Chapter 6 #2
Yeah, well, if they did, he’d be reading about it in a cell, buried deep in some unknown federal prison, facing kidnapping charges to go along with this grand theft and B and E, so that was something to look forward to.
West walked them to the dive shop. Kept Britta’s hand in his even as he tried the front door.
Locked.
He led her around back. There was a narrow alley between the dive shop and a closed café. A rusty pull-down emergency-escape ladder hung on the back of the building.
“Can you climb?” he asked.
Britta looked at the metal ladder. “Yes.”
“Go slow. I’m right behind you.”
She climbed. Slower than she probably normally would, but steady. West followed close enough to catch her if she fell.
The second-floor landing had a window. West tried it.
Locked.
He pulled out his pocketknife. Yes, he did bring it to parties. He worked the blade into the window frame. The wood, old and salt damaged, gave way easier than it should have. The lock popped.
West slid the window open. Helped Britta through first. Climbed in after her.
They were in. He led her through the small bedroom into the living area.
He flicked on the light. Beach cottage meets bachelor pad.
Lived-in but not messy, an open floor plan with canvas photos from exotic dives hanging on the white walls.
A guitar case by a white slipcovered sofa facing sliding glass doors that opened onto a deck, and beyond that, the darkness of the ocean.
An oversized flat-screen on the wall, a ceiling fan turning lazy circles overhead.
The kitchen was tucked to one side—barely big enough for one person, but functional. A hallway led to the bedroom they’d just walked through.
Hawkeye’s place. Definitely.
West scanned automatically. Exits, sight lines, security. One door in the front, a balcony in the back. Windows facing the street and the ocean. No alarm system visible. Good.
Britta stood in the middle of the room. Dripping. Shaking. Staring at nothing.
West headed back to Hawkeye’s bedroom, found the closet, and pulled out clothes—T-shirts, sweatpants, a hoodie. Hawkeye was bigger than Britta but smaller than West. The clothes would work.
“Bathroom’s down the hall. Get out of those wet clothes. Warm shower if you can.”
She took the clothes. “I don’t feel good.”
“How not good?”
“Like I might throw up.”
He put a hand on her arm, led her to the bathroom, made her sit on the edge of the tub. “Put your head between your knees.”
She cocked her head at him.
“Listen, it’s just shock. You’ll be okay.”
She was staring at him, her eyes widening at the bruise on his cheek. “I hit you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You were scared.” He touched her shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”
She blew out a breath, nodded. “I feel better.”
He got up. “Get dry. I’ll find a first aid kit.”
She frowned.
He pointed to a cut on her knee. She probably didn’t even feel it, but the small tear in her skin dripped a trail of blood.
He walked out, closed the door behind him.
The shower started a moment later.
West exhaled, a little nausea churning inside him too. Breathe. They’d made it. Safe for now.
But he stood with his hands on the counter, bracing himself, breathing in and out for a hot minute.
Then he checked the kitchen drawers until he located a first aid kit under the sink. Basic but adequate.
His phone was in his pocket. He pulled it out. Completely dead. Water damaged.
He tried anyway.
Nothing.
West set it on the counter. He could try the rice trick, but he doubted he’d resurrect it.
He looked for a landline, a tablet, any form of communication. Found an old flip phone —someone’s forgotten spare, dead. He searched for a charger and plugged it in.
He went back to the living room. Pulled off his wet shirt. His side stung and he looked down.
A cut along his left side. Three inches. Not too deep but bleeding. Huh. He hadn’t felt that either, thanks to the adrenaline.
West was examining it when the bathroom door opened.
Britta stood in the doorway in Hawk’s oversized T-shirt that said Diver Down and sweatpants rolled at the waist, cuffs pooling at her ankles. She’d wrapped her hair in a towel, her face scrubbed clean.
She looked impossibly younger than her twenty-plus years. He suddenly felt ancient at thirty-three.
Her gaze caught on his cut and her eyes widened. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.” She crossed to the kitchen, grabbed the first aid kit, and came back. “Sit.”
“I can handle it.”
“Sit down, West.”
“You first.”
“My cut stopped bleeding. It’s a scrape. This is a gash. Don’t argue with me. I’m a lawyer. I’ll win.”
You think so. But he didn’t argue with her.
West sat on the couch.
Britta knelt in front of him and opened the first aid kit. She found antiseptic. Gauze. Then she cleaned the wound.
West didn’t make a sound.
“Does this hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Such a tough-guy response.” She examined the cut. “It needs stitches. But we don’t have suture material.”
“Superglue works.”
She looked up at him, a hint of amusement in her eyes. Pretty eyes. Blue, with flecks of brown at the irises. They caught him for a moment, took out his words.
“Of course,” she said, and found a small tube in the kit.
“Just pull the skin together and glue it.”
“What, like a kindergarten craft project?”
“Channel your inner six-year-old.”
She shook her head, but a smile played on her mouth as she held the edges of the wound together, applied the glue, and waited for it to bond.
“You’re pretty handy.”
“I spent a summer backpacking in Montana when I was nineteen. Wilderness first aid course. My dad insisted.”
“Your dad, the overbearing president? What, did he send an entire tactical team with you?”
“Ha, funny. He wasn’t president yet. Just a senator.
But yes, I’m sure he vetted the group beforehand.
Dad pushed me toward everything that would make me more capable.
More independent. More able to handle emergencies.
” She finished with the glue. Covered the area with gauze and tape.
“Turns out emergency medical training actually comes in handy when you’re gluing a former Marine back together, hiding out in a safe house. ”
“It’s just my buddy’s apartment.”
She slid onto the sofa beside him. “Whatever. In my head, it’s a safe house.”
He smiled at her. Cute. Like they were in a spy movie, and of course, his words from earlier stole through him.
Britta White clearly had layers the world didn’t see.
“Your turn,” he said.
“For what?”
“I want to see your cut.”
“You just want to get a look at my legs.”
He blinked at her.
Her mouth opened.
“Oh wow, I don’t know where that came from. Sorry—”
“You’re absolutely right. But I did get a good look at the party. For the record, you were beautiful in that dress.” And he didn’t know where that came from either, but he let it sit.
She gave him a slow smile. “Not sure about the current duds though.”
Oh, you’re just as hot. But he just gave her a once-over and shrugged. “I’m not hating it.”
Her eyebrow rose, but she leaned over and pulled up the leg of her sweatpants. “Knock yourself out.”
He examined the cut. It had stopped bleeding, but the wound was inflamed. “I’m going to clean this up a bit.”
She leaned back and he cleaned it—she winced and he apologized.
“I’ve had worse.”
He rolled his eyes. But shoot, now he really liked her. He applied antibiotic ointment. Bandaged it. “It might leave a scar.”
“I’ll live.” She rolled her pants down. “Thanks.”
He repacked the first aid kit and returned it to the spot in the kitchen.
“I mean it,” she said softly.
He stood up, met her gaze from across the room.
“You saved my life. And then got me to safety, and…how did you know the yacht would explode?”
“A hunch? I found the bomber holding a countdown phone, so…a pretty solid hunch.”
She leaned back, pulled up her legs, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I was scared you were going to get blown up. You know, when you went to find the bomb.”
Him too. But he just nodded. “I was scared that I wouldn’t get you off the boat to safety.” And maybe that was a little too honest, but, well, as long as they were confessing…
She nodded.
Silence, and the quietness of the apartment settled around them. Ocean sounds through the windows.
“You should get some sleep,” West said. “Bedroom’s yours. I’ll take the couch.”
“I’m not tired.”
Liar. Exhaustion hung in her eyes. But maybe the crash hadn’t hit yet. The shock was keeping her upright.
“Britta—”
“I’m so hungry. We didn’t get dinner.”
Right. He opened the fridge. Nothing but some old takeout, a carton of eggs, bacon, and a six-pack of soda. He tried the freezer and found a bag of buffalo wings. He took them out, then turned on the oven.
She came over and sat on the bench in front of the counter. “Should we call someone? Like Ham?”
“Probably. My phone took a dunking, but I found a flip in Hawkeye’s room. I’m charging it.”
“Okay. I’ll call my dad too. It’ll at least keep you from being arrested when the Secret Service find us.”
When, not if. But she was right.
Probably not about him not being arrested, however.
“So, right before the attack, you were talking about the Secret Service. You’d make a…a good agent.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Yeah, I thought that, once upon a time. It’s why I joined the Marines. It’s the only path to being a Secret Service agent.”
She heard what he didn’t say. “But you didn’t want to die in service?” She said it like a question, not betraying the fact that he’d told her before.
He sighed. “Truth is, I walked away.”
“I don’t believe that. You’re—” She gestured at him. At the apartment they’d broken into. She thought of the yacht that had exploded, the swim through dark water, everything he’d done tonight. “You’re the most competent person I’ve ever met. They’d have been lucky to have you.”
He opened the wings bag and poured the chicken onto a baking tray. Stuck it in the oven. “I made it most of the way through. Then I withdrew.”