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the wall, CPO Metcalfe stifled a yawn. “The distress call came in at 0217. Vacationers found a woman drifting on a makeshift raft eight klicks from St. Thomas.” He shifted his gaze between the two of them. “When I arrived on deck, she was clothed only in an army jacket.” His nervous gaze bobbed on that info. “Nothing else.”
    “Army?” Langston again scowled.
    “Venezuelan—VFA, sir.”
    Olin narrowed his eyes. “Are you certain?”
    Determination glinted in the rugged face. “The name on the jacket was Bruzon.”
    Mind awhirl with that beauty of a piece of information, Olin schooled his response. He met his superior’s gaze. Langston went silent, his face like a stone.
    Metcalfe leaned forward. “You know who that is, right?”
    Olin ignored the question. “Did she say how she came by the jacket?”
    “No, sir. Wouldn’t talk. And I can’t blame her. In the condition she was in, I’m floored she’s alive.”
    It felt like grease chugged through Olin’s veins. “What condition is that?”
    “Sir, she’d been beaten. Visible signs of rape, torture, too. She wouldn’t let anyone touch her. Well, except me when I lifted her out.” His throat processed a swallow. “I’d kill whoever did this, given the chance.”
    Admiral Langston patted Metcalfe’s shoulder and thanked him. He shifted to Olin. “Get what you can from her. We’re running out of time.”
    With a large exhale, Olin started for the room. Palm on the door, he looked back to the chief petty officer. “Metcalfe.” He toyed with what he was about to do. He already knew the answer, but he wanted the man to trust him. Trust bought loyalty better than any greenback. “Happen to know Captain Canyon Metcalfe?”
    Shoulders up, the Coastie looked between Olin and Langston, then slowly nodded. “Yes, sir. My brother—older by a year, and I never let him forget it.”
    Sibling rivalry. He wasn’t surprised. “I don’t doubt that.” With a knowing grin, he pushed through the room. And froze.
    A frail slip of a woman sat curled on her side, legs drawn close under the pale blue blanket she’d pulled over her shoulders. Her gaze rested on the bank of windows overlooking the city, but the vacant expression told him her mind wrestled somewhere else. Dark brown hair hung down her back, stringy and tangled as if she’d showered but never combed it.
    She hadn’t flinched at his entrance. Or turned to see who entered. Did she even hear him?
    He took a few tentative steps to bring himself into her direct view.
    No response.
    “Danielle?”
    She blinked. Her eyes darted to the floor, where they skidded and leapt from one object to another.
    Noting her nervous reaction, Olin lowered himself into the vinyl chair nestled under the window. His heart sagged at her gaunt face, her right eye swollen shut. Her lower lip ballooned and cut. Butterfly stitches winged over her eyebrow and another on her chin.
    If Jacqueline saw her once-vibrant daughter haunted and distant like this, she would roll over in her grave.
I’ve failed you, Jacqueline
.
    Tucking aside his shock, he scooted to the edge of the seat. “Danielle, it’s me, Olin Lambert.” He set his hat on the table next to her bed.
    She followed his movement, her gaze staying on the hat.
    He rested his forearms on his knees. “You’re home, Danielle. Back in America.”
    His chest thumped, remembering CPO Metcalfe’s description:
“clothed only in an army jacket.”
Everything paternal and primal rose up. He fought the urge to go to her, wrap this young woman in hisarms, and promise to avenge whatever had happened. But the Coastie’s comment about her not allowing anyone to touch her kept him seated.
    The clock over the door ticked down the minutes in the haunting quiet. Olin thanked God there wasn’t a window in the door because Langston would no doubt have his face glued to it.
    “I’ll wait, Danielle,” he said, keeping his tone soft, fatherly. “You asked for me; I’m here.”