Liz Johnson - SEAL Under Siege

The paper was thick and coarse as she picked it back up. And set it right back down, her heart thumping and ears ringing.

“You’re being silly.” She meant to encourage herself, but it backfired.

She’d been held hostage, had overheard a plot to blow up something and been run off the road. If being silly meant being cautious about the chance of danger, then this was the time for silliness.

Snatching the envelope from the fridge, she punched the numbers into her phone. On the second ring: “L.T.”

“This is Staci.” She quickly added, “Hayes. Staci Hayes.”

She could almost hear the sigh in his voice and see the sag in his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”

“Someone dropped a box off on my front porch this morning, and it has my sister’s return address. But I don’t think she sent it.”

“Why not?”

“She used her whole name.”

“Her whole name?” His tone clearly asked “Are you serious?” even if his words didn’t.

Of course she was serious. “We’ve always gone by nicknames, but the return address has her whole name on it. And it’s wrapped in a brown paper bag, which she’d never use.”

“How big is the box?” His voice picked up like she had his attention.

She held her hand along the side of the box. “About eight inches by eight inches.”

He must have pressed his hand over his phone, but she could still hear his words as he leaned away from it. “Willie G., get Zig and River and the bomb kit. Meet me at my truck in two minutes.”

Her stomach dropped and she scrambled back, tripping over her own feet to get out of the kitchen and away from the unknown threat. Her phone fell from limp fingers and bounced on the hardwood floor.

It squawked at her as her gaze shifted back and forth between the brown box and her black phone. She didn’t have to pick it up. She could just run. Get out of the house and call the police.

Or she could stick around and figure out who was behind her car accident and the most recent unwelcome gift.

Scooping up her phone was as painful as picking up the bomb had been. Whether from the bruise across her sternum or the rush of blood to her head, every one of her muscles throbbed.

“Staci? Are you still there?” L.T. sounded impatient.

“I dropped my phone.”

“Listen.” His tone turned softer than she’d ever heard it, yet he was still completely in control. “I need you to stay calm. Put as much distance as possible between you and that box. But do not go outside.”

She glanced down at her ratty robe. “Why?”

“Do you remember when I got you out of Lybania, and I told you to do everything I said without question?”

She nodded, her gaze still locked on the special delivery.

“Stay with me. You’ve got to do the same thing now. Trust me. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Just go into your bathroom, close the door and get into the bathtub.”

“All right.” Her throat refused to swallow, dry and tight. “Twenty minutes?”

“Nineteen.” Something—probably his truck—roared to life. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“I’m okay. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

He hung up without pomp, but her feet refused to move.

What if the box exploded while she stood there, tearing her home and body to shreds?

The police would find her shrouded in bits of ratty bath robe.

That was enough to get her moving, running to her room and slipping into workout pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And then into the tub.

The porcelain was hard against her back as she pulled her knees up to her chin and waited for her world to explode. She’d never get to be the aunt she wanted to be to her nieces. She’d never even have a chance to get married. She’d never know if there was a man willing to marry her despite what she couldn’t give him.

All because of that man. That man who was planning to bomb her in San Diego was also stealing her future.

She smacked her mouth against the bitterness rising in her heart and squeezed her hands into fists.

The sea-foam-green wall above the sink did nothing to calm her boiling ire, so she pinched her eyes closed and pressed her fists over her ears.

“God, don’t let me be this angry so close to meeting You.”

The words hurt her throat, but she whispered them again and again, praying for a release from the fear intent on inciting her deepest-seated resentment.

“Staci, it’s L.T.” Though his voice came from the direction of the front door, it carried to every corner of her house.

“I’m in here. In the bathroom. Like you said.”

A herd of bison ran through the foyer toward the kitchen, but she didn’t hear anyone approach her haven until the doorknob turned and popped open. Like he had the first time she saw him, Tristan filled the doorway. But this time, he leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms, his blue eyes narrow.

As he stood there, not saying a word, she shifted over and over again, the weight of his gaze making the bathtub even more uncomfortable.

She grasped for something to say. Anything.

But words failed in the face of the man who looked completely at ease while she huddled as far away from the package as she could.

Finally he broke the silence, his voice as casual as if they were making small talk in a church foyer. “What time did it arrive?”

“Um...” There was too much going on. How could she be responsible for remembering the details, too? She pinched her eyes closed and tried to remember. “Maybe ten minutes before I called you.”

“All right.”

After the short exchange, the silence physically hurt, pressing on her shoulders as she waited. Even if she had no idea what she was waiting for. “Before, on the phone, you told me not to go outside. Why?”

He glanced behind him before responding. “Any assassin worth his salt would wait around to make sure his delivery did its job. You’d have been a sitting target outside.”

“Oh.” The word had no volume, just wide eyes and an open mouth. “Did you see him when you got here?”

L.T. shook his head. “We did a quick sweep, but didn’t see anything unusual.” He shrugged a shoulder, his brown T-shirt stretching tight around the muscles in his arms. “Who knows? Maybe it’s nothing.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe she was overreacting.

Except he’d rushed over with a team of SEALs.

He didn’t really think it was nothing.

“L.T.,” one of the men called from the kitchen.

L.T. turned his back to her, but didn’t move toward the kitchen. “What is it?”

“A pipe.”

The taut muscles of his back flexed, but his voice didn’t change pitch. “Take care of it.”

“Will do.”

When he turned back toward her, L.T. still wore a Sunday-morning-church expression, calm and easygoing. “Do you want to scoot over?”

Her heart hammered, shaking every part of her. “Why? What’s a pipe?”

“Just move over.” He waved her to the side.

She slid toward the drain and faucet and he stepped into the tub, sinking down and somehow folding his long legs into the cramped space. His face twisted when he was finally in place, his shoulder just three inches from hers.

“Are you scared?” She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

“No.” So nonchalant. So confident. “But I figured you might be getting lonely in here. And if that thing explodes, I want to be right by your side.”

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