years of following Lybanian laws and covering every inch of her body except her face, the skirt that hit below her knees felt too short.
She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan sweater down to her wrists in turn. Anything to keep her mind off the man she was waiting to see.
But he didn’t know she was coming for a visit.
And she didn’t even know his name.
The walls of the brightly lit office were devoid of windows, like the cell she’d endured for weeks. But this wasn’t Lybania. It wasn’t a cell.
She was free to leave.
Except she had to see him. The man who had rescued her. The only one who might agree to help her. She’d tried to talk to the public affairs officer assigned to the mission, a local policeman and even her congressman.
No one would take her seriously.
The public affairs officers hadn’t even listened to her—too busy briefing her about the next interview.
The desk officer at her local precinct had agreed to take her statement but then had stared at her evidence with clear disinterest. To be sure, the foreign words on it probably looked like nothing more than scribbles to him, but she had hoped the map itself would make him take her seriously. It hadn’t. The drawing had been too vague, too imprecise. Too easy to write off. He’d made a dismissive offer to pass the scrap of paper to a detective for review, but she wasn’t about to leave the only evidence of the upcoming danger with a man who seemed more concerned with jaywalkers than terrorists.
As for her congressman... Well, his secretary had expressed appropriate concern for Staci’s recent ordeal, but had made it clear that the congressman’s calendar was full. The unspoken message was that the congressman had no time to deal with delusional constituents.
“It’s normal for rescued hostages to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder,” the PAO had said. “I can recommend a few very good counselors to help you deal with the stress of your ordeal and the ensuing media firestorm.”
It wasn’t stress. She wasn’t hallucinating.
Her last chance was the lieutenant who had carried her to safety. Maybe he’d believe her. Maybe he could help her.
A woman at the commissary on base had told her that some of the SEALs of Team FIFTEEN had offices in this building.
She’d wait until she saw someone familiar. Or until someone realized she’d skipped out on the interview training she was supposed to be attending with the PAO and kick her out.
At the far end of a long hallway lined with offices, a metal door clanged open, rattling the walls of the trailer. A swarm of men entered, laughing and pounding each other on the back, each in matching tan T-shirts and brown camouflage pants.
How could she possibly recognize her rescuer if they all looked alike?
What if he wasn’t as handsome as she remembered? What if his eyes weren’t as blue or his hair as boyishly tousled? Or his smile as kind and his features as perfectly put together as they had seemed to be under that black paint? After all, he’d ridden in like a knight on a white horse at a time when she was almost too afraid to think. He couldn’t possibly be as attractive as her hazy memories of that night recalled.
The group of men drew near, clearly not aware of her presence, so she stood and grabbed on to the bottom of her sweater for support. Suddenly the short man at the front of the group stopped, holding up his hand to signal that all of the dozen or so should do the same. And they did, as if they’d practiced this single move every day for a year. Conversation ceased, and she quivered under the weight of so many eyes.
“How’d you get in here?”
She pointed over her shoulder, half turning toward the trailer’s front door before thinking better of spilling the whole story. It was best to just ask for what she wanted to know. “I’m trying to find a lieutenant.”
The man at the front squinted at her, his scowl growing. “We have a couple of those, but none you’d like very well. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m looking for a specific one. But...well...” She stared at her clasped hands just long enough to build up the courage to look back into the wall of men. “I’m afraid I don’t know his name. I’m Staci, Staci Hayes. And there was a SEAL, a lieutenant, I believe, who rescued me in Lybania.”
“L.T., do you want to take this one?”
Like the Red Sea parting when Moses lifted his staff, the men moved against the walls until a familiar figure walked down the aisle. His gait easy and confident, he squinted at her until he’d reached the front of the pack, his hands resting loosely on his hips.
“Ms. Hayes, what can I do for you?”
She held out her hand, hoping he’d take it, hoping she looked less foolish than she felt.
He glanced down at her hand, and when his eyes rose, they stole her breath. There was no mistaking this was the man who had rescued her. His eyes weren’t friendly, but they hadn’t been two weeks ago, either. Then and now, they were focused and direct—taking in the situation at hand. At least she had his attention.
“I’m Staci.” She pushed her hand farther forward, ignoring the lump in her throat as her fingers passed the halfway point between them.
He nodded to the group still congregated behind him. “They call me L.T.” His eyes searched her face, finally lighting on her right side, on the scar that the doctor had said would probably always be visible.
She pulled back the hand that he obviously wasn’t going to shake, and used it to cover the scar, staring at the floor in front of his feet. Apparently he wasn’t going to give her his name, no matter how hard he stared at her. All right. She didn’t need his name. Just his help.
“May we speak?” She glanced around his muscled shoulder—the same one she’d been slung over—into the faces of his men. “In private.”
His face pinched for a moment, all the air in the trailer suddenly vanishing. Still he stared at her, his eyes roaming from her hair to her feet and back. It wasn’t an obnoxious assessment, or even inappropriate. Clearly he was a man used to knowing what was coming, and her surprise visit didn’t suit him.
The silence dragged on for what felt like hours, but all of the men remained motionless. She didn’t even catch one blinking. Perfectly silent. Perfectly still.
By comparison, she felt like a camel in a crystal store, every straightening of her sweater or twitch of her neck amplified, every shuffle of her foot echoing to the farthest corner of the hall. But she couldn’t seem to stop moving.
A strange habit she’d picked up during her time in captivity. Movement meant she was still alive. It gave her something to focus on in that pit, something to touch when she’d almost forgotten the feel of her own skin.
Now she was a hummingbird among ravens. Why couldn’t she stop drawing attention to herself?
Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she held her breath and pinched her eyes closed until the man responded.
“All right.” Her eyes flew open, and he nodded toward
