My Spy by Christina Skye Page A

his left leg, encased hip to ankle in a removable brace. “Almost.”
    “It's too soon,” the admiral snapped. Secretly, he was elated at the sight of the SEAL's fierce determination to recover. “Get well before you start trying to line dance.”
    “Never was much of a dancer.” Sam took four more halting steps. “Sir.”
    The man had to be in massive pain, yet Howe knew from his nurse that McKade was pocketing his pain meds and flushing them down the toilet.
    Real grit, the admiral thought, well pleased. Maybe he could leave the hospital sooner than his doctors predicted.
    “When did you have your last pain pill, Commander?”
    The media's unknown hero, looking tense and dangerous in several days of stubble and pain lines that bordered his mouth, simply shrugged. “A while, sir.”
    The admiral hid another smile. Stubborn bastard. Not that he'd have it any other way. “When your nurse comes back, you're to take whatever pills she gives you. Is that understood?”
    Sam grimaced. “Take them—as in swallow them, sir?”
    “That's an order, sailor.”
    Sam glared down at his leg brace. “Aye, aye, sir.”
    “Good. How's that leg feel?”
    They started another slow circuit around the room. “Like shi—” Sam cleared his throat. “Like a garbage scow plowed through it, sir.”
    “I expect so.” Holding his officer's arm, the admiral guided him through another two steps. “At least you're learning how to use a crutch. What about your shoulder?”
    “It's not as bad, sir.”
    Not as bad as
what
?
    But Howe was wise enough not to ask. A man had to keep his pride when his body had come close to being shattered.
    “We'll get you started on therapy tomorrow, if your doctors clear you.”
    “I'd like that, sir.” Sam struggled through another circuit. “The sooner the better. I want to get back to the team.”
    “Of course you do.” Howe patted his pocket, pressing his battered cigar and trying to decide how to ask his next question.
    Straight out was always the best.
    “Any pain from that head wound?”
    “Only when I breathe.” The SEAL smiled crookedly. “Sir.”
    The admiral coughed, hiding a chuckle. “All to be expected. How about your recollection of the accident?”
    Right now that's all they were calling it.
The accident.
    “Still pretty hazy, sir.”
    “How about prior to the accident?” The combat veteran kept his voice carefully neutral. “Any recall before the hospital? Over the last month, say?”
    McKade frowned. “Nothing, sir. I keep trying to dig. It feels—important somehow.” His jaw tightened. “I get back to when I woke up, and the pain started.”
    “And before that?”
    The SEAL's voice was hard. “Nothing, sir.”
    Hell and hell again, the admiral thought. He needed the information Sam McKade had buried in his head. He needed it fast, before the problems at the Navy's weapons program got any worse.
    One attempt had already been made on the commander's life inside a secure Navy hospital ward, and Howe had to assume that someone with excellent sources was prepared to kill to keep that information hidden.
    Howe took out his cigar. “Give it some time, son. You were torn up pretty bad. Concentrate on building your strength and charming that young nurse who keeps flirting with you.”
    Sam scratched his jaw. “The blonde, sir? She's married with three kids and a husband who flies a Pave Low chopper out of Little Creek.”
    Howe shook his head. The nurse didn't look old enough to date his son, much less have three kids and a hotshot pilot for a husband.
    “How'd you learn all that?”
    The young officer shrugged. “People talk to me. I must have that kind of face.”
    Harrison Ford on a good day, the admiral noted. Yes, women would talk to this man. So would men. It was something about the way he met your eyes, afraid of nothing, but prepared to treat you as an equal, no questions asked.
    Howe saw that McKade's eyes were narrowed with fatigue and his movements were