Into the Storm (20 page)

Jenk had stopped his crunches, and he just lay back on the grinder, arms over his eyes. “Zanella, just give me a break.”

“Okay,” Izzy said. “How’s this for a break? A nonstop transport flight from the air base to New Hampshire. Six uninterrupted hours to pitch your woo, to grovel as charmingly as possible at the fair maiden’s feet.”

Jenk sat up. “Give me a break as in, I love you like a brother, man, but I can’t take any more of your shit today, so
shut
the fuck
up.
”

“So you don’t want me to tell you—perhaps more clearly—”

“No.”

“That Tommy’s Troubleshooters—Lindsey included—are coming with, to Nuevo Hampshire?”

That caught Jenk’s attention, but he was still less than happy. “Can’t you ever just say what you fucking mean?”

“I did,” Izzy said. “What, do you want it like this?” He spoke like a robot, with no inflection. “Lindsey and the other Troubleshooters are coming to New Hampshire. On the troop transport. With us. At 2100 tonight.”

Jenk exploded. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that twenty fucking minutes ago?”

Izzy shrugged. “Hey, you’re not banging Lindsey, right? I mean, that’s what you told me. I figured you probably didn’t care.”

Yup. Marky-Mark didn’t care so much, he chased Izzy for a good three miles down the beach.

It was after eleven before Tracy got into the office. She was still moving slowly, totally hungover, just tucking her purse into the bottom drawer of the reception desk, when Tom poked his head out of his office.

He didn’t call her on the intercom—probably because he thought she wouldn’t know how to answer it.

“Good, you’re here,” he said.

“I’m sorry I’m late—”

“I need you in my office,” he said, and vanished. Not his usual
Tracy, when you’ve got a sec
or
Tracy, can we schedule a time to talk
…

She should have just straightened her shoulders and marched on in, ready to face the fire. Or rather the getting fired.

Because that was what this was about. She’d held—and lost—enough jobs to recognize a prefiring glare when she saw one.

Instead, because she was such a ninny, she ran into the ladies’ room.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
If she started to cry, her makeup would run, and her nose would get even redder than it already was from crying last night and this morning, too.

She’d woken up in Mark’s apartment, in his bed, and for several dizzying moments had had absolutely no clue where she was. He’d left her a note, though.
I hope you’re feeling better. Help yourself to coffee and cereal. Lock the door behind you when you let yourself out.

As she’d read his neat block handwriting, memories of the night before came surging back. Lyle. A diamond ring—along with a spare engraved with Heather-the-ho’s name.
I can explain.
Running to Mark for help.

For more than help—how humiliating
that
had been?

Tracy gazed at herself in the mirror. How could her life have gotten so screwed up? Why, even now, was she considering Lyle’s marriage proposal?
I need you,
he’d told her, as he knelt before her in the hallway of the hotel and cried.

He’d
cried.

He’d insisted that the engagement ring engraved with Heather’s name was merely to boost his confidence. He’d been so afraid that Tracy would say no, that he’d pushed her away for good this time, that she wouldn’t take him back. He’d bought that other ring—a foolish mistake—as a way to pretend to himself that it didn’t matter if Tracy turned him down. He’d told himself that he’d marry Heather instead.

But it was Tracy he loved, Tracy he needed.

She knew she was a fool to think he’d meant all that bullshit—just because he’d cried.

She’d figured it out, too. Lyle had been told that his being married would increase his chances of becoming partner at the firm. When she confronted him with that, he hadn’t denied it.

Last night she’d been devastated by that realization.

This morning, though, she’d woken up resigned. It was Tracy who needed Lyle. So what if he was marrying her for ulterior motives? The bottom line was he finally wanted to marry her.

And, God, he’d actually cried.

As usual, she was probably going to cave. But she was unwilling to give in immediately. She’d called, left a message on Lyle’s cell phone letting him know that she needed some time—an entire month—to think.

She wanted him to suffer.

Really, truly suffer.

And to sign a prenup that would set her up for life if he ever strayed again. If? When. And wasn’t
that
an ugly twist to the end of her Cinderella fairy tale. And she lived wealthily ever after, and never had to work again.

But she needed to work now, especially if she delayed her return to New York for an entire month. She needed a job. Not necessarily this job. But if she got fired, it would be that much harder to find a new one.

She needed a game plan, a strategy. She’d walk in to her boss’s office, and say, “Tom, I’m afraid it’s just not working out.” She’d quit first.

There. She had a plan.

Tracy rinsed her hands in the sink, letting the water run on her wrists, trying to cool herself down, when the door opened.

“There you are.” It was Lindsey Fontaine—so petite and perfectly beautiful. She rarely wore makeup because she didn’t have to, not with that flawless, smooth skin. Tracy had once kept track—she herself spent over an hour and a half applying and reapplying makeup each day. “Tom’s looking for you.”

“Oh,” Tracy said, turning off the water and drying her hands on a paper towel. “I know. I was just…checking my makeup.” She forced a smile. “I may be getting fired, but at least I look good.”

Lindsey came into the room at that, letting the door close behind her. She was wearing her usual baggy jeans, but instead of the Hawaiian-flavored shirts that she favored, she wore a T-shirt. It should have made her look even more casual, but the shirt was a baby T, with cute little cap sleeves, and it actually fit. It made her look slim and female, but in an athletic, don’t-need-a-running-bra-because-I’m-perfect way.

Tracy would have been jealous, except she knew that Lindsey was probably just as envious of Tracy’s far more lush figure. That was the way the world worked. You always wanted what you didn’t have. American women were so screwed up.

“What makes you think you’re getting fired?” Lindsey asked.

“Not only am I late, but I’m a disaster. You don’t think I’ve noticed that we’re on day five of
Receptionist Lessons for Dummies,
and you’re still here to hold my hand?”

Lindsey smiled, and Tracy realized that she hadn’t been smiling when she came in. She was obviously tired this morning, too—not her usual effusive friendly self. “Well, relax. You’re not getting fired.”

“I’m not?”

“No. We’re going to New Hampshire to help Team Sixteen with more training exercises,” Lindsey told Tracy. “You know, kind of like the thing we did when I was hostage last night?”

Tracy nodded. Lindsey had spoken of little else but the training exercise earlier in the week.

“How’d that go?” she asked, mostly to be polite. She was jealous, she’d realized a few days ago. Everyone in the office was gearing up to play this massive game of hide-and-seek—except for Tracy.

Lindsey nodded. “Good.” She was standing there with her arms crossed, unsmiling, as if she were merely tolerating Tracy’s presence today. What was that about? She was usually so warm. In fact, she was everything Tracy wasn’t—outgoing and self-confident. She’d actually been a police officer, and she had this ability to pal around with the women and the men in the office alike—to be one of the boys. Tracy had never been one of the boys in her entire life.

“But for this next series of exercises,” Lindsey continued, “Tom’s looking for a hostage with a little less experience. Even Sophia, who’s not field trained, is too…familiar, I guess is the right word, with the process. Besides, we want her to play one of the tangos again—she did an amazing job last night.”

Tango was the radio call sign for the letter T, which, in this case, stood for terrorist. Everything in this crazy business had a nickname or an acronym or was in some kind of code. SPECWAR. OCONUS. LZ, DZ, SEAL.

“Tom needs to know if you’re available to go with us to New Hampshire,” Lindsey continued. “To play the part of the hostage.”

“Are you serious?” Tracy had to lean back against the row of sinks.

“Yeah,” Lindsey said. “But we’re working straight through the weekend. There’s not going to be any downtime. We’ll be staying in a cheap motel, but we won’t be there very often. And it’s going to be extremely cold.”

“I don’t care,” Tracy said.

Lindsey clearly didn’t believe her. “During the exercise we’ll be in the woods, probably for days at a time and…Have you ever been camping?”

“Not since I was a Girl Scout. And it wasn’t really camping,” Tracy admitted. “We stayed in cabins, with, you know, flush toilets.” When she’d first arrived at the camp, she’d actually been disappointed. And then her group went on a hike and discovered what the word
latrine
really meant.

“This is going to be worse than you can imagine.” Lindsey smiled, but it was pretty grim. “You are so going to hate this. I seriously recommend you think hard before you say yes.”

“I appreciate your concern, but…Things didn’t go too well with Lyle last night and I could use a distraction.”

A distraction.

Was that what Tracy had been looking for last night, at three o’clock in the morning, when she’d called Mark Jenkins?

Although, truth be told, what Lindsey was really wondering was—had Jenk distracted her?

There was no doubt about it. Lindsey was jealous. Screaming, green-eyed-monster jealous.

She’d tried convincing herself it was just disappointment that she was feeling. Disappointment, after all, was a common reaction to any situation wherein expectations had not been met.

And Lindsey had expected a full fling, not a one-night stand. She’d been looking forward to a week or two spent with a man whose smile could make her heart flutter. But Tracy’s late-night phone call had cut that two weeks too short.

It wasn’t just Tracy’s phone call that had cut it short, but Jenk’s reaction to it—his immediate jumping through rings of fire at her teary command.

Which really shouldn’t have surprised Lindsey. She’d accepted her Plan B status with her eyes wide open. She really had no right to be hurt or angry or upset or jealous.

But she was.

She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing her time with Mark Jenkins had been terminated. If this was how she was feeling after just one night…Well, it was better to be skewered a little now than a whole lot later on.

Still, this current assignment was just about as awful as it could get. Lindsey was going to have to work with both the man and his Plan A girlfriend in close quarters for the next five—count ’em, five—days.

Right now, she stood in the ladies’ room, watching Tracy examine her makeup in the mirror over the sinks. The taller woman was wearing pants today, but they were nothing like the pants Lindsey wore. Tracy wore pants the same way Lauren Bacall wore pants. They accentuated her trim waistline and draped around her hips. Made of a soft, expensive fabric, they flowed down her long legs. And, of course, she wore heels, too. On top she wore a sweater—if it could be called that. It had sleeves that ended between her elbows and wrists, and a neckline that was neither low nor high but didn’t exactly look as if it would keep her warm. The entire effect was elegant.

Lindsey, on the other hand, looked like an androgynous, rumpled elf. Her short haircut was partly to blame, but only partly.

But there they both were, reflected in that big mirror. Mark Jenkins’s Plan A and Plan B.

Were they having fun yet?

Alyssa poked her head into the bathroom. “Everything okay in here?”

It was obvious that Tom had sent her in. He needed immediate answers for their personnel list.

“Yes,” Lindsey lied. “Tracy’s a go for New Hampshire. She’ll be sharing a motel room with Sophia.”

Lindsey’s escape last night—from the training op, not from Jenk’s apartment—had won her a coveted private room. Thank God. There was limited housing in Dark-Side-of-the-Moon, New Hampshire, where they were heading.

“Oh,” Tracy said, “I have to share a room?” She must’ve realized how Paris Hilton that sounded, because she quickly added, “That’s fine, of course.”

“Good.” Alyssa looked at Lindsey. She was clearly picking up on the tension, and her eyes were apologetic. “I’m going to need you to sit down with Tracy, make sure she knows what to pack, luggage limits and so forth.”

Oh, boy. Whoo-hoo. Lindsey mustered up a smile from somewhere beneath a ton of resentment. Maybe she’d get some enjoyment out of watching Tracy’s face when she informed her she’d only be allowed to bring one small duffel bag on the plane. It would be evil enjoyment, which meant she was a bad, bad person, but right now she didn’t care. “Let’s go into my office.”

Alyssa had been leaving, but now she pushed the bathroom door back open. “Actually…” She made an entire apologetic face this time. “Deck’s in there today. How about the conference room?”

Decker had stolen Lindsey’s office?

Although, okay. Truth was, it was Deck’s office, and Lindsey had claimed squatter’s rights since he was so rarely around. Still, this was a nice cherry on top of what was turning into a truly shitty day.

Tracy followed Lindsey down the hall. “So my evening was about as awful as it could get. Lyle was…God, I so don’t want to talk about Lyle.”

Call the
San Diego Union-Tribune.
Call channel seven’s breaking news hotline. Tracy Shapiro didn’t want to talk about Lyle.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Tracy asked. “Because I haven’t had any yet, and my head’s about to explode.”

“Sure, grab me a cup, too.” Lindsey opened the supply cabinet, took a legal pad, and went into the conference room. Tossing the pad down onto the big table, she pulled out one of the many chairs. Maybe if she were lucky, Tracy would sit way down at the other end and choke on her coffee. The table was so huge that even though Lindsey would race to her side to try to save her, she’d be too late.