by Elle James
SEAL’s Seduction
Take No Prisoners Book #6
by
Elle James
Author’s Note
Read other stories in the Take No Prisoners Series:
Take No Prisoners Series
SEAL’s Honor (#1)
SEAL’s Desire (#2)
SEAL’s Embrace (#3)
SEAL’s Obsession (#4)
SEAL’s Proposal (#5)
SEAL’s Seduction (#6)
SEAL’s Defiance (#7) coming soon
Visit www.ellejames.com for more titles and release dates
Also visit her alter-ego Myla Jackson at mylajackson.com
and join Elle James and Myla Jackson’s Newsletter at Newsletter
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the families of our service members who take care of everything while their soldier, sailor, airman or marine is away. They’re the ones who keep the home fires burning and are there when these heroes come home. As an Air Force brat, I remember the many times my father deployed to the other side of the planet. He’d be gone for six months to a year at a time. My mother held down the fort with four children and welcomed my father home each time with open arms. Back then, we didn’t have the ability to log onto the Internet and talk with my father. We didn’t even have the ability to pick up a telephone and talk to him. I have memories of crying in the night because I couldn’t remember my father’s face. The joy we experienced upon his return was priceless.
Escape with…
Elle James
aka Myla Jackson
Copyright © 2015, Elle James. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Kindle Edition
Manufactured in the United States of America
Editor: Delilah Devlin
Cover Artist: Elle James
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Author’s Note
Dedication
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Other Titles by Elle James
Excerpt from SEAL’s Honor
Chapter One
‡
TWO MILES AWAY from its target location, the Black Hawk helicopter slowed and hovered thirty feet off the ground. The whirling blades stirred the sultry night heat of Somalia.
Dustin Ford, nicknamed Dustman by his team, was first out, fast-roping to the ground. As soon as he hit the dirt, he ran to the two o’clock position to establish his section of the perimeter, his M4 aimed out into the dry foliage, his night vision goggles in place as he scanned for any heat signatures in the area.
The satellite images had pinpointed the Somali rebel camp at two miles to the south of where they’d landed. Even before the last man hit the ground, Dustin took point, moving quietly through the night.
Orders from above were to neutralize the rebels and rescue the American aid workers who had been held captive in an attempt to extort money from the U.S. government for their return.
With Irish on his right, Gator on his left and Tuck at his back, he’d be first to make contact. Intel estimated twenty rebel fighters, armed with whatever weapons they had collected. They would put up a fierce resistance…if the SEAL team lost the element of surprise early on. But Dustin’s team was trained to get in and get out with minimal effort and loss of American lives.
As they neared the camp, Dustin could make out three blurry green heat signatures of sentries spread out fifty feet apart on the perimeter of the camp. He figured there were more on the other side.
Big Bird, Fish, Swede, Nacho and Rider fanned out to either side. While they moved into place to take out the sentries farther away, Dustin and his crew held fast, waiting for their cue to move in and silently dispatch the camp guards.
“In position,” Big Bird said in Dustin’s ear. Knives drawn, the team moved in. Before the guards knew what hit them, they were dispatched and lying silently in the dirt, their terrorist days done.
A sharp report of gunfire pierced the silence. A shout rose from one of the five tents, and terrorists wielding semi-automatic rifles and AK-47s rushed out of four of the five tents.
The SEAL team had the advantage of night vision goggles. One by one, they picked off the terrorists until the last one fell.
Dustin ducked low and ran toward the one tent no gunmen had emerged from. Other members of his team rushed the other tents and cleared them. More gunfire erupted and the usual confusion of battle ensued.
As he neared the exterior, Dustin shouted in Arabic for anyone inside the tent to come out. At first, he didn’t hear anything. Then quiet sobbing came from inside. Dustin nodded to Gator, the big Cajun, who stood close to the entrance of the tent, while Dustin rounded to the rear.
When Gator repeated the Arabic command, Dustin drove his knife into the canvas and ripped an opening of his own.
A woman’s scream filled the air. A dark-skinned Somali, his eyes rounded, held the American woman with a knife to her throat. He shouted in Arabic, “I will kill her.”
Dustin eased forward, his hands out to the side, speaking in Arabic, “Put the knife down and we will let you live.” While he had the Somali’s attention, Gator slipped through the front flap and attacked the man from behind.
The terrorist fell forward, dead with a knife to the base of his skull, severing his brain stem.
The woman he’d held captive scrambled through the opening, her eyes wide, sobs shaking her body.
Dustin grabbed her and held her tight. For a woman in her late fifties, she fought like a wildcat, kicking and screaming, her fingernails slashing at his face.
“Martha!” he said, his voice stern, breaking through her crazed attempt at escape. “I’m an American, here to take you home.”
He had to repeat himself several times before he got through to her and she sagged against him, her body spent, her sobs fading to silent tears. She clung to him for a moment then pushed away. “John.” She dropped to the floor beside the man lying on a grass mat, his eyes closed.
“Is he dead?” Gator asked.
Dustin squatted beside the man and pressed two fingers to the base of his throat. A weak, but steady pulse pushed back against his fingertips. “He’s alive, but in bad shape. You take Martha. I’ll get John.”
Martha stumbled to her feet, swayed and would have fallen if Gator hadn’t been there to scoop her up in his arms.
Dustin bent toward John and draped his body over his shoulder, then stood and exited through the front flap, held open by Irish.
“Need a hand?” Irish asked.
“I’ve got him.”
The whop-whop of rotor blades filled the air. The sting of dust and flying debris whipped up into Dustin’s face as he hurried toward
the Black Hawk, depositing his charge on the floor of the craft. Fish bent over the man and went to work establishing an IV drip. Both John and Martha were suffering from severe dehydration and malnutrition from the month of captivity they’d endured with the Somali rebels, but they’d live, now that they were on their way home to the States.
Dustin glanced around at his teammates. All were present and accounted for. Mission accomplished, with no casualties except for those terrorists who would never terrorize another soul.
After they boarded the C-130 to take them home, Tuck reported in with headquarters back in Little Creek, Virginia. When he came back to check on the team, he pulled Dustin aside. “As soon as we get back, you’re to pack up and head to Texas.”
Dustin’s stomach took a dive to his kneecaps. “Why? What happened?”
“Your father had a heart attack. You’ll be on emergency leave for a couple weeks.”
*
“JENNA TURNER, REPORTING live to you from a normally quiet street on the south side of Waco.” Jenna faced the camera, holding the microphone in front of her mouth. Her pulse pounded and her hand shook slightly, but she forced herself to be calm and report the news as unbiased and composed as she could. “It’s been four hours since Frank Mitchell barricaded himself in his mother’s home, threatening to kill the elderly woman if anyone tried to come in after him.” Toby, her cousin and cameraman, moved in a slow arc, recording behind her the modest white clapboard house with the old fashioned, metal awnings and peeling paint.
Jenna continued her monologue, “Our sources tell us Mitchell is wanted on several counts of armed robbery, assault, selling methamphetamines and resisting arrest. He could be under the influence of the drugs he deals and is considered a threat to his elderly parent.”
The camera angled back toward her. “The Waco PD hostage negotiator has been on scene from the beginning, but nothing has changed in the past four hours.” Except the fact her feet were killing her in her high-heeled boots, and she hadn’t made it to a bathroom in hours. She regretted downing the fully leaded—sugar and caffeine-loaded—Dr. Pepper over an hour ago. If things didn’t get hopping soon, she’d knock on a neighbor’s door and ask to use their facilities.
“Jenna! Check it out. The SWAT team is headed in,” Toby called out from behind the camera. He aimed his lens at the black armored van pulled to a stop two houses down from where Mitchell holed up. Men poured out, dressed in black uniforms, with olive drab bulletproof vests buckled in place over their chests.
Jenna’s pulse leaped. Holy shit, this was it! This was her big chance to make it onto the national news. Alongside raging fires sweeping across California and hurricanes in the gulf, hostage situations ranked right up there and she was here, on the scene, camera ready. She held the microphone away from her mouth and whispered loud enough Toby could hear, “Are you getting this?”
“Damn right I am.”
“We’re here at the scene,” Jenna said into the microphone. “The SWAT team has arrived, and they’re surrounding the house.”
“Ma’am.” A police officer blocked Jenna’s view. “You’ll have to back away from the house.”
“But…” Jenna’s pulse quickened and she stood on her toes to see past the policeman.
“I’m sorry. The chief insists all civilians remove themselves to a block away, in case shit hits the fan.”
Members of the SWAT team took up positions around the house, poised to launch their attack and the big police officer had his hand in front of the damned camera.
Jenna dug her heels into the pavement. “I’m a reporter.” She dug her press identification card out of her pocket and waved it in his face. “I have a right to be here.”
The officer shook his head and spread his arms wide as if he would herd her away like a stray calf. “The chief said all civilians, including the press. It’s for your own safety.”
“What if I choose to accept the risk?”
“That doesn’t mean squat to the chief. Off you go now, or I’ll have to arrest you for interfering in a police operation.”
“Damn!” This was her chance to show her boss at the station she could handle the intense and gritty situations.
Toby backed up, lowering his camera to catch what he could beneath the officer’s arm. “Come on, Jenna. Let’s do as the officer asks.”
“But it’s happening here and now. If we leave, we lose this opportunity.”
Toby hooked her arm and dragged her down the street. “It’s okay. We’ll get a shot at it again.” He leaned close to her. “You’re wasting time. Come on. I have another idea.”
Biting down on her lip, Jenna allowed Toby to drag her down the street. As soon as the police officer turned his back, Toby snagged Jenna’s arm and yanked her between two houses.
They backtracked to a deserted house catty-corner to the one under siege. Toby fished a metal file out of his front pocket and would have jammed it into the lock.
Jenna laid a hand on his arm and shook her head. “It’s open.” She gave the door a slight shove and it swung inward. The interior was empty, all furniture gone, and no drapes in the window. Old, broken, vinyl blinds hung in the windows, some open, others closed.
Toby gestured with his camera toward a staircase. “Ladies first.”
Jenna scampered to the top and hurried for a front window, thanking her stars for her cousin’s ingenuity. Now if they could keep from being arrested for breaking and entering, they might have a shot at catching the hostage crisis on video.
The little house had a single room at the top of the stairs, a loft with two gables protruding out over the roof. Jenna opened the cheap blinds and peered out.
For a moment she thought she might have missed the show. Nothing moved. She couldn’t see the SWAT team and the police had all backed up, positioned behind the relative security of their patrol cars.
“I have a clear view from here,” Toby called out. He’d parted the blinds over the gabled window and stuck his camera lens through the gap. Kneeling on the floor, he gazed into the viewfinder. “Nothing’s happening.”
“Do you think they’re already inside?” Jenna asked.
“No. If they had made their move, the rest of the cops hanging around would be a little more agitated. Right now, the police are pointing their weapons at the house.”
“Then let’s do this.” Her heart racing, Jenna switched on her microphone. “This is Jenna Turner, reporting from the scene of a hostage crisis in Waco. The SWAT team has arrived and is in position.”
“There they go,” Toby whispered, excitedly.
Jenna stared through the blinds as half a dozen SWAT team policemen stormed through the front door.
Though muffled by the glass in the windows, the distinct pop-pop sound of gunfire could be heard, followed by shouts. A window exploded near the front of the house and a man Jenna assumed was Mitchell fell out on the ground and rolled to his feet, pistol in both hands.
“He’s on the ground.” Jenna jerked the blinds up to better see what was going on.
The officers behind their vehicles opened fire, but not before Mitchell let loose a round of bullets, some hitting the police cars.
Her voice shaking, Jenna spoke into her mic, “Mitchell is out of the house, firing at the police behind the barricade. He’s been hit! But he’s not going down without a fight.”
As the bullets slammed into the man, he jerked, his hands rising, the guns with them. He dropped to his knees, still firing, only this time into the air.
The plink of glass breaking was quickly followed by a stinging sensation against her right temple. “Ouch.” Jenna ducked to the side, refusing to look away from the scene unfolding.
Then it was over. Mitchell collapsed onto the front lawn of his mother’s house and lay still.
The SWAT team emerged. One man had his arm around an old woman, helping her through the door and out into the open, shielding her from the sight of her son lying on the ground.
“Show’s o
ver. Let’s transmit this to the station.” Toby straightened and glanced her way, his brow furrowing. “Jenna, what the hell?”
She dragged her gaze from what was going on below and glanced at Toby. “What?”
“Your face is bleeding.”
She raised her hand to where she could feel a slight stinging sensation and encountered warm wetness. “What’s this?”
“Sweetheart, it’s blood.”
Jenna glanced at her fingers, covered in her own blood. Her knees weakened, and her head spun. “I think I’ve been shot.”
Then the bright Texas sun outside blinked out.
Chapter Two
‡
DUSTIN ARRIVED IN Dallas a day later, having slept maybe two hours on the plane, worry making his mind race ahead. He rented a truck, unwilling to burden his family further with picking him up at the airport. His father was scheduled for emergency surgery that day.
Since he’d landed in Dallas, he’d been in contact with his older brother Adam. His mother was with his father in pre-op. All was as well as could be expected until their father came out of surgery. Houston, his younger brother was on his way in from black ops training with the U.S. Army’s Delta Force. Adam expected him to arrive any moment.
By the time Dustin reached the hospital in Waco, his internal engine was running on fumes. Six cups of coffee had him so jittery he could barely sit still. He hadn’t felt that level of exhaustion since BUD/s training when he became a SEAL. Lack of sleep and the emotional drain of knowing his father might die had taken its toll.
Once he parked, he dropped to the ground, his legs shaky from jet lag. He dragged in a deep breath and let it out lowly, then jogged to the entrance of the hospital and burst through the door.
With the sun glaring off the glass, he didn’t see what was behind it until he slammed into a young auburn-haired woman with a bandage around her forehead, rising out of wheelchair. He dug his boots into the smooth tile floor, but not soon enough to halt his forward momentum. Dustin barreled into the young woman, grabbed her around the middle, threw himself over onto his back and landed hard on the ground, the woman landing on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs.
