Montana Ranger's Wedding Vow

by Elle James

  Montana Rescue

  Sleeper SEAL Series Book #6 Brotherhood Protectors Series Crossover

  New York Times & USA Today

  Bestselling Author

  * * *

  ELLE JAMES

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Sleep was overrated. At least, that’s what Caleb “Mad Dog” Maddox told himself as he paced the front porch of the mountain cabin, staring up at the stars in the sky. No street or porch lights marred the inky expanse, allowing the stars to twinkle unchallenged in the heavens over his little slice of hell in the Colorado Rockies.

  Not that Colorado was hell. It didn’t matter where Mad Dog landed. If it wasn’t back with his Navy SEAL unit, fighting the good fight, it was hell.

  He sat on the porch steps and rubbed at his sore knee, cursing the doctors who’d medically retired him from active duty before he could rain fire and destruction on the people who’d shot down his SEAL team’s helicopter, ending his career and, more importantly, ending Frito’s life.

  Frito, Juan Federico Hernandez, had been one of the newest SEALs on the team. The mission that ended it all was Frito’s fifth and final.

  Mad Dog couldn’t complain too loudly about being kicked off the team when he was still alive and he didn’t have a family depending on him. Frito had left behind a young wife and a baby girl. And he’d left behind memories of his incredible capabilities, loyalty and friendship in Mad Dog’s mind. Most of all, he’d left behind the memory of his last minutes, before the life was crushed from his body.

  They’d completed a secret mission in Syria, targeting a high-profile ISIS leader. Oh, they’d killed their target, decapitating the head of one of the ISIS snakes leading their followers to rape, pillage and burn—tactics they employed against the poor, defenseless people of Syria.

  They’d made the hit and were on the helicopter during the extraction portion of the operation, when some bastard of an enemy fighter plugged them with an RPG. The round hit the tail of the helicopter, causing it to spiral toward the earth, flinging unsecured men out of the fuselage like so much confetti.

  Mad Dog had twisted his hands into a nearby harness and held onto Frito, but the centrifugal force pulled the man out of his grip and flung him to the ground. Mad Dog lost his grip on the harness and slipped out as well, right before the helicopter landed. His fall was a mere seven or eight feet. Frito’s had been from ten or twelve. The height of the fall didn’t matter. The helicopter crashed down on top of Frito.

  Whether he’d died in the fall or when the helicopter’s wheel planted fully on his chest, the man was dead. Nothing Mad Dog could do would bring him back.

  What if he’d held on just a few seconds longer? What if he’d let Frito climb into the helicopter first? What if he’d found his friend Ronin sooner and gotten him on board quicker? Would that have given Frito time to get in, get harnessed and stay alive?

  Questions like these served no purpose, but he lived with them every time he closed his eyes at night. Not one of the what-if scenarios running through Mad Dog’s mind changed the outcome.

  Which led to more sleepless nights than he could count.

  He’d come to Colorado after talking to his former teammate, Boomer. When Boomer had heard about Mad Dog’s situation, he’d offered him the use of a friend’s cabin in the Rocky Mountains.

  The cabin’s owner, Joseph “Kujo” Kuntz, had landed a job with the same folks Boomer worked for, a company headed by former Navy SEAL, Hank Patterson. Mad Dog remembered Hank. He’d worked with Hank when he’d first been assigned to SEAL Team 10.

  Hank had left the Navy to help his father on his ranch in Montana and ended up establishing a personal security group of former Special Ops guys.

  Mad Dog didn’t dig too deeply into what kind of jobs Boomer and Kujo did or what their missions were. Frankly, he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. His life was irrelevant. Being a SEAL had been everything to him. He’d gone from a punk kid on the streets of Houston to a respected member of an elite group of fighters. Now, he’d lost everything.

  Who would have thought the punk-ass teen with a chip on his shoulder would have made something of his life? Granted, he might not have become a SEAL if he hadn’t nearly killed a man.

  One of his old friends died of an overdose on some dirty heroine. Mad Dog had chased down the drug dealer and beat the shit out of him, nearly killing the guy.

  The drug dealer got off with a light sentence, some community service or some other bullshit like that. But the judge had looked Mad Dog square in the eye and told him he had two choices—go to jail for assault and battery or join the military where he could put his fighting skills to better use.

  Mad Dog chose to join the Navy rather than go to jail. But he had his father partly to thank for giving him the drive to succeed. When the judge had his final say, Mad Dog’s father snorted and said, “That kid won’t ever amount to much.”

  Yeah, he hadn’t gotten along with his father. All the man did for him was provide a roof over his head and the occasional food to fill his belly. No love had been lost between them.

  Mad Dog’s mother had left them when he was eight years old. She was probably tired of the verbal and physical abuse her husband heaped on her. Mad Dog didn’t blame her for leaving, but he hated her for not taking him with her.

  With hate in his heart, no family to go home to and a desire to prove his father wrong, Mad Dog entered the military, worked his ass off and earned a spot in BUD/S training to become a SEAL.

  It was during training that he’d learned some hard lessons about teamwork and looking out for your buddy. Out of pure cussedness, he’d suffered through the worst of the worst to become one of the best of the best.

  Unfortunately, his father died halfway through Mad Dog’s BUD/S training. He’d never had the satisfaction of showing his father how wrong he was.

  The man had died how Mad Dog always imagined he would—when his trailer caught fire. His father had been asleep in his ratty recliner with beer cans strewn across the floor. The police report stated they suspected alcohol was involved. No kidding. Frank Maddox was a horrible drunk.

  He hadn’t felt much of anything upon the news of his father’s death. The cadre at BUD/S offered to let him go home for the funeral. Mad Dog said hell no. He had no love for the man whose only gift to him had been the gift of life. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to start the BUD/S training all over from scratch. No fucking way. He’d made it through Hell Week by then. No sane person went through Hell Week twice, if he could help it.

  Upon graduation from BUD/S, he’d been assigned to a SEAL team. Not only had he proven his father wrong, he’d finally found people he could call his family. Through some pretty hairy missions, he’d bonded with his teammates.

  He’d do anything for them, and they always had his back. They were the brothers he never had growing up, the family he’d always longed for.

  Now he had none.

  Sometimes, he wished he had been the one crushed beneath the helicopter instead of Frito.

  The sun edged up over the horizon, spilling liquid gold across the mountains and warming the chill in the air. The beauty was not lost on Mad Dog. He’d always wanted to live in the mountains, away from the noise and smells of Houston, the traffic, hordes of people and the oil refineries. But he hadn’t pictured being alone in the mountains.

  After joining SEAL Team 10, he’d started thinking about having a real family, like what Frito had. A good woman to share his life with, to be there when he came home. Why not? His buddies on the team had succumbed to love. Mad Dog had begun to believe it could happen to him.

  Until his career ended with one rocket-propelled grenade hitting the helicopter he flew inside.

  Mad Dog pushed to his feet and walked barefoot across the moss-covered ground to a rocky ledge not far from the cabin. He’d spent many days and nights standing there, contemplating what was left of his life. Today, he contemplated how long it would take for him to
fall from the top of the cliff to the bottom two-hundred and fifty feet below.

  He was tired. Tired of the boredom, tired of the guilt and tired of being alone. Every day was just like the last. With no purpose in his life, what was the use of living? No one relied on him to help out in a tight situation. His team continued on, without him. They didn’t need a SEAL with a bum leg. Once a SEAL, always a SEAL… Ha!

  He stared down at the jagged boulders. Ending it here would prove what? That his father was right after all? That he’d never amount to much? That all the sweat, pain and hard work he’d put into becoming a SEAL hadn’t accomplished a fucking thing?

  Mad Dog took one step, then another, toward the cliff’s edge.

  A honk sounded nearby, disturbing the utter silence, the sound incongruous with the mountainous surroundings.

  Another honk, closer still, echoed off the hillsides.

  Irritated by the interruption, Mad Dog glanced over his shoulder.

  A big, black pickup pulled up to the cabin. Probably someone lost. It didn’t happen often, but some people found their way up the winding gravel road to the cabin.

  Mad Dog would spend a few minutes detailing the way back to the main road in the valley below. They’d comment on the view, but he wouldn’t invite them to stay, and they’d be on their way.

  And then he could get back to what he was doing. Which was what? Throwing himself off a cliff?

  Dragging in a deep breath, he let it go on a sigh.

  Two men dropped down from the truck. One of them opened the back door, and a German Shepherd leaped out onto the ground.

  Recognition made Mad Dog’s heart beat a little faster. He knew one of the guys, and automatically started walking toward them.

  He picked up the pace, ignoring the sharper rocks digging into his bare feet.

  The men climbed the porch and knocked on the door. They hadn’t noticed him yet, coming across the rocky hillside. The dog glanced up and let out a woof.

  Both men turned as one and grinned.

  “Mad Dog, you old son-of-a-bitch.” Hank ‘Montana’ Patterson hurried down the steps and across the rocks to meet him, hand outstretched.

  Mad Dog gripped his hand and was pulled into a bear hug that took his breath away.

  Hank pounded his back, laughing. “You don’t know how hard it was to get hold of you.” He stepped back and ran his gaze over Mad Dog. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.” Mad Dog’s lips twisted into a frown. “Great to see you, too,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm as he scratched his chin beneath the four-inches of beard that had accumulated since his retirement.

  Hank turned toward the man with the German Shepherd. “You might not have met the man who actually owns this cabin. Joseph Kuntz, meet Caleb Maddox.”

  The other man held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, finally. My friends call me Kujo.” He glanced around at the cabin. “Thanks for taking care of the place.”

  Mad Dog shook the man’s hand. “Thanks for letting me rent it. My friends call me Mad Dog.”

  Kujo grinned. “As one mad dog to another, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

  Warmth stole over Mad Dog, despite the chilly morning air.

  He’d gone several months without contact from any of his old friends from SEAL Team 10. Cell phone reception was nonexistent, and the cabin didn’t even have electricity or a landline.

  “I was just about to make a cup of coffee,” he lied. “Would you care for some?”

  Both men nodded.

  “Now, you’re talking.” Hank clapped his hands together and followed him inside. “As I said, you’re a hard one to reach.”

  Mad Dog entered the small kitchen area, where he fired up a propane-powered camp stove and set a pot of water over the flame. When he met Kujo’s gaze, he felt a moment of consternation.

  “The solitude comes with the cabin,” Kujo answered for him. “After a while, though, it eats at you.”

  The man seemed to know what was going through his mind. He nodded. “It’s why I came out here in the first place.”

  “And the reason you’ll leave,” Kujo said.

  Mad Dog wasn’t so sure of that.

  “Speaking of which,” Hank pulled a coffee mug off a wooden shelf and sat at the small table. “I’d like to say I came to offer you a job, but I actually came to let you know someone else is looking for you with a potential opportunity you might want to consider.”

  “I’m not interested,” Mad Dog replied automatically.

  Hank frowned. “You haven’t even heard what it is.”

  Mad Dog shrugged. “What kind of job can a man hold with a bum knee? I was trained to fight. I don’t know anything else.”

  Hank’s shoulders rose and fell. “Suit yourself, but you should at least find out what it entails, before you shoot down the idea.” He laid a satellite phone on the table. “I’ve programmed in the number. All you have to do is enter it. The line is secure. Talk to the man, and see what you think.”

  Kujo stood and walked to the camp stove. “I’ll finish making coffee, if you want to make the call outside.”

  Feeling a little forced to make the call, but at the same time curious, Mad Dog grabbed the satellite phone and walked back out onto the porch.

  Hank was an old friend. He wouldn’t be bullshitting him. He’d saved his life on more than one occasion. Mad Dog owed him at least the phone call.

  He punched the SEND key and waited while the phone rang on the other end of the line.

  “Maddox?” a deep, male voice answered.

  “This is Maddox,” he confirmed.

  “This is Retired Navy Commander Greg Lambert.”

  Mad Dog’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard of the commander, though he’d never actually met him. “Patterson said you had something you wanted to talk to me about.”

  “I do. I’m working on an important project and need a few good men like yourself to man it.”

  “I’m out of the Navy, sir. Seems they don’t have much use for broken SEALs. What good would I be to your project?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “I can, but I limp. I don’t run as fast as I used to. Again, I don’t see how I can help.”

  “How are your shooting skills?”

  He’d brought his personal rifle and handguns with him to the cabin and fired them on a regular basis. Shooting and cleaning the weapons helped combat the boredom. “They’re okay.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase,” Lambert said.

  “Good, ’cause I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Fair enough.” The commander paused and then launched in. “Our nation is in trouble. Terrorists have established sleeper cells across the country. The chatter on the internet is getting stronger, and the president is concerned. The radicals are actively recruiting and planning bigger hits. Think about the bombing at the Boston Marathon, the mass shootings in San Bernardino, California and the Orlando nightclub. Those events, and more, were performed by radicalized ‘soldiers’ of the Islamic State. We have to stop them before they take more innocent American lives.”

  “Sounds like a job for Homeland Security.”

  “I’d like to think they could handle it. But frankly, they don’t have the training and skills needed to eradicate the threat. What my group is doing is fighting back with its own sleeper agents.”

  Impatient for the man to get to the point, Mad Dog frowned. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I’m getting to that. To be exact,” Lambert said, “we’re fighting back as Sleeper SEALs. Men who, for whatever reason, have left active duty and are signing on to infiltrate areas suspected of having these insurgent cells. In effect, they’re establishing sleeper cells to combat terrorism before the terrorists have the opportunity to strike.”

  “One-man cells?” Mad Dog asked. “Doesn’t that go against everything they taught us in BUD/S? The reason why SEALs are so effective is they work, sleep and breathe as a team.”

  �
�True, and you will have communication access to our headquarters for support. However, you’d be going into an area autonomously. Alone. One thing you need to understand...these missions are not officially sanctioned by the government. We’re flying under the radar—part of the CIA but not acknowledged. Because, of course, CIA is not authorized to operate on US soil.”

  Despite himself, Mad Dog could feel his pulse quicken, and his hand tightened on the phone. His blood hadn’t moved that fast since his last mission as a SEAL. And it felt good. “Are you suggesting we take the law into our own hands?” We. Already, he was talking like he’d agreed to the assignment. Which he hadn’t.

  Lambert paused. “If anything goes south, the US government will deny all association with your efforts. You’d be on your own to bail yourself out. For the most part, you’ll be on your own. Well, in this particular case, not so very much on your own.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where I need you to go, and what I need you to do, will depend on one other person.”

  “Who? The radicalized soldier you want me to keep an eye on?”

  “No. I think the radicalized soldier will find you as long as you are with the other individual.”

  “Who is this other person?” Mad Dog asked. “Another SEAL?”

  “No,” Lambert said. “An agent with the CIA.”

  “Assuming I accept this mission,” Mad Dog said. “Who will be in charge? Your organization or the CIA?”

  “Neither. The CIA agent is heading to Montana to lure the radicalized soldier to a place the agent is familiar with, and to get the terrorist away from more heavily populated areas. You will work with the agent to identify and neutralize the threat.”

  “And by neutralize, you mean…”

  “Employ whatever means necessary to keep our country safe.”

  Mad Dog let that sink in for a second before asking, “What has the so-called soldier done to warrant being neutralized?”