an. Dear guest Luna, thank you so much for all your kind reviews on this marathon of a series :) They made my day! Work is definitely kicking my ass so updates may be slower (once a week) for a while. But I am hoping to crank out a few chapters this weekend.
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Mike expected nothing less when Tom strode across the gardens toward him around twenty minutes later. Features tight like thunder and immediately he knew exactly what this was about. No doubt in his mind at all, and he also knew he wasn't going to hold his tongue for Tom's sake. Not anymore.
Chandler was stewing, flameless fire ablaze in blue as that jaw clenched and worked overtime. Goddamn it, he had one line—that's it—one simple request not to fuck with her on this. Push her back twenty steps that would take him months to fix. He wasted no time in issuing his demand once he reached Mike, ensuring they were out of earshot. "You wanna tell me why my wife's refusing to leave the bathroom right now—probably because she's crying?"
Mike drew his lips together tightly. That certainly hadn't been his intention, but a dark part of him wondered whether it might be worse if she wasn't. If she didn't care enough to emote when faced with the fallout. In a way, it almost made him feel better.
Tom lost his barely maintained cool, the silence pushing him past his limit. The words were harsh and stiff as he hissed them. "Goddamn it, Mike! I asked you not to say anything to her."
Mike's response was just as quick and intense. "I didn't." He paused for a beat. "She approached me. Maybe you should try getting your facts straight before you accuse me of something I didn't do!"
Tom hollowed his cheeks and looked away defiantly. Stubborn. Caught in a storm of memories that still tortured.
Mike shook his head, offering a grin devoid of any warmth or humor. It's not like he didn't know this side of Tom. They'd had their fair share of run-ins over the years—impossible not to—but it still stung. Helped coil and supercharge resentments that had been festering for years until they bubbled over and fell from his lips.
"You know—you're not the only one who lost someone. We all did. I lost my wife. Three kids, and I still stayed with the mission. Never complained. Never called you out—even when you left and stopped looking for them. I understood it, and I forgave you for it. But you're too wrapped up in your own shit to see this any other way right now."
Tom was staring at him intently, rigid and stoic. Listening while something hollow opened up in his gut. The sinking realization that he'd broken his promise. The one he'd made to find Mike some answers, and worse still, never apologized for it.
"I get that you love her, Tom. I get that you lost her, and I even get that she's the love of your life—but I love Andrea too. What would you do in my place? If it was Sasha learning to re-walk—if it was her on that dock gunned down in front of you?"
Tom's eyes flickered, lids fluttering but not closing as his vitriol was stamped out. Ego significantly humbled. The irrational spike of anger had lapsed into a pang of deep, widening guilt. A shame that knew he'd been selfish and inconsiderate. That he didn't want to imagine that scenario because his realities were burden enough. The image that haunted him appearing so clearly, he almost couldn't see Mike's face anymore—just a bullet hole in her forehead and her body on a table.
"Mike—"
"Save it. I get that they made a mistake—don't think I even blame them given the circumstances. I know she's been through her own shit, but I can't be around her right now. I'm angry and I don't wanna say something that will hurt her more than she is. You're not the only one who cares. You need to remember that."
Mike did not linger, knowing his point had been made and received. He walked away. Destined for the marquee in search of a stiff drink, thoroughly vexed and not the least interested in hearing an apology right now.
Tom rested both hands on the stone balustrade banking the river and leaned against it with hunched shoulders. He'd been a monumental ass and an even worse friend, and the weight crushed him with a force.
Runaway Bay, Jamaica
Carlton Burk held up a fist to signal Wolf to stop. Cursed the absurdity of their bad luck—the Jamaican's line had crumbled that hour of all hours. On this day of all days. Montano was a bust, cut off from them at the compound by a wall of soldiers and bullets mere minutes before they could intercept. And now, Burk wasn't even sure they'd make it to extraction alive.
In the cellar, Pablo peered through the rectangular grimy window, watching boots as they pounded the ground outside. Cleared thick mucus from his throat thanks to the swirling dust and spit it to the ground.
"Nice," Miller grumbled, mirroring his watchful stance at the windows.
"Where the hell is Cobra?" Azima stressed out loud, tabbing the radio again to try and hail their men. "Vulture this is Cobra. Come in, Vulture!"
Pablo shook his head, sweat rolling down his brow—really missed that handkerchief headband right about now. "We should E&E out of here and find our boys."
Miller glanced at their newest team member. "No way, Gustavo's got too many men out there. Better to go straight to extract Alpha—hope Vulture's already there."
"And if they're not?" Pablo shot back.
"Cross that bridge," Miller replied definitively.
The radio finally cracked to life, voice garbled and distorted by poor communications. Likely the depth and thick walls of the cellar. Wolf's voice rang out. "Cobra, Vulture. They're coming."
"Yes. We copy! What is your whiskey?" Azima responded.
"The Jamaicans' line—crumbling—ran into trouble—"
Azima frowned as the channel cut in and out. "Yes, we know. We found a hideout, a rum cellar six mikes east of the compound. Can you make it?"
"Affirmative. We're on our way."
Relief pulled in her features, shining in the depths of her eyes. "And the high-value target?" Static. Nothing but garbled static. That relief dampened and died. "Vulture do you copy?"
Epping Forest Yacht Club—Jacksonville, Florida
Sasha twirled the stem of her champagne glass between her fingers and fought to suppress an eye roll. A woman approached, slim, dark brown hair that matched the color of her eyes and complimented her olive-tanned skin. They'd crossed paths a few times since the fallout, and Sasha wasn't surprised in the least to see her here. "Ms. Garside." Maintained a restrained facial expression, verbally cordial but the undercurrent of displeasure was there.
"Nina," she shot back. Titling her head with that arrogant attitude that grated on Sasha's nerves so thoroughly. "Have you thought more about my offer?" the young woman prompted. Undeterred by the cold reception and not-so-subtle cues that her presence wasn't welcomed.
Sasha's smirk wasn't a pleasant one—she was persistent if nothing else, could give her that. "I'm afraid the answer hasn't changed." Maintaining her non-communicative neutral.
Nina looked her up and down in a knowing way and gave a small but sterile smile. "Well, you know how to contact me if it does." Sasha merely lifted her brows a modicum and gave a hint of silent acknowledgment with her lips. "It's a great turn out—" the journalist continued, turning her gaze to the crowd of guests.
Sasha cut her off, "And I'm sure there are plenty of guests who'd be more than happy with a feature in the New York Times—but I'm not one of them." Hoping 'Nina' would take the goddamn hint and move on. The mood shifted, the journalist seeming to rectify her posture somewhat as if reprimanded, and Sasha might have felt triumphant over that, had she not felt fingertips at the small of her back. Ah. That was why.
"Admiral Chandler," Nina acknowledged.
Tom gave a tight-lipped gesture which landed somewhere between polite and dismissive. "Excuse us."
Nina unconsciously bit on her lower lip and watched as the Admiral led them away toward the upper patio. Once out of earshot, Sasha wasted no time in side-eying him with a curious and somewhat suspicious look.
"Reiss threatened to cut her credentials—I may or may not have been standing there," Tom elaborated, answering the question she hadn't yet asked. They reached the small staircase, making to ascend the left wing of it, and Tom took her drink, freeing one of her hands to gather the hem of her dress again.
"There's a reporter he doesn't like?" A not-so-subtle dig. It was no secret that Reiss relished in publicizing every success and burying the failures—control.
Tom smirked and threw his chin up a little. His hand hovered at her back, careful to avoid stepping on the fabric as he escorted her up. "He's not a fan of her tactics."
"Wow, I'm aligned with Reiss twice in one week"—she let the hem fall and took her glass back once they reached the top— "guess hell finally froze over," she quipped in a perfectly sardonic tone. That lopsided smirk stayed while Tom extended his elbow wordlessly. "What about our guest of honor?" Looping her arm through his, not sure where he was taking her but figuring there was a reason for it.
"Playing the game."
Sasha shot him a look. "You think he's pitting both sides for the best offer?"
"I do," Tom confirmed softly.
There came a light sigh, "Figures, and means we can't trust a th—where are we going?" she finally asked, cutting herself off. They'd been there for four hours; dinner and its requisite self-congratulatory toasts had wrapped an hour before. He'd retired to the smoking room with POTUS, Meylan, and several of their VIP guests immediately after. Hadn't expected him to be free of those duties so soon. The entire night reminded her of Hong-Kong in a way, though this time she'd merely sat beside him as his wife with no other purpose to serve—a unique experience to say the least. Maybe in part why she was feeling so flushed. That damn uniform of his was having exactly the same effect. Sent her heart a flutter in the most ridiculous way—felt she ought to be able to control that reaction by now. Or maybe after so long it would be smarter to accept that Tom would always have that kind of power over her.
His response was coquettish and delivered with charm. "You owe me a dance."
Runaway Bay, Jamaica
Pablo whirled from his position, pointing his gun to the door of the cellar the second he heard the metal protest. He let out a heavy sigh of relief when Carlton Burk's face appeared, shortly followed by Wolf Taylor… no Montano though.
"What happened?" Miller asked, beating the rest of them to the punch.
Burk's expression reflected every bit of his frustration as he lowered his weapon and approached the center of the cellar. Beside him, Wolf briefly reached out to grasp Azima's neck in a reassuring gesture. One she intensely returned before they broke apart and took up positions to secure the room again.
"We got cut off by Tavo's men—they got to Montano before we could intercept. Didn't go willingly though, intel was right. He's defected."
"Fuck," Pablo hissed under his breath.
Burk pulled off his pack, raising his brows as if to say not all was lost yet, and Pablo watched intently as he flashed its contents. A laptop. "Not a complete failure—pulled this and a few files before we got our assess handed to us."
A voice over the radio penetrated the tense room. "Gunboat Captain: Vulture, this is Pegasus, requesting a sit-rep over."
Burk pulled the oversized radio from his belt. "Roger that, Pegasus. We're ten minutes out, over." The silence stretched; each occupant exchanging troubled looks before Burk tried again. "Pegasus, do you copy?"
"Stand by, Vulture, stand by. We're picking up three contacts approaching our PIM…" static interrupted the connection. A sinking settled over Carlton, time and experience telling him this was about to get a hell of a lot worse, just before the radio crackled to life again with frantic cries. "Vulture, incoming torpedo's—we took a hit!"
Shit. Burk switched the channel on the radio quickly. "Marine FOB Haiti, this is Vulture requesting emergency extract from our location. Send the Helo!"
Epping Forest Yacht Club—Jacksonville, Florida
Both women sat at one of the remaining round tables—pushed to the side and now skirting the edge of the dancefloor, watching while both Danny and Tom were occupied by guests.
"I'm the Captain of a Naval Destroyer and I've been reduced to watching women hit on my husband."
Sasha leaned casually with one elbow on the surface, knee crossed elegantly as she sipped and observed the woman currently dancing with Danny. Married herself to one of their wealthiest backers, an un-ashamed Cougar who was thoroughly enthralled and very handsy. Wished she had a witty response, but there wasn't much else to say.
Her chosen reply was entirely dry and devoid of any humor. "Good-looking men sell and we all know the wives control the money." She turned to raise a brow.
Kara took a sip of her drink. "I don't know how you did this for so long." Referring to the few functions she'd attended when the Admiral and Sasha had still been protecting her anonymity.
A tight grin pulled at Sasha's lip. "Tom's never been short of interest. Used to call him Golden Boy back in the day. But—it's certainly unique watching them do it knowing full-well I'm his wife." Her eyes widened a little, and she tilted her head, a non-verbal gesture that communicated her unease over that minor detail.
"I'm not jealous. I know he hates it—" Kara started.
"It's the lack of respect." Sasha finished for her, honing in on exactly the part that was bothering her so much.
Kara's response was steely, about done with it herself for the evening. "Exactly."
Sasha turned and placed her glass on the table. "Never been in the habit of letting people disrespect me." She uncrossed her legs, rising gracefully from the table while Kara looked on with a glint of amusement. Tom's eyes shifted lightning fast when he caught the movement. Currently, he stood rigidly while the wife of Senator Gillibrand laughed and grasped at his bicep. A move she'd repeated several times, along with her very blatant appreciation of his good looks.
Sasha placed a hand on the woman's upper back, interrupting her mid-sentence. "Apologies, I'm afraid I'm going to have to steal him."
Tom bit down on the smirk and gave a polite smile instead, while Ms. Gillibrand appeared distinctly put out. Sasha took Tom's arm, and as soon as they were turned and retreating, he mumbled— "Thank you"—under his breath.
"Figured I had to take the initiative if we're ever gonna have that dance," she teased.
"Yet you just walked past the dancefloor," he noted in jest. She'd led them outside to the upper patio, a little quieter than inside. Most of the guests opting to congregate in the marquee below or the ballroom they'd just vacated.
She stopped once they reached an edge, close to the stone balustrade, turning and stepping easily into his awaiting arms. Her smile was soft as she gazed up at him. "Less distractions."
Tom drew her closer, a hand on that tantalizing skin of lower spine while the other held hers against his chest. Sincere when he stated, "You're the only distraction I want."
Sasha shook her head lightly, easily dismissing the unnecessary reassurance. "I know—trust me, I am not upset with you. In any way."
He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there, the light scent of hairspray mixed with her shampoo filling his nose. His interaction with Mike had been plaguing him all night, and he wanted to tell her, but the larger part wanted that soft smile to stay. So, he pushed it back. Told himself he'd come clean later but knew later would probably never start. Not on this topic at least. "That's good—because I'm about ready to take you home."
She moved to rest her cheek against his shoulder, careful not to catch the white with her lipstick. Relaxed as he swayed them in a small circle on tempo with the tasteful music. "Don't get my hopes up like that."
Felt his thumb sweep her skin. "This the dress?" his tone was light, much to Sasha's relief. A mere month ago, referring in any way to Panama would've sent him spiraling for hours.
"No. That one didn't make it back—I've had this for years. There was a charity gala coming up when I got sent to Asia. Chris was on the board… Obviously didn't get the chance to wear it."
"Well, it's beautiful—you're beautiful," he corrected. Not quite what he'd wanted to say.
She smiled and nuzzled her head closer to his neck. "Thank you. I won't trip over myself like some of our guests—but I think you know you're very handsome."
He chuckled softly, the sound of it vibrating through his chest where her head rested. "As long as you think so."
She shook hers, bemused to receive yet another perfect one-liner. "You been practicing those?"
Couldn't see but imagined the lopsided smirk, the glint of humor and charm she loved so much. "Just making sure I get what I want later."
Sasha played coy, though the distinct tingle in her spine was already there. "Which is?"
He lowered his head until he was speaking directly into her ear, voice coming in a low husk that did terrible things to her self-control. "You—preferably bent over our bed."
She felt the heat flash up her neck until it rose to the tips of her ears and then down through her body. Vaguely considering an attempt to sneak upstairs, but quickly dispelling that very hot but inappropriate fantasy. They were bound to get caught. His absence would be noticed within minutes. "How much longer do we need to stay?"
"Unless you can manufacture a crisis—Reiss wants me here until it wraps." He didn't bother to hide his disappointment.
"Don't tempt me." Knowing this crowd, they wouldn't be done for hours and the night was still relatively young. Figured they'd be pushing midnight before it started to thin. Her attention was drawn by Kara and Danny, who were also making their way to the patio hand in hand. Clearly, Kara had taken the same initiative to spring him from his cougar. Sasha gave Kara a knowing smirk which she returned before turning her attention back, letting her eyes close as Tom held her and they gently swayed.
After a lull in conversation spent enjoying their few stolen moments, Tom spoke again. Cautious when he started. "Can I ask you something?"
Sasha lifted her head from its place on his shoulder and met his gaze, trying to discern which topic he wanted to broach that he felt required her permission first. Couldn't quite place his mood, but the look in his eye was intense and focused. "Okay?"
He studied her for a moment before continuing. "When we were at that ceremony—in Washington… what happened between you and Darien?"
Sasha blinked, a little shock coloring her features because that was so far out of left field and she wasn't prepared for it. His tone wasn't accusatory, the opposite in fact, but knowing Tom it was probable that he'd been debating asking about it for years.
"Nothing bad if that's what you're thinking… she never talked about it?"
He narrowed his eyes, let out a little scoff, though not sarcastic. Nostalgic. "No—in thirteen years, that's the only thing she wouldn't share. Only said one thing after you left." Sasha tilted her head, waiting for him to elaborate. Saw him swallow before his features settled into seriousness again. "I can see why you loved her, she's special."
The wash of muddled emotions that surged were as unexpected as they were intense. A response to hearing a version of her own sentiment about Tom echoed back at her. Sasha took several moments to process them while he observed curiously, seeing that she was clearly touched, though not at all surprised—almost like she'd heard that before.
Soft and reflective, Sasha made eye contact with him again, the corners of them wrinkling with sincerity. "She asked me why I left, so I told her the truth. That I set you free so you could be happy—and I told her not to tell you."
His voice was raspy, "Why?"
"Because I know you. You would have dwelled on it, and even though I regret the way I left—Darien was right for you. I wasn't. Not many women would show the kind of compassion she did after admitting you're still in love with their husband…" she looked down, a melancholy smile pulling at her features. "And clearly she was a great mother."
He tilted his head somewhat, considering her words and accepting them before telling her quietly, "So are you."
Her eyes flittered up and down quickly, unsure how to respond because she'd never considered herself as Sam and Ashley's stepmother. A Guardian and mentor, perhaps. But not that. Even though legally, she supposed that was her definition, but hearing it from him, realizing that he saw her that way touched deeply.
"Tom—I don't…" she shrugged softly. Failing to find the appropriate words to convey what that meant, though, judging by his expression, he had an idea.
He stooped just a little to rest his forehead against hers. "You'll see it too one day. I promise."
"What brought this up?" she inquired gently instead. Not ready yet to unpack what he was telling her.
A small wistful look pulled at his features. "Your hair. You haven't worn it like that since—not around me, at least."
She let out a soft, short exhale. Not that his attention to detail was foreign, but he could still floor her with the things he remembered sometimes. The words fell freely from her lips, a little reverent in nature. "You're one of a kind, you know that, right?"
His eyes gleamed while he quirked his lip downward, downplaying her remark. "I'll take your word for it."