Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) by Marliss Melton Page B
Authors: Marliss Melton
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wasn't only real—it was all that mattered.
Chapter 8
Reaching for his tumbler of whiskey, Jeremiah checked his watch before fixing his attention back on Aiden Lawlor. Hurrying from the theater an hour earlier, he had managed to intercept Lawlor just as the musician walked off the stage. It had taken all of his amateur knowledge of jazz and an offer to buy the man a drink at the bar by the pool to get Lawlor alone so he could pick his brain. As it turned out, Aiden Lawlor was quite a talker and a drinker.
Within minutes he had brought up his checkered past and expressed strong political views. However, by the time they'd ordered their third round of drinks, Jeremiah realized that the man seated across from him—however rebellious in his youth—lacked a radical streak that made him dangerous. He wasn't the face behind the slaughter Jeremiah had envisioned.
So, who the hell was?
"Let me ask you a question," he said when Lawlor paused for breath.
"Sure, sure, ask away." A decade of banishment from his homeland had in no way diminished the man's Irish brogue.
Jeremiah pitched his voice lower, though they had the area to themselves. "Is it possible for anyone to have brought a cache of AK-47s on board this ship?"
Lawlor sat back, his face a picture of astonishment. "Now, what kind of question is that?"
"A hypothetical one," Jeremiah assured him, holding his gaze.
"Well, sure there are ways," Lawlor admitted.
The answer turned the top of Jeremiah's head cold. "Tell me."
"Through the maintenance people," Lawlor said, proving he'd given the idea at least a passing thought. "Now and again the ship gets dry-docked and maintenance goes in to remodel or work on the engines. There's no security at those times. Workers could hide weapons all over the ship for later use."
"Huh." Maybe that was how the attack Jeremiah had intuited would go down. But with no more hits since his first day on the ship, he was starting to conclude that he'd imagined everything. His only certainty was that Lawlor wasn't the source of his disquiet. And now he had to extricate himself from the loquacious man, or he'd miss the opportunity to drop by Emma's room and pick up the book on Mayan civilization she'd offered to loan him. As late as it was, she might have given up on his showing up.
* * *
At 10 p.m., Emma lay her book aside, shook off a yawn, and dressed quickly in a pair of workout shorts and a sports bra. Lacing up her tennis shoes, she grabbed a water bottle and headed to the gym in the hopes that Jeremiah would be there. He'd mentioned something about needing to work out before swinging by to borrow her book about Tulum.
Instead of sitting around waiting for him, why not get some exercise herself?
Pushing into the gym, her heart pounded with the expectancy that he might act upon the intent she'd seen in his eyes earlier. Her hopes sank to find the facility completely empty. With a silent pep talk, she proceeded past the elliptical and treadmill machines that faced the windows and an expanse of black sea. She stopped by the mats, put down her water bottle and started stretching.
For the next half hour, she moved through a series of yoga postures, seeking the meditative state she sometimes achieved when working out. But it was nowhere to be found. Her body thrummed with unsatisfied need.
What if Jeremiah, despite the look he'd given her on the tubes, was sticking to his guns? What if he meant to keep his distance until she made the foolish promises that he was seeking? Or had he given up trying to get them from her?
To her surprise, she rebelled at the mere idea. She didn't want him giving up on her. If anything, she wanted him to continue his pursuit and to insist on the "forever" he'd mentioned.
What's wrong with me? She shook her head at the illogicality of wanting the happily-ever-after that didn't exist.
With a heavy heart and a good dose of annoyance, she snatched up her water bottle and departed the gym.
* * *
Jeremiah
Chapter 8
Reaching for his tumbler of whiskey, Jeremiah checked his watch before fixing his attention back on Aiden Lawlor. Hurrying from the theater an hour earlier, he had managed to intercept Lawlor just as the musician walked off the stage. It had taken all of his amateur knowledge of jazz and an offer to buy the man a drink at the bar by the pool to get Lawlor alone so he could pick his brain. As it turned out, Aiden Lawlor was quite a talker and a drinker.
Within minutes he had brought up his checkered past and expressed strong political views. However, by the time they'd ordered their third round of drinks, Jeremiah realized that the man seated across from him—however rebellious in his youth—lacked a radical streak that made him dangerous. He wasn't the face behind the slaughter Jeremiah had envisioned.
So, who the hell was?
"Let me ask you a question," he said when Lawlor paused for breath.
"Sure, sure, ask away." A decade of banishment from his homeland had in no way diminished the man's Irish brogue.
Jeremiah pitched his voice lower, though they had the area to themselves. "Is it possible for anyone to have brought a cache of AK-47s on board this ship?"
Lawlor sat back, his face a picture of astonishment. "Now, what kind of question is that?"
"A hypothetical one," Jeremiah assured him, holding his gaze.
"Well, sure there are ways," Lawlor admitted.
The answer turned the top of Jeremiah's head cold. "Tell me."
"Through the maintenance people," Lawlor said, proving he'd given the idea at least a passing thought. "Now and again the ship gets dry-docked and maintenance goes in to remodel or work on the engines. There's no security at those times. Workers could hide weapons all over the ship for later use."
"Huh." Maybe that was how the attack Jeremiah had intuited would go down. But with no more hits since his first day on the ship, he was starting to conclude that he'd imagined everything. His only certainty was that Lawlor wasn't the source of his disquiet. And now he had to extricate himself from the loquacious man, or he'd miss the opportunity to drop by Emma's room and pick up the book on Mayan civilization she'd offered to loan him. As late as it was, she might have given up on his showing up.
* * *
At 10 p.m., Emma lay her book aside, shook off a yawn, and dressed quickly in a pair of workout shorts and a sports bra. Lacing up her tennis shoes, she grabbed a water bottle and headed to the gym in the hopes that Jeremiah would be there. He'd mentioned something about needing to work out before swinging by to borrow her book about Tulum.
Instead of sitting around waiting for him, why not get some exercise herself?
Pushing into the gym, her heart pounded with the expectancy that he might act upon the intent she'd seen in his eyes earlier. Her hopes sank to find the facility completely empty. With a silent pep talk, she proceeded past the elliptical and treadmill machines that faced the windows and an expanse of black sea. She stopped by the mats, put down her water bottle and started stretching.
For the next half hour, she moved through a series of yoga postures, seeking the meditative state she sometimes achieved when working out. But it was nowhere to be found. Her body thrummed with unsatisfied need.
What if Jeremiah, despite the look he'd given her on the tubes, was sticking to his guns? What if he meant to keep his distance until she made the foolish promises that he was seeking? Or had he given up trying to get them from her?
To her surprise, she rebelled at the mere idea. She didn't want him giving up on her. If anything, she wanted him to continue his pursuit and to insist on the "forever" he'd mentioned.
What's wrong with me? She shook her head at the illogicality of wanting the happily-ever-after that didn't exist.
With a heavy heart and a good dose of annoyance, she snatched up her water bottle and departed the gym.
* * *
Jeremiah
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