Finding Grace Read online

  When his eyes dropped, they landed on a box under a table in the corner.

  Grace wasn’t what anyone who’d ever been in the military would call neat. She was well on the other side of excessive clutter. But she was organized. All of her stuff had purpose, everything belonged where it was, if you asked her, and could always be found where it belonged. The box didn’t belong.

  It had to be the Christmas presents Farley had mentioned.

  He lifted the top layer and was almost blinded as the bright colors of the tissue wrappings and ribbons inside lit up the gray room. Each package he could see sported a neatly-written tag with someone’s name on it. It was the first time he’d ever seen Grace’s handwriting. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, it took his breath and made the next one hurt.

  * * * *

  Before everyone went home on Christmas Eve, Dagger handed out each of the packages. He may not have looked like any elf of Santa’s he or anyone else had ever seen, but somehow he felt just a little bit of the magic, a hint of the warmth.

  Most of the guys got wool scarves. Farley’s was the fanciest, he noticed with a twinge of jealousy. Paul got a pair of socks, Markham and Hawks got matching watch caps with their names embroidered inside, and Mills’s scarf—you could have knocked him over with a feather—appeared not to be wool. How she’d known he was allergic was anyone’s guess. Katherine informed everyone that it was silk noil, whatever the hell that was. Her own scarf was lace, and by her reckoning, made of mohair and silk. She remarked happily that the color was perfect and went with half her wardrobe.

  Dagger just sat looking around at everyone and at his own unopened package.

  “Jack, I really think you should open it. Wouldn’t you feel better wearing something Grace made for you with her own hands? You’ll feel closer to her, we all do. Go on, at least open it.” Katherine smiled encouragingly.

  He looked around the room. Everyone nodded. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Mills might be crying. Shit.

  It was the nicest sweater he’d ever seen. It was crazy soft, dark green and covered in small twisting ropes that Katherine called cables. She also noted with a sigh that it was cashmere. Dagger wondered when Grace had knit it. It was true, she was always knitting, but he’d never paid attention to exactly what she was knitting. He swallowed and realized everyone was looking at him.

  So he did the only thing he could do. He pulled the sweater on. Katherine was right; he could feel her all around him. There was even a hint of her unique scent.

  He used it as a pillow that night and every night after that. He slept better, and the nightmares, the few he still had, no longer seemed so real.

  * * * *

  New Year’s Eve came and went. No one felt much like celebrating. There was still no word.

  Finally, a few days into the new year, in the middle of a rare January snowstorm heavy enough that some might call it a blizzard, Paul hit pay dirt. It had been a long, twisted path. He never did find out where Darmfelder had stashed her, but she was at the naval hospital in Bethesda now, had been admitted on Christmas Day. What she was doing there, Paul really didn’t want to think about. He was unable to discover her condition but it had to be serious for her to have been there that long. How had Darmfelder gotten a civilian into Bethesda? He didn’t know how to tell Dagger or what his reaction would be. Before Thorne, Dagger had always been predictable, calm, even-tempered, if not good-tempered. All bets were off now.

  Paul wasn’t sure how to take it when Dagger barely let him finish before laying out his strategy. They would take the company jet. Mills would pilot since he was good and knew people who would get him clearance even if no one else could in this weather. Markham and Hawks were reinforcements and Farley would hold down the fort. Paul would get Dagger blueprints for the hospital. Paul could only agree. Mills may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a hell of a pilot and took direction well. He also seemed to feel the worst about how he’d treated Thorne. Hawks and Markham owed her their lives. For a variety of reasons, Farley was best left here. It was a good plan. Dagger was a great tactician, if a lousy politician.

  If this were anyone but Thorne they were going after, he’d have nothing to be nervous about. As it was, Dagger’s calm made him nervous.

  He felt perversely better when they met at the airport and he saw how heavily armed Dagger was. The man looked ready to take on the entire U.S. armed forces. And he was wearing that cashmere sweater Thorne had knit for him like it was armor. They’d managed to get around going through security, but there was such a thing as overkill. Dagger only grunted when Paul told him so. He could only hope he had enough time and the ability to talk Dagger out of the rifles before they got to the hospital.

  By the time they had refueled at Chicago Midway and Dagger had reduced his personal arsenal to weapons that were more easily concealed, Paul felt a real victory. What still had him concerned, though, was Dagger’s continued lack of visible emotion.

  He listened quietly while Dagger outlined the rest of his plan to the team.

  “Darmfelder’s probably got her in Bethesda for the security. They’re set up to handle all the top brass. Must have pulled some big strings to get a civilian in there, for all the good it’s going to do him. Paul’s going to meet with General Ross. Trying to run interference with that should keep Darmfelder busy. He’ll have at least one guard at her door, if not two. I’ll handle them. Mills, I need you to take their place outside her door, keep everything quiet. You two”—he gestured to Markham and Hawks—“will be floaters. See, what makes this tricky is not knowing her condition. You’ll need to get in the supply room and get some scrubs so you won’t stick out anywhere in case she’s critical and we need to go to Plan B. I’ll be in touch.”

  They all boarded the rented SUV for the drive to the hospital.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Farley had hammered away at the Bethesda database until he could pinpoint Grace’s room. He’d bitched about being left behind, but filled them in on the intricacies of the third floor ICU because he’d been a patient there once. Dagger thanked his one lucky star that the location wasn’t particularly secure. Not that it would have stopped him.

  Mills chatted with the nurses while Dagger silently dispatched the guards outside the door and dragged their prone bodies to a corner inside the room. Once they were gone, Mills took their place. Hell, even without a uniform, he looked more like a guard than either of them had.

  Coming in from the brightly lit hall, it was hard to see at first. The blinds to the nurses’ station were closed and the day was cold and gray, leaving the room dark. The walls were stark, and a dim pallor painted the woman strapped down to the bed amid a tangle of tubes and wires. At first, he thought he was in the wrong room. Hoped, really.

  When his eyes adjusted, he made out the dark color on the ends of the short shaggy hair. Purple.

  Torn by fear and anger, and something stronger he didn’t want to identify, Dagger fought to remain in combat mode. The first thing he needed to do was ensure the injections had done their job. He didn’t need any surprises.

  He checked the two men closely to verify they were truly unconscious and recognized one of them as the driver of the SUV that had soaked him while speeding away with Grace on that horrible morning. The other’s eye still showed the effects of her elbow; the man who’d hit her.

  Bitter rage leaked through the dam he’d placed on his emotions. He bent down and gripped the hand that had struck his Grace, squeezing until he heard a satisfying crunch. Once healed, it would probably only hurt if the man was dumb enough to hit someone again. Probably.

  A disturbance outside the door ended Dagger’s moment of satisfaction.

  “I don’t care what you say, I need to check on my patient. Now get out of my way.”

  A large woman in a nurse’s uniform bustled into the room and switched on the light. Dagger moved behind the door and watched Mills gesture helplessly to him through the small panel of gla
ss. He splayed his hands and signaled Mills to continue to guard the door. He backed further into a shadow.

  So much for no surprises.

  The nurse didn’t see him because she went straight to the bed and bent over her patient, giving Dagger a moment to study her profile. She was an ample woman with a creamed-coffee complexion, salt-and-pepper hair styled simply. He guessed her to be in her early sixties. She fussed over Grace with true care.

  Dagger wanted to be the one doing that. He cleared his throat and she turned, taking in him and the unmoving guards crumpled on the floor in the same sweeping glance. She scowled and straightened before taking a threatening step toward him.

  “Young man, just what do you think you’re doing? Are you the one who put these scars on this poor child? Because if you are…”

  Her ID tag declared her name was Florence. The hands on her hips declared righteous anger and not one hint of concern for her own safety.

  Caught unprepared and scolded back to a boyhood long forgotten, Dagger blanched. “Scars, ma’am? I could never hurt Grace.” Then he remembered the last words he’d said to her and his confession poured out, “I mean, last time I saw her, I said some things I’d give my soul to take back, but lay a hand on her? Never.”

  Scars. The last piece to the puzzle. He looked back at Grace, suddenly needing to hold her hand—whether to comfort her or himself, he couldn’t have said.

  * * * *

  Florence followed the man’s gaze. It didn’t take having raised four babies, or having ten grandbabies and one great-grandbaby on the way, to see the fierce love and tenderness that big bad boy felt for her patient. He wasn’t here to hurt her, any fool could see that. And Florence’s mother hadn’t raised any fools.

  “What’s wrong with her? Is she going to be okay?” The man’s voice cracked. He was moving toward her, toward her patient. Lord, he was a big ’un.

  But he was careful and slow when he sat down on the edge of the bed. The pushed-up sleeves of a fine, hand-knit sweater revealed tattoos that ran up forearms thick as the trunks of the cherry trees in her backyard. Huge hands cradled the poor girl’s face like it was a bunch of flowers. He murmured something so softly Florence could only make out the love in his voice, not the words, as he unbuckled the restraints at her wrists and ankles.

  There was genuine shock to his gasp when he saw the scars and genuine anger in his low growl when he saw the fresh cuts Florence was reasonably sure handcuffs had made. She couldn’t understand how he could know this girl as well as he seemed to and be surprised about the scars, but he surely was.

  His question came back to her. How many times had she heard it before? And how many times before had she wished she had better news?

  “She’s in a coma, honey, has been since she was admitted on Christmas Day.”

  “That was ten days after he snatched her from the office in Seattle.” Tearing his gaze away from the girl like it hurt him to do it, his deep voice louder than she’d heard it yet, he said, “What did he do to her? That sonofa—”

  She halted him mid-expletive with a sternly arched brow. “Those men.” She nodded to the corner. “You’re going to tell me they weren’t here to protect her? And I suppose those restraints, they’re not because she’s a danger to herself, either?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he let out a sigh that sounded more like a hiss.

  Well, well, the major’s story had stunk to high heaven, it surely had. And here was an avenging angel if Florence had ever seen one—from the top of his shiny head to the toes of his black boots and the feel of the grim reaper all around him—come to set things straight and bring the child home. But she couldn’t let him.

  “I’m sorry, honey, I know you don’t want to, but you have to leave her here. She needs to be in a hospital. Now don’t you worry, she’s in our hands now. Her doctor hasn’t been able to find anything wrong with her, other than the scars and those cuts on her wrists. He’s one of the best doctors in the country. He’s done as much as he can. It’s up to the Lord now.”

  Those dark eyes, staring out of a face only a mother could love, had a faraway look to them before they closed. More like he was remembering something than praying, though, unless she was mistaken.

  She hadn’t been mistaken about much since her first husband, so she wasn’t surprised when his eyes popped open and he said, “Ma’am, I don’t mean any disrespect, but it was always my understanding that the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  “And each other, son.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I trust you? I think I know what happened. I need to talk to this doctor of hers. Problem is I’m not, um, exactly an official visitor.” He looked over at the guards’ bodies. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, except that motherf—sorry, ma’am—Darmfelder, but you have to understand something: Under no circumstances am I leaving here without her. My partner is talking to General Ross right now. So, one way or another, this is going to come to an end.”

  In spite of the man’s implacable vehemence, Florence suddenly felt a whole lot better. “General Ross? He’s a fine man. He’ll straighten everything out, including that no good little weasel of a major. You can trust me and you can trust him.”

  He shook his head. “Just you for now. And thank you, ma’am, for taking such good care of her. Now, if you’ll go find that doctor?”

  * * * *

  It had come back to Dagger, the time Grace had told him when she’d started having visions, how she’d gone deep inside herself to escape unbearable pain. He didn’t want to think about the context of that pain in light of what he now knew had happened to her, or the scars he’d just found on her wrists and ankles, or what Darmfelder might have done to make her go there again. No, it would be much better to think about what he was going to do to Darmfelder.

  But even that would have to wait. He pulled out his satellite phone, saw the red light and listened to Paul’s message before calling Hawks. “Gemini? Acknowledge…Nurse says it’s a coma…Florence, she’s okay…Oh yeah, and real slow, once Wicked Pixie is safe. Buzz is underway with Eagle. Shit’s gonna hit the fan soon. Come on up for the party, but keep the camo.”

  Once he’d leaned out the door and filled Mills in, he dug in the cupboards and found some linens to wrap Darmfelder’s men in. The shots should keep them out for another three hours at least.

  * * * *

  “Self-induced? Well, I suppose it’s possible.” The doctor didn’t look convinced. He looked nervous. His eyes kept straying to the pile of linens in the corner and he was swallowing an awful lot. “And it still doesn’t solve the problem of how to wake our sleeping beauty here.”

  “My sleeping beauty,” Dagger said and took her delicate hand, watched it disappear between both of his.

  When the doctor pushed his glasses back up his nose, Dagger saw he was sweating and his fingers were shaking, along with the stethoscope around his neck.

  “And even if—” he took a quick little breath and Dagger knew more bad news was coming “—she does come around, there are still no guarantees. Unlike what you see in the movies, those that do wake often take years to fully recover. Many never do.” His head dropped and his voice got so quiet Dagger had to lean in to hear him. “I’m sorry, but that’s the reality.”

  The poor man had said it like he thought he was pronouncing his own death sentence, instead of what, for any purpose worth considering, amounted to Dagger’s.

  With a lot of effort, he kept his own voice low and even. “Thank you for giving it to me straight, Doc. You’d best get back to your office. You’ll be getting some visitors pretty quick.”

  He seemed surprised that Dagger was going to let him go. But Dagger didn’t care any more.

  As soon as the doctor closed the door behind him, all of his careful restraint broke. He took Grace in his arms and started talking to her.

  He didn’t recognize his own voice, pleading and angry, laced with anguish. “Goddamnit Grace, don’t do this to me. You come back her
e right now. Oh God, please Grace, don’t make me live without you. Do you hear me? I don’t know what that bastard did to you, but he’s never coming near you again, I promise. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to stop him, but I’m here now. You’re safe, Grace. I love you. I love you so goddamn much it hurts. Every day you’re gone I die a little more inside.” He choked back a sob. “Did you hear me, Grace? I fucking love you. Now you come back to me.”

  He forgot about all of the tubes and cables and crushed her to him, enfolding her in his arms, in his love. Her lips felt cool against his when tried to breathe all of his strength into her, tried to take all of her pain into himself, each breath, each press of his lips more desperate than the last.

  It was such a light touch and he was so lost in his despair that at first he didn’t feel her lips respond. But once he did, he broke the kiss and saw her eyelids flutter and her throat swallow.

  A whoop escaped him before he clamped it down by kissing her again. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, her chin, her jaw. For the first time, he saw the scar that wrapped around her throat. He closed his eyes against his anger and kissed it, too, all the while squeezing her hands and relishing the light pressure of her squeezing his in return.

  Grace had come back to him.

  Dagger was so thrilled that he didn’t notice the blinds to the nurse’s station had opened.

  Chapter Sixteen

  General Randall Ross turned away from the last photo in the file Paul Weston had handed him. The reports had been bad enough. He pushed the whole folder back across his big shiny desk to Weston, wishing he could push it from his mind as easily and wishing he’d skipped breakfast as well.

  He paused and considered his words carefully. He’d met Weston when he was still in the Corps, but he’d gotten to know him during those awkward dinner parties Weston’s father-in-law threw several times a year. It was always a relief to see Weston there, a man he liked and respected and actually enjoyed talking to; a man who understood the way the world was. He wished like hell there was an easier way to say what he had to say.