Operation Summer Storm (26 page)

Delayed reaction she thought in the split second before she kicked him a second time and pushed herself away from the chair she’d been cowering in, not even bothering to take a second look at him over her shoulder.

Frantically, she pulled open the salon’s glass door, and ran out onto the deck, she had no idea where the captain was—she had no idea what she was going to do, all she knew was that she had to get out of that room. Running along the massive deck, looking back over her shoulder, certain that at any moment, Tréago would be following her, she didn’t see the arm which shot out from behind a tarpaulin covered object on the deck in front of her, and drag her into the shadows.

Summer kicked with all her might, screaming behind the gloved hand. She was not going to give up without a fight this time. She struggled against the steel like grip that held her firmly, to no avail. She was so focused on fighting, she didn’t realize, until it was too late—instead of being taken back up to the salon—she was being pushed down-stairs and toward the rear of the Yacht. Waiting at the rear of the ship was an inflatable boat, which she was quickly, quite literally, thrown into, before she even realized where she was.

The sound of gunfire behind them, indicated, her rescue was only a small part, of a much larger operation. Glancing back at the yacht, she saw the deck now swarming with life, flood lights illuminating it from all angles, and Tréago, handcuffed and flanked by men in bullet proof jackets, was transferred off his boat into custody.

A lump swelled in her throat, as she thought of Michael, and she rapidly blinked away tears. At least a small measure of satisfaction would come of knowing Tréago would be locked away, but it didn’t bring Michael back, and so the sadness continued to lurk in the background.

She looked around her at the four men in the inflatable—dressed in black—faces still covered in balaclavas scanning the immediate vicinity vigilantly. They were armed and ready for anything, and Summer fought to control the wave of dizzy disbelief, trembling in relief. It couldn’t be—yet here she was, being rescued again. The boat sped away from the yacht, heading out into the darkness beyond. She remained pinned down by a well-placed foot in the bottom of the boat, presumably for both her own protection, and the men’s peace of mind, but after a while, she began to wiggle. Surely, it was safe to let her up now. A warning look stopped her wiggling, but ignited her temper.
Really, this wasn’t called for!

Twenty minutes later the boat slowed and Summer saw the huge outline of a large gray cargo ship as they pulled up alongside it. It dwarfed the small inflatable, looking like a gigantic mountain that had sprouted in the middle of the ocean. Summer stared up at it uncertainly as something began to unroll above them down the side of the ship. One of the men stood up and caught it. A rope ladder had tumbled down and Summer was helped up and positioned near the edge of the boat to grab hold of it.

Balking at the flimsy rope and eyeing the distance to the top, Summer backed up, colliding with the solid chest behind her.

“You have got to be joking. I’m not climbing that,” she said spinning around to face him.

Two hands gently, but forcefully turned her back around and helped her to the edge.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded turning back once more, “Would you take off that stupid ski mask? I feel like I’m talking to a bloody bank robber.”

With her hands taken and deliberately placed on the ropes, she was heaved up the rope and prodded onwards by the man shadowing her from behind. Climbing the swaying ladder was no easy feat. Twice Summer stopped and struggled to keep climbing but the solid strength behind her held her securely and kept her moving. At the top, hands reached down and heaved her over the edge. Nervously she waited for the man to climb over the top and stand before her.

“Tate?” she asked quietly eyeing the men grouped around curiously. Ignoring her question, he passed her a backpack, pausing to look down at her briefly before he turned and walked along the ship’s deck to speak with a man who she presumed was the ship’s captain.

Without a backward glance, he left the man, to stride purposely along the deck to disappear into the depths of the massive ship. Summer’s eyes followed his retreating back with a helpless feeling of desertion. Why was he acting like this?

Summer hugged the pack she held in her arms tightly against her chest and wondered why she felt so scared. This was Tate, he was looking out for her, and she was safe, wasn’t she? Finally, she was beckoned by a second man from her rescue team, and cautiously followed the man in black down a set of steps to a narrow passageway lined with doors. Opening a door, he stood aside and indicated that she should enter.

Taking a step in, she turned and faced him. “Would you please knock this off and tell me what’s going on here?” Exactly whom she was talking to she wasn’t sure, her best bet was Del, but without being able to identify anything under the mask, she was unexplainably nervous. Two eyes looked at her through the gruesome holes of the balaclava and Summer froze.

Who are you?” she questioned in a shaky voice.

The man removed his mask and Summer gasped in alarm. Before her stood a complete stranger. The man spared her a slight smile before reassuring her, calmly, that she was safe.

“Where’s Tate?” she asked holding her breath.

“I’m just doin’ my job Ma’am. We’re to escort you as far as the airport; from there you’ll catch a flight to Brisbane. The tickets are in the bag,” he said nodding to the bag she still clutched against her chest protectively.

“I don’t understand, why isn’t Tate in here telling me this?” she pressed—her panic increasing by the minute.

“Ma’am, if you just cooperate things will go a lot smoother for everyone,” he added quietly.

“If you call me Ma’am once more I’ll scream. Where is he?” she demanded and threw the backpack onto the small bed, turning to face the man defiantly.

Letting out a resigned sigh, the man shook his head, “he’s probably already gone.”

Without waiting for anything further, Summer whirled towards the door and ran back along the hallway up to the top deck. Bursting through the doorway, her gaze searched the deck for any sign of Tate, but couldn’t find him anywhere. At the rear of the ship, Summer suddenly noticed a helicopter revving as it prepared to take off. She moved closer and saw Tate seated next to the pilot in the front of the aircraft—looking back at her.

He made no move to respond. The wind whipped her hair across her face and the sharp sting brought tears to her eyes. Staring at him desolately, Summer let the blinding tears, blur his face before her eyes—determined not to brush them away while he watched her.

The realization echoed through her head. He didn’t want her. Her heart screamed at the discovery—urging her not to believe it—but her head continued to calmly click all the pieces of the puzzle into their rightful order. Summer felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. Anger and betrayal vied for top positions as she tried to sort out the terrible conflicting emotions welling up inside her. The helicopter rose from the ship’s deck, leaving her below, a small lonely figure standing on the big empty deck. Soon the cold wind whipped through her flimsy clothing and she looked out at the churning grey sea surrounding her. With a final shiver, she turned and retraced her steps until she found the door that led to the hallway to her room.

Standing calmly outside her room, was the man who had accompanied her earlier, “So you’re a Marine too I suppose?” Summer asked listlessly, as she numbly walked back to the shelter of her small room.

He may have scoffed before answering, but she wasn’t entirely sure. “No Ma’am. I’m a SEAL.”

Summer bristled slightly, at his attitude as he followed her back into the room, leaving the cabin door open as a non-threatening gesture towards her. “So what was a Marine doing on a SEAL mission?”

“I don’t know Ma’am. I believe there were extenuating circumstances. I don’t question my orders, I just carry them out.”

“Well, thank you, anyway.”

He eyed her for the briefest of moments no doubt wondering what the extenuating circumstances might have been before doing a sweep of her disheveled appearance and asking, “Do you need a doctor to look you over?”

She shook her head, her shock still too fresh, for the implications to sink in.

“I’ll have someone send you in something to eat, and then you’d better get some sleep.”

She was neither tired, nor hungry, even though she hadn’t eaten all day. Looking at the door as it closed behind her rescuer, Summer sank down onto the bed and stared miserably at the dull grey metal of the cabins interior. She’d said goodbye to Tate, only to have him go to her rescue once more. Pain sliced through her heart as she remembered the set angle of his strong jaw as he had watched her through the glass window of the helicopter. He’d left without a word, without a single sign of recognition. Gone back to the life he loved more than her.

Raising a shaky hand to brush back the hair from her face, she turned her attention to the bag beside her on the bed, and found a set of clean clothes and basic toiletries, along with an envelope, which contained—as promised—a plane ticket home. There was also a temporary passport document. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble on her behalf but Tate’s callous departure still hurt too much to stir any form of gratitude inside her.

Finding the room had a shower—at least she assumed it passed for one in a claustrophobic kind of way she locked her door and shed her clothes, scrubbing her filthy body vigorously. She washed her hair—twice, before stepping out and rubbing herself dry carefully to avoid disturbing the still raw scratches on her legs and arms.

She pulled on a pair of jeans and a pale pink shirt, still wrapped in its plastic bag. They both fit extremely well. There was a simple pair of white canvas shoes also included that she slipped on—grateful that she was now finally clean and dry from head to toe. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a vaguely recognizable face glancing back at her. She still sported a nasty bruise on her temple, but it was beginning to fade. The only other noticeable wound was the hollow—empty, depth of her eyes—but there was nothing included in her magic bag of tricks, to cure that problem.

That wound—like the others would no doubt fade in time, but would be the one that took the longest to heal. She bit back the sharp sting of tears as she thought once more how desperately she’d wanted Tate to hold her and tell her everything was all right, but steeled her aching heart against the emotion. Things would be better once she was home, she told herself firmly. They sure as hell couldn’t get much worse.

* * * *

A helicopter—different from the one that had taken Tate away, landed on board the merchant marine ship a few hours later. The three men, who she presumed were all SEALS, now dressed in civilian clothes, climbed on board alongside her and they flew to the naval base at Guam, the closest U.S. base to their location. Landing at the airport, Summer was then transferred to the terminal, where her three travel companions, diligently checked her in.

“You’re all set,” the man beside her said.

“Thank you,” Summer said, knowing it sounded so hollow compared to the thanks they deserved risking their lives for complete strangers.

Holding her gaze for the briefest of moments, he allowed a softening of his world wary features—to give her a small smile, followed by a brief nod, and then watched her walk through the doors to the departure room.

Fat tears rolled down her face as the plane revved its monstrous engines and taxied down the runway. She’d made it to the final leg of her journey—she was going home. The roar of the engines outside her window—echoed in her head, matching the anguish she felt inside—as the plane lifted and soared high into the brilliant blue sky above.

Chapter Eighteen

Early one morning having just ended a long stint of night shift, Summer sat watching the rain, as it ran down the glass of her kitchen window —toying with an uneaten bowl of cereal at her kitchen bench. The intrusion of her phone ringing reluctantly pulled her gaze away from the window, as she got to her feet to answer it.

“Summer,” Willow’s voice greeted her, and she heard the underlying anticipation.

“What’s wrong?” Summer asked, alarmed.

“The trials over, Tréago’s been sentenced.”

Her heart thudded painfully as it usually did with anything relating to Tate these days.

“I’ve just emailed you a link to watch the broadcast,” Willow said, and Summer heard the weariness in her sister’s tone. For the last two months Willow had been covering the trial and finishing Michael’s story. It had been a long, drawn out, and emotional assignment for her. As promised to Michael before his death, the lawyer involved, granted Willow exclusive access for her story, and it would be the scoop of her journalistic career, once it went to press.

Summer hoped it bought her sister the closure she so desperately needed, but it did nothing but bring pain, for her, to think about anything connected to the big Marine, who’d stolen, then broken, her heart.

“Willow—I really don’t feel up to watching this. I just don’t think I’ve got the energy to face all that again,” she said quietly. She sat down on the lounge with a beaten sigh, staring back out the window at the gloomy weather. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest, at the thought of Tate and the trial. Why did it continue to hurt so much? She should be able to move on, but that final meeting with Tate on the ship had left a part of her neurotically analyzing, her feelings. If he’d really cared about her—why had he simply walked away like that?