Table of Contents
Title Page
SEAL Team: Disavowed
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Epilogue
Dear Reader
About the Author
Copyright
SCORNED
SEAL Team: Disavowed
Book Seven
Laura Marie Altom
SEAL Team: Disavowed
To become a United States Navy SEAL, a man must be physically forged in steel and able to mentally compute life or death situations with laser accuracy and speed. Our country trusts these men with the most sensitive military operations—many so covert that once they are successfully completed, they are never spoken of again.
This series celebrates one particularly fierce band of brothers who valiantly battled terrorists whose crimes against nature and humanity were far too great to chance escape. On a dark night, on foreign soil, SEAL Team Alpha witnessed acts so unspeakably cruel against women, infants and small children that their consciences would not allow anything other than their own brand of justice for the scum terrorist cell.
A trial would have been too good for these pigs, and so, one-by-one they were taken out, and the women and children they’d used were freed. By dawn, an entire region breathed easier. The men of Alpha found themselves heroes to those whose lives they had saved, but virtual criminals in the eyes of the organization they served. After a lengthy investigation, their elite, covert team was formally disbanded.
They now spend their lives deep undercover, still serving—no longer their country, but individuals who find themselves in need of not only their own personal warrior, but a particular brand of justice.
While honorably discharged, these men and their actions will forever be disavowed . . .
SEAL Team: Disavowed series
Rogue, Book 1
Outcast, Book 2
Shunned, Book 3
Exiled, Book 4
Renegade, Book 5
Forsaken, Book 6
Scorned, Book 7
1
Brutal Bayou, Louisiana
SOME PEOPLE SAY fire kills, but they’d be wrong.
Fire was life. It was the ultimate beauty. The way it undulated and danced. So sensual. So free. It could be your lover. Your best friend.
That’s why he’d fallen so hard for Miranda, because she’d done battle with the flames and emerged the victor. That made her even better. Who else could say that? Essentially, that made her a goddess, and because of that, he had to have her.
Have her in every conceivable sense of the word. She’d share his bed. His life.
Ultimately . . . his coffin.
But it was far too soon for that. First, he wanted to have some fun.
Parking his truck in front of Miranda’s bar, Blackie’s—renamed in honor of the smudges left on the tin roof by that summer’s close call to the elevated wooden structure, he hitched up his jeans and smiled. It was going to be a great night.
He’d been lucky to grab one of the last few good parking spots.
Honkytonk blared through the muggy June air.
Couples streamed arm-in-arm into the establishment. The grand re-opening was turning out to be quite a draw.
See? You were all weepy about the fire, but looks like I did you quite the favor.
“Moody, back off! I said, no!”
Miranda? He charged across the lot to check on the commotion. Sure enough, out on the quiet side of the party deck, Miranda fended off that rich kid who had no business even being down here. Prick.
“You told me you wanted to give us a try.” Moody apparently never had learned his manners.
“The lady said she’d take a pass.” A man he’d never seen before had stepped out of the bar and onto the deck.
He squinted, repositioning around a random truck bed while trying to get a better view.
“Who the hell are you?” Moody asked.
“Leave him alone,” Miranda said. “This is the former Navy SEAL I told you about. The one with ties to my father. You know? Here about the arsons? But we’re keeping it under wraps.”
What? This was news to him.
“Jackson Elliott.” The hotshot SEAL held out his hand for Moody to shake.
Once the two men and Miranda finished their conversation and entered the bar, he slowly backed away, all the while picking a slow-healing scab from a burn to the palm of his hand. He liked the pain—needed it.
Interesting how life had a way of working things out. He’d planned on redecorating her beloved Spanish Moss Inn next, but Miranda’s disgusting show of taking their community’s newcomer by his arm while leading him into her establishment, forced him into a new direction. Yes, his next move had instantly become all too clear. “Jackson Elliott . . . You’re next to burn.”
2
“I APPRECIATE YOU being here on such short notice.” Miranda Wilson, the bar’s owner and his contact, slid a longneck microbrew across the glossy-finished wood bar.
“No problem. Thanks.” Jackson Elliott, disavowed Navy SEAL and Trident, Inc. team member tipped the bottle in appreciation before taking a sip. Honkytonk blared while a crowd of at least a couple hundred rednecks danced, laughed, shouted and in general grew drunker by the minute. “Is there anywhere we can go that’s quiet?”
She winced, nodding toward a door to the right of a beer cooler. “My office.”
Jackson had to turn sideways to escape the crowded bar. His red vinyl stool was instantly taken by a brunette with giant 80s hair and too much red lipstick.
Sidling up to the nearest of three bartenders, a shaved-headed hulk with more tattoos on his arm than bare skin, Miranda stood on her tiptoes to whisper something. The guy appraised Jackson, giving him a wary nod before pouring a customer’s Fireball shot.
“Come on…” Miranda met Jackson at their appointed spot.
She fit a key into the door’s lock, then opened it for him, gesturing him through to a cramped vestibule that was maybe three-by-four. Beige walls were decorated with various state workplace safety notices. Once she closed the door, there was nowhere for him to go but up the narrow staircase. He didn’t like having her behind him, but with no other option, he dealt with it, warring with the uncomfortable heat radiating up his spine.
At the top of the stairs, he found a simple rectangular office that would be unremarkable save for the strip of windows all the way around. It had been dark when he found the place, and with all the noise and traffic, he hadn’t noticed, but by day, it must resemble an architectural crown with a view for miles. On one end of the room stood a feminine cherry desk with matching credenza and two guest chairs. At the opposite end, a blue-striped sofa and matching armchair formed an L-shape around a glass coffee table. In every corner and atop most flat surfaces lived plants. Palms and ferns and orchids and lush tropical species he didn’t recognize. Aside from the faint smell of soil, fresh paint and new furniture told a story he already knew.
The floors were highly polished cherry, covered in plush white rugs—one for under each defined area. A bathroom door stood open near the desk.
Music and muted conversation still reverberated through the floor, but the noise level was considerably better.
“Plants are kinda my thing,” she said, aiming for the sofa. She kicked off her cowboy boots, then curled into the corner nearest a brass lamp. “They don’t talk back or complain they’re not getting paid enough or working too many hours. As long as I treat them with respect, they repay me with beauty.”
“Sounds like a fair trade.�
� Jackson took the armchair. It sat like a cloudy dream. Pricey?
“So…” Eyes closed, she leaned her head back against the sofa cushion and sighed. Was it wrong to find his client’s throat sexy? Yes. Which was why he squashed the urge to bridge the distance between them. “I imagine you’ve heard about how this place was burned to the ground a year ago? And I just now got it rebuilt?”
He nodded. “Aside from your bar, the arsonist took out a half-dozen derelict outbuildings, a drydocked shrimp trawler, and most recently the WWI statue in front of City Hall. But nobody’s been injured, correct?”
“Right…” She hugged herself.
“But there’s something else you or your dad didn’t tell Harding?” Harding was the beating heart of the Trident, Inc. family. He’d been in charge of their unit when they’d still been in the Navy and he still called the shots now. Jackson thought of him as a brother. If Harding believed Miranda had a serious problem, she did. The same gut instinct that warned Jackson before stepping on a landmine told him there was a whole lot more going on that remained to be seen.
“This will probably sound silly, but—”
“Tell me. Anything. No matter how small.”
“Right. Okay, well…” Head raised, eyes wide open, she licked her full lips while twisting her long honey-toned hair into a bun.
Jackson caught himself holding his breath. Down, boy. Lord, she was a sight to behold.
“There’s no way I can prove this—it’s more of a feeling. But lately, I always feel like someone’s watching me. I look, but no one’s there. It’s the oddest sensation. Even when I’m home alone, I feel like I’m not. My mom says it’s Confederate ghosts, but I’ve never been a fan of the paranormal.”
“I didn’t know there were Civil War battles this far south?”
“Brutal Bayou got its name from what old-timers say was a particularly nasty, downright brutal fight. There was supposedly so much blood that Moxey Creek ran red for days. Back to my uneasy feeling, I can’t explain it, but sometimes I feel like this arsonist is waging a personal vendetta against me.”
“Do you have any enemies?”
“I’m the mayor. Everyone either loves or hates me. Comes with the territory.”
“I forgot. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She winced. “To better answer your question, yes. I have lots of enemies, but no one who especially stands out. The night this place burned, I was at our family’s hotel and wedding venue—Spanish Moss Inn—the place where your associate, Briggs Denton, and his fiancée India will be married, when I felt an oppressive energy behind me. It sounds ridiculous, but right after is when I got the call about the fire.”
“People do have energy. It’s possible someone was behind you. At this point, I’m not prepared to discount any lead. Anything else about that night you remember? Or any of the other fires?”
“All of them except for the trawler took place on family land. The City Hall statue was a huge part of my office view.”
“That’s significant.”
“I thought so, too. But the local fire chief says that because everyone around here is related in some way, it could all be a coincidence.”
“In the morning, I’ll check out each site. The rest of the team rolls in next Friday. Since today is Thursday, that gives me a week to work up a map showing each fire’s location, along with landowner information. I should also check your home and this place for bugs and video surveillance.”
“You mean someone could be watching me?”
“It happens. That would account for your creepy vibe.”
Lips pressed into a grim line, she nodded. “That all sounds fine. I do have a favor to ask of you.”
“Name it.”
“I have a city council meeting scheduled for early this evening. I’d like you to be there in case anyone has questions. There’s been a lot of pressure for me to seek outside help with this, but I’m not sure it’s escalated to that level, and I also don’t want to harm our reputation. In the past few years—between the wedding venue, B & Bs, and all the antique stores popping up on Clover Avenue, we’ve become a seriously popular weekend destination. Plus, there are a few larger business considerations. Regardless, we can’t afford to have our reputation tarnished all because of some deranged firebug with a grudge.”
“I understand. I don’t anticipate any surprises. With luck, we’ll have this case solved before Briggs and India take their—”
“Boss lady!” a man shouted up the stairs.
“Yes?” Miranda’s tone sounded hesitant.
“We got trouble!”
She groaned.
Jackson stood, offering her his hands to help her to her feet. She accepted, catching him off guard with not just a flood of awareness, but concern. He barely knew the woman, but wanted to protect her. This arsonist was no joke. It wasn’t too far of a stretch to believe the guy capable of snapping. His fire-starting might have so far been harmless, but what if he changed his mind and decided hurting people gave him an added thrill?
“What’s wrong?” After calling down the stairs, she looked to their still joined hands, then pulled free. An odd look crossed her face, flickering too fast for Jackson to read. Annoyance? Surprise?
“You’re not gonna believe this…” The creak of heavy footfalls rising up the stairs announced the bald bartender Jackson had seen earlier. His eyes widened to find Jackson standing alongside Miranda. Hadn’t he seen them enter her office together? If not, the guy had a lesson coming in Awareness 101. “Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were still here. I’m Lex. Been with the boss lady for what? Five? Six, years?”
“Something like that.” Though the summer air in the small space was stagnant, Miranda hugged herself as if she was cold. “Out with it. What’s wrong?”
“Well… A woman said she saw a ghost light out in the swamp, but then another gal said there was a car on fire, but—”
BOOM!
An explosion’s concussive force rocked the entire building on its support stilts.
On autopilot, Jackson dove for Miranda, shoving her toward the sofa, sheltering her with his body.
From outside, a symphony of car alarms beeped and blared.
“Everyone okay?” Jackson asked.
“I-I think so,” Lex crouched at the top of the stairs, cradling his head.
Jackson gingerly rose. “Miranda?”
“I’m good. But we need to go see what happened.”
“Absolutely.”
Jackson took the lead down the stairs, followed by Miranda, then Lex.
Upon opening the door leading to the bar’s main floor, pandemonium ruled. A third of the customers surged toward the exits, a third still sat at their tables or the bar drinking. The rest of them either danced or stood at the windows, jockeying for a better view.
Wanting to keep Miranda close, Jackson clasped her hand—not exactly professional, but he couldn’t risk her vanishing in the crowd. When she didn’t protest, he forged ahead until reaching the party deck. The air wasn’t much cooler, but at least he had enough space to safely release Miranda’s hand without fear of losing her.
He scanned the chaotic parking lot, only to get a shock.
The car that was still burning?
Jackson’s rental.
3
“WHAT A NIGHT…” Miranda placed a stack of clean towels on the foot of Jackson’s bed. He’d be staying in one of the wedding venue’s raised bungalows. This near the Atchafalaya River, most all homes were built on stilts. Even the southern mansion-style main house had been raised, but with multitiered decks and stair landings, the stilts had been hidden. The end result was her mother’s vision of Gone with the Wind’s Tara—only hurricane and flood-proof. “I can’t apologize enough for your less than congenial welcome to town.”
He shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“But I think you’re right. The fire wasn’t just personal, but a message.”
“Hundred percent. This was the arsonist’
s calling card. Not only does he want me gone, I’m guessing he doesn’t like me being with you.”
“Why would you think that?” She sat on the foot of the bed, raising her long hair from her neck, twisting it into a bun. Of all nights to forget a hair clip.
“You do that a lot,” he said, nodding toward her head. “If your neck’s so hot, why not cut your hair?”
“Maybe I love my long hair?”
He chuckled. “I like it, too. But if it bugs you…”
“Are you suddenly a hair and arson expert?”
“Yep.” His slow and easy grin caught her breath. He’d been surveying the suite with its living and kitchen combo and assortment of potted plants, but he now zeroed in on the antique ball-and-claw writing desk. He took something, shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans, then returned to her. “As the little brother to three sisters, I spent a lot of time being babysat. During that time, I learned more than any man should ever know about hair. May I?” He gestured to the general vicinity of her head.
“By all means. Show me what you’ve got.” When he sat behind her, close enough for his radiant heat to warm her back, her pulse curiously raced. She dropped her hair, letting it fall in a heavy wave to the center of her back. Call it vanity, but she did love her locks. She’d never thought of herself as being pretty. Her gray eyes were too big, nose too small and cheekbones too high. All of that might be okay on a five-foot-eleven fashion model, but she stood a petite five-two. Given her extra twenty pounds, she wouldn’t be hurt by backing away from any given dessert tray.
She sucked in a deep breath when the backs of his fingers grazed her neck’s hypersensitive skin. All her senses heightened. From beyond open screened windows, insects hummed louder. The air felt thicker. Smelled of the rich, dusky swamp and the faint beer lingering on Jackson’s breath.
How long had it been since she’d been attracted to a man? It might not be professional, but there it was, as undeniable as it was instant. Not good when she held the livelihood of the entire town in her hands.
Scorned Page 1
