his biceps and chest straining against his polo shirt. But other than that...
Shee swallowed.
Bracco bumped her, looking for instruction and she flinched, having forgotten he was there.
Oh. Right.
She straightened and patted Bracco’s arm to let him know all was well. His hulking form dropped a notch as he stood down.
Shee opened the front door, surprised to find her hands still worked. Attentions turned to her as she entered. The man leveled his gaze on her, his eyes burning a turquoise blue that appeared lit from the inside.
“Hey, Jelly,” he said.
Shee held up her index finger.
“Just a second.”
She walked briskly past him, down the hall, past the breakfast room and into the public bathroom. She hit the first stall’s door so hard it bounced off her shoulder.
Dropping to her knees, she gripped the side of the bowl to throw up.
&&&
Chapter Eighteen
Twenty-seven years ago, Navy Special Warfare Center, Coronado, California
Shee slapped her hand against her thigh. “But I want to at least do the legwork and then—”
Hefting the stack of papers she’d been attempting to commandeer from his arms, Mick took a step back. “No, Shee, you’re not tracking anyone without me. Give you an inch you’ll take a mile.”
“What does that even mean?”
Mick pushed up his reading glasses, looking like a professor on his first day in class. The Navy had diverted him from hunting fugitives to cover for a missing instructor at the Navy Special Warfare Center in Coronado.
Shee’s world was coming to an end.
Her father held her glare with trademark patience. “It means if I let you skip-trace these dirtballs, the next thing I know, you’ll be off trying to capture them.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Yes, you will. I’m not an idiot. I do learn from my mistakes.”
Shee threw her head back so hard it hurt her neck. “That was, like, one time. You can’t stop me now. I’m like a tracking machine.”
He sighed. “Why don’t you take some college courses while we’re here?”
“Yawn. Look. They’ll never know—”
“It’s not about the Navy knowing. I gave you an order and I expect—”
“I’m not one of your sailors!”
Shee pouted. She hadn’t meant for her voice to go shrieky and make her sound like the teenager she was, but Mick was destroying her life.
The heads of students passing Turner Field swiveled their way. She watched her father’s face color and knew she’d crossed a line.
“Not here,” he hissed through gritted teeth. He spun on his heel and strode away from her.
Shee pursued in the hopes of continuing negotiations in a less embarrassing tone, pulling up short as a young man in tan camouflage jogged to intercept her father. The boy saluted before shaking hands.
She cocked her head.
Something about that sailor...
Shee never forgot a face, but something about this particular mug rang familiar and yet not...
She gasped.
Peanut Butter.
The young man standing in front of her father was the boy she’d met in Charleston as a little girl.
Mason.
She eyed him head to toe.
Oh my. Haven’t we filled out?
Peanut Butter stood two inches taller than her father. He grinned, displaying a deep dimple on the cheek she could
