True Blue SEALs: Zak (True Navy Blue #1) Read online

  Jack Chambers approached. “We done? Nice sunny day, good day for walking around.” He put his hand on his wife’s neck and gave her a peck on the cheek. It hadn’t been very long ago when his dad would have preferred to stay in a darkened bar for hours on end.

  Zak chose to bring up the subject of money one last time before his parents left. “Dad, I’m saving to pay you back.”

  His dad stared down at his feet and didn’t say anything.

  “Sorry to say, I’ve only managed to save about a grand. But it’s yours. I’m giving you a check before you go.”

  “Nah, not necessary, Zak.” Still, his dad wouldn’t look at him. “Not like you have a real job, anyway. Doesn’t seem right taking that from you.”

  Real job?

  He had to say something, even if it upset his dad. “This is a real job. It’s the hardest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever done.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I just think you need to put the past aside. You’re never going to be able to pay it all back, so just quit trying. I’ve given up. So should you.”

  “But I owe you, Dad. I want to make it right.”

  “Forget it, Zak. You saved me from the folly of my past, in a way. Your mom will tell you I was one pissed off guy. She reminds me every day maybe I loved that car too much. Now. If you ever want to borrow another one, just for the record, the answer is no.”

  Before his parents left, his mother asked him if he’d had any communication with Amy. Zak told her the truth: no.

  “She came by the house one day, brought me some flowers, and asked about you. I let her in. Told her you’d just made it through BUD/S and were off for your other training. We had tea. She thanked me.”

  “I hope you were okay with that. I haven’t talked to her since the night before I left. We agreed to leave it that way, Mom.”

  “She looks different. She’s moving to San Francisco, she said. She told me to say hi and to call her if you felt like it.” His mom smiled.

  “What?”

  “She said she had stopped herself several times from dialing your number, because that’s what you’d agreed.”

  “We did. What’s so danged funny?”

  “She said talking to me was breaking the rules a bit, but then she said you two always did break a few rules along the road.”

  “That’s true. That’s certainly true.” Zak was thinking those were the best parts of their relationship.

  “So I guess I’m breaking a few of my own. I told you to stay away from the Amys of the world. Now I’m not so sure about that. I think she really cares for you.”

  Amy didn’t call him, and he wasn’t going to start that up again. He needed to focus on his training. After his parents left, he tore into his studies, preparing for the underwater diving school in Florida, some jump schools, and his stint at Quantico. After that, there was talk of them doing some jungle training south of the border or back up to Alaska. He didn’t care what it was. He was all in for whatever the Navy was going to shove at him.

  He was proud of himself for staying unattached, because he saw how hard it was on the married guys, especially the married ones with kids at home. It changed their focus, he thought. How could it not? Right now, he knew the only time he’d be able to get more than casual with a woman was if she allowed him to have his primary loyalty to his country and to his fighting brothers. Nothing could come between him and that bond. He was grateful he didn’t have to choose.

  Chapter 8

  Amy began training in San Francisco selling high-end condominiums for a large developer. The job came with wonderful perks. She got a one bedroom unit overlooking Ferry Plaza and the Bay Bridge, which included access to the exclusive gym, conference rooms for meetings with clients and a secure garage to park in.

  One of her favorite walks was down the Piers, wandering through shops and boutique grocery stores where they sold hand-milled soaps, fresh-pressed olive oils and vegetables straight from the farms up north. It was an upscale farmer’s market, not unlike what she was used to in Santa Rosa. Several vendors she recognized from there, including her favorite egg lady, where she bought blue and green eggs once a week.

  She studied for and passed her real estate exam in the months that followed. Her father worried she was living in the City, but even he ventured to visit on a couple of occasions. One time he brought someone with him.

  Marlene was a redhead with green eyes, and Amy could tell her father was totally smitten with her. She was lively, like Amy had always been. About ten years younger than her dad, she brought out some of the parts of his personality Amy hadn’t seen for years. It was as if he was growing younger before her eyes. Marlene had all sorts of plans to come down and go shopping with Amy, and the idea made Amy a little uncomfortable. But as they were talking, she found herself agreeing to a future date to do just that. Her dad seemed to be delighted the two of them got along so well.

  Before they left, her father ventured a private discussion with Amy. “I’m still concerned about you living down here where there are so many places you could get into trouble.”

  “I don’t go to those places.”

  “But you can’t avoid them. They’re all around.”

  “Dad, you have to let go. You have to let me live my life.”

  “I just get so nervous thinking about you being alone here, too far away from my protection.”

  She kissed him. “That’s sweet, Dad, but I don’t need that protection now. I’m fine. This is about the safest place I could live. Honest. We have a security guard downstairs. No one comes in or up the elevators without key cards, and access to the garage is restricted.”

  “I know. But things can be stolen.”

  “Why? When there are so many other places much easier to get into? Why would they bother to rob or cause a problem here where the security is so tight?”

  “I know. Probably just my active imagination.” They hugged one more time, waiting for Marlene.

  “She’s nice, Dad. I like her.”

  “I do too, Amy.” He stared down the hallway as Marlene’s compact frame came barreling around the corner and toward them. “She’s good for me,” he whispered, then embraced Marlene and planted a kiss on her forehead.

  “Thanks, Amy,” said Marlene, her face blushing from the kiss. “I’ll call you and we’ll set that shopping date.”

  “You bet. Midweek is best for me, since I work heaviest on the weekends.”

  “Good for me, too. Bye.”

  She watched them head to the elevators, closed the tall solid mahogany door to her unit, leaned against it, and sighed. She picked up the remnants of their plates, taking them to the kitchen, and returned to her living room. Hand on her hips, she surveyed the view of the bay. She could see the smooth waters of the inlet from San Francisco to Oakland. The island to the left. The busy Ferry Plaza and Pier was teaming with tourists, even on a weekday.

  The San Francisco side of the bay was still bright white, buildings looking like a bunch of folded paper cups of various sizes, anchored by tall dark spires. There was a rhythm, a pulse here. A sort of order to the way life went. She wasn’t yet a part of it fully, but was stepping closer to an experience outside her control. She was partially fearful, but mostly, she was ready to join her next great adventure.

  Was this how Zak felt? She wondered if he ever thought about her. On a nice clear day like today, this was something she’d like to share with him some time.

  Several months later her Saturday was shattered by a stream of bright red lights and piercing sirens as paramedic vans and police cars, even a fire engine, zoomed past her glass Model Home office on the ground floor. Crowds of people began spilling out from buildings nearby, heading towards the Pier. News crews arrived and attempted to get parking.

  One lone figure in disheveled green clothes, came running from the crowd that had gathered, and abruptly turned in front of her office. With his hands tucked into his jacket he lost his balance and tripped over her sandwich sign, topp
ling it. When he picked it up, the man’s hands were bloodied, and left a bloody print on the sign as he righted it. His wild hair was pushed off his high forehead. His light chocolate skin and large brown eyes framed lips that showed a purple cast to them. He stared into the glass at Amy, his eyes full and round. He yanked on the doors, which were securely locked, waiting for her to release the button. Amy knew letting him in would be a horrible mistake.

  He shook both handles, attempting to jiggle the glass, yelling something in a dialect she didn’t understand, tugging and pulling on the doors in panic. He shoved against the doors with his shoulder, and although the glass bent slightly, they remained intact and didn’t shatter.

  Amy dialed 911, and then decided to call building security. She pushed the red button and heard a small alarm go off somewhere upstairs. The man stormed off to the left, barreling down the street, leaving a bloody print on the glass in front of her.

  For several seconds Amy stared at the bloody print, frozen in place. Lights continued to flash outside, noises were escalating. She heard no shots fired and no other signs of violence or struggle. No blasts. But her eyes fixated on the red handprint with one bloody drip trailing down over the smooth clean surface of the door.

  Doors behind her opened and she started, whipping around to find one building security guard entering through the rear entrance behind her, calling her name. When he reached the lobby, she noticed he was unarmed.

  “I—I’m okay, but there was a guy out there with blood on his hands.” Her voice was shrill. She could barely speak. Amy saw another security guard running toward the doors and stop just short, seeing the blood on the handles.

  “I’ll buzz him through,” said the other guard as he pressed the entry button.

  Amy pushed with her shoulder, letting in the second guard. “Bring in the sandwich sign,” she called to him. “Don’t touch where he did.”

  The guard reached low, bringing the sign inside the lobby, setting it down gently on the granite tile. They let the doors lock into place. A large crowd was gathering in the street over by the plaza.

  “What happened?” asked Amy. “Does anyone know?”

  One of the guards had been monitoring chatter on his radio. “I guess there’s been a shooting at the Plaza.”

  “Listen,” said the second guard, “I’ve got to help Kwon over at the Building One desk. The occupants are bound to start calling and coming home soon. You okay here?”

  “Sure. You both can go. I’m safe here. Not going anywhere. I’ll call the police so they can check out the blood. I’ll make sure you get copied. I can let myself up to my floor through the back. I’m closing this place down.”

  After they left, Amy turned on her laptop and read about the shooting just being reported in the local news. Someone had shot at a military man and his wife who were taking a stroll down the Pier. His rifle had jammed after the first spray of rounds, which also caught several bystanders in the crowd. The Marine was killed by the shooter, while an accomplice stabbed the wife several times. She’d been taken to the hospital, and was now reported in critical condition.

  Observers said that one assailant was dropped at the scene by one of the man’s buddies, also a Marine, who was wearing a firearm. The second one got away.

  Amy’s stomach clenched as she realized she’d seen the face of one of the killers. She tried to remember everything about the assailant, recalling what he was wearing, what the shape of his face was.

  She called San Francisco P.D. and reported what she had seen and agreed to wait until someone came by to take her statement. She shut down the lights, but remained back at her desk, following all the rushing back and forth of crowds, ready to bolt to the back if she saw someone coming toward the door. Several pedestrians walked past the doors, pointing to the blood on the handles. That certainly deterred someone from wanting to come inside the Sales Office.

  News reports came in over the two hours she waited. Feeling somewhat like a fish in a glass bowl, she moved her computer and things to the kitchen area and set up at the table there, out of view of the public. Her heart was beating furiously. She knew the doors were secure but would not hold up against a bomb blast, and some on the news were reporting the backpack found had some small explosive devices in it that had remained unused.

  Her cell phone rang and she jumped several inches from her chair. She thought about her dad, and cursed herself for not thinking to call him. She knew he’d be frantic with worry. She answered her phone.

  “This is Detective Lombardi, San Francisco P.D. Looking for Amy Dobson.”

  “This is she.”

  “You’re at the MegaOne complex still?”

  “Yes.”

  “You reported seeing a man you think might be a suspect?”

  “I don’t know. His hands were bloody. He tried to come in the building, but I didn’t buzz him through.”

  “You got a good look at him, ma’am?”

  “Yes. He looked right at me.”

  “Okay, we’re gonna send a couple guys over there and a sketch artist. Where can we find you?”

  “Could you meet me at my condo? I’m up on the tenth floor. I’m getting the creeps staying down here—”

  “Sorry, no. I think we need meet you there. I’ll try not to make you wait longer than need be. Are you injured in any way?”

  “No. And I have security I can call if I get nervous.” She gave them the address of the corner Sales Office.

  “We got someone over in your other lobby interviewing people. Geez, you were right there, only five blocks away.” He put his hand over the phone and barked out instructions. “Okay, stay in touch with your security team and don’t move. Keep your cell by you and keep it charged. We’ll be over as soon as we can.”

  After Amy hung up, she plugged her cell into the wall socket, thanking her lucky stars for the strong WiFi signal throughout the entire building. She next called the security station and left a message she was still in the Sales Office waiting for the police. Then she called her dad.

  Her father had just been told about the event in San Francisco.

  “I saw him, Dad. I think I saw one of the guys.”

  “Hold tight, Amy, I’m coming down.”

  “No, don’t. I’m fine. The building is very safe. The police are on their way to interview me. I don’t want you down here. There are so many people all over the place, and I just—”

  She finally broke down. Tears started streaming down her cheeks. She realized she’d been jumping at the sound of every siren, every flashing light coming into the lobby area. Her body was on overload.

  “That’s it, Amy. I’ll be down in an hour. Don’t go anywhere until I see you.”

  It didn’t do any good to ask her dad to not come. She hung up the phone, sat in the dark, waiting. Her neck hurt. Her toes were cramped in the high heels she’d been wearing, so she kicked them off. She got herself a bottled water and gulped it half down before spilling it on herself. Her hands shook. Another loud peal of a rescue vehicle made her jump again.

  She went into the small guest bathroom off the hallway and sat on the closed lid of the toilet and put her head in her hands. It felt good to be in the semi-darkness of that tiny room, somewhat muffled by all the noises around her. She finished the water and then stood, examining herself in the mirror. She could see the worry lines form in the middle of her forehead, her eyes were red from crying and her hair was a mess. She looked as old and tired as she felt.

  A knock on the glass doors caught her attention. Two men were waiting for her, both plainclothes. She buzzed them through after she saw their badges.

  “So you’re Amy Dobson?” the taller one said as the doors clicked into place behind him.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Scarpelli, and this is Mears, our sketch artist. Can we ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Our photographer is around here somewhere, but he’s a little busy.”

 
“Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Well, we’re trying to put all that together. Unfortunately, we got one dead and several injured. Beyond what you hear in the news, I can’t really give you anything, sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “So tell me what you saw?”

  “He was a light chocolate brown-skinned man with curly hair, not real long, but curly.”

  “Approximately when was this?”

  “Right after the sirens and things started zooming by—like within a minute after I heard the first one.”

  “About three-ten, then?”

  “Something like that. I wasn’t looking at my watch. Maybe the security guards would have a time.”

  “Okay, so his hair, you said it was curly?”

  “Yes. Black.”

  “Like an Afro?”

  “No, long and wavy. Maybe four inches long, just coming out all over the place. Like Garfunkle?”

  “The singer?”

  “Sorry, yeah. My mom always—”

  “Hey, I got ’em in my family too. Hippies.”

  “Well, she wasn’t a hippie, she just liked folk music. Anyway. Coming out like that.” She gestured holding her palms all around her head.

  The sketch artist began to draw. “Shape of the face?”

  “Long. Thin nose, tapered. Big round brown or blackish brown eyes. His lips looked kind of purple? I know it doesn’t make sense, so maybe it was the light?” she squinted.

  Behind them there was tapping on the glass.

  She saw a photographer taking pictures of the handles and the lobby through the glass. Another had roped off a triangle with yellow tape, keeping people away from the door.

  “You wanna let him in?”

  Amy buzzed the photographer and two other officers inside. They began taking pictures of the sandwich sign. Someone outside was investigating the outside glass door.

  The sketch artist drew up a shape, hair, eyes. “Like this?” he said as he held up his tablet.

  “Yes. Except deep, like dark colored marks under his eyes, like this,” she showed them where her under eyes were puffy and red. “Darker brown, a little purple.”