“Don’t look at my wounds, dammit,” she said. “Don’t take pity on me.” She pulled her gown down off her shoulders—purposely a bit farther down her chest than necessary to show the majority of her wounds. “You want to take a look? Take a good look.” He did—including the parts of her naked body that were not damaged, she noticed. Maybe this guy didn’t have quite the stone heart she once thought. Now was the time to drive the message home... .

“Don’t you dare pity me, McLanahan,” Susan went on. “I don’t wear a suit of armor like you—I’m fighting this battle with all the weapons I have, which is just about what you see here. I don’t need your pity.” She took his armored hands into hers, squeezed them, then placed her right hand on his chest. “I need these fighting hands, Patrick, and I need this heart. Be my champion, Patrick. Help me. If you’ve had enough of fighting for money, then try fighting for justice. Fight for me instead.”

He didn’t say anything—but his eyes replied for him. The pity had turned to something else—not quite trust, not quite friendship. But he would be back.

“You’re going to leave me, aren’t you?” she asked sullenly.

“I have to.”

“To bury your brother. I know.” She lowered her eyes. “And to mourn your wife. I know all about mourning—I’ve done a lot of that lately.” She pulled up her robe over her shoulders, but did it in such a way that covering up was even more seductive than exposing herself. Patrick picked up his helmet, fastened it in place, and then stepped to the bedroom patio. “Patrick.” He turned, the helmet’s bug-eyes looking sinister and comical at the same time. “You will always have an ally here in Egypt. I will always be here for you.”

He nodded, once, slowly, and then turned. In a blink of an eye and a loud hiss of compressed air, he was gone. Susan thought she heard a clunk of boots on the rooftop across the street, but she couldn’t see anything.

McLanahan was an emotional wreck right now—his brother dead, his wife blown to atoms, his men decimated, his mission failed and shattered. Did she actually expect him to be able to fight?

The quicker he was out of the country, she decided, the better.

CHAPTER 8

CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
 DAYS LATER

The answering machine picked up for the sixth or seventh time that evening; again, Patrick ignored it.

It was an exceptionally warm evening, so Patrick was out on the big bayview balcony, sipping a Grand Marnier and watching the activity in San Diego Bay. He could see all the way from the Thirty-second Street Naval Base to the south to North Island Naval Air Station and Point Loma Naval Base to the north. North Island, the home of the Navy’s Anti-Submarine Warfare Center, was a buzz of activity—it usually was, with aircraft of all sizes buzzing down the Pacific beaches of Coronado, right behind the Del Coronado Hotel, coming in for a landing. To the south on Coronado was the Navy Basic Underwater Demolition Service Training Center, the home of the Navy SEALs; one could usually see inflatable boats going up and down the coast all year long, day and night.