I believe strongly that my books are entertainment. I hope you might learn a thing or two while reading them, but first and foremost, my job is to entertain you. If I’m waving a flag in Hot Target, it’s the same flag I’ve always waved in all my books—the American flag. And that’s a flag that’s supposed to stand for acceptance and understanding. For freedom for all—and not just freedom for all Americans, but freedom for all of the diverse and wonderful people living on this planet; freedom to live their lives according to their definitions of freedom. It’s a flag that’s supposed to stand for real American values like honor and honesty and peace and love and hope.
Suzanne BrockmannMots clés america values honor
You have no idea how much I appreciate your friendship,” Jules said. Sam held out several bills. “Yeah, actually I do,” he said. “It’s probably as much as I appreciate yours.
Suzanne BrockmannThe very first picture that came up on the camera’s little view screen was of him.
What did that mean that she’d kept this picture of him?
Was it because she still cared?
Or had she saved it as a warning? Like, “Never forget how completely screwed up your relationship was with this loser . . .”
It wasn’t a particularly good picture. In fact, it was pretty embarrassing.
Sitting up in his bed, Max was in his room at Sheffield. It was the photo Gina had taken the day after he’d arrived there. He looked like crap warmed over after his very first physical therapy session, and he was glowering into the camera because he goddamn didn’t want his picture taken.
Considering they were on the passenger manifest for a Lufthansa flight into Hamburg—not to mention the fact that Soldano is a priest and God really doesn’t like it when priests lie—Holy shit!” Jules stared out the car window as a bus roared past with both Adam and Robin’s face on the side—part of a giant advertisement for the movie American Hero. Der Amerikanische Held. Ab Donnerstag. Manche Kriege fuhrst Du in Dir-- which had to be a translation of the movie’s tag line, The War is Within. “Jesus!”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Jules said. “Sorry.” He’d thought he’d be safe here, that Hollywood movies about World War II wouldn’t be particularly well received in Germany.
Color him on very deep shade of wrong.
We’re supposed to be sharing our memories of Dave Jones. I never met him, so I’m not much help, but you did. What was he like?”
Jones glanced at Molly. “Well. He was . . . tall.”
“Tall,” Gina shot Molly a look, too. Except hers was loaded with Can you believe this idiot?
“Very tall,” Jones told her. “Taller than me.” He stood up. “I really must go.”
He handed Molly his mug, making sure their fingers touched, albeit too briefly, then thank-you-ed and good-evening-ed his way out of the tent.
Molly didn’t wait for his footsteps to fade away before turning to Gina. “Are you all right?”
“Are you all right?” Gina countered, sotto voce. “Brother, could this guy be any more clueless? You wanted to talk about Jones and . . . Best he can manage is he’s tall? And did he really think I was interested in whether the fourth seat or the fifth seat behind the bus driver had more of its original pudding?”
Molly covered her smile with her hand. That had been excessive. “Some people talk when they’re nervous,” she suggested. And some people talked when they wanted to make sure other people wouldn’t talk.
Gina flopped back on her cot, arm up over her eyes. “Oh, my God, Molly, what am I going to do? The fact that he came here tonight at all is . . . He’s clearly interested, but that’s probably just because he thinks I’m a total perv.”
“Whoa,” Molly said. “Wait. You lost me there.”
Gina sat up, a mix of earnestness, horror, and amusement on her pretty face. “I didn’t tell you this, but after I first spoke to Lucy’s sister—we were in the shower tent so no one would see us—I let her leave first and then I waited, like, a minute, thinking we shouldn’t be seen leaving the tent together. And before I go, he came in.”
He. “Leslie Pollard?” Molly clarified.
Gina nodded. “I freaked out when I saw him coming, and it’s stupid, I know, but I hid. And I should have just waited until I heard the shower go on, but God, maybe he wouldn’t have pulled the curtain, because he obviously thought he was in there alone . . .”
Molly started to laugh. “Oh my.”
“Yeah,” Gina said. “Oh my. So I decide to run for it, only he’s not in one of the changing booths, he’s over by the bench, you know?”
Molly nodded. The bench in the main part of the room.
“In only his underwear,” Gina finished, with a roll of her eyes. “Oh, my God.”
“Really? Molly asked. Apparently Jones was taking his change of identity very seriously. He hated wearing underwear of any kind, but obviously he thought it wouldn’t be in character for Leslie Pollard to go commando. “Boxers or briefs?”
Gina gave her a look, but she was starting to laugh now, too, thank goodness. “Briefs. Very brief briefs.” She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, my God, Molly, he was . . . I think he showers at noon because he knows no one else will be in there, so he can, you know, have an intimate visit with Mr. Hand.”
Oh, dear.
“And now I know, and he knows I know, and he also probably thinks I lurk in the men’s shower,” Gina continued. “And the fact that he actually came to tea tonight, instead of hiding from me, in his tent, forever, means . . . something awful, don’t you think? Did I mention he has, like, an incredible body?”
Molly shook her head. Oh dear. “No.”
“Yes,” Gina said just a little too grimly, considering the topic. “Who would’ve guessed that underneath those awful shirts he’s a total god? And maybe that’s what’s freaking out the most.”
“You mean because . . . you’re attracted to him?” Molly asked.
“No!” Gina said. “God! Because I’m not. I felt nothing. I’m standing there and he’s . . . You know how I said he reminds me of Hugh Grant?”
Molly nodded, too relieved to speak.
“Well, I got the wrong Hugh. This guy is built like Hugh Jackman. And beneath the hats and sunblock and glasses, he’s actually got cheekbones and a jaw line, too. I’m talking total hottie. And, yes, I can definitely appreciate that on one level, but . . .” She glanced over at the desk, at her digital camera. She’d gotten it out of her trunk earlier today.
Which, Molly had learned, meant that she’d spent more time this afternoon looking at her saved pictures.
Which included at least a few of Max.
Molly’s relief over not having to deal with the complications of Gina having a crush on Leslie felt a whole lot less good. She wished someone would just go ahead and steal Gina’s camera already. Maybe that would help her move on.
He didn’t know how to help. If Max were anyone else, Jules would sit with him for a while, looking out at the night, and then start to talk. About nothing too heavy at first. Warming up to get into the hard stuff.
Although, maybe, if he tried that now, the man would either open up—Ha, ha, ha! Riotous laughter. Like that would ever happen—or he’d stand up and move outside of talking range, which would put him away from the window with nothing to look at, at which point he might close his eyes for a while.
It was certainly worth a try.
Of course there were other possibilities. Max could put Jules into a chokehold until he passed out.
So okay. Start talking. Although why bother with inconsequential chitchat, designed to make Max relax? And weren’t those words--Max and relax--two that had never before been used together in a sentence?
It wasn’t going to happen, so it made sense to just jump right in.
Although, what was the best way to tell a friend that the choices he’d made were among the stupidest of all time, and that he was, in short, a complete dumbfuck?
Max was not oblivious to Jules’s internal hemming and hawing. “If you have something you need to say, for the love of God, just say it. Don’t sit there making all those weird noises.”
What? “What noises? I’m not making weird noises.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “You are.”
“Like what? Like . . .?” He held out his hands, inviting Max to demonstrate.
“Like . . .” Max sighed heavily. “Like . . .” He made a tsking sound with his tongue.
Jules laughed. “Those aren’t weird noises. Weird noises are like, whup-whup-whup-whup”-- he imitated sounds from a Three Stooges movie—“or Vrrrrrr.”
“Sometimes I really have to work to remind myself that you’re one of the Bureau’s best agents,” Max said.
This is just a form letter,” Jules pointed out. “And as for the test, maybe she went in for a checkup. Women are supposed to do that once a year, right? She’d been in Kenya, and suddenly here she was going to this health clinic with Molly, so she figured, what the heck. Maybe this place gives pregnancy tests as part of their regular annual exam.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Maybe.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
“Okay. Let’s run with the worst-case scenario. She is pregnant. I know it’s not like her to have a one-night stand, but . . .” Jules said, but then stopped. His words were meant to help, but, Hey, good news—the woman you love may have gotten knocked up from a night of casual sex with a stranger were not going to provide a whole hell of a lot of comfort.
It didn’t matter that the idea was less awful than the terrible alternative—that Paul Jimmo had continued to pressure Gina. And he hadn’t taken no for an answer.
Which was obviously what Max was thinking, considering the way he was working to grind down his few remaining back teeth.
“So,” Jules said. “Looks like our little talk didn’t exactly succeed at putting you in a better place.”
It was clear, when Max didn’t respond, that he was concentrating on not leaping through the window and flying—using his rage as a form of propulsion, across the street and blasting a body-shaped hole in the wall of that building where Gina and Molly were being held prisoner—please, heavenly father, let them be in there.
And Jules knew that if it turned out that Paul Jimmo had so much as touched Gina without her consent, Max would find his grave, dig up his body, bring him back to life, and then kill the son of a bitch all over again.
You have something to say to me, Cassidy, say it. Or shut the fuck up.”
“All right,” Jules said. “I will.” He took a deep breath. Exhaled. “Okay, see, I, well, I love you. Very, very much, and . . .” Where to go from here . . .?
Except, his plain-spoken words earned him not just a glance but Max’s sudden full and complete attention. Which was a little alarming.
But it was the genuine concern in Max’s eyes that truly caught Jules off-guard.
Max actually thought . . . Jules laughed his surprise. “Oh! No, not like that. I meant it, you know, in a totally platonic, non-gay way.”
Jules saw comprehension and relief on Max’s face. The man was tired if he was letting such basic emotions show.
“Sorry.” Max even smiled. “I just . . .” He let out a burst of air. “I mean, talk about making things even more complicated . . .”
It was amazing. Max hadn’t recoiled in horror at the idea. His concern had been for Jules, about potentially hurting his tender feelings. And even now, he wasn’t trying to turn it all into a bad joke.
And he claimed they weren’t friends.
Jules felt his throat tighten. “You can’t know,” he told his friend quietly, “how much I appreciate your acceptance and respect.”
“My father was born in India,” Max told him, “in 1930. His mother was white—American. His father was not just Indian, but lower caste. The intolerance he experienced both there and later, even in America, made him a . . . very bitter, very hard, very, very unhappy man.” He glanced at Jules again. “I know personality plays into it, and maybe you’re just stronger than he was, but . . . People get knocked down all the time. They can either stay there, wallow in it, or . . . Do what you’ve done—what you do. So yeah. I respect you more than you know.”
Holy shit.
Weeping was probably a bad idea, so Jules grabbed onto the alternative. He made a joke. “I wasn’t aware that you even had a father. I mean, rumors going around the office have you arriving via flying saucer—”
“I would prefer not to listen to aimless chatter all night long,” Max interrupted him. “So if you’ve made your point . . .?”
Ouch.
“Okay,” Jules said. “I’m so not going to wallow in that. Because I do have a point. See, I said what I said because I thought I’d take the talk-to-an-eight-year-old approach with you. You know, tell you how much I love you and how great you are in part one of the speech—”
“Speech.” Max echoed.
“Because part two is heavily loaded with the silent-but-implied ‘you are such a freaking idiot.’”
“Ah, Christ,” Max muttered.
“So, I love you,” Jules said again, “in a totally buddy-movie way, and I just want to say that I also really love working for you, and I hope to God you’ll come back so I can work for you again. See, I love the fact that you’re my leader not because you were appointed by some suit, but because you earned very square inch of that gorgeous corner office. I love you because you’re not just smart, you’re open-minded—you’re willing to talk to people who have a different point of view, and when they speak, you’re willing to listen. Like right now, for instance. You’re listening, right?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Jules kept going. “You know, the fact that so many people would sell their grandmother to become a part of your team is not an accident. Sir, you’re beyond special—and your little speech to me before just clinched it. You scare us to death because we’re afraid we won’t be able to live up to your high standards. But your back is strong, you always somehow manage to carry us with you even when we falter.
“Some people don’t see that; they don’t really get you—all they know is they would charge into hell without hesitation if you gave the order to go. But see, what I know is that you’d be right there, out in front—they’d have to run to keep up with you. You never flinch. You never hesitate. You never rest.
His consolation prize was a hat. A battered fedora that looked as if it had blown off of Humphrey Bogart during the filming of Key Largo. Sucked up into the atmosphere during the movie’s hurricane, it had ended up here, on the other side of the world, sixty years later.
On his head.
Even though it had been enshrined in a closet inside the house, it kind of smelled as if it had spent about three of those decades at the bottom of a birdcage.
Yesiree. It was almost as fun to wear as the brown leather flight jacket.
Which really wasn’t fair to the flight jacket. It was a gorgeously cared-for antique that didn’t smell at all. And it definitely worked for him, in terms of some of his flyboy fantasies. But the day had turned into a scorcher. It was just shy of a bazillion degrees in the shade.
He needed mittens or perhaps a wool scarf to properly accessorize his impending heat stroke.
“Today, playing the role of Indiana Jones, aka Grady Morant, is Jules Cassidy,” he said, as he slipped his arms into the sleeves.
Was anyone really going to be fooled by this? Jones was so much taller than he was.
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