Page 20 of Under Pressure

Kendra explained, “I’ll take it to Bakersfield myself. I need you here to finish the real cases. Keep your eye out for plasma levels of doxycycline in those bodies. Don’t tell Hunter anything, if he asks.”

“So, you’re skipping town?”

“Just for the night.”

“You really need answers on this glove, don’t you?” Lily let out a low laugh. “Okay, I won’t say anything, and I’ll get Hunter his report.”

“God, I owe you. Thank you.”

Palming the sample from the glove, Kendra moved to the exit. It was a long enough drive to Bakersfield that she needed to go home first and make arrangements. She hadn’t gone away overnight for a long time, but this was something she needed to do, even if it meant being away from her baby for one night.

She had to understand her son’s genetic inheritance. She had no choice.

Then it happened—the thing she really, really didn’t want. A creeping sensation of guilt rushed through her mind, alerting her conscience to something she was failing to do. It was a question of morality at that point, something that Delta might be bereft of, but she wasn’t. She had to tell him—eventually. She had to tell him that he had a son.

Clenching her teeth, she stuffed that feeling of guilt away in a locked corner of her mind. Until he proved worthy of trust, she had no obligation to tell Delta anything. But she did have an obligation to protect her son, and she would do anything to do that.

Chapter Nine

Delta moved through a shadowy bar not far from Venice Beach, finding his way to the back patio that looked out over the Pacific Ocean, the sun setting before him. It had been days since he’d been in Kendra’s back yard, but it felt like months. He’d been damn busy. Each limb had its own level of pain and exhaustion—and no amount of lying in bed that afternoon had helped. He pushed through, determined not to show weakness.

A tall man with dark hair, graying at the temples, stood from a table in the corner of the patio as Delta approached. A wild smile crossed his mouth as he greeted his old friend.

“Don’t you sleep anymore?” Carrick Byrne said as he shot out his hand to slap with Delta’s. “I’d have thought time away from the platoon would do you some good.”

“It hasn’t been much of a vacation,” Delta replied and nodded to the third man there. “Chief.”

A serious man with reddish hair and bright blue eyes nodded back curtly. The platoon’s boss, Leading Chief Petty Officer Warren Cameron, raised his drink—a stout, already half-drank.

“Finally, the man of honor, our own military hero, graces our presence.”

“Give it a rest,” Delta groaned, signing to the waitress to bring another round. “Don’t give me that bullshit—not from you guys.”

Carrick chuckled, taking a gulp of his brew. Something in his face seemed lighter, happier than Delta had ever seen him.

“Enjoying marital bliss?” Delta grunted at his best friend, raising his eyebrow.

“Hell yeah,” Carrick grinned, leaning back on his chair, glancing out over the crashing waves of the ocean. “Wife and a kid—I’m living the dream. You should try it sometime.”

“I think I have enough problems on the go.” Delta shook his head, flexing his jaw and dismissing the possibility altogether.

Just few months earlier, Carrick’s son had been born—nine months after Carrick had gotten married in a beachside affair. A part of Delta tweaked with jealousy, knowing he’d never have that for himself.

“I wouldn’t think a man receiving the Medal of Honor would have problems,” Warren said, his cunning eyes watchful. He saw right through Delta—always had. “Care to share?”

Delta opened his mouth to make something up, but the waitress appeared with a tray of freshly poured stouts, plunking down the dark pints in front of each man. Delta licked his lips, feeling thirstier than he’d thought. He brought the stout to his mouth, savoring the roasted caramel flavor, ingesting the only vitamins he was getting these days.

But Warren wouldn’t let up.

“You are still going to the ceremony, right?” the chief pressed, pushing up his shirt sleeves as he studied Delta, who sat across the table from him. “Not every day this medal is handed out.”

A frosted beer glass in his hand, Delta turned it in contemplation. A warning tone escaped his mouth. “It shouldn’t be me getting it. It’s not right, man.”

Both Carrick and Warren raised their eyebrows, leaning in. It was clear that drinks with the guys had a purpose that night. They were there to pressure him.

“I knew you weren’t planning on showing up,” Carrick said, his elbows on the table. “Ever since we got back, you’ve been twisted. This isn’t you.”

“You can’t just not go to a goddamn White House ceremony that is specifically for you, you fucking cocksucker,” Warren lambasted, as if Delta had totally lost it. “The damn President is taking time out of his day to award you this medal. Tell me, buddy. Have you reached such heights of narcissism that you are really going to snub our commander-in-chief?”

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