As a unit, they zeroed in on Rawlings’ black Town Car, their steps measured and determined. The lieutenant governor lounged against his vehicle striving to look relaxed, but his gaze locked on Joe and then Senior Chief, and recognition flared in his gray eyes.
“So,” he called when they ventured close enough to communicate, “we meet again.” His voice dripped with disdain and with the condescending tone he must have used when guiding their actions ten years ago. “I always knew one of you would go back on your word.”
“Is that why you had Staskiewicz killed?” Joe inquired for the benefit of Chief Harlan and his camera.
Rawlings sent him a sneer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he retorted. His gaze slid to the taped box tucked under Joe’s left arm. “Is that the book?”
“Yes, it is.” Nothing about Joe’s voice betrayed his tension.
“Toss it over. Then I’ll give you what you came for. And just so you know, if you plan to screw me over in the end, I’m taking you both down with me. You’re both still active duty.” He gestured at Joe and Senior Chief’s uniforms. “How’s it going to reflect on your careers if I allege that you were the ones who killed the kid and his mother? It’s my word against yours, fellas, and I’ve got power on my side.”
“I want to see Ophelia first,” Vinny blurted. He didn’t trust Rawlings not to jump into his car and take off, nor did he give a shit about what happened ten years earlier. He just wanted Ophelia back in his arms again.
Rawlings gestured for the book, and Vinny watched Joe toss the box onto the ground at the lieutenant governor’s feet. Satisfied, Rawlings looked at Vinny as if seeing the young SEAL for the first time. “She’s over there.” He gestured to a looming statue of a shepherd holding a sheep.
Vinny pivoted, catching sight of a laced shoe peeking out from behind the statue and recognizing Ophelia’s Keds in an instant. “Lia!”
He took off, not even waiting for Joe’s permission, and raced with his heart in his throat toward the sprawled figure. She lay against the statue’s base, her eyes half-open and glassy looking. One side of her cheek bore bruises and lacerations, although someone had done a fine job of cleaning her up. Her coat was buttoned to her chin, but he could see her shivering as he threw himself onto the cold ground, wrapped one arm around her, and reached at the same time for her pulse.
“I’m here, cara mia,” he crooned, only vaguely registering the sound of Rawlings’ car door slamming shut. An engine roared to life and faded into the distance. Guided by his training as a medic, Vinny fixed his attention on the faint pulse at Ophelia’s wrist. Finding it swollen and bruised, he switched to the other arm. At the same time, a glance into her eyes confirmed that she’d been drugged.
Her eyelashes fluttered as she sought to focus on him.
“Vinny,” she whispered. The tragic quality of her voice arrested him from counting her heartbeats. A single tear sluiced out of the corner of one eye. “I’m so sorry,” she added, her words slurred.
“Hush,” he exclaimed. “It’s over. You’re safe now, baby. No one’s going to hurt you again.”
At his assertion, her face crumpled into a picture of misery. With a cluck of dismay, he gave up trying to take her pulse, gathered her into his arms, and lifted her off the ground.
That was when he saw the blood. It had soaked the dead grass beneath the spot where she’d been lying. Horror electrified him. He searched automatically for a gun wound. Finding the hem of her coat drenched, he lifted it and realized she was bleeding down there. Jesus God, what had Rawlings done to her?
He turned a stricken face toward the SEALs who had already reached him, enclosing the grim scene of husband and fallen wife; Chief Harlan arrived a moment later looking uncertain as he clutched Bella’s camera in his square hands.
“Call an ambulance,” Vinny croaked in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own. “She’s bleeding.”
Commander Montgomery already had his phone out, his eyes sliding to the scarlet smear now staining the yellowed grass.
Chapter Seven
‡
Lia kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, even though the effects of the tranquilizer had finally worn off. Her sprained right wrist throbbed within the bandage that now kept it immobile. The sounds of the bustling hospital, audible through her closed door, reassured her that she was safe, no longer staring at her own imminent death.
Her pregnancy, however, had not survived the trauma, a fact that dragged her spirits down into a dark, muddy place where her conscience pointed the finger of blame squarely at herself.