Page 46 of One in a Million
As he rolled onto the pillow, she snuggled against his side, in the cradling curve of his arm. He’d been braced for her leaving. But she was making it clear that for now, at least, she meant to stay.
“Will you be all right?” he asked. “I should have—”
“No need. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Jasmine would be on birth control, of course. He was far from the first man in her life. And much as he might want to be the last, that wasn’t likely to happen. Somehow, that reality didn’t matter as much as he’d expected it might. All that truly mattered was now.
“Talk to me, Sam.” Her fingers traced a pattern in the dark hair on his chest. “Tell me about your life. I want to know where you came from and who you really are.”
And so, to keep her beside him, he talked. He told her about growing up in an Indiana suburb, with his parents and older brother, Mike, who’d passed away at seventeen in a car accident.
“He died coming home from a party, with his friend driving. I still miss him.”
Mike’s death had broken the family apart, with Sam being passed back and forth between his divorced parents until he was old enough to go away to college.
“I never wanted to be anything but an FBI agent,” he said. “I applied, was accepted, and never looked back. My wife claimed I loved the bureau more than I loved her. At first that was a joke. Then, as time passed, she began to believe it. I was ambitious, working all hours, trying to get ahead. I didn’t have a clue until she left me for a man she’d met at her church.”
He fell into silence, his arm drawing Jasmine closer. He could feel his body stirring. If she was ready to make love again, he would do it right this time, slow and sensual. “Heard enough?” he asked.
“Maybe . . .” She paused. “But you haven’t told me everything.”
“What’s to tell?” At the evasion, Sam felt a clenching sensation in the pit of his stomach. He’d never shared Jim’s death with anyone outside the bureau—except for Jim’s wife, when he’d brought her the news that she’d become a widow. That had been the hardest thing of all.
“You left Chicago in pain,” Jasmine said. “I can see it in your face when you mention your old life there—and it wasn’t just because of your divorce. Do you want to talk about it, or should I go back to the house?”
“You drive a hard bargain, lady.”
“Your choice.” Turning in the bed, she rested her head against his chest. “If you choose to tell me, I’m listening.”
Sam exhaled. “My partner, Jim Ramirez, was the finest young man you could meet. I’d mentored him since his first days with the bureau. We’d been working as a team for two years. He’d become like a kid brother to me—it’s always a mistake to get that close when you’re doing dangerous work. I had to learn that the hard way.”
“So he died?” Jasmine asked softly.
“He was married, with a toddler boy and a new baby girl.” Sam continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He and his wife, Maria, had invited me to supper a few times during my separation from Cynthia. At the time, I’d appreciated the support and the company.
“The day it all went bad was the day my divorce became final—I wasn’t in the best frame of mind. That’s part of the reason I blame myself. If I’d kept him out of the way—” The words broke off.
“No blame. Just tell me what happened,” Jasmine said.
“We got a call from an informant that a known human trafficker we were after had been spotted helping a teenage girl into his van. The tracking signal we’d put on the van earlier led us to an abandoned warehouse. This was our chance to arrest him and to rescue the girl and any other victims he might be holding.
“We put on our Kevlar vests and helmets and checked the perimeter of the building. There were no vehicles outside, and the only tire tracks leading in were from the van. Since our kidnapper wasn’t known to be violent, and had at least one victim needing rescue, we decided not to wait for backup—my call. We drew our pistols and went in through a side door.
“Jim went first. No sooner had we stepped inside than somebody out of sight started shooting at us with a high-powered rifle. We had our protective gear on, but Jim was hit lower down, in the thigh. From the way he was losing blood, I could tell the bullet had struck a major artery, probably the femoral. I dragged him back through the door, put pressure on the wound, and called for an ambulance. But nothing I could do was enough. He bled out and died in my arms.”
The kidnapper and his sharpshooting companion were later apprehended, the girl rescued. But in the light of his partner’s death, Sam had scarcely paid any heed to the news.
Sam took a ragged breath. “Here’s where the blame comes. If I’d called for backup and waited, Jim would still be alive. If I’d gone in ahead of him . . . If somebody had to get shot, better me than him. But that’s not how it played. The worst part was telling his wife. Now she’ll have to raise those kids without their dad. They’re so young, they won’t even remember him. And don’t tell me that it wasn’t at least partly my fault.”
“Oh, Sam.” Her arms cradled him close. “You didn’t kidnap that girl. You didn’t fire the rifle. Bad things happen. Awful things. And after they happen, there’s nothing you can do.”
“I did set up a trust fund for the kids at work. Everybody contributed. But compared to the loss of their father, that was nothing. And Maria won’t accept any direct help from the man who let her husband die. She said as much when I offered.”
“Then listen to me.” Jasmine’s arms tightened around him. “Beating yourself up won’t help anybody. It’ll only hold you back from the good things you could do in your life—the good things you owe to your partner and to yourself.”
“Pretty words, Jasmine. I’ve said as much to myself. But words don’t make much difference when your bad decision has ended one life and ruined others.”
“Then give it time. I’ve always believed there’s a fine line between self-blame and self-pity. I do my best not to cross it. If I did, I’d be an even bigger mess than I already am. The men, the risk-taking, the aimless waiting for a career break that never comes . . . I teeter on the brink of self-destruction every day. But it doesn’t stop me from living. And it doesn’t stop me from trying to do better.”