Depth of Field

 

by Kate

 

A little darker in spots than normal for me but I generally do at least one fic like this per fandom I visit. This takes place fourth season and would follow somewhere after my fic “Ageless.” Thanks as always to Theresa, Liz and Diane K. Comments can be sent to veniceplace12@verizon.net

 

In photography, Depth of Field can be defined as focusing on a single plane of depth while there is usually an additional area in focus behind and in front of that plane. This is depth of field.

 

 

Admiral Harriman Nelson stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and considered packing it in for the night. As usual, he’d lost track of time, immersed in his latest project. He’d barely managed a grunt when Angie stuck her head in his office several hours ago to say goodnight. At least he’d thought it was several hours ago, but now realized it was closer to six.

 

Pushing from his desk chair, he wedged his hands in the small of his back, standing to stretch his muscles. He crossed to the windows and opened the blinds, greeted by his reflection in the night-blackened glass. From what he could see NIMR’s parking lot was deserted, the sole exception his gray Mercedes. Time to pack it in. It was after 2200 hours, and the acid in his stomach told him he’d reached saturation point for cold coffee and cigarettes. 

 

Gathering up the papers he’d been working on, he stuffed them into an accordion folder then dropped the whole thing in his briefcase. It was nothing earth shattering - - a detailed comparison of dive times, equipment costs and functionality - - but he’d wanted to complete the assessment by the time Lee and Kowalski returned from Sickle Hill tomorrow afternoon. He’d sent Seaview’s captain to investigate a manufacturer of what promised to be cutting-edge diving equipment, a contractor who’d been wooing the Institute for some time. Lee had taken Kowalski along for a second opinion since they usually worked dives together.

 

Deciding he could always continue reviewing the files at home where it was bound to be more comfortable, Harry threw his coat over his arm, grabbed his cap and briefcase and switched off the light. He paused outside the office door to fish his keys from his pocket, caught off guard when something cold pressed against the back of his neck. It took him only a second to register the barrel of a silencer-equipped gun.

 

“No sudden moves, Admiral.” The voice was unfamiliar, coolly methodical.

 

Harry tensed but didn’t turn. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

 

A soft chuckle. “With great difficulty. Don’t worry. Your gate guard isn’t likely to remember much of anything other than dozing off for a few minutes. The rest of your security force was harder to evade, but I managed. I don’t want bloodshed if I can avoid it.”

 

That, at least, was promising. “What do you want?”

 

“Cooperation. Turn around. Slowly.”

 

Harry did as instructed, noticing he was right about the silencer-equipped automatic. He didn’t recognize the man who held it, but that didn’t mean anything. The Institute’s connection to the Navy and, by default, the U.S. Government meant they were often targeted by unscrupulous forces. The man who confronted him now was of average height, sturdily built, with a square face and slick-backed dark hair.

 

“We’re going for a walk down the hall, and you’re going to unlock Captain Crane’s office,” the man told him.

 

Lee? The connection caught Harry by surprise. “Why would I do that?” 

 

A flash of irritation crossed the man’s face. “Because if you don’t, Admiral, I’ll kill you.”

 

Harry had been in enough perilous situations to recognize the boast wasn’t an idle bluff. For the moment, the odds were stacked against him. He had no idea what the man wanted in Lee’s office but intended to find out. Doing what he could to buy time, he led the way down the hall. Once inside Crane’s office, the man pulled the blinds and switched on the overhead light. Removing a pair of handcuffs, he motioned Harry to stand beside a five-drawer file cabinet. 

 

“Give me the key to the cabinet,” he instructed.

 

“I don’t have it. Crane does.”

 

Once again the irritation was there, flaring rapidly this time. “You have your own key, Admiral. Don’t try my patience.” To emphasize the point, he raised the gun. The hardness of his face told Harry he’d used the weapon many times before and would have no qualms doing so again. 

 

“The small gold key,” Harry said, surrendering his key ring. He watched as the man opened the top drawer and rummaged through it. “It would help if I knew what you’re looking for.”

 

“It doesn’t concern you.” The man finished quickly with the remaining drawers, then snapped one cuff around Harry’s wrist, locking the other through the metal handle of the top drawer. He crossed to Lee’s desk and continued the search, single-minded in his hunt. 

 

Harry watched with a growing sense of bafflement. He couldn’t think of anything related to the Institute or Seaview that Lee had been involved in that would warrant this kind of intrusion and search. At least not recently. That left two other possibilities - - personal or ONI. Given Lee’s connection to the Navy’s Intelligence branch, Harry was inclined to favor the latter. But Lee had noticeably backed off on assignments, especially since becoming engaged to Alyssa Halston. The last time he’d worked as an active operative had been a good six months ago and that assignment had, thankfully, wrapped without issue.

 

Failing to find what he wanted in Lee’s desk, the dark-haired man moved to a matching credenza and started his search over again. It took only a few minutes before he cursed and straightened, glaring in Harry’s direction. “Where else does Crane keep his files . . . something he doesn’t want anyone to see?”

 

“Take a look around you,” Harry snapped. “You ransacked the whole office. There is nothing else.” Even as he snarled the words, he couldn’t help wondering what Lee had gotten himself involved in this time. What the hell was the man looking for?

 

The intruder held his gaze as if trying to gauge how truthful he was being. Finally, he turned back to Lee’s desk, picked up the phone and punched out a rapid series of numbers. There was a slight pause as someone answered on the other end.

 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the man spoke into the phone. “It’s not here.”

 

Another pause as he listened. “Understood. What do you want me to do with Nelson?” And finally: “Yes, Sir.” The man hung up the phone, then turned again to Harry. He took something from his pocket - - a small pistol similar to a derringer. “The boss says you’re going for a ride.” He smiled for the first time, his face contorting with vulture-like pleasure as he pulled the trigger. “This will keep you cooperative.”

 

Harry jerked at the stinging sensation of a small dart embedding in his shoulder. He dropped his eyes even as the first flush of the tranquilizer hit him.

 

“Don’t worry, Admiral,” he heard the man chuckle through the haze of the drug. “You’ll be seeing your captain soon.”

 

**********

 

Rick Kowalski fidgeted.

 

The cell stank of sweat, urine and fear. After five hours in the bowels of the old tower, he should have been used to it, but the reek lodged in his gut like a plug of sour tobacco. There was no cot in the circular prison, just a wafer-thin mattress tossed in a corner. It smelled of vomit and body odor and something that reminded him of spoiled meat. He avoided it, sitting instead on the block floor, his back pressed to a roughly-hewn stone wall. If he had to guess he’d say the tower had stood well over a hundred years, hidden by rugged wilderness. 

 

He couldn’t remember all the details of how he’d ended up in the dismal place, just that he and Captain Crane had been headed back to Santa Barbara when their car was forced off the road. Kowalski had been doing the driving, using a Lincoln from the Institute Motor Pool. He and Crane had just finished two days of testing new scuba gear from a lab in Sickle Hill. As the captain’s regular diving partner, Crane had asked him along to work in tandem as a team. They’d been halfway back to NIMR when the trouble erupted.

 

The day had dawned gray and bleak with a cloud-laden sky and chilling drizzle. Crane had roused him out of bed at 5:00 a.m. and they were on the road by 6:00. The drive back to NIMR took them on a winding stretch of road over rocky cliffsides and through dense thickets of trees. Eerily deserted, the stretch wound through increasingly craggy terrain, the surroundings void of anything hospitable. Ski couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a store, restaurant, gas station or even a house. Passing cars were a rare occurrence on the lonely stretch of road, making him long for the sprawling streets of Santa Barbara.

 

“I sure would hate to break down around here,” he commented. Distracted by a flash of chrome in the rearview mirror, he grinned. “Hey, look at that. We aren’t alone after all, Skipper.” 

 

The Lincoln banked through a curve, followed closely by a dark green El Camino. Crane twisted in his seat to glance behind him.

 

Outside, the drizzle continued, a faint mist that turned the roadway as slick as the rain-oiled windshield. The wipers snicked back and forth, creating a rhythmic thwick-thwack above the hum of the heater. Within seconds, the Chevy loomed closer. Ski barely registered the change before the front end of the El Camino rammed his bumper. The car lurched beneath the impact, bucking him forward in the seat.

 

“What the...?” Crane swiveled again to look over his shoulder.

 

“Hold on, Sir.” Kowalski hit the brake then immediately changed tactics, jamming the gas pedal to the floor. The engine roared as the Lincoln shot forward on the slick road, banking through a tight S-turn. In the rearview mirror, the grill of the Camino surged closer. “Looks like we’ve got company,” he said tightly. 

 

He didn’t stop to consider they were on a routine mission that shouldn’t have warranted any greater interest than watching paint dry. Instead he focused on the danger, fighting the steering wheel through hairpin turn after hairpin turn. The big car didn’t handle like his Javelin, responding sluggishly when he jerked hard on the wheel. He couldn’t really make out the features of the men in the Camino, but knew there were two. 

 

The Chevy hit him again and the Lincoln veered off course, its right-side tires spewing loose gravel from the shoulder of the road. Ski felt the rear end fishtail dangerously behind him. He caught an eyeful of a steep embankment, rocks and trees dipping into a ravine several hundred feet below. With effort, he brought the car back under control.

 

“Who the hell are those jerks?”

 

“Just keep it steady, Ski,” Crane said, trying to get a make on the occupants of the car. He fished in the glove box for a sidearm, but Ski hadn’t bothered to check one out. It had only been a drive to meet with an equipment vendor, not one of Crane’s clandestine ONI missions for crying out loud!

 

“On your left,” Crane warned.

 

Like a demon-possessed object from a cheap horror movie, the shiny grill of the Chevy materialized in Kowalski’s side-view mirror. He waited a beat, letting the oversized car draw abreast. Just as its nose inched past his door, he jerked the wheel to the left, battering the Lincoln into the other vehicle. The steering column shuddered at the impact, but he held the wheel locked, propelling the Lincoln across lanes, forcing the Camino off the road. At the last second, the driver of the Chevy braked. As soon as the Lincoln was past, the man accelerated again, ramming the big car from behind. 

 

Ski spun the wheel, trying to keep to the road, but the rear end fishtailed behind him, careening out of control. “Hold on, Skipper!” he yelled, feeling the tires skate on the rain-slicked asphalt. He hit the brake hard, unable to stop the perilous momentum. The El Camino hit him again, and this time the car dipped over the edge, plummeting down the embankment. Trapped, Ski was thrown upward at the impact, his head painfully banging against the roof as he jammed down on the brake. The nose of the Lincoln bounced then plowed into the earth, shoveling up gravel, stone and grass. The front end buckled like a toy, caving mid hood. Thrown against the steering column, Ski felt an explosion of pain rip across his chest. His head snapped back and, for a moment, he almost blacked out, thick globs of darkness sprouting before his eyes. 

 

Stillness washed over him, broken by the harsh sound of his own breathing . . . the tinkling noise of settling gravel . . . the loud screech of tires as the El Camino bulleted off into the distance.

 

“Skipper . . .”  Shaken, Ski reached across the seat, clutching Seaview’s captain on the shoulder. Bowed over the dash, Crane sat forward, his arms wedged into the space beneath the windshield.

 

“I’m okay,” he mumbled thickly. He leaned backward, a small splotch of blood visible just below his hairline. A red trickle ran from the cut, curving along his jaw in a spidery trail. Gingerly, he fingered the wound, his eyes on Ski. “You?”

 

“I’m fine, Sir.” It wasn’t exactly true but close enough. Ski worked his jaw with one hand, trying to decide if it had been dislocated. He gave Crane a nod, and of one accord, they popped the doors, crawling from the damaged car. Slanted forward, its nose buried in the ground, it took everything he had to force the door open. He practically fell from the driver’s side, pitching to his knees on the wet, rock-strewn soil.

 

“Come on...” Crane clutched him by the jacket, forcibly propelling him uphill away from the Lincoln. It was unlikely the gas tank was in danger of blowing, but neither man wanted to take chances.

 

Kowalski scrabbled on the hillside. The pitch of the climb kept him mostly bent over, his shoes slipping on the rocky slope, hands fumbling for purchase among jutting clumps of wet grass. Occasionally, Crane would grip him beneath the arm or latch onto his jacket, holding him upright when he would have stumbled. He could hear the ragged breathing of the dark-haired captain and knew it was a match for his own. While he was in jeans, denim shirt and deck shoes - - the crew’s standard off-boat uniform- - Crane was in full khaki, minus his cap. Ski wasn’t sure how he managed the climb in his slick-soled dress shoes, but he made Ski feel clumsy by comparison. Had to be all that ONI training, the rating mused.

 

When they reached the top of the hillside, they found the El Camino had returned. Two men waited outside the vehicle, guns drawn.

 

“Captain Crane,” a chunky man with a bullet-like head motioned them toward the car. “Your presence is required. Get in. Both of you.” He emphasized the point with a jerk of his .45. “Until Mr. Salazar says differently, consider yourself guests of The Vault.”

 

**********

 

Kowalski had heard rumors of The Vault, Gerard Salazar’s private estate. It wasn’t his home but a secret location he used for business and pleasure. An impenetrable stronghold, it was whispered to be modeled after a sixteenth century fortress. Ski knew it was somewhere in the northwestern U.S. but, the exact location had always been vague.

 

He’d only taken a few steps toward the car when he’d felt a sharp sting in his thigh. Even as he’d swatted away the small tranquillizer dart, his surroundings started to spin and he felt himself slipping into a crushing black void. Afterward came a vague recollection of movement . . . being manhandled into the car, a dizzying ride during which he was only half conscious, a blur of trees and stone outcroppings, the smell of pine and salt air. At one point he thought he’d even heard the whistling thwoop-thwoop of helicopter blades, then nothing until he woke in the dreary, circular tower.  

 

There’d been no sign of Crane, though he was positive the unconscious captain had been hustled into the car along with him. Whoever their captors were, it was Crane they wanted. 

 

A glance at his watch told him five hours had passed, but it might as well have been five minutes or five years, cocooned as he was in the tower. The door to his cell was solid and squat, reinforced with wide bands of iron. A small rectangular window set a good fifteen feet up the tower wall cast a weak haze of dishwater-gray light through the interior. From what he could tell it was still raining. 

 

He’d pounded on the door, demanding to know why he was being held prisoner and, most importantly, where they’d taken Crane. After awhile, his voice grew hoarse from yelling, his fists raw and battered from pounding. Frustrated, he collapsed in the corner. Someone had to come sooner or later.

 

He didn’t know what a man like Gerard Salazar would want with Lee Crane. A tycoon who’d made his fortune in pool chemicals, the press had dubbed him the “Aqua King.” He’d long been suspected of having ties to drug money, corrupt politicians and the mob but, if that element existed, he’d been careful to keep it under wraps. The D.A., the police, even the FBI had sniffed around for years but had never been able to pin anything on him despite a charge of murder that was eventually dismissed.

 

Ski exhaled loudly wondering where they’d taken Crane. 

 

It was his fault they’d been captured in the first place. He should have been able to maneuver the car better, holding off their pursuers. As the driver, he was solely responsible. More than that, it was his job to protect his captain.

 

Frustrated and anxious, he bowed his head into his hands and prayed to God Crane was safe.

 

**********

 

“Well, Captain, I’d hoped to meet you under better circumstances.”

 

Lee was tempted to say the feeling was mutual but merely narrowed his eyes and stared. He’d heard of Gerard Salazar and his infamous Vault, said to harbor a catacomb of secret rooms and hidden chambers. For years, the Aqua King had dodged repeated attempts to tie him to drug money and political corruption. Lee remembered something about a high profile trial two years ago. A judge had been murdered, with Salazar the prime suspect. The magistrate - - an Alan Lister - - had been rumored to be in Salazar’s pocket for over a decade. Unfortunately, the D.A. had never been able to prove a connection between them and Salazar’s lawyer pulled out all the stops. The charges were eventually dropped for lack of evidence, but the cloud of suspicion never fully evaporated.

 

“I have to apologize,” Salazar was saying. “I merely asked my men to invite you to the Vault as my guest. I’m afraid they were overzealous in extending the invitation.”

 

“I don’t consider kidnapping an invitation,” Lee snapped. 

 

“Such a harsh comparison, Captain.”

 

“Do you have a better one for being run off the road and hit with a tranquilizer?”

 

Salazar waved a hand, brushing aside the accusation. “All a misunderstanding. I like to keep the location of the Vault as secure as possible - - I have enemies, you understand - - hence the tranquilizer so you wouldn’t know how you got here.”

 

“Then you won’t mind if I leave.”

 

“Of course not.” Salazar smiled but the grin was fanged, a predator showing teeth. “In time.” 

 

Lee eyed him coldly. He was a trim man in his middle years, possibly forty-five or forty-six, with a narrow face and a high forehead. His eyes and hair were the color of black coffee. If the Vault was any indication of his wealth, he didn’t lack for money. The room Lee had been escorted to was open and large, a lavish combination of marble tile, teak paneling and soaring glass. Triple French doors opened onto a veranda overlooking the Pacific. From what Lee could tell, the Vault sat high on a bluff surrounded by trees and sheer drop-offs. Judging from the wooded location, he could have been anywhere from northern California to the Pacific northwest.

 

The two men who’d forced him off the road stood to either side, stone-faced and silent. One was beefy, wearing a dark suit that strained across his shoulder blades, the other tall and angular with a sinewy build. Neither paid him the slightest attention, their gazes fixed rigidly ahead, but Lee knew they’d react swiftly with a signal from Salazar. It irritated him he hadn’t been more alert, allowing himself and Ski to be captured. He should have known the El Camino would return after forcing them off the road. Rather than hike up the hillside, he should have ordered Kowalski into the trees.

 

“What did you do with the man who was with me?” he demanded.

 

“Ah, Seaman Kowalski. Yes. We found ID on him.” Salazar’s expression was cordial again. “I assure you he’s been unharmed. It was never my intention for this to be an unpleasant visit. We can settle our business quickly, if you’d like, and you can be on your way.”

 

Lee doubted that. “What business?”

 

Salazar studied him a moment, then shook his head in disappointment. “I’d really hoped you wouldn’t play dumb about this, Captain. Especially after I went to such trouble to make your acquaintance. You have something of mine. Something that was stolen and I want it back.”

 

Lee stared blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Clayton.” Salazar’s gaze shifted to the thug on Lee’s left. “Refresh Captain Crane’s memory.”

 

Lee didn’t even have time to blink. For a man of such bulk, Clayton moved with the speed of a striking snake. In a single swift movement, he caught Lee around the throat and slammed him backward into the teak paneling. Pinned, Lee groped at the hand cutting off his air supply, but Clayton’s fingers were an iron vice, slowly tightening. He choked, gasping for air.

 

Unconcerned, Salazar crossed to a granite-topped bar and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He sniffed delicately at the amber liquid, swishing it in his glass. After a second, he took a sip, closing his eyes in appreciation. “That’s enough, Clayton,” he said, not bothering to turn.

 

The big man released Lee. A stinging flood of air rushed into his throat, dropping him to his hands and knees. He coughed uncontrollably, cupping a hand to his bruised neck as he sucked down precious oxygen. Salazar turned and nodded at Clayton. A second later, Lee was jerked to his feet.  

 

“Let’s try again, Captain.” Salazar strolled nearer. The remaining bodyguard followed a step behind, pacing him with the feline agility of a panther. “You know a man named Richard Marsh?”

 

“Marsh?” Lee massaged his throat, acutely aware of Clayton’s crowding proximity. He hadn’t heard Marsh’s name in a good thirteen years, except as related to the man’s profession. Once, long ago, Marsh had been a classmate in the same military boarding school where Mitchell Blake had dumped him. They’d maintained a friendship even after Lee had gone on to Annapolis and Richard to college. Time and distance eventually took its toll, reducing the bond to an occasional phone call or letter. They’d pretty much lost touch after Lee’s relationship with Ginny Rook had fallen apart and he compensated by immersing himself in ONI.

 

For his part, Marsh had gone on to a successful career in print journalism, finding a niche in high-profile exposés. The last contact Lee remembered having with him was shortly after Ginny had taken off. Richard had called to say he was sorry the relationship hadn’t worked out and to make the offer of a beer the next time their work schedules allowed.

 

“I know who he is,” Lee said carefully.

 

“I want the photograph he sent you.”

 

Lee hedged. His first reaction was to protest he didn’t know anything about a photograph but figured that would just earn him another choke-hold from Clayton. If he were lucky he might be able to sucker-punch the thug but, with his partner hovering in the background, Lee knew the odds were stacked against him.

 

Salazar read his silence as acknowledgement. “There’s no sense denying it, Captain. I’m sad to report Mr. Marsh has met with an untimely accident. He did, however, tell Clayton and Jaris,” a tip of his head indicated the second body guard. “That he’d sent you the photo a few days before.”

 

“You killed him?”

 

Salazar smiled thinly. “Another example of my men being overzealous. Clayton, in particular, enjoys his work.”

 

The big man cracked his knuckles.

 

Lee ignored the showboating, but his gut twisted at the thought of an old friend being murdered. He kept the outrage from his eyes when he glanced at Salazar. “What’s so important about the photograph?” After thirteen years, why would Marsh suddenly send him a photo he knew nothing about?

 

The Aqua King exhaled loudly, his nostrils flaring. “I’m losing patience, Crane.” All pretense of civility vanished. “We’ve already tossed your house while you were in Sickle Hill and came up empty. The Institute proved a greater challenge because of its security measures, but I had a man take care of that last night. I’m inclined to look to your fiancée next. There’s always the chance you gave it to her for safekeeping.”

 

“You bastard...” Lee made to lurch forward but Clayton snagged his arm and thrust him back against the wall. He pulled a 9mm from under his jacket, raising it in silent warning.

 

“According to our surveillance, Ms. Halston is in Vancouver at the moment,” Salazar continued. “I have a private plane that could have Clayton there in a few hours. I’m sure he’d enjoy meeting her.”

 

“She doesn’t have the damn photo,” Lee snapped. “I do.” He didn’t know what the hell he was admitting to but didn’t care. He’d say or do anything to keep Alyssa out of Clayton’s clutches. As long as Salazar was focused on him, he’d leave Alyssa alone.

 

“So. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me where it is.”

 

Lee thought quickly. They’d already searched his house and the Institute. There was only one place he could think of that was inaccessible without him. 

 

“It’s locked in a safe, in my cabin, on Seaview.”

 

“A safe?” Salazar looked thoughtful, silently weighing the truthfulness of the statement. Pursing his lips, he turned away, absently swishing the liquor in his glass. He paced for a minute, the two bodyguards following him with their eyes. Eventually, he stopped and turned back to Lee. “I imagine you expect me to believe you’re the only one with access to this safe?”

 

When Lee didn’t answer, Salazar sneered. “Do you think I’m stupid, Captain? As the designer of Seaview and your superior officer, Nelson would have access as well. It might interest you to know he’s here, locked in the Vault just like your Seaman Kowalski. I sent one of my associates, Bowman, to retrieve him.”

 

He let that sink in, savoring Lee’s shock. “Clayton and Jaris are far more enthusiastic. Maybe they should pay him a visit, and introduce him to the same fate as Marsh.”

 

“You can’t do that!” Lee stepped forward, but Clayton shoved the 9mm beneath his chin, roughly forcing his head back. “Nelson isn’t involved,” Lee ground out through gritted teeth. Clayton maintained the pressure, enjoying the pain he was inflicting. The big man snuffled nosily by Lee’s ear like a pig in slop.

 

“Because the photo isn’t in your safe?” Salazar slammed his glass down on a marble-topped table, sending amber liquid sloshing over the side. “I grow tired of these games. Clayton,” he snapped, giving the thug free rein.

 

Even prepared for the blow, the gut-punch sucked Lee’s breath away. He doubled over only to have Clayton ham-fist him on the back of the neck. An immobilizing shudder raced through his body, dropping him to the floor. He was still trying to catch his breath when Clayton kicked him in the ribs. The blow lifted him in the air, propelling him onto his back. A second, savage kick hooked him in the kidney. Groaning, he curled onto his side, trying to protect himself as Clayton drew his foot back to strike again.

 

“Enough!” Salazar commanded. Like an obedient guard dog, Clayton immediately backed away.

 

Lee breathed raggedly, left to his misery. He managed to get one hand beneath him and started to sit up. This time it was Jaris who gripped him under the arm and hauled him gruffly to his feet.

 

“The boys like to take turns . . . see if they can outdo one another,” Salazar explained with an amused grin. “Jaris wants a shot at you but I’m inclined to give you a chance to come to your senses. One hour.” He stepped forward and gripped Lee by the chin, roughly forcing his head around. “I want you to think carefully during that time, Captain. The Vault has many rooms. Many secrets. Fail to tell me what I want to know and I promise to introduce you to a whole new level of pain.”

 

**********

 

Kowalski was slow getting to his feet when the door scraped open. He blinked against the light, surprised when someone stumbled into his gloomy prison. A second later the wood and iron barrier slammed into place, sealing the tower in half shadows. He felt shock flood through him at the familiar glint of flame-colored hair. 

 

“Admiral Nelson!”

 

The older man looked disheveled as if he’d been handled roughly - - no jacket, no tie, a disoriented glaze to his normally lively eyes. Kowalski recognized the effects of the tranquilizer, guessing it was probably a more powerful dosage than the one he’d been hit with. “Sir, how did you get here?” He stepped forward to lend a hand, but Nelson waved him aside.

 

“I’m all right, Kowalski.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked up to the dwarfing heights of the tower which spun away into darkness. “I’m irritated I let myself be caught and bagged like a game trophy but, otherwise, it’s only my pride that’s bruised. Where’s Captain Crane?”

 

“I haven’t seen him since we were caught coming back from Sickle Hill,” Kowalski supplied. “They ran us off the road then hit us with tranquilizer darts.”

 

Nelson nodded. “I got the tranquilizer treatment too.”

 

“Do you know what this is all about, Sir?”

 

“I do.” Harry didn’t remember exactly how he’d arrived at the Vault but had a vague memory of being manhandled into a small plane. Since arriving, he’d been thoroughly questioned by Salazar about a photograph. Harry was familiar with Richard Marsh as a professional news journalist but hadn’t known the man had a personal connection to Lee. He still wasn’t sure exactly what the nature of that connection was, but Salazar seemed to think Marsh had mailed Lee something that would prove damaging to him.

 

As he explained the situation to Kowalski, Harry ran his fingers over the door, looking for signs of weaknesses.

 

“So Salazar thinks the skipper has this photograph and that’s what this is all about?” Kowalski looked stunned. “What’s the big deal about some photo?”

 

“I don’t know.” Nelson continued his scrutiny of the door, examining the lock. “But it has to be incriminating if Salazar is willing to commit murder and kidnapping to get it back.”

 

“You don’t think . . .” Kowalski bit his lip, hesitant to voice what was on his mind. “The skipper . . .”

 

Harry glanced over his shoulder, noting the concern on the younger man’s face. Ski and Lee had a strong working relationship with a chemistry that clicked for both of them, but they had an unusual friendship too. Despite the difference in their ranks, Lee had gradually allowed Ski into a select circle of people who were close to him. That circle was slowly growing as Lee became less reclusive, more open and trusting with others. Harry doubted he would ever be a person with a full social calendar. It just wasn’t in his young captain’s personality. That he was genuinely likeable meant he had numerous acquaintances and casual friends. But a penchant for privacy meant the true ones - - those he allowed to see his vulnerabilities - - were few. Whether Ski knew it or not, sometime during the last few years he’d become part of Lee’s inner circle.

 

“As long as Salazar doesn’t have the photo, Lee is more valuable alive than dead,” Harry reasoned out loud. It was an ugly truth, one that made his gut twist when he thought about it. But there was no escaping the reality. Salazar had committed kidnapping and admitted to having Richard Marsh killed. The only value any of them had was in Lee’s silence.

 

If he really did have the photograph, the moment he surrendered it to Salazar, they’d all wind up with bullets in their heads. 

 

**********

 

Jaris cuffed Lee’s hands in front of him before he and Clayton escorted him from the room. Sandwiched between the two bodyguards, each firmly clasping one of his arms, Lee walked between them. Clayton kept his gun drawn while Jaris seemed arrogantly confident without one. Lee knew the odds were stacked against him even if by some miracle he did manage to break free. And there was still Kowalski and the admiral to worry about. If he was lucky, they’d dump him wherever they’d taken the other two men and, maybe, among the three of them, they could formulate an escape plan.

 

He was led down a long hallway of gleaming Mexican tile, through a stone archway and across a courtyard. Outside, he got a better idea of the structure of the Vault. It appeared to be comprised of three separate buildings - - the main house where he’d talked to Salazar, with smaller wings on each side. The façade and architecture remained the same, though the flanking buildings had opposing towers at each end. The courtyard itself was fortified with a towering stone wall and a massive iron gate. Lee caught the scent of seawater and pine, the surrounding trees blocking the view of everything but a cloud-streaked sky. He slowed to absorb his surroundings and felt Clayton prod him in the side with the barrel of his gun.

 

“Keep going.”    

 

Lee winced, stifling a grunt. His ribs throbbed where the big man had kicked him, reminding him just how sorry his circumstances were. Two thugs, one armed, and he was operating at substandard levels. At the moment, there was nothing to do but go where he was led.

 

They took him into the east building, through a somber-looking chamber with claw-footed furniture and rug-covered floors. From there it was down a flight of steps, along a paneled hallway, then down a narrower set of stairs. Jaris walked in front of him with Clayton behind, his pistol pressed to the back of Lee’s neck. He felt like he was descending into the bowels of a tomb, the air noticeably cooler. Even the texture of the walls changed, becoming dark painted stucco before funneling into rough-hewn stone. Another hallway followed with ceiling lights set every twelve feet. They passed several rooms until Lee was forced to stop before a door reinforced by bands of iron. A second later the barrier was thrust open, and he was shoved roughly inside. The force sent him sprawling to his knees.

 

“Skipper!”

 

Kowalski’s voice echoed over the snick of the lock falling into place. Lee raised his head, finding himself in a circular tower. The only light came from a small window recessed high overhead. With effort he climbed to his feet, wincing at his battered ribs. Before he’d taken a single step, Kowalski was there, holding him upright.

 

“Sir, are you all right? I didn’t know where they’d taken you.”

 

“I’m okay, Ski,” Lee told him. “The admiral’s here too. He...”

 

“Right behind you, Lee.”

 

Startled, he turned as Nelson slid a hand onto his shoulder, giving a faint squeeze. The older man smiled wanly. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you in one piece.”

 

“I have an hour left before they start hacking off body parts,” Lee returned with a trace of gallows humor. He raised his hands, still cuffed, to wipe a trickle of sweat from his face. “I’m sorry you got involved in this, Sir. You too, Ski.”

 

Kowalski snorted, affronted. “It’s not your fault, Skipper. I’d like nothing better than a shot at those two knuckle-draggers who drove us off the road.”

 

“What about that, Lee?” Nelson asked, studying him closely. “Did Marsh send you the photograph Salazar is after?”

 

“So you know about that?” Light-headed with pain, Lee moved to the perimeter of the cell and wearily propped his shoulder against the rough-cut stone. His throat was sore, likely bruised from the choking Clayton had given him, but his ribs hurt far worse. It felt as if something had ripped loose inside when the thug kicked him. “If he did, I don’t have it. Salazar said he tossed my house and office. That leaves Seaview.” 

 

“You think it’s there?” Nelson asked.

 

“Maybe.” He was beginning to sweat more profusely, the drug and the beating taking a toll. “Before Ski and I headed to Sickle Hill, I dumped a bunch of paperwork from the Institute in my cabin on Seaview. There was a day’s worth of mail mixed in, maybe a parcel or two.” Uncomfortable, he rubbed his throat.

 

Noticing, Nelson approached and pushed his hand away. “Hold still. I want to look at your neck.” Carefully, he loosened Lee’s tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, holding his collar aside. His mouth tightened, his expression grim. “How bad?” he asked.

 

Lee gave a faint shake of his head.

 

“It’s likely to start feeling worse instead of better, bruised up like that,” Ski said, looking over the admiral’s shoulder.

 

“He’s right. Where else are you hurt?”

 

Lee lowered his eyes. “I’m all right, Sir. They roughed me up a little, enough to show me who was in charge. I have an hour before the gloves officially come off.”

 

“Well, that’s it.” Nelson turned away with an exasperated huff. “We’ve got less than sixty minutes to find a way out of here.”

 

“Don’t think I haven’t tried that, Sir,” Kowalski said. “I’ve been stuck here for hours and have done little else. That door’s as solid as they come.”

 

“But the lock is old,” Nelson said. “It’s heavy, but appears to be a simple tumbler construction. If we had something to pick it . . .” He turned, looking around the empty cell. Almost immediately, he headed for the mattress. “Help me with this, Ski.”

 

As the rating moved away, Lee eased himself to the floor. He tilted his head back, resting against the wall and closed his eyes. 

 

“Admiral, what are we looking for?” Ski asked.

 

“Springs. Even a small coil of wire will work. See if you can find a tear in the material, so we can get to the inside.”

 

Ski made a gagging sound. “Geez, this thing smells worse than Riley’s locker. That’s the last time I complain about his socks.”

 

Even tired, Lee smiled faintly. He heard a tearing noise that was followed almost immediately by the lock turning over. His eyes flew open and he climbed quickly to his feet, one hand braced against the wall. Nelson and Kowalski had moved in front of the mattress, blocking it from view.

 

A shaft of light fell into the cell as Clayton stepped inside and motioned with his gun. “Let’s go Crane.”

 

“It hasn’t been an hour.”

 

“Oh, you still get your hour.” The thug grinned maliciously. “But you’re going to spend the rest of it with Jaris in a room down the hall. He’s real good at getting people to talk. Mr. Salazar wants to make sure the next time he asks you a question, you have the right answer.” He gave another brusque wave with the gun. “Let’s go.”

 

From the corner of his eye, Lee saw Nelson and Ski move to intervene. Clayton swiveled the semi-automatic in their direction. “This tower is a ricochet chamber, gentlemen. Trust me - - if I miss you, the rebound won’t. The last occupant bled out from a nicked artery. Jaris and I took bets on how long it’d take him to die. I wouldn’t mind doubling my money this time.”

 

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Lee muttered. Even with three of them, Clayton still held the high ground as long as he was armed.

 

Clatyon nodded in approval. “That’s right, Captain. She was a bitch. And my father was a bastard. You don’t even want to know what that makes me.” A final agitated flick of the gun. “Now get your ass out the door before I decide to blow a hole in one of your friends.”

 

Out of options, Lee did as he was told.

 

**********

 

Jaris was waiting for him. 

 

Lee wasn’t exactly sure what it was about the lean thug that made him uneasy. Maybe it was the fact that he’d yet to speak a single word or that he seemed queerly confident of everything he did. Clayton was more predictable, almost stereotypical with his boasting, threats and sneering. Lee could read Clayton, having encountered men like him a hundred times over. But he couldn’t do the same with Jaris and that left him unsure of his footing. He’d been in worse situations while on assignment with ONI but had never felt such a complete lack of leverage. How could he lie about a photo when he didn’t even know what it contained?

 

“There,” Jaris said, indicating the center of the room with a nod.

 

A dark red “x” marked the floor directly beneath a dangling hook. The hook was large and constructed of steel, clearly designed to secure weight. A quick glance over the rest of the room, told Lee it was no less appealing. What appeared to be a surgical table with restraining straps occupied one corner, while a squat metal chair with a medieval-looking head brace consumed another. The walls bore an array of weapons, most hung on pegs, some secured in glass display cases. Lee saw handguns, knives, coiled whips, batons, even an assortment of swords. The light was harsh and overly bright, cast from several high-intensity floodlights recessed into the ceiling. Dark stains were splattered randomly over the bare floor - - stains that Lee knew could only be blood.

 

He felt his mouth go dry as he calculated the odds of escape.

 

“Get his jacket off,” Jaris told Clayton.

 

Lee knew it was the only opportunity he’d get. When the thug released his cuffs, he bowled his shoulder into Clayton’s side, thrusting him backward into the open spine of the door. He heard a grunt and a clatter as the man dropped his pistol. Lee scrambled for the gun but, before he could close his fingers on the grip, the sudden crack of a whip sent it skittering across the floor. 

 

Jaris.

 

The tail-end of the lash flecked the corner of his eye, catching him on the recoil, drawing a pinprick of blood. A second crack blazed a stinging trail of fire across his back. The shock was so staggering and unexpected he gave a short grunt of pain as he spun to face his attacker.

 

Eerily expressionless, Jaris struck again, catching him on the left arm. Lee recoiled, the bite of the lash felt through the layering protection of his jacket. When Jaris released the whip a fourth time, he ducked and caught the tail end in his palm. Grinding his teeth, he kept tension on the deadly leather, his hand rapidly filling with blood. Jaris gave a sharp jerk backward forcing the whip deeper into Lee’s skin. Too slick to hold onto, it slid free with a sickening hiss.

 

“Move an inch and I’ll blow a hole through you!” The angry snarl came from Clayton who’d climbed to his feet and had reclaimed his handgun. He wiped a hand across his mouth, sopping up sweat, his chest heaving. “Son-of-a-bitch!” Enraged, he strode forward and cracked Lee hard across the face. The thinner man reeled from the blow, staggering backward. “Get your damn jacket off before Jaris flays it from your sorry skin.”

 

Lee’s body still thrummed from the sting of the whip, but his eyes held only defiance as he unbuttoned the jacket and dropped it to the floor. He knew his face was slick with sweat, the sheen intensified by the monstrous heat of the floodlamps. Even Clayton was sweating. In one respect, it felt good to rid himself of the khaki outer garment.

 

“Now move.” Clayton kept his gun in plain sight. Giving Lee a shove, he pushed him toward the “x” in the center of the floor. Once positioned, he recuffed Lee’s wrists, waiting as Jaris released a wall lever that lowered the metal hook. Clayton tested the security of the cuffs, linking them over the hook, then nodded to the other man. He grinned as the lever was engaged again, the hook retracting into the ceiling on hydraulics. Lee’s arms were stretched taut above his head, the tension of his bodyweight making it impossible to slip free of the metal tether. Already the blood from his hand dribbled down his wrist, over his sleeve.

 

Clayton turned to Jaris. “Can I watch?”

 

The tall man didn’t bother looking, busy fussing with several implements he’d spread on a high square table. “You’ll get your turn if I don’t break him. I like to do my work alone.”

 

The right side of Clayton’s mouth curled in a sneer, but he didn’t say anything. With a final venomous glare for Lee, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

 

For several seconds, the only sound was the harsh rattle of Lee’s breath. He knew what was coming.  His situation was helpless, but it didn’t stop him from trying to plot a way free of the torture. At the very least, if the man came close enough, he vowed to get in a good kick. That was when the floor suddenly shuddered beneath him, opening like the aperture of a camera. The hydraulic hook dropped him down a foot, just enough for his ankles to become encased. With a start, he realized Jaris had engaged a second lever. Just as quickly, the hole resealed itself, tightening around his legs like hardening cement, immobilizing him. Realizing he was completely trapped, Lee fought to control his escalating heartbeat.

 

Jaris approached languidly, a braided leather cord in his hand. “I’d get the whip out again, Captain, but I don’t think it would do any good. You’re made of stronger stuff than that.” Stopping a few feet shy of Lee, he tapped the chord against his hand. Up close, Lee could see it had a large knot at one end, marked by a small loop.

 

“I won’t ask you about the photograph,” Jaris continued. “You already know what Mr. Salazar wants, so there’s no sense rehashing it.” He leaned forward, sliding the cord around the back of Lee’s neck, letting the open ends dangle against his chest. He took care to remove Lee’s tie, unbuttoning his shirt halfway, then looping the chord inside his collar. 

 

Revolted by the touch, Lee tried to recoil. “Get your hands off me.”

 

“You’re in no position to make demands, Commander.” Jaris remained expressionless but there was something about his ice-white eyes that made Lee’s skin crawl. Even more peculiar, despite the extreme heat of the floodlamps, he didn’t sweat. Not a single drop of perspiration clung to the man’s skin, while Lee could feel thick beads collecting in his hair and trickling down the inside of his shirt.

 

“We’re going to get acquainted now,” Jaris announced. “Although, I already know a thing or two about you. As an example, you’re an operative for Naval Intelligence. I’d guess this isn’t the first time you’ve been tortured. Hopefully, I’ve dreamed up something new and inventive.” As he talked, Jaris slipped one end of the strap through the loop, creating a type of pulley. With both ends of the strap now cinched together, he slid the densely braided knot up the joined cords until it was nestled snugly against Lee’s throat. The result was a macabre bolo tie, the knot a deadly and dangerous decoration. 

 

“Do you see where I’m headed, Captain? I find it interesting that you can strangle a man repeatedly without killing him.” Jaris’ voice was soft, layered with velvet. “It’s like dying over and over. The trick is to use just the right amount of pressure. I’ve heard of people vomiting in the process but I don’t know if that’s from fear or the strain on their heart and lungs. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

 

“Screw you.”

 

For the first time the hint of a smile touched Jaris’ lips. “I took you to be more eloquent than that.” He pulled the cords apart fisting a hand around each. “Don’t worry.” There was pressure now and Lee felt the knot dig into his throat. “I’ll revive you each time you pass out and we’ll start over again. We have almost a whole hour to play before Mr. Salazar arrives to see how cooperative you’re feeling.”

 

Unable to move or defend himself, Lee did the only thing he could - - he spit in Jaris’ face.    

 

A flare of anger blazed in the man’s pale eyes before he managed to smother it and regain control. Completely expressionless, he wiped the spittle from his cheek. “You really are foolish, Captain. All Salazar wants is the photograph.”

 

“If I give it to him, I’m dead.”

 

“You’re dead anyway. It’s just a matter of how quickly or how brutally you die.” 

 

Jaris wrenched savagely on the cords and Lee’s world erupted in a blinding spasm of pain and horror.

 

**********

 

“Well?” Harry knew his tone was brusque, but fifteen minutes had already leeched past. God only knew what Salazar was doing to Lee. 

 

Kowalski pulled the coiled end of a spring free of the mattress. “There’s no way to break it off, Sir.”

 

“Hang it, I don’t care! Let’s drag the damn thing over to the door.” He gripped one end of the mattress and, with Kowalski’s help, manhandled it into position before the door. Ski balanced it on its side, holding it steady while Harry worked with the spring, trying to maneuver the end into the lock. It was like working blind, the metal uncooperative and stiff, but he was determined. It took several tries, a blistering string of curses, and a tense eight minutes before he finally got the results he wanted. The lock turned over with an audible snick and Harry felt an answering streak of elation.

 

Kowalski grinned ear to ear. “Way to go, Admiral.”

 

“We’re not out of the woods yet. Lee’s supposed to be somewhere on this level. We need to find him.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” Kowalski shoved the mattress aside and, together, the two men eased into the hall. 

 

There were only four other rooms to contend with as far as Harry could tell. The first two were empty, but the door to the third was cracked, a shaft of light spilling into the corridor. As Harry approached he heard a muffled voice drift from inside.

 

“ . . . wake up, Captain. I’ll give you a minute for your heart to slow down then we’ll start over again.”

 

Lee’s voice was slurred and hoarse. “ . . . bastard . . .”

 

A chuckle. “You amuse me. Is that the best you can do?”

 

Harry peered around the door his blood turning cold at the sight before him. Lee stood in the center of the room, his arms cuffed above his head. His wrists were red, blood dripping down the sleeves of his khaki shirt. There was a man in front of him, slightly to the side, his back turned. Lee’s shirt gaped open on his chest, his face slick with sweat. A braided rope was hooked around his neck, speckled with blood. Even from the distance, Harry could see his throat was raw and bloody, his eyes glazed by pain. It suddenly dawned on him what Lee’s tormentor had been doing - - choking him until he passed out, then reviving him only to do it over again.

 

Pure rage shot through him, so hot his blood boiled. He felt Kowalski strain beside him, the rating’s fury as lethal as his own. Fortunately, Lee’s tormentor hadn’t spied them, too engrossed in his sadistic game. Harry motioned for Kowalski to grab a weapon from the wall then moved to do the same. Fearful a gun would bring reinforcements, he chose a curved sword instead.

 

Lee was too far gone to spy him, hanging limply in the cuffs, his head lolled to the side. The man tapped him sharply on the cheek. “Captain. It’s time to play again. I’m impressed you haven’t started begging yet.” He fiddled with the cord around Lee’s neck, sliding a large knot up and down its length. “I bet Bowman I’d have you pleading inside half an hour, and I never lose, Commander.”

 

“Get your hands off him,” Harry snarled.

 

As the man started to turn, he swung the sword in a wide arc. It was over in a second, efficient and clean. The blade caught the man across the middle, slicing through his stomach. The torturer stood gaping, a stunned expression on his face. Then his guts spilled forward into his hands, wet and red, and he toppled face-first to the floor.

 

Harry stepped over him like stepping over garbage. Quickly, he pulled the garrote cord from Lee’s neck, tossing it to the floor in disgust.

 

“ . . . lever . . .” Lee managed, his voice a hoarse thread. With a nod, he indicated a lever on the far wall. 

 

Kowalski was already there, maneuvering it to lower the hook and free Lee’s legs. Weakly, the captain sagged against Nelson. Harry could feel tremors in his body, the frantic race of his heart. He didn’t want to think about what had taken place in the room or the physical and mental toll it had cost Lee. “We’ll get you out of here,” he vowed quietly. “We’ll all get out of here.”

 

Lee nodded. “Ski.” He raised his head to look at the rating. “Gun.”

 

Harry was surprised that with two short words, Kowalski knew precisely what his captain wanted. The rating grabbed a Glock from the wall along with an extra clip. “You all right to handle this, Skipper?” he asked uncertainly extending the gun and the magazine.

 

Lee slid the clip into his trouser pocket. Wordlessly, he took the gun and forced himself to stand upright. Harry wanted to examine him, to ensure he was well enough to hold his own, but there simply wasn’t time. He went to the table in the corner and rummaged around until he found an implement that would work on Lee’s cuffs. They came free almost immediately and Lee breathed a grateful sigh, rubbing his bloody wrists.

 

“Let’s see if we can find our way out of here.” Harry secured a Beretta, checking to make sure it was loaded. Kowalski sidled closer to the doorway, glancing into the hall, gun at the ready. 

 

“Keep close to him,” Harry instructed with a glance for Lee. 

 

The rating nodded. “Count on it, Sir.”

 

**********

 

They moved unchallenged through the building. The only reason Harry could see was that Salazar must have deemed his Vault so secure he didn’t feel the need for additional guards. He had plenty of hired muscle, but no one monitored the cells, as if anyone who was locked below never came out unless it was belly up. He was more than thankful for Salazar’s arrogance in leaving his home so open. It allowed him to lead Kowalski and Lee through a back door and into the courtyard with little trouble. They detoured once and had to duck into an alcove when a scantily-dressed brunette sauntered by, clattering down the hall in a pair of stiletto heels. A few minutes later they emerged beneath a gloomy sky, a light pattering drizzle welcome relief after the sour air of the prison cells.

 

“Which way?” Kowalski asked, keeping to the shadows of the building. He had one hand hooked beneath Lee’s arm, helping steady him on his feet. Harry could see that even the minor exertion of finding a way free from the tower had taken a toll on Lee. The Glock was still fisted in his grip, but it was apparent from the way he allowed Kowalski to hover that he was functioning below par. It wasn’t simply his rumpled appearance - - his neck and wrists bloody and raw - - but the fatigued glaze in his eyes. One look at him and Harry knew he was out of steam, remaining on his feet solely through the stubborn force of his will. A man like Lee had learned to ignore pain, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

 

“The gate is that way,” Lee said with a nod for the far end of the building. “I saw it when Clayton and Jaris moved me to the tower.” His voice was thready, far from its usual strength. He had to stop and bow his head, suppressing a cough before he could continue. “We’d . . . be better going over the wall or looking for a breach.”

 

“We need transportation,” Ski objected. “You’re in no condition to hoof it, Skipper.”

 

“We’ll have to find help after we get over the wall,” Harry countermanded. He knew Kowalski was right. Lee was in no shape for a sustained trek, but locating and stealing a vehicle would be like sending up a red flare announcing their escape. It was better to take their chances, slipping away undetected with the hope of securing assistance and transportation when they were beyond the Vault. “This way,” Harry said, leading them further from the gate.

 

A few minutes later, they’d reached the far perimeter of the grounds, but it brought them no closer to escape. The wall was solid without crevasse or opening. On two occasions they had to dodge into the shadows when one of Salazar’s minions passed close by. 

 

“We need a way out of here,” Kowalski protested to the admiral when an escape route seemed impossible. Lee was really dragging by that time, leaning heavily against him, his breathing harsh and ragged. “It isn’t going to be long ‘till they find that guy who was torturing the skipper, his guts splayed all over the floor.”

 

Nelson nodded, painfully aware of the time constraints. He needed to get Lee to safety as quickly as possible. “There,” he said pointing to a large ash whose branches bowed close to the wall. “We’ll climb that, then drop down the other side. It’s the only way.” Doubtful, he glanced at Lee, worried whether the younger man was up to the task. “Lee?”

 

“I’ll be all right, Sir.”

 

Harry scowled, not entirely convinced. Whatever his personal feelings, there really wasn’t any other option. He’d have to pray Lee could hold it together long enough to get over the wall. “Kowalski, you go first. Lee second. I’ll bring up the rear. Once you start, don’t slow for anything. If we’re lucky, no one will be looking this way. If we’re spotted, all hell’s going to break loose. When you hit the ground, do it running. The whole place is surrounded by trees, so we should have good cover.”

 

Kowalski nodded, then glanced uncertainly at Lee. Harry saw concern in his eyes and the fear that once he started, Lee wouldn’t be able to maintain his pace. It was why Harry planned to keep the captain between them. One or the other would be certain he didn’t lag.

 

“Ski.” He inclined his head, nodding toward the tree when the younger man looked at him. “It’ll be all right. Go ahead.”

 

He appreciated the rating’s loyalty to Lee and the closeness of their friendship. Kowalski might hedge, but he also knew Harry thought of Lee as a son and would never willingly endanger him. That more than anything gave the rating the assurance to boost himself into the tree. 

 

Following suit, Harry placed a hand on Lee’s back and gave a gentle shove upward. “Go on, lad,” he encouraged when Lee reached to grab the lowest branch. Within seconds all three of them were entwined among the branches and climbing. They moved quickly, fearful of being spotted so far above the ground. The wall was at least twenty feet high, but the tree served its purpose. For one blissful moment Harry even thought they would make it unscathed. 

Kowalski breeched the wall, leaping to a tree on the opposite side to ladder to the ground. Second in the chain, Lee was still a fraction from the top when Harry spied Bowman rounding a corner below. Something intuitive made the thug look up. With a curse, Harry drew his gun and fired, but Bowman dodged clear and Harry’s shot pinged wide. Before he could squeeze off another, the thug rapidly returned fire. The first bullet whizzed by Harry’s ear, nicking the lobe, the second didn’t even come close. With a gut-twisting sense of dread, he abruptly realized Bowman wasn’t aiming for him at all. He wanted to wing Lee and keep him from escaping. Salazar wouldn’t care what happened to Harry and Kowalski, but he would want Lee alive.

 

“Damn it!” He fired again and this time Bowman crumpled in a heap on the ground. Harry looked quickly to the top of the wall, but there was no sign of Lee. Heart-pounding, he scrambled the remaining distance up the tree. When he reached the top he spied Lee lying below, a gory red hole oozing blood over his side. Kowalski had an arm behind his back and was trying to raise him up. Behind the wall a clamorous chorus of voices rose in alarm.

 

“Move! Now!” Harry grabbed the nearest branch and used it to propel himself the remaining distance to the ground. When his knees struck, he drew his gun. Together, he and Kowalski helped Lee to his feet. The captain was groggy but focused enough to hold his own. 

 

Lee’s face contorted as he clamped a hand over his bloodied side. “Go!” he hissed.

 

Together, the three men raced for the trees.

 

**********

 

The drizzle changed to full-fledged rain as the hours slipped closer to evening. Salazar’s men continued to comb the woods in random search parties but Harry and the others succeeded in evading capture. While the rain helped wash away any telltale traces of blood, it acted against them in other ways, making the ground soft, better for tracking. Fearing the terrain would be their downfall, Harry was grateful to find beds of rock jutting haphazardly between the trees. The rain made the hard surfaces slick but quickly washed away any traces of their passing.

 

Lee grew weaker by the moment, numbed by the chilling rain, feverish from a combination of cold and blood loss. 

 

“Sir, we’re going to have to stop soon,” Kowalski said, one arm hooked around Lee’s waist to keep him upright. 

 

“I know.” Harry looked at the injured captain doubtfully. Over the last few hours, Lee had gone from full coherency to a kind of numbing daze. He’d stumbled several times, but on each occasion had climbed back to his feet with Kowalski’s assistance. Harry worried what kind of damage the bullet might be doing internally but feared stopping. He felt relatively certain they’d eluded Salazar’s men but needed to find a place with good cover to wait out the rain.

 

There was no sign of civilization in the rugged wilderness. They hadn’t seen a road or even a dirt service lane of any kind. Harry began to suspect the only way to reach the Vault was by air and guessed there had to be a cleared area nearby for a helicopter pad. No wonder Salazar was so adamant about keeping the location of his torture-fortress a secret. Pool chemicals, my ass. The man positively reeked of corruption.

 

“Let’s take a five minute break,” he said. “I think I saw something up ahead through the trees. I had a better glimpse from that last ridge, but it looked like it might be an old trapping shack or something similar.”

 

“I could check it out,” Kowalski suggested. “Scout around and see if it’s clear.”

 

“I can keep going,” Lee protested. He stood a little straighter under his own power, but the tightness of his features betrayed the pain he was feeling.

 

“No, Kowalski’s right,” Harry countered. “You need a breather.” He nodded to the rating. “Be back as soon as you can.”

 

“Aye, Sir.” 

 

Kowalski darted away into the trees. Watching him, Lee sagged against the trunk of an elm. He closed his eyes briefly but wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of rest. The wound was still oozing blood but it was minimal now, an ugly splotch of dark red soaking his shirt below the ribs on the right side. His hands were red from cupping the wound, his fingers stained scarlet, darker around the nail beds. Harry watched his face contort.

 

“Lee?” he ventured, concerned.

 

The younger man gave a slight shake of his head. “I’ll be all right, Admiral.”

 

Lying through your teeth.

 

Then even as he watched, Lee took a halting step forward, his expression shifting from tightly-controlled pain to shocked surprise. His knees buckled, and he grappled for the tree with one hand. “Admiral!” His voice came out in a choked gasp. A second later, his eyes rolled into his head, and he collapsed with a soft moan.

 

**********

 

Kowalski spied the ramshackle hut within five hundred yards. Even from a distance it looked deserted, weathered and ravaged by time. The forest had encroached around it, burying it beneath a tangled cluster of trees and spreading vines. It had a single window to the left of the door but that had been broken out, pierced by a tree limb. The door hung at an angle, gaping open, partially ripped from its hinges. From the looks of the place, no one had set foot inside for years, but Kowalski wasn’t taking any chances.

 

He kept his gun raised as he scouted the perimeter, circling closer. There was no sign of movement from within. Eventually, he closed the distance and kicked open the door, pivoting with his gun to sweep the inside.

 

Deserted, as he’d expected.  

 

A thick coat of dust covered the wooden floor telling him no one had stepped inside for ages. He saw a few animal tracks belonging to scavengers and rodents, but no human footprints. The shack was small, containing a single bed, table with two straight-back chairs, an old-fashioned hand pump for water and a portable propane stove. A few roughly-cut wooden shelves held a series of rusted cans and crumbling boxes. The latter had been eaten away by rodents, leaving mounds of cardboard dust and dry goods scattered over the rotting wood.

 

The inside was no more than fifteen-feet square with a few cupboards and one closet. Kowalski checked that too, ensuring it was empty. Just some old clothing on hangers and a few pairs of jeans wedged on a top shelf. He looked for a coat or anything that would help protect Crane from the rain, but came up empty. At least the cabin was dry and would give them a place to rest.

 

As long as Salazar’s men didn’t know about it.

 

**********

 

Crane was unconscious by the time Ski made it back to the spot where he’d left the two officers. Nelson was crouched in the grass on one knee beside the captain. Grim-faced, he tugged Crane’s eyelid back to gauge his responsiveness.

 

Kowalski heard him swear softly as he drew abreast. “What happened, Sir?”

 

“He passed out.” Nelson glanced up, rain dripping from his hair. “What about the shack?”

 

“It’s old, but dry, and has good cover. No one’s been there for years from what I could tell.”

 

“Okay. Help me with him. We have to get him dry and do something about the bullet.”

 

Kowalski nodded. “I can handle him, Sir, if you act as cover. The shack’s about five hundred yards down a ridge.”

 

“All right.” Nelson gave his consent and helped Kowalski maneuver Lee into a fireman’s carry.  

 

The rating was shocked by the intensity of heat he felt through the captain’s damp clothing. He’d done a stint or two as a medic and guessed Crane’s temperature had climbed into the 102 degree range. Nelson was right - - the bullet had to come out to minimize infection, but he didn’t see how that was going to be accomplished without a doctor and only a dilapidated hut as shelter.

 

He moved as smoothly as he could through the uneven terrain, following closely behind Nelson, trying hard not to jostle the unconscious captain. It was strange to think that only yesterday he and Crane had been comparing notes on diving equipment. When they’d been run off the road and accosted Kowalski had been certain it was related to Crane’s ONI forays. Once Salazar and the photograph became part of the picture, he didn’t know what to think. It made it even more baffling to know Crane was just as clueless. Ski had been exposed to some of the seedier aspects of life in his career, especially before switching to Reserve status, but that ugly-mother thug had been torturing Crane. Taking his time, stringing out the pain . . . choking the captain until he passed out, then reviving him and starting over. What kind of sick monster did that to another man, and all because of a freaking photograph? 

 

And what kind of a man withstood it without cracking?

 

Kowalski swallowed hard, feeling the resurrection of guilt. He should have handled the car better, driven faster, ran their pursuers off the road - - something! If he hadn’t gone over that ditch Crane wouldn’t have a bullet in him now. 

 

He heard a soft moan and felt the man draped over his shoulder stir. “Admiral,” he called. Stopping immediately, he eased Crane to the ground, carefully propping him against the gnarled trunk of an oak. The shack wasn’t far, just another fifty yards or so. Overhead, the rain made a soft pattering sound on the leaves. 

 

“Skipper, you all right?” Ski squatted beside him, one hand on his shoulder. 

 

Crane’s face glistened with moisture, droplets of rain trapped in his hair. The careful grooming he favored had given way to a natural snarl of black curls. Despite the pain-haggard lines of his face, Ski thought he looked a good ten years younger. Maybe it was just the deep-earth glow of his eyes, a glittering blend of chestnut, sienna and sage. The fever was partly at fault, but a vague edge of vulnerability hovered around him too. Crane was normally so careful to conceal even the smallest hint of weakness it left Ski feeling off-kilter.

 

A second later he berated himself for the awkwardness. What the hell did he expect? The man had been worked over, strangled repeatedly, then shot. It wasn’t like he was going to hustle through a freaking triathlon.

 

“Skipper,” he said again, unable to keep a note of worry from his voice.

 

The captain closed his eyes, his long lashes clumped together from the rain. “ . . .’m . . . okay,” he mumbled. A second later Nelson was there, squatting beside him . . . gripping his chin and turning his head around with such easy familiarity Ski was momentarily taken aback. True, Crane was a junior officer but this crossed all kinds of lines. This was . . . was . . . well, hell! It was proof positive of everything he’d ever suspected and heard about regarding these two men. 

If the situation weren’t so grim Kowalski would have been tempted to smile. Crane didn’t even flinch, obviously accustomed to having the admiral take such familial liberties. 

 

“Admiral.” Crane slid sideways, coming to rest against Nelson’s chest. His eyes were closed, his lungs laboring for breath. With his collar open and gaping to the side, Kowalski could see the welts encircling his neck had purpled, leeching outward like a fungus. 

 

Damn the sick bastard responsible for that bruising! He raised his eyes to Nelson, trying to keep his anger to a minimum. He wanted to hit something. No, that wasn’t right. He wanted to gut something. If the miserable dung-heap who’d tortured Crane weren’t already dead he’d pummel the sicko into a pulp - - and enjoy the hell out of it in the process.

 

“Sir, it’s just another fifty yards or so,” he volunteered.

 

Nelson nodded, his voice low. “I know. I caught a glimpse through the trees.” His eyes dropped, shifting to Crane. “Lee . . .” He cupped a palm over the captain’s cheek, gently raising his head. “Lad, I need you to hold it together a bit longer. We’ve got cover waiting about fifty yards ahead. You’ll be able to get out of the rain and rest. Think you can manage?” 

 

He did something then that caught Kowalski by surprise, slowly stroking his thumb down the captain’s cheek. Ski could almost feel the warmth inherent in that gesture. Not physical warmth, but a potent non-verbal affection. He’d always known about the father/son bond between Nelson and Crane, but it was still an eye-opener to see the scientifically-minded and brusque admiral fussing so attentively over his injured captain.

 

Crane nodded groggily, not entirely coherent. “ . . . throat . . .” he mumbled. Then he reached around and clamped a hand on Ski’s arm. “Help.” Not a plea or request, but something between a command and an acknowledgement of need.

 

Kowalski responded immediately, hooking an arm around the slender man’s back. He could feel a quiver of straining muscle as he pulled Crane to his feet. There was no bulk to the captain’s body, making the tremors in his lean frame all but transparent. Kowalski couldn’t tell if the spasms were from exertion, cold, or a combination of both. 

 

“It’s not far, Sir,” he encouraged. Hell, if he were in Crane’s position, he’d probably be comatose by now. 

 

Nelson hovered protectively, trying to gauge the resolution in his eyes. “Lee?”

 

This time when Crane nodded it was with a hint of his usual steel. “I’m okay, Sir.” Then lower and aside to Kowalski as Nelson finally ventured ahead:  “Don’t let go, Ski.”

 

“Don’t worry, Skipper. I’ve got you.”

 

By the time they reached the shack, Crane was trembling from exertion, breathing raggedly through his teeth. Kowalski went from steadying him, to holding him upright, to supporting the bulk of his weight as Crane sagged heavily against him. Ski kept his right arm wrapped around Crane’s waist, the captain’s left arm pulled tightly over his shoulder. 

 

At the shack Nelson kicked the door aside and did a quick check of the interior. The day was fading from anemic gray to charcoal, making the inside all but impenetrable with shadow. Ski got Crane through the door and over to the bed where the captain collapsed with a groan. The air was close inside, pungent with earth and mold. 

 

“We need to get him out of those wet clothes,” Nelson called over his shoulder. He was banging away in the few cupboards, looking for anything that was warm and dry. 

 

Kowalski went to work on Crane’s shoes, fiddling with the laces until he was able to slip them off. There was a blanket bundled on the end of the bed, and he shook it out to rid it of any clinging debris. Nelson was back with some towels - - small terrycloth squares - - that might have been used in a kitchen. They looked dirty, but the staining was more from must and age than dirt and grime. 

 

The lighting was bad, fading toward night, but in a short while Kowalski’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Crane was on the bed, his head tilted back at an angle. He had both knees drawn up, his left arm across his stomach, his hand cupping the hole in his right side. It looked like it had started bleeding again. Ski could see a wet, dark liquid welling up between his fingers.

 

Nelson noticed it too. “Must have broken open the wound,” he muttered. Balling the edge of a towel in his hand, he wiped it down the side of Crane’s face, sopping up clinging droplets of rain. “I want you to lie still, lad. I’m going to work on getting your shirt off. I’ll be careful of the wound.”

 

Crane gave a vague shake of his head. In the darkness, his eyes were sun-bright, burning with fever. Kowalski could feel heat radiating off him even though he shivered.   

 

“Kowalski,” Nelson said, pulling a chair close to the edge of the bed. It creaked at receiving his weight, the sound overly loud in the small hut. He pulled one of Crane’s arms close and worked at unbuttoning the cuff. The fabric was stiff and stained with blood. “Look in the back,” the admiral ordered with a nod for the rear of the shack. “I saw a door that might be a closet. See if you can find any dry clothes.”

 

“Aye, Sir.” With a worried glance for Crane, Ski went to rummage as instructed. He knew there were a few items and came up with a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt that looked like it would swallow Crane whole. The shirt smelled faintly of motor oil but it looked warm.

 

“I won’t swear how clean they are, but they’re dry, Sir,” he said returning to Nelson.

 

Nelson spared a distracted glance. “They’ll work,” he decided. Then, with a sharper nod to indicate the opposite side of the bed, “Help Captain Crane sit up.”

 

**********

 

Lee couldn’t decide if he was hot or cold. He felt like he was on fire, yet the slightest whisper of air across his skin was a razor-chill that sliced deeply into his bones. The battle between heat and frost left him shivering, his body struggling to absorb the punishment of fever on top of strangulation and a bullet wound. He blinked in confusion, remembering the sickening agony of Jaris slowly choking the air from his lungs . . . the hot eruption of fire in his side when a bullet sent him spinning from the wall. He remembered rain and trees . . . the soothing stroke of Nelson’s thumb across his cheek, Kowalski helping him stand.  

 

Now there was only murky grayness, a kind of anemic haze and a spreading web of fire leeching outward from his side. He groaned and tried to shift but someone was holding onto his arm.

 

“We’re almost done, Lee.” 

 

Nelson’s voice, quiet and assuring. 

 

The hand on his arm shifted, and he felt the questing brush of fingertips. First fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, then gingerly prying the blood-soaked fabric from his skin. He hissed between his teeth, more from shock than pain. The half-limbo he’d been floating in crashed around him, clarity ripping through him like a knife. 

 

He shuddered, teeth chattering, pain crawling awake like a living thing. He grunted and tried to recoil but someone was holding onto him, half supporting him.

 

“Come on, Skipper,” Ski said near his ear. “We’ve got some warm clothes for you.” 

 

Understanding what they were about, Lee helped as much as he could. Nelson got the shirt off of him then dried him with some terry towels. Lee managed to unbuckle his belt and tug his pants off himself, but needed Ski to help him stand when he pulled on a pair of borrowed jeans. They were worn and faded, the thighs white from bleach, with a hole ripped through the right knee. They sagged on his hips, hanging below the line of his briefs, but at least they were long enough, and it felt good to shed his wet clothes. The shirt was even larger, made for a man who pumped iron as a pastime. It smelled faintly of fuel oil but Lee didn’t care. Stripping off the wet clothes, even with Nelson and Kowalski assisting, had left him exhausted. All he wanted to do was curl up on the bed and close his eyes for a few minutes.

 

“Where are we?” he mumbled when he had burrowed under a musty-smelling blanket.

 

“Looks like some kind of way station,” Nelson said from somewhere on his right. He heard a chair creak then felt a hand settle on his forehead as if checking for fever. “There’s not much here, but it’ll get us through the night.”

 

“I might be able to get the stove working,” Kowalski said from further back in the shack. “There’s a propane bottle in the closet. It would help heat the place up.”

 

“Good idea,” Nelson said. Lee felt the hand again, this time on his cheek. “And maybe the pump. We’re going to need water if his temperature keeps climbing.”

 

He wanted to protest it wasn’t necessary but he was sleepy, the pain in his side almost manageable. He knew he should be up doing something - - organizing, planning, helping Nelson plot a way out of the mess, but it was warm under the blanket and he was so tired. He’d just rest for a few minutes. Close his eyes until he had the pain completely under control. It wouldn’t take long. A few minutes. And then . . . then . . .

 

Exhausted, Lee drifted to sleep.

 

**********

 

Pain dragged him awake to starlight and darkness. He gave a half groan before he was fully coherent, sluggishly shifting on the narrow bed. The sheets were chill beneath him, damp from perspiration. He realized he’d been sweating profusely. Even the thin pillow beneath his head felt wet. He started to raise a hand to rake aside his bangs but felt something cool brush over his face. A second later Nelson’s features came into view as he drew a damp cloth across Lee’s cheek.

 

“I was hoping you’d sleep through the night,” the admiral said quietly.

 

Lee tried to speak, grimacing when pain erupted. Each marginal swallow felt like a knife blade razoring through the soft tissue of his throat. He spied a basin of water at Nelson’s feet and gathered the admiral had been using it to soak the cloth in his hand. 

 

“Is . . . there more of that?” Lee rasped, indicating the basin. “. . . water?”

 

Nelson nodded and moved to stand.

 

“I got it, Sir,” Kowalski said from somewhere off to Lee’s left. There was movement as a chair creaked, then the sound of footsteps retreating to the rear of the small shack.

 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping while I stand watch,” Nelson said to the rating’s departing back. He was still seated at Lee’s bedside, but his gun was positioned at his feet and he had a clear view of the window and door. 

 

“Can’t sleep,” Ski explained. He was back a moment later carrying a tin cup, brimming with water. “Here you go, Skipper. The cup’s kind of battered but the water’s clean. I checked it out.”

 

He pulled his chair closer to the bed, perching on the edge. Sliding an arm behind Lee’s back, he raised the captain’s shoulders as he held the cup to his lips.

 

The water felt blessedly cool on Lee’s throat, but the act of swallowing bordered on torture. He managed a few sips then pushed the cup away, collapsing back on the bed. He fingered his neck, hoping to massage away the discomfort, but even minimal pressure was agony. He wasn’t sure which hurt worse - - his throat or the hot band of fire spreading over his side. Instinctively, he dropped his hands to the wound, drawing up one knee in hopes of easing the pain. It was hard to concentrate on anything, the shack a swimming sea of black around him. He turned his head to the side, unable to stifle a moan.

 

“Lee, don’t touch it.” Nelson pushed his hands away. “I know it’s difficult, but you need to lie still.” He settled a palm on Lee’s thigh, gently urging his leg down. “Since you’re awake, I want to try to clean the wound. I didn’t want to disturb you earlier.” As he spoke, he tugged the blanket below Lee’s waist.

 

Almost immediately, Lee began to shiver. The combination of cold air, fever and pain shot directly to his stomach. He swallowed hard, terrified by the thought of vomiting. His throat felt lined with sharp pieces of glass, and his side was drenched in flame. Swallowing only made the pain in his throat soar higher. He moaned, trying to twist away from Nelson. The admiral had peeled back his borrowed shirt, leaving the wound exposed to the cool night air.

 

“Skipper, it’s all right. You need to stay still like the admiral said.”

 

Lee felt Kowalski’s hand lock over his forearm, anchoring him in place. The rating’s voice held a note of doubt when he spoke to Nelson. “Admiral, how can you see?”

 

“I’ve got enough light.” Nelson’s voice was low, his manner engrossed. 

 

Even through a pain-muddled haze, Lee sensed the older man was absorbed in his task, trying to cause as little discomfort as possible. He gritted his teeth, steeling himself, when he felt the touch of a water-soaked cloth on the wound. Nelson prodded gingerly but the pressure, light as it was, left him drenched in a cold sweat. He locked his fingers around Kowalski’s wrist, fighting back a cry as a shudder raced through him. Between the fever and violent spike of pain, he knew the wound was infected. With no medication and no way to remove the bullet, there was a good chance it would turn critical. In the darkness he saw Nelson and Kowalski exchange a glance and sensed they knew it too.

 

“Almost done,” Nelson said, sopping up dried blood and God only knew what else - - pus? Lee didn’t want to think about it. He turned his eyes to the ceiling, fighting the mounting tremors in his body. Sensing the battle, Nelson tried to distract him by talking.

 

“I’ve been thinking about that photo Richard Marsh sent you...if he did send it.” He paused, wringing the blood-soaked cloth out in the basin of water. “Did you really know him?”

 

Lee nodded, still looking at the ceiling, trying hard not to tense for the next touch. “. . . kids,” he answered, his voice hoarse. “In military school together. Haven’t talked to him . . . thirteen years.”

 

Gently, Nelson swabbed at the wound. Lee sucked in a breath, trying not to hiss. He was trembling now, fighting a toxic combination of exhaustion and pain. Again, he tried to raise his knee and ease the pressure on his torn skin. Without a word, Kowalski pushed it down, giving the admiral room to work. 

 

“If you haven’t talked to him in thirteen years, why would he send you the photo?” Nelson continued in the same conversational tone. “There had to be plenty of other contacts for him to send it to. People he trusted . . . his editor, business associates. Why you?”

 

“Yeah, Skipper.” Kowalski added his two cents, trying to keep him focused on anything but the pain. “That doesn’t make sense.”

 

Lee moved to brush Nelson’s hand aside, then aborted the reactionary impulse at the last second. “Don’t know.” He writhed on the bed, but did his best to keep his knees lowered, his hands at his sides. How long did it take to clean a wound? He was starting to teeter on the edge of blacking out and almost wished he would. He should just stop fighting it . . . surrender to the darkness and a stupor free of pain. He was almost at that point, hovering on the brink, when Nelson gave a ragged exhale and finished. 

 

“That bullet can’t stay in much longer, Lee.” Concerned, he leaned forward, pressing a hand to the younger man’s forehead. Even in the darkness, Lee could see his mouth tighten. “Your fever is raging out of control. Kowalski...” He glanced at the rating. “See if you can get the captain to swallow some more water. We need to keep him as cool as possible.”

 

“. . . freezing . . .” Lee muttered, but with Kowalski’s help, he managed to down a few mouthfuls of water. Nelson drew the blanket up to his throat and Lee gathered it close.

 

“I can go for help,” Kowalski volunteered. “If I leave now...”

 

“It’s too dark,” Nelson cut him off. “You’d be stumbling around blind in unfamiliar terrain. We’ll stick to the plan you and I discussed while Captain Crane was out. You’ll have a better chance in the daylight.”

 

“But, Sir, the Skipper...”

 

“The admiral’s right,” Lee said weakly. He could feel his eyes growing heavy. His side throbbed, pulsing in time to his heartbeat. At least his stomach had settled, the terrifying moment of sickness past. Even with the blood-thump of fire in his side, he could feel himself slipping closer to a twitchy, fever-induced slumber. His eyelids started to drift shut.

 

“Kowalski...” Nelson gave a jerk of his head, indicating the rear of the shack. 

 

Lee heard the creak and groan of chairs, followed by the soft pat of retreating footsteps. A quiet murmur of voices hovered on the edge of his consciousness, more white noise than discussion. He couldn’t say if seconds passed, minutes or even hours. Time ceased to have meaning. Then abruptly Kowalski’s voice rose in volume, penetrating his fog in a startled hiss:

 

“Sir, you can’t seriously suggest...”

 

“No other option,” Nelson said quickly, cutting him off. Scattered bits and pieces of conversation followed:

 

“. . . risky . . . more harm than good.” That was Kowalski, sounding scared now.

 

“. . . soon as we have enough light,” Nelson countered. “. . . everything we need . . . knives . . . water . . .”

 

“. . . too crude, Sir . . . end up killing him . . . have to tell him . . .” 

 

A long pause followed with no sound at all. Finally, Nelson’s voice broke the stillness. “He needs to sleep.” The words were soft, strangely regretful. “. . . do what we can . . . several hours . . . dawn . . . need to sleep too.”

 

Lee rolled onto his good side and drew his knees closer to his chest. He didn’t know what they were talking about but suspected it had something to do with him. He’d worry about it later. For now all he wanted to do was close his eyes and manage a few hours free of pain and the memory of torture.  

 

He fell asleep dreaming of Richard Marsh and a photograph he knew nothing about.

 

**********

 

Harry worked the hand pump until he had enough cold water in the basin to douse his face. It made a grating sound as he worked the handle up and down. Worried, he glanced over his shoulder at Lee, but the young captain was still sleeping. Thank God for small miracles.

 

Lee’s rest was far from healing. He shifted fitfully, moaning now and again, trapped in a tortured haze of fever and pain. No longer cold, he’d bunched the blanket down below his hips. Perspiration glistened on his cheeks and the backs of his hands. The shirt Kowalski had found for him hung open on his chest, stained with blood. Harry knew the fever was raging out of control, and the wound was likely infected. Even from a distance it looked swollen and raw. Neither he nor Kowalski were doctors, but they’d both been exposed to medical field work at one time or another in their careers.

 

Bending over the basin at the pump, Harry splashed cold water on his face, hoping to shock himself awake. He and Kowalski had taken turns during the night, spelling each other as they stood watch. What little sleep he’d managed to catch had been restless, leaving him fighting stiff muscles and fatigue. He could live with both as long as his mind was sharp and his hands steady. He wasn’t looking forward to the procedure he’d proposed to Kowalski last night, but knew it had to be done. Lee was far too important to him to stand by and do nothing. He knew the options were grim - - watch Lee suffer with a wound that would likely turn fatal before they were able to get help - - or take the chance on removing the bullet, putting him through even more pain. 

 

For a moment, he wavered, thinking he’d made the wrong choice. The indecision passed quickly when he heard the captain groan in his sleep. 

 

“Kowalski. How are you doing with those strips?”

 

The rating looked up from a small rickety table where he was busy cutting the spare clothing from the closet into narrow strips. “Almost done, Sir.” He glanced in Lee’s direction and grimaced. “Are you sure about this?”

 

Hell, no, he wasn’t sure. “It’s the only option,” he replied, unwilling to let his indecision show. He needed to appear confident for Lee’s sake. Kowalski’s too. 

 

Dawn had crept over the horizon an hour ago, pearl gray, tinged with buttermilk. The light in the shack was far from ideal, but Harry judged the illumination sufficient. On the propane stove, the rating was boiling a pot of water containing several small knives they’d scrounged from the cupboards. 

 

“You’re not going to be able to move him after you do this,” Kowalski tried again. “What if Salazar’s men show up? If I’m out, trying to find help...”

 

“I’ve got Captain Crane’s gun and mine. Damn it, man, I told you there’s no other option! Do you think I make this decision lightly?”

 

“No, Sir.” Kowalski hung his head. Viciously, he tore a strip of cloth from the shirt in his hands.

 

Harry watched as the rating took his frustration out on the frayed garment. He knew Ski was only thinking of Lee, fearful what they were about to do would cause the captain greater harm, but Harry’s back was against the wall. Lee’s chances of survival grew slimmer with each passing moment. As long as the bullet remained lodged in his side, his chances of dying from infection, blood poisoning or gangrene continued to mount. Even thinking about it left a greasy, nauseous feeling churning in his gut. 

 

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, walking toward the bed. Briskly, he cuffed back his sleeves, fighting a qualm of apprehension. He needed steady hands and a clear mind. No room for hesitation now, no doubts. 

 

“Lee.” Bending, he cupped his palm behind the younger man’s head. It would be better for all of them if Seaview’s commander remained unconscious, but Harry couldn’t risk him waking in the middle of the procedure. Especially after being tortured. Dazed, out of his head with pain, Lee would likely think the same thing was happening to him again and fight. “Lad, wake up,” Harry coaxed quietly. “I need to talk to you.”

 

The captain twitched as though hovering in a limbo between consciousness and sleep. The heat radiating from him was gummy and moist, suffocating in intensity. Sweat trickled from his brow to his cheek, forking at a right angle toward his ear. Harry wiped it aside, pulling a chair close to the bed. “Lee.”

 

“. . .ughnn . . .” Lee blinked, his eyes a bright flare of Aztec gold beneath the raven webbing of his lashes. The fever had turned his pupils to black glass, the irises to reflective sunstone. Despite that piercing glitter, his usual expressiveness was muted beneath a cloud of confusion. “Hot,” he managed, immediately drawing his knees up, his hands instinctively groping for the hole in his side.

 

“I know.” Harry didn’t attempt to restrain him, instead smoothing a hand gently down his arm in silent affection. If it were in his power he’d willingly trade places, taking Lee’s pain as his own. But all he had was a plan and the fervent, prayerful hope that he wasn’t making a mistake. “The wound’s turned toxic, Lee. You know that. I’m worried about infection.”

 

The younger man muttered something he didn’t catch, turning his head fitfully on the pillow. Harry leaned forward trying to calm him, gliding a hand over his brow. “I know you’re hurting. I know you’re in a lot of pain, but I need you to think about what I’m going to say.”

 

“Admiral?” Lee’s eyes focused on him, green-gold with misery, fired by the witch-light of fever. Behind him, Harry heard Kowalski approach the bed and hover just beyond his shoulder. The rating was every bit as anxious as Seaview’s captain though his motivation was different.

 

Harry closed his hand over Lee’s wrist, holding tightly. The younger man’s skin was hot, slick with sweat. “Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course I do, Sir.” No hesitation.

 

Harry expected the answer, yet hearing it spoken now when Lee was tormented by pain left him feeling woefully inadequate. How could he ever live up to the younger man’s belief in him? Who was he to think - - to have the audacity - - to believe he could work miracles? He’d seen some horrible life-or-death situations while in service to the Navy. On-the-spot field surgeries that had left other officers and crew clinging to life, some wheezing their last breath. He knew he was gifted and brilliant, but he wasn’t a surgeon.

 

“The bullet has to come out, Lee. We can’t wait for help. We can’t wait for a doctor.”

 

“How?” 

 

Such a simple question. Harry felt the younger man’s fingers curl over his sleeve. “We have everything we need,” he explained. “Ski is sterilizing several knives right now and we have clothing for bandages.” His heart was heavy, thudding in his chest. It all sounded so simple - - just lie there and let me slice open your side. It’ll be over in a few minutes. A trickle of sweat seeped into his collar, sticky and hot. The small shack felt even smaller, closing in on him from all sides. Who was he kidding? He had no medication, no surgical supplies or operating room, and he was far from qualified as a doctor. The torment must have shown on his face.

 

Lee closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. “I understand, Sir.”

 

No, you don’t. I’ve got to cut you open. I’m going to put you through hell when all I want to do is help you. I’m going to torture you every bit as much as that sick bastard who choked you. You don’t understand that it’s going to rip my heart out to know I’m the one making you suffer.            

 

“When?” Lee asked.

 

“Now. Kowalski needs to . . .” His voice faded, muffled and remorseful. “. . . restrain you.” He cleared his throat, straightened and attempted to regain his composure. “Afterward, he’ll go for help. By now Chip and the others will be looking for us. My car was left abandoned in NIMR’s parking lot and you and Ski are overdue from Sickle Hill. They’ll have to realize something is wrong.”

 

Lee kept his hands cupped over the hole in his side. He turned his head, looking at Ski. “He’s not . . . going to be able to hold me down,” he said in a thready voice. “Not when you start cutting.”

 

“I know that.” Both Harry and Ski looked uncomfortable. “Kowalski, get the strips and the rope,” he said.

 

“Aye, Sir.” The rating’s voice was even softer than Lee’s. He turned away, crossing to the table where he’d been tearing the clothing from the closet into strips. Harry had added some rope he’d found in the cupboards, knowing his options were limited. Initially, Ski had been appalled by what he proposed to do, but in the end he saw the necessity for the grim procedure. Returning to the bed, he stood to one side, the rope and cloth strips dangling from his hands. His eyes skittered from Harry to Lee and back again. 

 

“Listen to me, lad.” Harry tightened his fingers over Lee’s wrist. There was no easy way to say what he had to say. “I’m going to go wash up while Ski gets you . . . ready,” the word stuck on his tongue, “. . . for the surgery. I know your wrists are raw from the handcuffs. He’s going to wrap them in cloth first to protect them. After that he needs to use the rope . . .”

 

Lee held his gaze, never flinching, fully understanding. “You’re going to tie my wrists to the bed frame?”

 

Harry drew a breath. The air, like slate, pierced his lungs. “Yes. With your arms restrained, it will leave him free to hold your legs down while I operate. I, Lee . . . lad . . . I can’t risk you fighting me when I have your side open. I’m not Jamie. If I do something wrong...”

 

“You won’t,” Lee said quickly. He turned his arm under Harry’s, twisting his hand around to grasp the older man’s wrist. For a moment their gazes locked and held, Lee’s eyes bare of all but conviction and belief. “I know you won’t let me down,” he whispered.

 

Harry nodded, too choked up to speak. How was it possible he held Lee’s life in his hands? If he dies, time and eternity stop here. Shoving to his feet, he dragged a hand through his hair. “Get him ready, Kowalski.” 

 

Unable to watch, he headed for a pot of water on the stove to scrub his hands.

 

**********

 

Kowalski set the cloth strips and rope on the edge of the bed, then pulled a chair close. He was uncomfortable but did everything he could to keep the rampant disquiet to himself. He’d been in tight spots before, had even seen the skipper in equally troublesome positions, but he’d never watched a man get a bullet cut out of him without anesthesia. There was no question Nelson was brilliant, a certified genius, but he wasn’t a doctor and maybe, just maybe, some things were beyond him. 

 

Miserable, Kowalski picked up one of the cloth strips and laid it across his lap. “Skipper . . .”

 

“It’s all right, Ski.” Crane looked pale and sickly but there was a spark of reassurance in his eyes. He raised one wrist, caked with dried blood, the skin raw and bruised. “Let’s get it over with.”

 

“This sucks,” Ski muttered. It probably wasn’t the thing to say to one’s captain, but at that point he didn’t care about protocol and it appeared Crane didn’t either. Grimacing, he wrapped a strip of cloth around Crane’s wrist, carefully tying it off. He completed the procedure with the other arm, then picked up the first coil of rope. 

 

“Sir...”

 

“Do what you have to, Ski.”

 

What he had to do was go hurl in the woods. He could feel himself sweating, beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. His stomach burbled and roiled with acid. Hell, he’d done stints as a medic before, not all of them text-book clean. Why was this one ripping his gut out, stripping him of all save white-knuckle fear and kick-ass desperation?

 

Maybe because it was Crane - - not just his commanding officer, but a man he greatly admired and a friend too.

 

The captain made it easy for him, stretching his arm above his head. 

 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Kowalski whispered, looping the rope over his wrist then tying off the end, securing it to the low headboard. He did the same with the commander’s other wrist. By the time he was finished, Crane’s arms were stretched above his head, fastened to the headboard. The image reminded Ski of how they’d found him in Salazar’s dungeon, trussed up and tethered for his torturer. And wasn’t that what Nelson was going to do to him now?

 

Sickened by the idea, Kowalski bent and retrieved the cloth Nelson had been using to tend to the captain’s fever. He wrung it out over a basin of water, then used it to wipe the sweat from Crane’s face. “Is there something I can get you, Skipper? Water . . .or maybe I can find another blanket?”

 

Crane gave a slight shake of his head. “What time . . . is it?”

 

Ski looked at his watch. “7:12.” He forced a smile. “If we were back on Seaview, Pat and I would be dragging Riley to the mess, pumping him full of black coffee. That guy’s a night owl, Skipper. With all that platinum blond hair and surfer thing he’s got going on, you’d think he’d be a dawn-worshipper, but you practically have to peel him out of his rack.”

 

Crane chuckled. “Don’t knock it. I seem to remember you’re better at night reconnaissance. You proved that when I first came aboard.”

 

Ski ducked his head, remembering how Crane had decked him on that first mission, and how he’d harbored an intense dislike of the man for most of the succeeding operation. Even after its completion, when he’d been forced to acknowledge the captain’s self-sacrificing nature, he hadn’t been ready to jump on the Seaview’s-got-a-new-captain-let’s-welcome-him-aboard bandwagon. It had taken him awhile to warm up to Crane. 

 

That damn age thing had been a problem. How could a man, barely five years older than him, be in command of the greatest submarine in the world? How the hell had he even earned captain bars, let alone pull off a coup like Seaview?

 

All of that was behind him now. He felt almost silly thinking about it. Amazing what four years had done to a relationship that had initially started off with antagonism on his part. He’d more than willingly lay down his life for Crane but didn’t know how he was going to hold the captain down while Nelson cut into him with a knife.

 

Nervously, he licked his lips. “Skipper, a lot’s changed in four years.”

 

Crane closed his eyes, grimacing as a shudder ran through him. “I know. You’re a good man, Ski . . . and a good friend. Never forget that.”

 

Before he could say more, Nelson was there, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He carried several small knives and a folded stack of hand towels. His face held stern conviction, but it was mixed with an underlying trace of regret.

 

“Kowalski,” he said in a flat monotone. “Get a basin of warm water from the stove.” He jerked his head to indicate what he wanted. Then he turned away briefly, setting the towels and the knives on a small table. Giving it a tug, he dragged it closer to the bed and sat down. The sight of Crane, his arms stretched above his head, his wrists secured to the headboard, made him blanch. 

 

“Lee, I . . .”

 

“It’s all right, Admiral.” Crane drew an unsteady breath, physically steeling himself. “Just get it over with.” 

 

**********

 

Harry examined each knife but none seemed exactly right. Which one would Jamie choose? Already, he could feel sweat collecting in his bangs and breaking out on the back of his neck. The sight of Lee with his arms tied above his head reawakened the horrific memory of the young captain tethered to a hook in Salazar’s torture chamber. Harry swallowed hard, his mouth abominably dry.

 

“Kowalski.” The rating looked as sick and nervous as he felt. “Make sure the wound’s clean.”

 

He went back to examining the knives, taking his time as Kowalski picked up a cloth, soaked it in hot water, then applied it to Lee’s wound, pushing his blood-caked shirt aside. The captain reacted instinctively, drawing his knee up, hissing between his teeth. He steeled himself, tightly wrapping his fingers around the rope binding him to the bed. 

 

Harry watched as Kowalski placed a hand on Lee’s thigh, urging his leg flat. The leg was going to be a problem. Lee’s natural impulse was to raise his knee, sometimes both, in an effort to protect the wound or, at the very least, ease the strain on his ruptured skin. It was going to be Kowalski’s job to keep both legs pinned to the bed while Harry cut into him and probed for the bullet. He settled on a small paring knife he could hold firmly, the handle tucked snugly into his palm. “I’ll do it as quickly as I can,” he promised.

 

Lee nodded. Harry caught a vivid flash of jeweled-green beneath his lashes as Lee looked toward the ceiling. He fixated on a spot overhead, concentrating in an effort to quell the pain. Kowalski dumped the blood-tinged cloth he’d been using to clean the wound in a basin, then rubbed his hands dry on his pants. Moving to the foot of the bed, he braced one knee against the frame and leaned forward, clasping Lee’s legs just below the knees. 

 

It was Harry’s signal to begin.  

 

“You’re going to be fine, lad.” Affectionately, he brushed his knuckles over Lee’s cheek. His chest felt tight, but thankfully his hands were steady. He didn’t want the younger man to know how worried he was. He wanted the god-awful nightmare of surgery over but didn’t want to initiate it. Who was he to decide what was best for Lee - - to subject a man he considered his son to excruciating agony based on his own skewed judgment? He was beginning to have second thoughts when Lee moaned softly, fighting back a spike of pain.

 

“Easy,” Harry coaxed. He unsnapped Lee’s jeans, sliding down the zipper. Carefully, he folded the heavy denim clear of the infected area. Retrieving a clean cloth, he dipped it in the basin, gingerly swabbing the swollen, bloodied flesh Kowalski hadn’t been able to reach beneath Lee’s waistband. 

 

Lee bit down on his lip, gripping the rope restraints in white-knuckled desperation. His head was tilted back, his eyes fixed resolutely on the ceiling. 

 

“Easy,” Harry encouraged. Setting aside the cloth, he placed a hand on Lee’s stomach, preparing to make the first incision. If he stopped to think about what he was doing, he’d never go through with it. The pigment had bled from Lee’s skin, making the ugly purple bruising on his neck starker by contrast. His face and hair were damp with perspiration, his breath choppy and uneven. Harry suspected his rapid breathing had as much to do with pain as the anticipation of greater agony to come.

 

Before he lost his nerve, he steeled himself for the first cut.

 

**********

 

“You’re doing fine, Lee.” Nelson rested his hand on Lee’s thigh. Satisfied he’d cleaned the wound sufficiently, he discarded the blood-fouled cloth and selected a slender knife from the table. 

 

Lee caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He felt light-headed and disoriented. He understood what had to be done, knew he had to hold as still as possible, but his body trembled with fatigue. Between the torture Jaris had put him through, the beating he’d taken from Clayton and the shock of the bullet wound, he could barely string a rational thought together. The only thing he was conscious of was pain. Moaning, he tried to drag his right leg forward. 

 

“No, Skipper. You can’t.” Kowalski applied pressure, pinning him to the bed, restricting his movement. 

 

Lee shuddered. “Ski . . .”

 

The rating’s expression held equal parts misery and determination. Unable to raise his leg, Lee tightened his hands on the rope holding him captive. His ribcage was stretched by the pull of his arms above his head, making his stomach all but concave. Nausea rolled up from his gut, drenching him in sweat. Swallowing, he closed his eyes, trying to block the sensation.   

 

He felt Nelson’s hand settle on his stomach, holding him in place. A distracted part of his mind registered the hard calluses on the admiral’s fingertips. A second later, something heated and sharp prodded his side, and the world erupted in a volcanic burst of agony. 

 

Lee cried out, burying his face against his arm. 

 

Pain ripped through him in a brutalizing glut of coldfire and white flame. He could feel rabid heat in his gut, splinters of flame shooting deep into his abdomen. On top of the torture, on top of the beating, it was too much. He tried to draw his knees up, but Kowalski held him pinned. 

 

“Ski. Ski, let go...” he panted.

 

“Skipper, I can’t!”

 

The dreadful prodding continued, wrenching a tortured gasp from his lips. “Easy,” someone said, but his head was swimming, and the word flitted beyond his grasp like a fickle bird. “Admiral - - stop!” he spat through gritted teeth. 

 

“Sir, can’t you hurry up?” Kowalski pleaded to Nelson.

 

The admiral’s face was severe as he discarded the first knife and retrieved a second. 

 

Gagging on the vile odor wafting from the wound, Kowalski turned his head away, unwilling to look at the fetid laceration. The shack was too small and too hot - - a confining box closing on all sides. Sweat collected in his hair and trickled down his neck. With every quaking gasp Crane took, Ski felt him labor against the restraints as the muscles in his legs tensed spasmodically.

 

“Easy, Skipper,” he coaxed. He’d never felt so wretched in his life, forced to hold his commanding officer down while another cut into him with a knife. Salazar’s torture-master might be dead already, but Ski vowed to make certain the Aqua King met an unpleasant fate if their paths ever crossed again. Freaking sadistic bastard. 

 

He heard Crane inhale sharply, a strange hitch in his breath he’d never heard before. The captain had turned away, burying his face against his sleeve. “You’re doing good, Skipper,” he encouraged, feeling useless and barbarous at the same time. He watched as Nelson splayed one hand over Crane’s hip, pinning him in place.

 

“I’ve almost got it, Lee.”

 

“Admiral . . . I can’t . . .” Tensing, Crane tightened his hands on the rope restraints. He jerked once, crying out as Nelson probed deeper and blood welled from the wound, sluicing across his flat stomach. The air smelled hot, rank and metallic. A second later, the bullet blundered free in a heated deluge of fluid and blood. Exhausted, Crane crumpled limply in the restraints.

 

“It’s over, Skipper.” Kowalski snatched a knife from the table and swiftly slashed through the rope binding him to the headboard. He slid an arm behind Crane’s back as he sagged, carefully easing him to the bed. “You can rest now, Sir.”

 

Crane’s lashes were lowered, his face damp with sweat. Kowalski snatched a cloth from the table, using it to blot the perspiration from his cheeks and brow. Crane drew his legs up, his hands going instinctively to the ragged hole in his side.

 

Nelson caught his wrist, holding him back. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding, Lee.” His voice was gruff, raw with emotion. Kowalski was surprised to see his fingers trembling when he touched the captain’s hair. “I promise I won’t hurt you any more.” 

 

He took a thick piece of cloth and folded it into a square. Placing it on the wound, he settled Crane’s hand on top of it.

 

“Hold onto that, lad.”

 

Kowalski noticed that he kept his own hand there too, lightly resting on top of Crane’s. He imagined the contact was enough for admiral and captain. 

 

But far from sufficient for father and son.

 

**********

 

Kowalski paced a short distance from the shack and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, waiting for the pump of adrenalin to snake from his body. He was thankful for the sharp scent of earth and pine, the cool kiss of breeze on his sweaty face. In one respect he felt ashamed. He wasn’t the one who’d just had a bullet carved out of his side, but he needed to get away from the reek of spilled blood before he blew his guts. 

 

Besides, he tried to convince himself as he straightened and scraped a trembling hand through his hair, the admiral and the skipper need some time alone. 

 

He’d wait a short while, enough to make certain Nelson didn’t need him, then head out as planned and try to find help. He needed to find a road or a house and needed to do it quickly. 

 

Crane had survived the surgery, but it was a butcher job, performed from necessity without finesse. The captain was tough but not invincible. ONI might have taught him endurance and how to ignore pain, but they couldn’t alter the rules of life and death. Maybe he’d sleep better with the bullet gone. Kowalski could only hope. Crane needed rest to heal but, without pain medication, the odds he’d sleep soundly were thin.

 

“Kowalski.”

 

He turned as Nelson stepped outside. The admiral closed the door as far as he could. Hanging on its hinges, it only went so far before the corner butted up against the rickety floorboards and ground to a stop. The older man motioned Ski away from the window, walking a few steps into the trees.

 

“How is he, Sir?”

 

Nelson tugged a hand over the back of his neck, his skin paler than usual. “Resting.” His face was strained and papery-looking, a hint of self-loathing in his eyes. He wasn’t just Admiral Nelson now, worried over the recovery of an injured junior officer, but a father who felt responsible for what he’d been forced to do to his ‘son.’ And the ‘father,’ from what Kowalski could see, was worried sick, trying hard not to show it. 

 

“I’m sorry, Sir. I should have stayed and made sure you didn’t need my help. I just . . . holding him down like that . . .” He grimaced, dropping his eyes. At times he really took the trophy for being a horse’s ass. All he’d done was hold Crane down and encourage him through the grim surgery. Nelson had been the one to slice him open. To know with every cruel cut of the knife he was inflicting excruciating pain. If anyone needed a breather, it was the admiral. 

 

Not to mention the skipper. How the hell did he hold it together through that?

 

Nelson waved the observation aside. “Captain Crane and I . . . we’ve been through a lot.”

 

Kowalski nodded glumly. “I understand, Sir. It had to be hard for you . . . doing what you did.” He didn’t add ‘hurting him like that’ but the unspoken words hung heavily between them. 

 

Ski cleared his throat awkwardly. “When you originally hired me to be part of the crew on Seaview, I thought I had the best job in the world. Then Captain Crane came along and made it even better. He trusted me with responsibilities I never would have had under any other skipper. I guess what I’m trying to say is . . . he’s inspired me and motivated me to grow. I owe him a lot. Not because he’s my commanding officer, but because he’s  . . .” He broke off and shook his head miserably. “How do you tell a man something like that? I know what I did is nothing compared to what you had to do, but I can’t help thinking he might resent me for it.”

 

“Resent you?” Nelson’s brows winged into his hair. “Kowalski, you got him through hell. You don’t seem to grasp the trust he has in you. He’s not afraid to let down his guard or show vulnerability when you’re around. You’ve worked with him for four years. You have to know that’s the bane of the man’s existence - - a constant need to be in control. To be the best at whatever he does and never show weakness.”

 

Kowalski did know, but he hadn’t stopped to consider what even minimal vulnerability must surely cost a man with such rigid self-discipline. He knew there were times when Crane let go of that naturally strict restraint - - there had to be. He’d always figured the captain relaxed his guard around Nelson and Morton, but to think he was included in that same company made him appreciate how much Seaview’s young skipper had changed his life. He wouldn’t have stood even a remote chance of having a similar friendship with any other commanding officer. Because of Crane, he’d learned to pilot the Flying Sub, was frequently chosen for off-boat missions, and routinely put in charge of security details. He wasn’t just any senior rating, but the one Seaview’s officers, particularly her captain, counted on in a crux. He’d never had that much responsibility or authority under Captain John Phillips. It was Crane who’d made his new role possible.

 

He could have been puffed-up and proud, but he’d learned by example from a leader who tempered brilliance with reason. Crane was far from a push over. If anything, just the opposite. He was fair-minded and, for the most part, soft-spoken. But he was also reckless and willful with an underlying streak of steel and a sense of honor that led him to undertake risks before jeopardizing his men. It’s why the crew followed him and believed in him. Why it hadn’t taken long for any of them, Ski included, to rally behind him. As young and gifted as he was, Crane had every reason to be arrogant, but he led without conceit. Ski respected and admired him for that.

 

Seaview was a relaxed boat, more so since Crane came aboard. They weren’t regular Navy, but there were still protocols, structure and regulations to follow. They might not be active military, but they were military. That alone constituted a certain level of order. As easy-going as Crane was with the crew, Ski knew if someone shirked their responsibilities the captain’s casual attitude quickly turned to fire and steel. 

 

“Do you think it’s bad for him to be so hard on himself, Sir?” he asked Nelson. 

 

The admiral frowned, considering.

 

“Sometimes,” he conceded at last. “But it works for him and makes him who he is. There’s no question he’s driven, but he tempers his ambition with compassion. It’s that combination of drive and empathy that makes him such an exceptional leader. Unfortunately, it also makes him feel he constantly has to maintain self-control. That he can’t crack.” Nelson shook his head, dispelling a soft sigh. “The truth is I’m afraid he’s very close.”

 

Kowalski felt his gut clench. “Close, Sir?”

 

“To cracking. I’m not sure how much more he can take and still hold it together. If it had been someone else in there, holding him down while I cut him open, it could have been disastrous. He got through it because it was you, Kowalski. Other than me and Mister Morton, the only two people he’d trust enough to let go of some of his damn self-restraint are you and Dr. Jamieson. So don’t think for a second he resents you. When he looks back on this, and thinks about what you did, it’s going to be with the certainty he trusts you. Not just with what happened, but in protecting the side of him he’s reluctant to expose to others.”

 

Kowalski didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever managed to gain Crane’s trust and esteem. Hell, he’d done everything wrong from the start - - nursing a grudge against Crane for the way he’d boarded Seaview, mistaking him for arrogant and thinking he’d kissed brass to earn his captain’s bars at such a remarkably young age. Worse, he was always the mouthy one among the crew, offering opinions when he should learn to keep his mouth shut. But maybe that was part of what made him click with Crane. He was respectful, but still said what was on his mind. Often without the invitation to do so. 

 

He smiled wryly, recognizing Crane was much the same with his superiors. He could still remember the first time that Seaview’s then-new captain and Nelson had butted heads. There’d been shouting involved and, no one, especially not a junior officer, shouted at the admiral. The crew had collectively held their breath, shocked and waiting for the hatchet to fall, certain their young captain was one step away from the unemployment line. It had been a hell of an eye-opener to realize you could get away with yelling at Nelson, if you had a valid reason and your name was Commander Lee Crane.

 

“Sir, I think the best thing I can do for the skipper right now is go for help,” Kowalski said, surprised by the lump in his throat.

 

Nelson nodded. “I’ll keep him here as long as I can. If Salazar’s men start snooping around, I’ll take him deeper south. The forest has encroached around the shack, practically burying it.” He turned, looking back at the dilapidated ruin hidden by the trees. “It’s possible they don’t know it’s here. The camouflage is good, so we should be safe. I’m more worried how long he can last without proper medical care. I don’t have anything to give him to kill the pain or even stitch the wound.”

 

“I won’t let you down, Sir,” Kowalski vowed. “I won’t let him down either.”

 

Nelson nodded grimly. “We’re counting on you, Ski.”

 

**********

 

The pain wouldn’t go away. Lee groaned and curled his legs closer, half on his side. His breath rattled between his teeth. The only thing muting the misery of his swollen throat was the pulse of agony in his side. Nelson had made him swallow a few mouthfuls of water fifteen minutes ago, but the liquid, refreshing at the time, wasn’t settling.

 

He shifted again, trying to get comfortable. The pain left him restless, twisting and writhing on the sweat-soaked mattress. He pressed down on his stomach, trying to quell the sick roiling in his gut. Tensing, he dragged his knee up, parting with an involuntary grunt.

 

“Easy, lad. Try to be still.” Seated at his bedside, Nelson leaned forward and blotted his face with a moist cloth. “You don’t want to start bleeding again.”

 

“. . . feel sick.” Lee closed his eyes tightly. His hand twitched where it rested on his stomach. He wasn’t certain how many hours had passed since Nelson had cut him open, only that he’d filtered in and out of a pain-wracked sleep, sometimes fully coherent, others drifting in a vague pseudo-fog. More than once he thought he was back at the Vault, being tortured by Jaris. Nelson had been forced to pin him to the bed, kneeling over him, assuring him he was safe. And then there were times when the memory of being choked clogged together in his head with the memory of Nelson cutting into him and he thought the admiral was his torturer.

 

“Concentrate on something else,” Nelson urged. 

 

“Salazar?” Lee asked. He wet his lips, his mouth abysmally dry. 

 

“No sign of him or his men. Kowalski’s been gone several hours now.” Nelson set the cloth aside and slid his hand over Lee’s forearm. His thumb tracked back and forth in a slow, repetitious massage. “Try to sleep. I’ll wake you if there’s reason.”

 

Lee rolled his head on the pillow. “Can’t.” He raised his other leg, earning a brief respite from the pain. “Sir . . . I’m sorry you were dragged into this. If I knew why Marsh sent the photo...”

 

“Quiet,” Nelson ordered softly, sensing his agitation. “We don’t know if there even is a photo. And if Kowalski and I hadn’t been here, how do you think you would have gotten free from Jaris?”

 

“I...” He felt sick thinking about it but wasn’t sure if it was the nightmarish memory of torture or the constant bombardment of pain that had his head swimming with nausea. The torment climbed higher and he turned away, burying his face in the pillow.

 

“Lee.” Nelson cupped the back of his head.

 

“Admiral, I’m going to be sick.” It terrified him to think of it. Nelson moved quickly, retreating to a cupboard, banging on something that sounded tinny and hollow. He was back within a few seconds, sliding to a seat on the edge of the bed instead of the chair.   

 

“You don’t have anything in you,” he said. “It’s just nerves. Turn this way, lad.” He touched Lee’s hair, coaxing the younger man to look in his direction. 

 

Lee spied a basin setting on the chair and understood the tinny sound he’d heard earlier when Nelson had been clanging around in the cupboard. He prayed to God he wouldn’t need the metal bowl. Biting his lip, he tried to keep his mind occupied.

 

“You would have liked . . . the diving equipment.”

 

Nelson gave a disbelieving snort. “Sickle Hill? God, Lee, you have an amazing aptitude for throwing me off guard.”

 

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s not the first time you’ve accused me of that.”

 

“No.” Nelson’s fleeting smile mirrored his own. “I think you’ve been doing that ever since I met you. What I haven’t figured out - - what Jiggs Starke keeps insisting I explain - - is why I let you.”

 

Lee swallowed with effort, trying hard to stay focused. The prickly feeling in his gut ballooned into his esophagus. He could feel sweat form on his upper lip . . . a single bead of moisture trickle from his hairline to his jaw. “Why do you let me?”

 

Nelson held his gaze for a moment. “I don’t know.” He used his thumb to swipe away the dampness. “You make me care. Let’s leave it at that.”

 

“Admiral, I...” His words were choked off abruptly as a sudden bolt of pain rocketed outward from the wound. Nausea swelled in his gut and his stomach convulsed. “Ughnngod.” Shuddering, he clutched the wet, bloody bandage plastered to his side and leaned over the side of the bed. Nelson reached for the basin just in time.

 

But the admiral had been right. There was little of substance in him. His stomach convulsed with the brutal punishment of wracking heaves. He choked, gasping for air, his throat blistered and raw from the force of retching. Trembling, he dug his fingers into the bed frame, barely able to support himself as he leaned over the side. The reek of blood and sickness made his head spin. Sweat dripped into his eyes and dribbled down the back of his neck. In desperation, he clung to what little strength he had, trying to ride out the brutal crest. His gut felt like it had ruptured inside out.  

 

“I’ve got you, lad. It’s all right. There’s no one here but us. You don’t have to fight so hard.”

 

“A-Admiral...”

 

“Let go, Lee. Stop fighting and let go.”

 

With a groan he bowed his head, still clutching the bed frame, pressing his forehead to the back of his wrist. It was so freaking hard to simply let go. Even with Nelson, a man he’d come to think of as his father. All his life he’d held to a strict code of self-control. He’d learned it early, unwilling to show weakness or vulnerability in front of Mitchell Blake. As he’d gotten older, he’d perfected it . . . built walls crafted from mental steel, battled to be the best and the brightest. He understood weakness in others, permitted and expected it. He had compassion for fragility in the people he cared about, but never in himself.  

 

“Sir...”

 

“It’s all right.” Nelson rubbed his shoulder then shifted the attention to the middle of his back, where his muscles had bunched into a bulging knot. “Take slow breaths.” 

 

Gradually, Lee relaxed. Against his better judgment he felt himself responding, curling closer. The agitated churning in his gut receded to a quiver, allowing him to breathe easier. He realized he was half splayed over Nelson’s lap, one arm hooked over the admiral’s knees. He knew he should shift position, but he was exhausted and more than a little fearful the movement would reawaken a demon-spike of pain.

 

“I’m too sick to be embarrassed, Sir.” Bowing his head, he pressed his face against the older man’s knee. 

 

Nelson chuckled. “You’ve got no reason to be embarrassed, Captain. I’ll count myself fortunate if you’re comfortable enough to stay put and rest.” He set the basin on the floor. “How’s your throat?”

 

“Hurts.”

 

“Your side?”

 

“Worse.”

 

“Think you can sleep?”

 

Lee closed his eyes. He could already feel himself drifting. The pain was still there, gnawing on his side and throat, but the weight of exhaustion was heavier. “If you stay,” he slurred drowsily.

 

Nelson stroked a hand through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, lad.” And then very softly, so that Lee wasn’t even certain he heard:  “I think I’ve known that from the day I met you.”

 

**********

 

Kowalski was getting nowhere fast. The further away from the Vault he headed, the denser the trees became. He hadn’t walked far when he realized the futility of his actions. If there was a road or a path to civilization buried in all that mess, he couldn’t find it. He heard no sound of cars or traffic, just the random noise of the forest - - bird calls, the flutter of the breeze through the leaves, the occasional scurry of some small animal as he startled it from hiding. At least there’d been no sign of Salazar’s men. 

 

He worried about what was happening at the shack. It wasn’t just fear that Nelson and Crane would be flushed out and discovered, but that Crane’s condition would deteriorate rapidly. Without medication and proper treatment, there was a good chance he wouldn’t survive.

 

Frustrated, Kowalski halted to get his bearings. He knew the shack was northwest of him, the Vault directly north. Bracing his hands on his hips, he tilted his head to stare at the sky. The rain had passed with the night and, although the day dawned bright, the clustering trees kept the forest shaded and cool. 

 

A gradual thwoop-thwoop-thwoop of helicopter blades rose in the distance, drawing nearer. As the chopper came into view above the tree line, Kowalski crouched lower, ducking behind the drooping branches of a tall hemlock. The density of the trees would make it difficult to spy anyone on the ground, but he wasn’t taking chances. He watched as the helicopter passed overhead, continuing toward Salazar’s fortress.

 

As it faded from view an idea began to form in his mind. It was risky, foolhardy even, but he was out of options. Nelson or Crane might disagree with his plan but he was on his own and, therefore, calling the shots. The admiral had sent him for help but hadn’t specified the manner in which he was to achieve it.  

 

Deciding on a course of action, Kowalski turned and bolted into the trees, heading north back toward the Vault.

 

**********

 

Harry glanced from his watch to his young captain, balled up on the bed. Lee had passed from restlessness into an agitated fever-sleep, never comfortable enough to remain still long. At the moment he was curled on his good side, the blanket below his knees, twined around his legs. The borrowed jeans, far too big for him, had slipped beneath his hips, leaving the top of his white briefs exposed. Harry could see dark stains on the waistband from where blood had rolled across his stomach and soaked into the material. The flannel shirt gaped open, the tail shoved behind him, the curve of his ribs almost knife-like at the bottom. He’d always been slender, but in the last two days he’d dropped additional weight. The fever certainly wasn’t helping. 

 

Harry had done what he could, bathing Lee’s face and chest with water from the pump, but he was making little progress. Barely awake, the captain moaned and writhed sluggishly, fighting the dual punishment of pain and fever. Discouraged, Harry dropped the damp cloth into a basin of water at his feet and bent over the bed. He pressed his hand to Lee’s forehead, frowning at the hot flush on the younger man’s cheeks.

 

“It’s all right, lad,” he murmured. “It won’t be long before help arrives.” 

 

He prayed to God it was true. Cupping his hand under Lee’s calf, he raised his leg carefully, untangling the blanket and tossing it to the floor. The sheets were splotched with blood but, thankfully, the discoloration looked dry. At least the makeshift compresses he’d applied to the wound had kept it from breaking open. If he could just do something about the damn fever. 

 

“I’m going to sit you up and get your shirt off,” he explained, although he wasn’t certain Lee heard him. Sliding his arm behind the younger man’s back, Harry raised him cautiously, bracing him against his chest. 

 

Lee grimaced, parting with a low groan. “Admiral . . .” His head rolled to the side, his forehead coming to rest against Harry’s neck. He tried to say something, but he was already falling back into a pain-wracked daze of incoherency. The heat from his body was staggering.

 

“Let me do the work,” Harry urged. He eased the shirt from Lee’s shoulder and arm. Oversized, it slid free easily, draping across his back. Working quickly, Harry shifted, still holding Lee upright but facing him now in order to work the remaining arm free. He heard the younger man hiss when the movement jarred his wound. “I’m sorry. I’m almost done.” And then the garment fell free, sweaty and hot from Lee’s body heat.

 

“Better?” Harry asked, easing him back onto the bed. 

 

He got a grunt for an answer and had the feeling Lee wasn’t fully conscious of his presence. Immediately, the captain drew both legs up, folding his arms across his stomach to protect the wound. As big as the jeans were, Harry saw it as a way to work them free of his hips. He stripped off the denim then retrieved the basin and crossed to the pump to fill it with fresh water. 

 

The crack of a twig made him stop.

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d dropped everything to grab his gun and inch toward the window. He waited, tense and poised, until he saw a fawn dart into the trees. With a sigh of relief, he slipped the gun into his waistband and returned to the pump.

 

An hour later, Lee was back to shivering. Harry threw the blanket back on top of him, but didn’t bother with the clothing. As miserable as Lee was feeling, it would be too hard on him to get dressed again. He wished he had something edible to give him, something light. He could probably stew a broth with roots from the forest but worried how Lee would react. If he hadn’t been able to keep water down before, the odds were broth wouldn’t settle any better. Between the damage to his throat and the possibility of rupturing the wound, he couldn’t chance Lee getting sick again. What he needed were intravenous drugs and fluid to combat dehydration.

 

At least he appeared to be sleeping for the moment. He was huddled beneath the blanket, shivering slightly, but his eyes were closed, and he hadn’t moved in several minutes. The flush of fever was still visible on his cheeks, but his skin felt cold when Harry pressed a hand to his brow. 

 

He swore softly and paced to the window. He knew Kowalski would do everything possible to find help but the clock was ticking.

 

And Lee was running out of time.

 

**********

 

Kowalski crouched at the edge of the building, watching as the pilot shut down the chopper. It had been risky reentering the Vault, scaling the wall. While there hadn’t been many guards when he, Nelson and Crane made their break, Salazar’s men were on alert now. Twice he’d had to duck into concealment, losing precious minutes while he waited for someone to pass. 

 

The ‘copter had come and gone three times while he’d picked his way through the trees, winding back to the fortress. The flights were short, indicating habitation couldn’t be far, it just wasn’t reachable by land. 

 

Good. Once in the air, he had a chance of getting help quickly. The pilot appeared be doing ferry service which factored well into his plan. With the helicopter coming and leaving frequently, hopefully no one would notice when it took off again. He knew the radio would be monitored, but he’d hold off using it as long as possible. At least until he knew he was well clear of the Vault. If the ruse was discovered and Salazar’s men tried to stop take-off, all bets were off. He had a gun and, hopefully, would have the advantage of the air.

 

Impatient, Kowalski shot a glance at his watch. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. Eventually, the new arrivals departed the landing pad - - two men wearing business suits and carrying briefcases. A woman followed behind them, dressed in a short, tight skirt and a blouse whose buttons threatened to pop beneath her amply exposed cleavage. Her blonde hair was wound up in a bun mimicking a sedate business style, her attire anything but modest.

 

Kowalski smirked, guessing she was someone’s ‘secretary’ brought along to take notes. He waited until they rounded the corner of the building, disappearing through a large arched doorway. The pilot was still in the helicopter reviewing his shutdown checklist, or at least that’s what Kowalski guessed it was. He could certainly ditch the pilot and take the chopper himself. It had to be a cake-walk after FS1, but the man would know the quickest way to get help, and be the most familiar with the instrumentation.

 

Darting from cover, Kowalski crouched low, crossing the landing pad. He entered the helicopter from the rear, easing behind the pilot’s seat. The man was still wearing his headset which helped mute any noise Ski made.

 

“Don’t move,” he ordered. The pilot might not have heard him, but he understood the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his neck. 

 

Startled, he tensed and raised both hands.

 

Kowalski slid into the seat across from him, the gun leveled on the man’s chest. “We’re going for a ride.” He pointed toward the roof and whirled his finger in a circle to indicate take-off. “Start her up. You just volunteered to save Captain Crane’s life.”

 

**********

 

The noise outside had Harry on edge. He’d only heard it once but, for some reason, didn’t think it was a doe this time. He checked his gun then shot a glance to the bed where Lee was sleeping. A few minutes were all he needed to scout the perimeter of the shack and make sure no one had found them. 

 

Lee had passed out a good fifteen minutes ago and hadn’t stirred since. Deciding he could risk a few minutes outside, Harry slipped through the door. The day was quickly moving toward dusk, long shadows slanting through the trees. The musk of the forest hung heavily in the air, a pungent combination of moss, fern and earthworms. 

 

Harry stepped away from the shack, circling cautiously around the front. Keeping the door in his field of vision, he slipped deeper into the trees. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, warning him something was wrong yet he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was just the strain of the ordeal catching up with him. He’d managed little sleep, then afterward had to steel himself to perform field surgery on Lee. No matter how much he told himself it was necessary, he was terrified he’d done something horribly wrong and the younger man would die. 

 

The thought of losing Lee left him sick and trembling so he forced the heinous fear aside. It was important to Lee’s health and safety that he stay focused. Right now that meant ensuring there wasn’t an intruder in the forest. He spent the next ten minutes examining the shack from all angles. Finally he sat still, waiting and observing, but there was nothing to arouse his suspicion. Satisfied he was just reacting to a build up of stress, he returned to the cabin.

 

Inside, he immediately stopped short at the sight of Lee struggling into his shoes. 

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he exploded.

 

The captain glanced up from his seat on the bed. He’d managed to tug on his uniform trousers, now dry, and his shirt, though the latter was unbuttoned hanging over his waistband. His face was drawn, damp with sweat, his eyes glass-bright with fever. He had one shoe on and was trying to tie the other. “I . . . you weren’t here . . .” He stumbled over the explanation, looking ready to topple. “. . . thought . . . something happened.”

 

“Idiot,” Harry muttered under his breath, but the anger was for himself. He’d been gone too long. He should have known if Lee woke up he’d think something was wrong. “I was just outside checking the perimeter.” Moving quickly to the bed, he hooked his arm around Lee’s shoulders and attempted to guide him back toward the mattress. “I want you to lie down. You shouldn’t be sitting up.”

 

“No.” Lee pushed his hands away. His touch was papery and hot. “I want to sit for awhile.” He gave a frustrated sigh and raised his hand to rub his forehead. “. . . dizzy . . .”

 

“That’s why you should lie down.”

 

Lee ignored him. “Ski?” he asked.

 

Harry grimaced. “No word yet.” He hated admitting the truth but was starting to fear Kowalski had been recaptured by Salazar’s men. Throughout the day, he’d heard the Aqua King’s helicopter passing repeatedly overhead. Searching? 

 

Lee braced one hand against the bed frame and used it to push himself upright. Stooped slightly to protect his injured side, he cupped his free hand over the hole and tried to straighten.

 

“Now what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Harry barked in alarm.

 

“I can’t keep lying there.” Lee ground his teeth together, clearly struggling to stay on his feet. “I just need . . .” He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply as the pain flared higher. What little color remained in his face drained rapidly. “Sir . . . help me.”

 

“Damn it, man!” Harry gripped his arm and held him upright. His heart slammed against his ribs, but he wasn’t sure if it was with fear or concern. All he knew was that every protective instinct in his body was focused on Lee and the inescapable truth that the younger man was slowly falling apart. “Sit!” he spat.

 

But Lee took a stubborn step forward. “I can’t.” There was a broken quality to his voice Harry had never heard before. “Admiral, I’m afraid if I close my eyes again . . . I might not...”

 

“Don’t go there,” Harry snapped, harsher than he intended. “Kowalski will be back soon with help.” 

 

He had to believe it. Lee was trembling, straining to take each minimal step, but he was determined to take them. Harry kept him upright, walking with him, uncertain if he was doing more harm than good. He knew Lee should be in bed, knew Jamie would read him the riot act if he was there, but Lee had stopped thinking rationally. He was operating solely on emotion and need. Harry could overrule him and lay down the law, but his captain was a stubborn man. Harry didn’t have the heart to go against him when that dogged determination might be the only thing holding him together.    

 

Before he could say another word, the door exploded open with a resounding kick. Harry jerked, startled to find the threshold filled with the bulk of a large man holding a gun. Gripping Lee to keep him upright, Harry never had time to draw his own pistol. 

 

“Clayton.” Lee spat between clenched teeth. Harry recognized him as the man who’d dragged Lee from the tower cell, taking him to Jaris. 

 

Seeing he’d caught both Seaview officers off guard, the large man sauntered into the shack. “Damn, Crane,” he sneered. “You don’t look good. Bowman must have clipped you after all.” His gaze shifted to the side to encompass Nelson. “Sit him down, Admiral. The captain and I are gonna chat about a photograph.”

 

“I don’t have the damn photograph,” Lee snarled.

 

The exertion of staying on his feet was swiftly taking a toll. Harry could feel his muscles straining through the fabric of his shirt. Grabbing one of the ladder-back chairs, he spun it around so Lee could sit down - - more because he feared for the captain’s stability than he was acting on Clayton’s orders. Once Lee was seated, he stepped in front of him, addressing Clayton.

 

“Tell your boss...”

 

“This has nothing to do with Salazar,” Clayton cut him off. He moved position, keeping both Harry and Lee in range. It suddenly dawned on Harry that no one else had followed him inside and there were no sounds of movement in the forest. Clayton was alone.

 

“Soloing?” he asked, understanding the thug’s priorities.

 

“It’s called blackmail. It might be risky, but Salazar’s gonna pay me through the nose to keep that photo out of the cops’ hands.”

 

“Why?”

 

Clayton snorted. “You mean Crane didn’t tell you? It’s a shot of Lister and Salazar.”

 

“Lister?” Harry’s brows drew together as he tried to make the connection.

 

“The judge who was killed two years ago,” Lee inserted behind him. “Salazar was on trial for his murder.”

 

“But the DA couldn’t prove a connection between them,” Harry finished, recalling the high profile case. Lister had been rumored to have been in Salazar’s pocket for over a decade. When their trade-off went sour, Salazar supposedly ordered a hit on him.

 

“It’s an old photo,” Clayton injected. “Been kicking around in the boss’s desk for years. Stupid to hang onto if you ask me, but he considered it a trophy. Then some thief breaks in, bypasses a wad of cash and makes off with the photograph instead. Clever son-of-a-bitch too, because he didn’t trip any alarms.”

 

Lee looked up, intrigued despite his better judgment. “Marsh?”

 

Clayton shook his head. “Your buddy ain’t that smart, Crane. We got wind Marsh had it later. The damn thief delivered the bloody thing to him - - slid it under his hotel room door, so he said. I’ll give Marsh credit he knew an exposé when he saw it. Salazar and Lister weren’t the only ones in that photo. Joey Ortega and Rock Simpson were in it too.”

 

“A mob Don and a drug-runner. Your boss keeps good company,” Lee said bitterly.

 

“He ain’t my boss anymore.” Clayton pointed the gun at him. “At least he won’t be once I got the photo.”

 

“I told you. I don’t have the damn thing. And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to a slug like you.”

 

“Well that ain’t very bright, seeing how I pummeled you before.” Clayton stepped closer, threatening. “It don’t matter to me if I leave you in one piece or ten. You’re gonna talk Crane. Maybe Jaris didn’t get shit out of you, but I don’t got his patience for finesse.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his trouser pocket, letting them dangle from his fingers. “How ‘bout I cuff your admiral and let him watch while I take you apart?”

 

He started forward, but the sudden rumble of a motor outside made him pause and glance instinctively toward the door. With the man momentarily distracted, Lee lashed out, kicking the gun from his hand. Almost in tandem, Harry launched himself at Clayton, bowling him backward against the wall. Behind him, he heard Lee gasp, doubling over in pain.

 

Hitting Clayton was like hitting a brick wall, but his distraction had given Harry the upper hand. For a moment only he had the advantage, sending the thug reeling backward. With the big man off balance, Harry pivoted for the pistol. 

 

Lee was already there, hunched over, stooping to retrieve the gun.

 

“I got it, Skipper,” a familiar voice said.

 

Harry looked up in time to see Ski scoop the weapon from the floor and slip an arm around Lee before he could tumble. Three other men crowded into the shack behind him - - two armed police officers and a medic. 

 

“Thank God,” Harry breathed. He was across the small room in an instant, leaving Clayton’s fate to the officers. Gripping Lee by the arm, he tried to steer him toward the bed, but the medic pushed him gently aside.

 

“We’ll take over now, Admiral. Leave Captain Crane to us.”

 

Isn’t that what he’d wanted all along, professional medical care for Lee? Still it was hard letting go, especially when he knew Lee’s kick had likely split open his wound. He hung back regretfully, barely aware when Clayton was cuffed and led from the shack. 

 

A second EMT rushed in, carrying a backboard and a medical case.

 

“We’ve got a couple of four-wheelers outside, Sir,” Ski explained moving to Nelson’s side. “There’s no access road, but the medics hooked up a cart to transport the skipper. It’s not that far to the Vault where they can air lift him to the nearest hospital. I got here as soon as I could.”

 

Nelson nodded, feeling some of the tension flow from his body. “You made it just in time.” His gaze shifted to Lee where the medics were easing him onto the backboard in preparation to transport him outside. “What about Salazar?”

 

“There are cops crawling all over the Vault, Sir. They found the skipper’s jacket still down in that torture chamber. Salazar tried to deny we were even there but the jacket did it - - that and the fact I was able to lead them to the tower cell and show them how we used springs from the mattress to pick the lock.” Worriedly, Ski looked toward the two medics clustered over Lee. “How is he, Sir?”

 

“Holding his own but not good. A ride out of here in a four-wheeler, even cushioned in a cart isn’t going to help. Hopefully they’ll give him something for the pain strong enough to knock him out.” He gnawed on his lip, fully aware his expression was transparent.

 

“He’s going to make it,” Kowalski said, reinforcing the belief for both of them. “He’s got to.”

 

**********

 

Harry paced in the hospital corridor fueled by coffee and adrenalin. It was after 2200 hours and he was operating on nerves. Everything had happened in a whirlwind from the time help arrived at the shack. Because of the terrain, the medics had been forced to use the four-wheeler with a cart hooked up to the back to transport Lee. The going had been rough, certainly not conducive to a move without pain, but they’d given Lee what medication they could to help offset the jarring ride.

 

Once back at the Vault a helicopter had air-lifted Lee to the nearest hospital. It was only after they’d landed that Harry learned they were in southwestern Oregon. Lee was taken immediately into surgery while Harry and Kowalski were left to handle ongoing questions with the police.

 

Eventually, Harry had been able to phone the Institute and talk to Chip Morton. That had been over five hours ago. The exec was already on guard with Lee and Kowalski two days overdue and Harry’s Mercedes abandoned in the parking lot. He’d contacted the police without success and had been ready to crawl through the phone when Harry finally touched base with him. 

 

“I’ll be on the next flight there, Sir,” he’d vowed. Harry had known there would be no stopping him so he’d merely consented and went off in search of coffee. Afterward he’d checked on Lee only to be told the captain was still in surgery. Next he’d called Dr. Nicole Rook, his steady girlfriend of the last ten months and wasn’t surprised to learn she’d already heard from Chip.

 

They talked at length, Harry repeatedly assuring her he was fine. After so many years without a regular female companion, it was a novel experience to have a woman worrying over him. He found he rather liked it, a realization that surprised him and left him feeling strangely unbalanced. Nicole asked about Lee but he had no news to report and was getting frustrated waiting for an update. They talked about her flying to Oregon but in the end she agreed to remain at NIMR, knowing he was safe. Harry feared it would be too much with Chip, Alyssa Halston and Chip’s sister Veronica (Kowalski’s steady girlfriend) descending on the hospital. He and Nicole would have to wait on their reunion until he returned to Santa Barbara. 

 

Two hours later with the clock inching toward midnight, Harry got an update from Lee’s doctor. The captain had come through surgery fine and was in recovery waiting to be moved to a room. They expected it would be another hour before he was settled, at which point he would likely sleep through the night. The doctor suggested Harry check into a hotel and get some rest, but Harry was adamant about not leaving until he saw Lee again. 

 

Kowalski had headed off for more coffee but, when he returned carrying two brimming cups, Harry found him every bit as inflexible about leaving as he was.

 

“No, Sir,” he said, when Harry suggested he check into a hotel. “I’m not going anywhere until I see the skipper again.”

 

So they scrunched down in hard molded plastic chairs drinking coffee that tasted like burnt chestnuts and waiting as the minute hand crept slowly forward. An hour later, a pretty blonde rounded the corner at breakneck speed then drew up short with a dramatic screech.

 

“Ricky!”

 

Harry was numb from the waist down, but he managed to lift his head in time to see Veronica Morton fling herself into Kowalski’s arms. “I was so worried about you,” she wailed, burying her face in his shoulder and clinging to him like he might vanish in a poof of air.

 

Slowly, painfully, Harry climbed to his feet. His muscles had stiffened, and his bones felt prehistoric. “Chip,” he greeted as Seaview’s executive officer drew abreast. He turned his attention to the slender auburn-haired woman at the exec’s side and held out his hand.

 

Alyssa Halston clasped her fingers with his, and he tugged her closer, pulling her to his side.

 

“Where is he?” she asked, worriedly searching his eyes. There was fear trapped in her gaze, a stark mixture of anxiety and love. He knew she had barely returned from Vancouver than Chip had her on a plane bound for Oregon. The exec would have brought her up to speed with as much as he knew during the flight. Harry could see she’d been crying, a balled-up handkerchief clutched in her hand. He wanted to assure her that everything was all right, that Lee would be fine, but the truth was he didn’t know. What was she going to do when she saw her fiancée’s neck . . . when she realized he’d been strangled as a form of torture? 

 

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “According to the doctor he came through surgery fine and is in recovery. They were waiting for a room to become available the last I heard. He’s going to be fine, Ali.”

 

“What happened?” There was a note of desperation in her voice. “He told me he was going to Sickle Hill to look at diving equipment.”

 

Harry glanced past her to Ski who stood with his arm looped around Veronica’s shoulders, hugging her close. He certainly wasn’t going to go into detail about what had happened in the Vault, then later in the shack when he’d cut Lee open, at least not with the women. But Chip needed to know. Morton was Lee’s best friend and would factor strongly in his recovery.

 

“Kowalski, why don’t you take Ms. Halston and Veronica for coffee? It’s probably going to be awhile before Captain Crane is settled in a room.”

 

“Good idea.” Kowalski immediately saw what he was about and ran with the suggestion. “Ms. Halston, I’m sure you could use a breather after your flight. Why don’t you come to the cafeteria with me and Ron? By the time we get back there should be some news on the skipper.”

 

Ali was reluctant to go but Harry gave her a nod of encouragement and a small push toward Ski. Thankfully, Veronica seemed to realize what was going on and took her hand, telling her the break would do them all some good. As the women moved away with the rating, Harry turned back to Chip.

 

“You better sit down,” he said. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear.”

 

**********

 

Chip didn’t stay sitting. Concerned for his friend, much too aggravated to sit still, he paced as he listened to Nelson explain the grim details of Lee’s ordeal. They were the only ones in the small waiting room tucked at the end of the hospital corridor. Surrounded by plastic chairs, wood-laminated tables and well-thumbed magazines, Chip felt boxed in and restless. The flight hadn’t helped. He should have just taken FS1 and been done with it, but there would have been landing clearances to obtain, civil and military air notifications, red tape that would have taken too long to work through without Nelson or Lee calling the shots. In the end, he’d opted for the slower civilian air flight, having plenty of time to build up a healthy worry. Outwardly, he’d maintained an aura of calm and assurance for Alyssa and Veronica, unwilling to let his anxiety show.  

 

“So what you’re saying,” he ground out, forcing the ugly words. “Is that some sick bastard put Lee through hell for a photograph he knows nothing about and you add to it by tying him down and cutting him open.”

 

Nelson blanched.

 

“... Sir,” Chip amended. It hadn’t been the most sensitive thing to say. Would he really have done any differently if he’d been in the admiral’s place?

 

“The important thing now is to focus on his recovery,” Nelson said but there was an edge of self-recrimination in his voice. 

 

Chip cursed his own stupidity. He knew how Nelson felt about Lee, knew that the field surgery had to be every bit as horrific for him as it was for the captain. It was often easier to endure pain than inflict it on someone you cared about.

 

“Agreed.” Absently, Chip fingered the leaves of a potted ficus to the right of the window. The blinds were open, giving him a view of the parking lot and the streets beyond. Headlights and taillights appeared briefly, flaring to life before being swallowed by the darkness. “Jamie is coordinating with the doctors here via conference calls,” he continued, explaining Jamieson’s absence. “As soon as Lee is able to be moved, he wants him transferred to the Institute’s Medical Bay. He’s readying a room in anticipation Lee won’t be critical. We thought you could finagle clearance, and he’d have the chief fly him up in FS1. That way he can monitor Lee on the flight back.”

 

Nelson nodded thoughtfully, tugging on his bottom lip. “I think they’ll want to keep him here twenty-four hours at least, maybe longer. The doctor says the damage could have been much worse.”

 

Chip exhaled nosily, regretting his earlier remarks. “Sir, you did what you had to do. You probably saved his life.”

 

“I’m not so sure of that. Another fourteen to sixteen hours . . . what would it have mattered? Kowalski got there with help.”

 

“You had no way of knowing that at the time. His wound was infected.”

 

Nelson shrugged regretfully. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. I just hope he’s able to look at me without remembering what I did to him.”

 

Chip stayed silent. He knew there was only one person who could answer that.

 

**********

 

Lee remembered a bit of the doctor talking to him in recovery then later, a hodge-podge of memories of being transferred to a private room. He was doped up on heavy-duty pain meds and, annoyingly, kept drifting in and out of sleep. All he wanted were a few answers, mainly the assurance that the admiral and Kowalski were both unharmed. He’d sent a nurse in search of them what seemed like an hour ago. In reality, he knew it was probably closer to a few minutes, but time had grown as distorted as his consciousness.

 

At least the pain was gone for the most part. Every once in a while he felt a sharp twinge in his side, but it passed quickly. Beneath the standard-issue hospital gown they’d dressed him in, he could feel a thick wad of bandages covering the fresh incision and stitches in his side. He knew he was bruised in several places from Clayton’s kicks but, thankfully, nothing had been fractured or cracked. Raising a hand, he fingered the ice-collar on his neck. It was uncomfortable but had already begun to work and reduce the swelling. Padded in a soft sleeve, it made a full circle of his throat, held together with Velcro straps. He suspected it looked a little like a priest’s collar.

 

“Hey.” A blond head appeared in the doorway. “Looks like rumors are true, and you really are awake.”

 

“Chip?” Lee blinked, uncertain if the drugs had him hallucinating. “What are you doing here?”

 

“What I always do - - clean-up duty and making sure you’re still in one piece.” Approaching the bed, he tossed his cap onto the nightstand. “One of these days you’re going to go Humpty-Dumpty on me, and I’ll have to kick your ass all the way back to Santa Barbara.”

 

Lee lowered his eyes. “It wasn’t my fault.”

 

“I know that, buddy.” Chip sat on the edge of the bed, sliding a hand over his wrist. He curled his fingers on the underside, his thumb poking beneath Lee’s plastic ID band. “I almost wish to God it were. Then I could chew your head off and get hot like I usually do. Right now I’m stuck with this hole in my gut because I thought you’d bought it. Don’t do that shit, Lee.”

 

He smiled faintly. “I think the hole in my gut is worse than yours.”

 

“Still one-upping me, Skipper?”

 

“You expect it.”

 

Chip grinned. “Yeah. Well, just remember - - you’ll always be younger than me. Nothing you can do about that one.” Leaning forward, he used his free hand to scuff the bangs from Lee’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Tired.”

 

“What about pain?”

 

“No. They’ve got that under control. Heavy-duty stuff.” He nodded toward the IV pole on the opposite side of the bed. The steady drip-drip-drip was oddly soothing, almost hypnotic. The drugs were definitely kicking in, making him teeter on that floaty limbo hovering on the knife-edge of sleep. The slow, leisurely track of Chip’s thumb beneath the ID band wasn’t helping. He felt safe, warm and drowsy. “Where’s Nelson? And Kowalski?”

 

“Ski took Alyssa and Veronica for some coffee. The admiral’s down the hall, talking to the doctor. Both are fine.”

 

Lee felt a sharp spike of coherency. “Alyssa’s here?” A note of panic crept into his voice. 

 

“Easy, Lee. She doesn’t know what happened, just that you were shot. Nelson told her the minimal to get by.”

 

“What about you?”

 

The exec lowered his eyes. “I got the full story. I’m sorry you had to go through that kind of hell, buddy.” 

 

Lee sighed, his eyes heavy again. “I’ve got to find out about the photograph. If Richard really sent it to me, it’s got to be in the mail I dumped on Seaview.”

 

“It can wait, Lee. Right now you need to get some sleep.”

 

“Soon. First I want to see Nelson and Alyssa.”

 

**********

 

Nelson showed up in the room five minutes later and Chip left to find Alyssa, giving them a moment of privacy. The admiral looked haggard, his hair and clothing equally rumpled, his normally vivid eyes a lackluster and weary blue. A few splotches of Lee’s blood, dry and rust-colored, decorated the front of his shirt, grim reminders of the improvised surgery.

 

“I thought you’d be asleep,” the older man said, taking a chair at the bedside.

 

Lee watched him levelly. One glance told him all he needed to know, that the surgery had been every bit as hard on Nelson as on him. Sometimes the worse demons were those born of noble intentions. “Not until I had a chance to thank you, Sir.”

 

“Thank me?” Nelson looked appalled by the notion. “I could have killed you.”

 

“But you didn’t. I wouldn’t advise changing professions to become a medical doctor, but the truth is you got me through a difficult ordeal. If the wound had turned toxic...”

 

Grimacing, Nelson bluntly waved the observation aside. “The truth, as you call it,” he said with heat. “Is that I tied you down and cut into you.”

 

Lee heard self-loathing in his voice, saw a sharp knife-flare of anger in his eyes. Words Nelson left unspoken bounced loudly in his head: Go on, try to deny it. Tell me I didn’t hurt you  . . . that you didn’t plead for me to stop. 

 

Lee was sensible enough to realize protesting would get him nowhere and likely only compound the admiral’s bitter regret. If Nelson was going to get past the hurdle of what he’d been forced to do, it wouldn’t be through Lee’s somber assurance. “If you hadn’t tied me down, it could have been messy,” he said lightly.

 

“Damn it, Lee!”

 

He laughed. “Where’s your sense of humor, Admiral?” And then, more seriously: “Don’t you understand what an amazing thing you did? I know the doctor told you . . .”

 

Nelson grumbled something unintelligible and looked away. Lee caught only the tale end of the words. “. . . hate me for it.”

 

“Sir?” He waited until the admiral’s attention swiveled back, the blue eyes focused on him again. The misery he saw reflected there was crippling to behold. Something welled inside of him, a belief as fierce as the changing tides, as intensely unyielding as nightfall. “I’m honored to have you as my superior officer, Sir. And my friend. I’ve never regretted that. Even in that hut - - tied, waiting for you to cut into me, and out of my head with pain.”

 

Nelson studied him openly, weighing the sincerity of his words. “You left one out,” he observed quietly.

 

“Nothing’s changed, Sir.” He’d long thought of Nelson as a father but was still adjusting to the fact they spoke of it openly now. “Especially not in that regard. It just amazes me that you consider me a son. That you’d even want to.”

 

“Hmm.” Nelson looked thoughtful. “I admit you have a knack for trying my patience, but Chip assures me it’s a natural talent.” He grinned fondly, a spark of his normal humor returning. 

 

Lee scowled, mostly for show. He felt better, warmed by the bantering tone of the admiral’s voice. 

 

“I supposed everything has worked out as well as it could, given the circumstances,” the older man decided. He slid his hand over Lee’s arm, squeezing slightly. “You’ve put my mind at ease and I appreciate that. Seeing you like that . . . knowing I was responsible . . .”

 

“You weren’t responsible, Sir. The man who shot me was.”

 

“You know what I mean. Would you have felt any differently if our positions were reversed?”

 

“I...” Lee looked away. Nelson had him there.

 

“That’s all right. You don’t have to answer it.” Lightly, the older man scuffed his hand up Lee’s arm. There was no mistaking the fondness in the touch. “You’ve had a grueling few days, lad. Time for you to get some sleep.”

 

“I want to see Lyss.” He couldn’t deny he was tired, the fatigue all but creeping over him like a slowly-moving fog.

 

“She’ll be here soon.”

 

“What about Ski?” he asked sleepily.

 

Nelson gave a mild snort. “Opinionated as ever. I tried to kick him out, into a hotel room, but he said he wasn’t going anywhere until he made certain you were fine. He did a remarkable job getting help, Lee. The man deserves a commendation.”

 

“I’ll take care of it when we get back to the Institute.” His words were starting to slur, the pull on his lashes increasingly heavy. He scrunched down a little more snuggly into the pillow, still floating on a cloud of heavy narcotics. “. . .Lyss,” he mumbled.

 

Nelson brushed a comforting hand through his hair, smoothing the rumpled curls into place. Combined with the pain meds, the slow stroking touch was enough to cocoon Lee in warmth. Another time he might have pulled away, insisting he was fine even when he wasn’t, unwilling to be fussed over. But he was exhausted, too tired to protest and, if he were honest, the touch was remarkably soothing. He hadn’t lied. He didn’t begrudge Nelson what he’d been forced to do at the shack but, after the agony of having the admiral cut into him, it was pleasant to have the tangible return of light affection between them.

 

“I’ll wake you when she gets here,” Nelson promised.

 

“No you won’t.” Lee closed his eyes, smiling drowsily. “You’re lying. And she won’t let you.” 

 

The fog was too great to withstand, and he tumbled over the edge into a cushioning pillow of sleep. The last thing he remembered was the admiral’s voice and touch, ushering him into the welcoming embrace of oblivion.  

 

**********

 

Lee was impatient.

 

After two days in the Oregon hospital and another three at the Institute’s Medical Bay, Jamie was finally ready to release him to Alyssa’s care that afternoon. Lee had already dressed and was seated on the edge of the bed, awaiting her arrival when Nelson walked into his room.

 

“Good morning. It looks like someone’s impatient to get out of here.”

 

Lee flashed a smile. “Admiral. It’s good to see you, Sir.” His eyes dropped to the large brown envelope the older man carried. Hopefully, it was something Nelson planned on sharing or, at the very least, would let him savor. He’d kill for anything related to the Institute or Seaview, but at this point he wouldn’t care if it was a list of herbal teas. Anything would be a welcome distraction after five days of bed-rest and repeated orders to “take it easy.” “What’s that, Sir?” He nodded toward the envelope.

 

“Something for you, actually. You remember Patterson brought you everything from your cabin on Seaview - - the mail and folders you said you’d dumped there prior to leaving for Sickle Hill?”

 

Lee nodded. The stack of correspondence and reports had provided an hour’s distraction before Jamie promptly arrived to take everything away with a scowl and a repeated command for rest. Originally, Lee had hoped to find Salazar’s photograph among the mess. But a thorough examination had come up empty, and he was left to assume Richard Marsh had randomly pulled his name out of the air under the threat of torture.

 

“Well, apparently he missed one,” Nelson told him. “This got wedged beneath your in-box somehow. I found it when I dropped a few reports off at your cabin this morning.” He passed it to Lee who took it curiously. The return address was from a hotel in Vegas. Lee had since learned Richard had been in Vegas prior to his death, doing an exposé on rigged table games.

 

He looked at Nelson incredulously. “You think the photograph is for real?”

 

“Open it,” the admiral urged, standing beside him.

 

Lee slipped his thumb under the seal and tilted the envelope to disgorge its contents. A large glossy photograph slid free with a single sheet of paper. Lee passed the photo to Nelson without looking at it. Walking a short distance away, he read what was obviously a hastily scrawled note aloud.

 

Lee,

No time to explain, except that I’m in trouble. Keep this safe for me. 

Someone shoved it under the door of my hotel room with no explanation other

than the note on the back. I didn’t know who else to trust. You’ll understand

when you look at the photograph.

                                                          Richard

 

Stunned, Lee looked at Nelson. “He did send it to me. I don’t understand what would possess him after thirteen years.”

 

The admiral’s face held a characteristic expression of scrutiny as he stared down at the photograph. “It’s every bit as damaging as Clayton predicted.”

 

Lee walked to his side, looking over his shoulder. The photograph was a wide angle shot, encompassing most of what looked like a billiard room. Judging from the clothing and hair styles, it was slightly dated, probably four to five years old. Lee thought he recognized the paneling from the interior of the Vault. 

 

Salazar, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, was in the process of sinking a shot while Alan Lister, Joey Ortega and Rock Simpson, holding pool cues, looked on. Ortega had a drink in his hand and Lister was smoking a cigar. Nearby an ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and several bottles of alcohol were lined up on a wooden bar. Further in the background, a blonde and a brunette in bikinis were doing shots of Tequila, an assortment of drug paraphernalia spread on a table between them.

 

“I still don’t understand why Marsh sent it to you,” Nelson commented.

 

“I do.” Lee looked at the photo long and hard, barely breathing. “What does it say on the back?”

 

Nelson turned it over and read the single sentence aloud: “Make him pay for his crimes.” He shrugged. “Someone with a grudge against Salazar? Or maybe one of the others? With Ortega, Lister and Simpson in the photo, it could be any of them.”

 

Lee took the photograph, studying the words. There was something almost childish about them, as if the hand that wrote them had yet to reach maturity. “So this is from the thief?” He grew more perplexed by the minute. “The one who broke into the Vault without tripping any alarms.”

 

“Quiet a feat. And a thief.”

 

Lee wet his lips. His head was ringing. Dazed, he eased to a seat on the edge of the bed. “I need to see Nic, Admiral.”

 

“Nicole?” Nelson was taken aback. “Why?”

 

“Because Richard didn’t send me a photo of Salazar. That might have been who he wanted to topple, but he knew I’d hang onto it for another reason.” His hand shook as he turned the photograph over and pointed to the blonde woman in the bikini. “That’s Ginny Rook, Sir. Nicole’s sister.”

 

“What? Are you sure?”

 

Lee closed his eyes, bludgeoned by the sharp pang of regret. “Positive, Sir. I wouldn’t forget someone I almost married.”

 

**********

 

Obviously not the end of the tale, but what happens next will probably take another 60-or-so pages to explain. I hope you’ll indulge me if I hop around a bit. Believe it or not, I really do know where this plot thread is headed. Okay, maybe more sorta/kinda, but that’s always been enough for me to craft a story. Look for a few unrelated fics before I come back to this one. ;-)

 

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