Always a Warrior(5)
She poured herself another cup of coffee with still trembling hands and sat at the table.
Watching him intently, she waited until he was seated again. Her stomach churned, anticipating only bad news.
“What do you know about your father?” he countered curtly.
She shot him a sharp glare and shook her head, refusing to tell him anything about her family.
He sighed, sipped his coffee, and peered into her eyes. “You’re not going to like it.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “I already don’t like it. Spill it.”
“All right.” The dangerous gleam in his eyes unnerved her despite the matter of fact tone of his voice. “Your father is working with terrorists. He’s smuggling weapons and technology out of the country. We don’t know if he joined them willingly or if he is being forced. If that is the case, you and your daughter could be part of a plan to keep him in line.”
Laurie shook her head in automatic denial. “Not my father. He died before I was born.”
“Are you sure?” he persisted. “Maybe he simply left and your mother lied to you.”
“No!” she argued, rattled by his persistence. “He’s dead. If he had simply left, Mother would have found him and forced him to pay child support and alimony. She always hated that he died and left her nothing but me.”
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
9
Laurie looked away from him, stared at her own hand clenched around the cup. In the last twenty-nine years, Marjorie Crawford had never failed to remind her daughter of how she had done everything for Laurie with no help from anyone, especially her husband.
“Are you close to your mother?”
Laurie stiffened at his insensitive question but lowered her head. Marjorie wanted very little to do with the daughter she heartily disapproved of so Laurie had stopped trying to bridge the distance.
“She says I’m too much like my father,” she finally said, her voice full of regrets she could not banish.
“Whether or not this man is your father, your life and your daughter’s are in danger.
Someone believes you are related to Nathaniel Crawford.”
Her head snapped up again and she stared at him. “That doesn’t make sense,” she stated skeptically and rubbed her hand wearily across the back of her neck. “Why? I don’t have anything that would interest terrorists.” She blinked and rubbed her neck again. “I’m too tired to think straight.”
“It’s
crystal
clear.” Conviction rang in his voice. “The terrorists believe you to be related.
If Crawford is giving them a hard time, then by threatening to harm or even kill you, they can force him back in line. They would have had you tonight if we had not stopped them.”
Laurie cocked her head, puzzled. “How did you know?” She fiddled with the cup in her hand but did not want any more coffee. Her nerves were already jangled and wired for sound.
“Intelligence,” was the terse response. “The government has been looking for this group for years. They’ve been elusive until now. When we had a name, we looked for possible connections and strike points. You were at the top of the list.”
Exhausted, Laurie smothered a yawn. “What happens next? I assume there’ll be more trouble.” She propped her chin on her hand and struggled to keep her eyes open and her mind focused. “They won’t just give up.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I’m staying to protect both of you.”
She snapped to abrupt attention at that declaration. “Just how do you intend to do that? I don’t want the Army camped on my doorstep.”
He snorted with derision. “Not Army. I’m a Navy SEAL.”
“A psycho,” she muttered under her breath. “That’s all I need.” Of course she had heard of the Navy SEALs—the Navy’s fiercest, best trained soldiers. They were an elite group, the best commandos in the world. They thrived on danger and risk.
If McAllister heard her muttering, he gave no indication. She sighed in resignation. She could not ask for a better bodyguard but she did not have to like it.
“You’d better get some sleep,” he suggested, staring into his coffee cup. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
Just a few hours later, morning dawned bright and clear but the morning air carried a distinct October chill. Laurie stretched wearily under the thick blue comforter and shut off the annoying buzz of her alarm clock. Resisting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, she slid out of bed to stand barefoot on the plush gray carpet. Bleary-eyed, she wondered why she felt as though she had not slept long enough. She had gone to bed at her usual time. She frowned, brief images of gun fights, terrorists, and soldiers flitting through her mind.