by Elle James
Shadow Assassin
Shadow SEALS
Elle James
Twisted Page Inc
Contents
Shadow Assassin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Shadow in the Desert
Becca Jameson
Chapter 1
More Shadow SEALs
About the Author
Also by Elle James
Shadow Assassin
Shadow SEALs
New York Times & USA Today
Bestselling Author
* * *
ELLE JAMES
Copyright © 2021 by Elle James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
© date Twisted Page Inc. All rights reserved.
Dedicated to my daughter Megan and long-time friends, Deborah and Nora, for keeping me sane when my little Charli was so very ill.
Elle James
Author’s Note
Enjoy other military books by Elle James
* * *
Delta Force Strong
Ivy’s Delta (Delta Force 3 Crossover)
Breaking Silence (#1)
Breaking Rules (#2)
Breaking Away (#3)
Breaking Free (#4)
Breaking Hearts (#5)
Breaking Ties (#6)
Visit ellejames.com for titles and release dates
For hot cowboys, visit her alter ego Myla Jackson at mylajackson.com
and join Elle James's Newsletter at
https://ellejames.com/contact/
Chapter 1
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
Dane “Striker” Ryan adjusted the bowtie at his throat and stared around the Baie des Anges reception hall of the Hotel Le Negresco in Nice on the southern coast of France. He’d never worn a bowtie in his life, never been to Nice and sure as hell couldn’t afford to pay the room rates at the hotel. If he’d had any other choice, he wouldn’t be a fish out of water, dressed in a monkey suit walking into a highly publicized event attended by world leaders from all over the globe.
No, he’d be with his SEAL team, training or performing vital missions in some of the most godforsaken locations in countries these world leaders hailed from.
His chest tightened into a hard knot.
The only reason he was in France and not homeless on the streets of San Diego was because he’d been given what he hoped was a second chance, an airline ticket and a wad of cash he couldn’t refuse.
The offer couldn’t have come at a better time. On the verge of being evicted from his apartment because he couldn’t pay the rent, he’d been desperate. His job flipping hamburgers for a mom & pop burger joint hadn’t earned enough money to keep a roof over his head. His years of training with the Navy SEALs meant nothing in the civilian world. The only jobs he was suited for required a clean record.
His record was shit. Dishonorably discharged from the military, he couldn’t get employment washing dishes on a military base or in any government facility. He sure as hell couldn’t get on with any security firms, providing armed escorts to diplomats or the rich and famous.
What else was he good for? He’d never held a desk job, his truck had been repossessed and he’d been facing homelessness. He’d been sitting at McP’s, nursing a beer in the middle of the day while the rest of his team was gainfully employed, probably training for the next mission, when he’d gotten the call.
That fateful call.
It had come through as an unknown caller on his cellphone. Usually, he ignored such calls. But he’d applied to a number of establishments, hoping for more lucrative employment. He hadn’t been able to afford to ignore a single call. He’d used his last few bucks to buy a beer, which wasn’t nearly enough to drown the pain of his unwarranted disgrace and subsequent removal from the only job he’d ever known and loved.
“Dane Ryan?” a female voice had addressed him as soon as he’d hit the receive button.
“Speaking,” he’d said.
“I understand you’re being evicted from your apartment at the end of the week.”
He’d frowned and almost hit the button to end the call, but curiosity stayed his finger.
“Who’s this?” he’d demanded.
“Someone who knows what you did to lose your job, and the people who gave you the order to do it and then let you take the fall for them.”
That had his attention.
His eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”
“That you can’t get work because of the black mark on your record, you barely have two nickels to rub together, you need a job that pays more than minimum wage to afford an apartment in San Diego, and your team called you Striker because you were the best sniper in the Navy SEALs.”
“You seem to know a lot about me,” Striker had said.
“I do,” she’d said. “I know you grew up in the foster care system, joined the Navy at the age of seventeen and made something of yourself.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who cares. Someone who knows the value of your training and commitment to doing what’s right.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Do you have a name?”
“You can call me Charley,” she said.
“Okay, Charley,” he’d said. “Why are you calling me, telling me things I already know?”
“Because I have a job for you.”
Striker leaned forward in his seat in the corner of the bar. “I’m listening.”
“Good. Be looking for a packet to be delivered to your apartment. You’ll receive instructions in that packet. Money has been deposited to your bank account. You’ll receive another payment upon completion of your mission.”
“What kind of mission?”
“You’ll receive further instructions.” And she’d ended the call, leaving Striker with more questions than answers. Immediately following the call, he’d received a text from his bank that a wire transfer had been made to his account.
When he’d logged into his account, he’d found that thirty-thousand dollars had been deposited into his checking account. He had no idea what the woman wanted him to do for that money, and it worried him. Did she want him to kill someone? He’d killed before, but never for money and only the enemies of his country. If the woman knew him at all, she’d know that he wouldn’t commit murder, no matter how desperate he might be.
That had been the beginning of this wild ride.
He’d hurried back to his apartment to find the packet that had been delivered. It contained a passport with his image and a fake name on it, a first-class airline ticket to France and the address of a hotel. It had also contained a wad of cash, the name of a men’s clothing store and a note to buy himself some nice clothes for the trip. More instructions awaited him at his destination. At the bottom of the packet was a burner phone.
Thousands of dollars, airline tickets to France and a fake passport couldn’t be good.
Striker had almost bailed at that point.
The burner phone rang at that moment. He’d answered, ready to say he was out and she could take back all the money and stuff.
“You’re wondering if all this is legit at this point, aren’t you?” the woman’s voice sounded in his ear. “You’re probably thinking this isn’t an honorable
mission and wondering if I’m setting you up to put a hit out on someone. Am I right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “This kind of money can only mean trouble.”
“Or it means what you’re being tasked to do is very important.”
“I’m leaning toward trouble.”
“I know you were tasked to assassinate the Russian in charge of Internal Affairs. The man responsible for the corruption of their police force and the deaths of a number of American diplomats and tourists.”
Striker’s grip on the burner phone tightened. How did she know? The mission had been top secret. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She chuckled softly. “Would you consider a mission to possibly save the world for a second chance at your career in the Navy SEALs?”
“You can do that?” On second thought, he shook his head. “No one can do that.”
“I have connections,” she stated. “As a show of faith, look out the window of your apartment.”
“Are you going to show your face?” he asked as he walked across the bare room to the window and opened the blinds. Below, in the parking lot, sat a black four-wheel-drive truck with knobby tires, tinted windows and a decal of a frog on the back windshield. “My truck? You got my truck?”
She laughed. “It’s yours, free and clear, no debt associated with the vehicle, if you agree to perform this mission.”
Striker frowned. “Still feels like a hit, especially with as much money as you’re throwing at it.”
“It’s not,” she said. “I’m not asking you to kill anyone.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“Take the ticket, buy the clothes, go to France. You’ll receive further instructions from there.”
“But what if—”
She’d ended the call.
Striker had had three choices. One, he could ignore the woman and keep the money and his truck. Two, he could ignore the offer, return the money and truck. Three, see where the mission was going, save the world and keep the money and truck.
He’d followed the instructions, reluctantly, knowing he didn’t have much of a choice. The money in his account and his truck could just as easily disappear as it had appeared. The woman had said she didn’t want him to kill anyone. How hard could this mission be?
And here he was, dressed like someone important, inside the reception hall of a fancy hotel in France, rubbing elbows with world leaders and awaiting orders.
When he’d arrived at the hotel, the clerk had been expecting him—at least the man on the fake passport. He’d handed Striker the keys to a suite in the hotel on the fifth floor. The bellman had led the way up, carrying the new suitcase containing his new clothes. Once inside the room, he’d found a tuxedo hanging in the closet, dress shoes in his size, an invitation to a reception in the hotel and a note.
Wear the tux, go to the reception and receive your orders there. Good luck. Charley
Before he’d gone down to the reception, he’d spent time reading up on the web about the reception, the attendees and the political issues they were facing.
The reception was the beginning of a two-day energy summit. The biggest issue up for debate would be the natural gas pipeline scheduled for expansion from Russia to Germany. Striker had studied the players involved from Sergei Baranovsky, the Russian diplomat heavily involved in the negotiations for the pipeline, to the German Federal Minister of Economics and Energy, Hans Sutter. Japan’s representative was a small man with salt-and-pepper hair, Hikosaburo Kono. Other representatives hailed from the United Kingdom, France, Italy and the European Union. The one person who had him most intrigued was the man who’d replaced the assassinated leader of Russian Internal Affairs.
The man Striker had terminated while still a SEAL.
His replacement, Anatoly Petrov, had a reputation as an aggressive negotiator and a ladies’ man. He liked women, and he liked getting his way, even if it meant turning his back and walking away from the table.
Striker wasn’t sure what he had to do with the Energy Summit, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to receive his next instructions unless the instructions had only been to wear the tuxedo and show up at the reception.
Surely, that wasn’t all of it.
Charley seemed interested in his skills as a Navy SEAL.
Navy SEALs weren’t normally dressed in tuxedos, attending diplomatic receptions with leaders of foreign countries. When he’d taken out the Russian in charge of Internal Affairs, he’d done it from the top of a building over a hundred yards away. He’d had his rifle packed up and moved out of the building before anybody really knew what had happened. He’d never been this close to a bunch of politicians, and he sure as hell didn’t fit in.
Along with the tuxedo and the shoes, he wore the earbuds Charley had given him in his first packet of information back in the States. He carried the burner phone in his pocket and awaited some clue as to what he was supposed to do at the reception.
He stood near the entrance, having arrived early to watch as the guests entered. Based on the pictures from the internet, he’d picked out Hans Sutter, the German, the Russians Sergei Baranovsky and Anatoly Petrov, the Japanese representative, and Lorenzo Ricci, the Italian. Richard Weddington, the United Kingdom representative, had yet to put in an appearance.
Movement at the door caught his attention. The UK representative and his wife stepped through the entrance, showed their invitations to the security guard manning the door and crossed the room to the bar where they ordered glasses of wine.
A raven-haired woman entered next, wearing a long silver gown that clung to her curves and rippled like mercury with every step she took. She smiled and handed the security guard her invitation. He frowned down at it for a moment, and then glanced up with narrowed eyes. She laughed and smiled more broadly, pointed at the invitation and said something Striker couldn’t quite hear from where he stood. The security guard tapped his ear and spoke into his microphone. A moment later, he gave the woman a nod and she entered the reception hall.
“Striker, can you hear me?” a voice said in his ears, startling him.
He hadn’t realized how focused he was on the woman who’d just walked in until Charley’s voice sounded in his ear. The comm device was a two-way radio which meant Charley had to be there in France and was close enough for the signals to come through.
“Roger,” he said.
“Are you ready for your mission?”
Irritation flared. “Depends on what the mission is,” he said. “Although, the use of my combat training seems irrelevant in this monkey suit.”
Her chuckle filled his ear. “It all will become clear momentarily,” she said. “And by the way, you look stunning in that tuxedo.”
Striker glanced around the reception hall, searching for a female possibly standing alone who was talking to no one in particular. There were several women who had accompanied their husbands to the event. Most of them were older, and all of them seemed to be occupied with other people, except for the one in the silver dress. She stopped to snag a glass of champagne from one of the waiters circulating through the room, smiling to thank him.
“Your mission tonight…” Charley said into his ear.
The woman in the silver dress turned at the same time, her mouth still forming a smile across her lips.
“—is to keep an assassination from happening,” Charley concluded.
No, the woman in the silver dress did not move her lips. The elusive Charley couldn’t be her. Somewhat disappointed, Striker looked around the room. “Whose assassination am I supposed to stop? And by the way, I recognize the irony.”
“Good. I know you did your homework on this event,” Charley stated. “If you’ve been following the energy struggles between Russia and Germany, you know how important this summit could be. I received intel indicating an assassination attempt will be made on one or both of the Russian diplomats. An agreement must be reached at this summit, or the energy needs of E
urope could be at risk. Climatologists indicate the coming winter could be one of the harshest in decades. Without the additional capacity the new pipeline could produce, and with the growing population in Europe, it could spell disaster if an accord is not reached.”
“Any idea who the assassin might be?”
“Therein lies the problem. My intelligence reports it’s the same assassin who has eliminated four of the five diplomats with connections to the Russian mafia. No one has seen the assassin to know who he is. I know that’s not much to go on,” she said. “The targets are the Russians. Have you located Sergei Baranovsky and Anatoly Petrov?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded. “This summit concludes in two days. Do either of the Russians know that I will be looking out for them?”
“No, and they are not to know. We hope that in the process of protecting these two men you might reveal the identity of the assassin.”
“And my cover for this operation?” he asked.
“You’re an escort for Natalya Zotin, a United Kingdom citizen of Russian descent, who speaks fluent Russian and translates for the Russian Minister of Energy and the Russian in charge of Internal Affairs. She should be entering the reception hall at this moment.”
A woman with auburn hair and wearing a green dress stepped through the entryway, handed her invitation to the security guard and looked out across the room. When her gaze met his, she smiled.
“Red hair?” Striker asked, careful not to move his lips too much.
“That’s her,” Charley said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
