Page 44 of Defended By the SEAL
Cowboy nodded, settling in with the rest of the group. Charlotte moved closer to him, her voice soft. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
He gave her a look, his tone firm. “I’m not sitting this one out.”
She wanted to argue but knew it would be pointless. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment, drawing strength from his presence. “Okay. Don’t make me regret letting you stay.”
“I won’t,” he promised, and she could feel him smile at her implication that she could control him. That wasn’t what their relationship was about, for either of them. “Just a few flurries outside, now.”
She leaned back and took in his eyes, knowing their golden caramel color by heart, even if she couldn’t see them in the darkness. “Think the worst of the storm is over?”
“I do.”
Gesturing to the door with her chin, she said, “The guards were talking about not being able to get good pictures if it was snowing too much. I wonder what that’s about.”
Cowboy cocked his head, a noncommital, “Hmm,” his only response, but Charlotte’s comment unnerved him more than anything anyone else had said. They were on a tiny island with few—if any—other residents to see the lighthouse explode.
It wasn’t ridiculous to think a terrorist group would want evidence of the destruction for themselves, but he knew it wouldn’t stop there. They wanted photos for the media.Photos for recruitment. Proof of responsibility, and proof of the havoc they could wreek on a serene and beautiful piece of an iconic American coast.
Because they wanted to dismantle Americans’ sense of safety, and he’d be damned if he’d allow these sons of bitches to do that.
The minutes dragged by, each one feeling like an eternity. The guards’ voices faded in and out as they talked, their conversation peppered with grumbling about the storm and the tediousness of their job. Finally, the sound of footsteps signaled their departure, the guards’ voices retreating down the tunnel.
“Now,” Champion said, rising to his feet. The group moved quickly but cautiously, their flashlights trained on the steel door.
Champion examined the padlock, pulling out the small pry bar. Cowboy and Austin kept watch, their weapons ready, while Charlotte hovered nearby, her nerves thrumming with anticipation.
It took longer than she would have liked, but the lock finally gave way. The door creaked open, revealing Deke and Booger slumped against the wall inside, the harsh light of an LED lantern illuminating their bodies like deer in the headlights. Both men looked up, their faces pale but alert.
“Took you long enough,” Deke muttered, though his relief was clear.
“We got tacos,” said Booger.
“Couldn’t let you two have all the fun,” Cowboy shot back, stepping into the room.
As Champion and Austin cut their restraints, Booger’s voice was urgent. “He’s moving fast. The bombs are already set. Two hours until detonation.”
“We heard,” Champion said grimly. “You two ready to move?”
“Born ready,” Deke said, though he winced as he stood. Booger leaned heavily against the wall but nodded.
“Good,” Champion said. “We hit the harbor next. Sarkisyan’s not getting away with this.”
Charlotte’s heart pounded as they regrouped and headed back into the tunnels. The clock was ticking, and every second brought them closer to a confrontation with Sarkisyan—and the chance to stop him for good. The sudden and—she believed—irrational thought that she should sit this one out in case she was pregnant, damn near stopped her cold.
She shook her head to clear it, and continued on her way.
25
Cowboy crouched behind a cluster of boulders at the edge of the harbor, the frigid air stinging his lungs. The snow had finally stopped, but the world was still blanketed in white, and the icy wind howled across the bay. The storm’s departure left a surreal silence in its wake, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the muffled voices of Sarkisyan’s men.
The ocean, though calmer than before, still churned with lingering fury. Cowboy’s sharp eyes scanned the water, catching the faint outline of a boat bobbing in the distance, clearly anchored against the sway of the sea. Sarkisyan’s escape plan. Figures moved aboard, silhouetted against the pale dawn light. Others patrolled the shore, rifles slung casually over their shoulders.
“Eyes on the prize,” he muttered, gripping his weapon. His body ached from the beating he’d taken, but he shoved the pain aside. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.
Next to him, Charlotte shifted her position, her weapon steady as she kept watch on the shoreline. She looked calm, but he knew her well enough to see the tightness in her jaw,the flicker of nerves in her eyes. She wasn’t a soldier, but damned if she wasn’t holding her own. That thought filled him with equal parts pride and pure terror.
They’d already discussed the role she would not be playing in this gunfight—and when he said discussed, he meant a full-out, hardcore, throw down argument. Charlotte was an excellent shot, but she was a far cry from a trained Navy SEAL, and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise just to make her feel better.
So they had agreed—and when he said agreed, he meant he had insisted, she had cursed him out, and he was mostly, pretty sure he’d won—that she would stay where she was behind a bounder two feet taller than her head, and only shoot if it became absolutely necessary to save her own life. Otherwise, she should think of herself as a kid at the zoo, with rules that were meant to protect her from the cute polar bears and giant kitty cat enclosures, and a firm reminder to stay back behind the yellow line.
