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from his position on the floor.
    “What?” Solomon demanded, reading disapproval in the bald chief’s stern expression. “You would have done that differently?”
    “Yes, I would have,” said the sniper, disdain in his eyes and voice.
    “Then you would have had to turn right around and dump the kid off again,” Solomon predicted.
    “Maybe not,” said Harley, with a challenging glare. “What do you think, sir?” he asked Gus, who glanced up from the manual he was reading.
    “It’s the senior chief’s call,” said Gus, taking a neutral position. “Life’s not all black-and-white.”
    Solomon glowered out the window. He didn’t need Harley’s disapproval or Gus’s philosophizing. He’d made a decision based on regulation, expectation, and discipline. At the same time, he knew how it felt to have a child ripped out of his life, out of his future. He hated what he’d done.

Chapter Three
    Jordan burrowed deeper into the cozy cocoon she floated in, resisting the pull of consciousness. There were reasons why she didn’t want to waken; oblivion was so much sweeter than reality.
    Her head rested on a densely muscled shoulder, her face buried against a manly-smelling neck. Was it Doug who was holding her so tenderly? Her ex-husband was a big, strong, high-school football coach. Sweeping a hand up the rock-hard chest, she remembered his infidelities, and with a cry of protest, lifted her lolling head to demand he let her go.
    The painted face glancing down at her brought it all back. Navy SEAL Senior Chief McGuire was carrying her across a hot and windy tarmac toward an airport terminal. The helicopter’s rotors descended a musical scale behind them. Two SEALs preceded him; three more followed behind, escorting Sister Madeline.
    “Put me down,” Jordan croaked. The last thing she remembered was one of the SEALs sticking a needle in her thigh. It was this man—this bastard—that had prevented her from bringing Miguel. She started to struggle.
    “You won’t be able to stand,” he warned.
    “Let go of me!” she raged, her fury swelling to think that she may have lost Miguel forever, just as she’d lost her baby.
    He stopped in his tracks. “You want me to put you down?” he asked, with an arctic glare.
    “Yes!”
    “Fine then.” He dropped an arm, releasing her legs. Her boots touched the sun-warmed cement. She twisted her upper body free and—to her astonishment—kept right on going. Quick as lightning, he looped an arm around her, catching her in middescent. He set her on her feet again.
    “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, prying free of his hold, determined to stand on her own.
    He put his hands up to signify surrender and watched her keel right over. This time he didn’t move to catch her.
    “Oooph!” Jordan landed on her hip, pain radiating from her pelvis.
    With a shake of his head, the senior chief just turned and walked away.
    Two more SEALs hurried over to scoop her up. “You okay, ma’am?” asked the dark-haired, brown-eyed one who’d stuck her with a syringe full of God-knew-what. He was all concern now.
    Jordan couldn’t answer. Okay? She’d never be okay again.
    The bald SEAL’s blue eyes flashed with disapproval at the now-retreating senior chief. But his gentle touch conveyed concern.
    “Up you go,” said the first SEAL, and together they hoisted her between them. She moved her legs automatically, amazed not to feel the pavement under her feet. How odd.
    The African-American SEAL held the door for them, ushering the trio and Sister Madeline inside, out of the windy heat.
    Air-conditioning,
marveled the part of Jordan’s brain that functioned autonomously. It’d been months since she’d experienced that luxury. The smell of coffee and maple syrup wafted from a food court at the rear.
    The SEALs lowered her onto one of a half dozen sofas in what was obviously a gate at the airport. The bald SEAL stalked away; the younger one crouched in front of her, checking Jordan’s