Everyday, Average Jones

Count on a woman to play devil’s advocate and switch sides just when he was convinced he had a solid ally. Still, when she fixed those baby blues on him, his exasperation dissolved into sheer admiration. It was true, the odds didn’t appear to be in their favor. She had every right to be concerned, and it was up to him to convince her otherwise.

“We’re Navy SEALs, ma’am,” he said quietly, hoping she’d heard of the Special Operations teams, hoping word of SEAL Team Ten’s counterterrorist training had somehow made its way to whatever small town she’d grown up in.

But his words didn’t spark any recognition in her eyes.

The taller man, Chris Sterling, shook his head. “You say that as if it’s some kind of answer, but I don’t know what that means.”

“It means they think they’re supermen,” Matthews said scornfully.

“Will you please let Ensign Jones talk?” Melody said sharply, and Matthews fell silent.

“It means that even with only seven of us and fifty of them, the odds are still on our side,” Cowboy told them, once again capturing Melody’s gaze and holding it tightly. She was the one who was going to talk these other idiots into seeing reason. “It also means that the U.S. government has totally given up all hope of getting you out through negotiation or settlement. They don’t send us in, Melody,” he said, talking directly to her, “unless they’re desperate.”

She was scared. He could see that in her eyes. He didn’t blame her. There was a part of him that was scared, too. Over the past few years, he’d learned to use that fear to hone his senses, to keep him alert and giving a full hundred and fifty percent or more. He’d also learned to hide his fear. Confidence bred confidence, and he tried to give her a solid dose of that feeling as he smiled reassuringly into Melody’s ocean blue eyes.

“Trust us,” he said again. “Trust me.”

She turned back to the other hostages. “I believe him,” she said bluntly. “I’m going.”

Matthews stood up, indignant, menacing. “You stupid bitch. Don’t you get it? If you try to escape, they’ll kill us!”

“Then you better come, too,” Melody said coolly.

“No!” His voice got louder. “No, we’re staying here, right, Sterling? All of us. These steroid-pumped sea lions or whatever they call themselves can go ahead and get themselves killed, but we’re staying right here.” His voice got even louder. “In fact, since Mr. Jones seems to want so badly to die, I can give him a hand and shout for the guards to come and turn him into hamburger meat with their machine guns right now!”

* * *

Melody didn’t see the broad-shouldered SEAL move, let alone raise his hand, but before she could blink, he was rather gently lowering Kurt Matthews to the floor.

“By the way, unless you outrank me, I’d prefer to be called Ensign Jones,” he said to the now unconscious man. He flexed the fingers of the hand he’d used to put Matthews into that state and flashed an apologetic smile in Melody’s direction before he looked up at Chris Sterling. “How about you?” he asked the other man as he straightened up to his full height. “You want to walk out of this embassy, or do you want to get carried out like your buddy here?”

“Walk,” Sterling managed to say, staring down at Matthews. “I’ll walk, thanks.”

The door swung silently open, and a big black man—broader even than Ensign Harlan Jones—stepped into the room. Harvard. He was the one Ensign Jones had called Harvard. “You ready, Junior?”

“Zeppo, Harpo and Groucho here need robes,” Jones told the other man, sending a quick wink in her direction. “And sandals.”

Groucho. She fingered her false mustache. He’d gestured toward Matthews when he’d said Harpo. Harpo. The silent Marx brother. Melody laughed aloud. Chris Sterling looked at her as if she was crazy to laugh when at any moment they could be killed, but Jones gave her another wink and a smile.

Kevin Costner. That’s who Jones looked like. He looked like a bigger, beefier, much younger version of the Hollywood heartthrob. And she had no doubt he knew it, too. That smile could melt hearts as well as bolster failing courage.

“Melody, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take off those kicks, hon.”

Hon. Honey. Well, she’d certainly gone from being called Miss Evans and ma’am to hon awfully fast. And as far as taking off her shoes…“These are new,” she told him. “And warm. I’d rather wear them, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Jones told her apologetically. “Check out the bottoms of my sandals, then look at the bottoms of those things you’re wearing.”

She did. The brand name of the athletic shoes was emblazoned across the bottoms, worked into the grooved and patterned-to-grip soles of the sneakers.

“Everyone else in this city—and maybe even in this entire country—has sandals like mine,” he continued, lifting his foot to show her the smooth leather sole. “If you go out wearing those, every time you take a step you’ll leave a unique footprint. It will be the equivalent of signing your name in the dirt. And that will be like leaving a sign pointing in our direction that says Escaped American Hostages, Thisaway.”

Melody took off the sneakers.

“That’s my girl,” he said, approval and something else warming his voice. He squeezed her shoulder briefly as he turned his attention to several more men who were coming silently into the room.

That’s my girl.

His soft words should have made her object and object strenuously. Melody wasn’t a girl. Jones couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was at most, and he would never have let anyone call him a boy.

And yet there was something oddly comforting about his words. She was his girl. Her life was totally in his hands. With his help, she could get out of here and return to the safety of Appleton. Without his help, she was as good as dead.

Still, she couldn’t help but notice that little bit of something else that she’d heard in his voice. That subtle tone that told her he was a man and she was a woman and he wasn’t ever going to forget that.

She watched Ensign Jones as he spoke quietly to the other SEALs. He certainly was a piece of work. She couldn’t believe those smiles he kept giving her. Here they were, deep inside an embassy overrun with terrorists, and Jones had been firing off his very best bedroom smile in her direction. He was as relaxed as a man leaning against a bar, offering to buy her a drink, asking for her sign. But this wasn’t a bar, this was a war zone. Still, Jones looked and acted as if he were having fun.

Who was this guy? He was either very stupid, very brave or totally insane.

Totally insane, she decided, watching him as he took a bundle of robes from another of the SEALs. Underneath his own robe, he wore some kind of dark-colored vest that appeared to be loaded with all kinds of gear and weaponry. He had what looked to be a lightweight, nearly invisible set of headphones on his head, as well as an attached microphone similar to, but smaller than, something a telephone operator would wear. It stretched out on a hinged piece of wire or plastic and could be maneuvered directly in front of his mouth when he needed to talk.

What kind of man did this kind of thing for a living?

Jones tossed one of the robes to Chris Sterling and the other to her, along with another of those smiles.

It was hard to keep from smiling back.

As Melody watched, Jones spoke to someone outside the room through his little mike and headphones as he efficiently and quickly dressed the still-unconscious Kurt Matthews in the third robe.

He was talking about sandals. Sandals, apparently, were a bit harder to procure than the robes had been. At least it was difficult to find something in her size.

“She’s going to have to go in her socks,” one of the other SEALs finally concluded.

“It’s cold out there,” Jones protested.

“I don’t care,” Melody said. “I just want to go.”

“Let’s do it,” the black man said. “Let’s move, Cowboy. Cat controls the back door. Now’s the time.”

Jones turned to Melody. “Put the kicks back on. Quickly.”

“But you said—”

He pushed her down into a chair and began putting the sneakers on her feet himself. “Lucky, got your duct tape?”

“You know I do.”

“Tape the bottom of her foot,” Jones ordered, thrusting the tied shoe on Melody’s right foot toward the other SEAL.

The SEAL called Lucky got to work, and Jones himself began taping the bottom of her left sneaker, using a roll of silvery gray duct tape he, too, had been carrying in his vest.