by Cindy Dees
Meet the do-or-die warriors who’ll do anything for justice
Introducing the Mission Medusa series
Years of intense training have prepared Tessa Wilkes to become a Medusa—part of an elite, women-only Special Forces team. But all the mental prep and physical training in the world can’t prepare her fully to take on one of the world’s most dangerous men. The ultimate operative, Tessa teams with trainer Beau Lambert to track her target, but even if she survives, will her heart?
Beau closed the motel room’s door and turned to face Tessa, who stood in the middle of the room, frowning. “Problem?” he asked.
“Well, yes. There’s only one bed.”
“You afraid to share it with me?” He arched an eyebrow in an open dare. “What are you going to do when you’re bivouacking with a male team and all of you are crammed into a hide like sardines, spooning with each other?”
Her mint-green eyes narrowed. “I’ve got no problem sleeping with you. The question is, are you okay sleeping with me?”
He snorted. “Honey, I’m not sixteen. I’ve got my hormones firmly under control, thank you very much.” Which might not be entirely true where she was concerned. All of the previous Medusas had lived and worked in very close quarters with her male counterparts. She had to learn to do the same. Starting with him. Oh, joy.
“Great,” she said cheerfully. “Then you won’t mind if I take my pants off. They’re still a little wet.”
Well, hell. Give the woman points for calling his bluff.
* * *
Mission Medusa: a fierce team of warriors who
run into the danger zone...
* * *
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Dear Reader,
I’m beyond excited to welcome you to this, the first book in the return of the Medusas! It has been a few years and times have changed a bit since I wrote the very first Medusa story, The Medusa Project, in 2005. Back then, the idea of women in the Special Forces, let alone the idea of an all-female team of special operators, was pure fiction.
Now, some fourteen years later, women in the US military are allowed to serve in any job whose qualifications they can meet, including all of the Special Forces. The US Army uses women in Cultural Support Teams (CSTs) that work side by side with elite male Special Forces units. The first women have completed Army Ranger training, and news outlets are reporting on a few brave women Special Forces operatives serving alongside their male counterparts in irregular roles.
Furthermore, both the Norwegian Army and the Afghan Special Forces have fielded all-female Special Forces teams. Which is to say, the Medusas have become real.
I would like to think that adds even more excitement to these ongoing adventures of the Medusas. So, as always, pour your favorite beverage, sit back, relax and get ready to rock and roll with the baddest babes in combat boots and the men strong and brave enough to work with and love them...
Happy reading!
Cindy
Special Forces: The Recruit
Cindy Dees
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Cindy Dees is the author of more than fifty novels. She draws upon her experience as a US Air Force pilot to write romantic suspense. She’s a two-time winner of the prestigious RITA® Award for romance fiction, a two-time winner of the RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award for Romantic Suspense and an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Best Author Award nominee. She loves to hear from readers at www.cindydees.com.
Books by Cindy Dees
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Mission Medusa
Special Forces: The Recruit
The Coltons of Roaring Springs
Colton Under Fire
Code: Warrior SEALs
Undercover with a SEAL
Her Secret Spy
Her Mission with a SEAL
Navy SEAL Cop
Soldier’s Last Stand
The Spy’s Secret Family
Captain’s Call of Duty
Soldier’s Rescue Mission
Her Hero After Dark
Breathless Encounter
Visit Cindy’s Author Profile page at
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Excerpt from Soldier Protector by Kimberly Van Meter
Chapter 1
Staggering a little as she ran, Tessa Wilkes spied the finish line maybe a half mile ahead through waves of heat and dust. Whatever bastard had decided to call a twenty-mile run carrying a forty-pound rucksack a “sprint” should be shot. Right now. She volunteered to pull the trigger.
Her body hurt in every way it was possible to hurt. Three months of grueling, around-the-clock physical training had taken its toll on her. She’d reached the end of her rope, and her fingers were slipping off the last bit of said rope with every agonizing step.
She’d known going in that just because it had become legal for women to begin Special Forces training, it didn’t mean any were going to be allowed to finish the program and play with the big boys. The male instructors would keep doing BS like this run until they broke her. They were never going to back off.
Only she could make the pain stop. By quitting. By giving in. By accepting that she was never going to be one of them. She was sorely tempted to give up on her futile dream when she reached this one last finish line.
But no sooner had the impulse come to her than a wave of sheer, cussed stubbornness slammed through her. She was that horse who would die in the harness, still straining to pull its load.
Her face was on fire. Her lungs were self-combusting. The heavy pack hammered her feet into the ground with every step she took. But onward she staggered. Step after miserable step. At this point any reasonably fit person could walk beside her faster than she was running.
But she. Did. Not. Stop.
She’d asked for this insanity—begged for it, even—which made her misery even worse. It stripped away her right to complain. All she had left was anger.
She reached for her old friend, Fury. Born of rage at being powerless to control her life, it rose from her determination someday to become a strong, independent woman whom no man would ever push around.
Her steps stabilized. Her stride stretched back out into a full run. Less than a quarter mile to go now.
“Damn. Thought we had you there, Wilkes,” a male voice said sardonically from behind her.
She didn’t bother turning around to look. Lambert. A recently arrived instructor, he always wore mirrored shades and a baseball cap, which meant she had no i
dea what her latest tormenter actually looked like beyond that lean, chiseled jaw. And a physique modeled after the great masters of sculpture, of course. He never participated in harassing the trainees. He just watched. Mostly her.
He’d been hanging around pretty much continuously the past few days. Either he was studying her for who knew what inscrutable reason, or he was stalking her. Whatever. They could throw their best head games at her and run her till she dropped. When she got back up, she would just keep on going.
“Ahh, well. We’ll break you next time,” he murmured from just behind her. “Or the time after that. If you won’t quit coming after us, we won’t quit coming after you.”
His lightly delivered comment sent a chill through her. He was not lying. They would keep coming after her until they destroyed her.
The finish line of today’s “sprint” loomed ahead, and she pushed herself to reach it by envisioning a big glass of ice water waiting for her. She crossed the finish line and stopped cold, not taking one more running step than necessary as she panted in the oven-like heat.
She’d done it. One more time they’d failed to break her. A stone-faced instructor looked at a stopwatch and recorded her time on a clipboard without comment. She caught Lambert looking over Clipboard Guy’s shoulder. Both men pulled disgusted faces, then Lambert peeled off to head for the instructor’s building.
Screw them. She’d given it everything she had. Just because her triumph was their failure didn’t make it any less of a triumph for her. She bent over, planting her hands on her thighs, sucking in great, awful lungfuls of parched, scorching air.
“Wilkes!”
She looked up sharply at her barked last name.
“My office. Now.”
Crap. That was Major Torsten summoning her. No one knew exactly what he did around here, but even the instructors treated him with deep respect. Frankly, he scared her to death.
In an act of bald-faced defiance, she forced her protesting legs to run to the door of the Quonset hut Torsten loomed in. One corner of his mouth quirked up for just an instant before settling back into its usual tight, disapproving line.
Torsten disappeared inside the building as she trotted up the steps after him.
“Sit.” He pointed at a wooden chair in front of the desk he’d moved behind.
She slipped off her pack and sank into the chair not a moment too soon. Her legs felt entirely boneless. They would have collapsed on their own in a few more seconds. In fact, her entire body felt like a marionette’s with the strings cut. She was going to hurt like a big dog in a few hours. Cool air-conditioning wafted down on her, as blissful as angel’s breath.
“Enjoy the run?” Torsten asked drily.
As if she would give him the satisfaction of showing even a hint of weakness. Not a chance. She shrugged. “Nice scenery. And I’ve done worse.” Which was a total lie.
He opened a cabinet behind his desk and tossed her a bottle of water. She snagged it neatly midair and downed it greedily. Meanwhile, he opened a brown manila folder on his desk and lifted out papers one by one, glancing through them at his leisure. She just enjoyed being still and letting her body temperature return to something resembling normal.
At length, he closed the file and stared at her long and hard enough that she had to consciously tell herself not to squirm. She’d gotten used to the mind games they played around here and had learned not to break awkward silences unless she had something specific to say.
“You’re out,” Torsten announced without warning.
Out? As in out of training? Her mind went completely blank. A single word took shape and popped out of her mouth. “Why?”
“You are underperforming. Your run and swim times aren’t coming down fast enough and your physical fitness test scores are not coming up fast enough for you to stand a chance in the remainder of this course. You’re out.”
Shock slammed into her, wiping her mind clean.
Ten years. Ten grueling, miserable, painful years she’d been training in hopes of one day having a shot at the Special Forces—practically around the clock. God, the things she’d sacrificed for this. A normal social life. The relationships she’d let pass her by. The friendships lost. Jobs turned down. She’d geared her entire life around this.
It simply couldn’t be over.
Besides. She already met all the minimum required scores to pass this training! And just like that, she was out?
“Are Jones and Peterson out, too?” she blurted. They were men in her class. Men whom she consistently outperformed and outscored.
“I’m not discussing any other trainees with you, Wilkes.”
She looked up at him, then. Stared into ice-blue eyes that did not for a second flinch in the face of her silent outrage. Arguing with him would be useless. Both trainees and instructors called him the Iceberg behind his back because the bastard never thawed and never budged.
The Special Forces did not want her. They had tested her and found her wanting. And they were not going to debate the decision with her. Just, “You’re out.” Done. Pack your stuff and leave.
Anger exploded abruptly in her gut, knocking the air out of her lungs, and leaving her panting with fury. This sanctimonious bastard dared to hide his misogyny behind her performance numbers? Why not just call it what it was? These male chauvinist pigs just didn’t want to let a girl into their little boys’ club!
She pressed words past her clenched teeth. “I get why you are resisting allowing women into your hallowed band of brothers. But it’s a mistake. Not many women have what it takes, but a few of us do.”
He leaned back in his leather executive chair and merely continued to stare at her, his entire demeanor cold and emotionless.
She warmed to her subject and ignored his body language shouting at her to shut the heck up. “We have talents and skills that would be an asset to the teams. You guys are weaker because of our exclusion. Other countries are already figuring that out, and you’ll end up scrambling to play catch-up. But by the time you catch on, the women you need will be so pissed off we’ll have moved on to other jobs. Other lives. You’ll be poison to the very women you need.”
“Are you done?” he snapped.
She crossed her arms defensively over her chest and pressed her lips tightly together, the rest of the rant she so badly wanted to throw at him barely contained. Silently, she flung the worst names at him she could think of.
Out of good names, she reverted to her Venezuelan mother’s native tongue for more.
He said more mildly, “You’ve got orders.”
“To where?” she demanded. God, that was fast. He’d already gotten her assigned to some other base? The man didn’t mess around when he tossed someone out of his unit.
“Phoenix.”
What on earth did the Army have for her to do in Phoenix, Arizona? The only military base nearby was Luke Air Force Base in Glendale. She wasn’t being cross-posted to the Air Force, was she?
“Lambo!” Torsten called.
Lambert of the gorgeous jaw poked his head in the door, hat and sunglasses gone for the first time, and she did a no-kidding, wrench-her-neck double take. She’d seen some beautiful men in her life, but behind the disguise, this one was in a class all his own. The guy was a walking recruitment poster. The motto on it would be, “Join the Army and become a living god.”
His American flag–blue gaze took her in coolly. Thoroughly. And everywhere his scrutiny touched her, she abruptly felt naked. On fire.
He looked away from her like she was about as interesting as a cockroach. She sagged in her chair and let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Sir?” the god asked in a smooth, confident voice.
Oh, man. Her ovaries just melted.
Lambert stepped fully into the doorway and liquid heat pooled in her groin. The guy was hotn
ess personified. Raw sex appeal rolled off him in waves that made her feel as if she was drowning in lust. Cripes. There should be nothing the least bit attractive about this guy. She wanted to be a Spec Ops warrior, not do a Spec Ops warrior.
“You have your orders, Beau. Direct orders.”
Lambert scowled fiercely at Torsten, and she looked back and forth between them. What was she missing? Why the emphasis on the words direct orders?
Torsten continued, “Escort Wilkes to the airfield. Put her on a plane and get her off my base. You know what her orders are. See to it she follows them.”
Torsten didn’t have to be nasty about it. He’d already won.
Lambert frowned thunderously, clearly not pleased—at all—at having to babysit her. He glared at Torsten, who glared back. If she didn’t know better, she would say they were communicating silently through some secret warrior mind powers.
Lambert made a sound of disgust, and Torsten replied, “Your objections are duly noted. But we’re doing this my way.”
“It’s a mistake—” Lambert started.
Torsten cut him off, snapping, “We’ve already had this discussion. Report back to me after you’ve gotten your head out of your ass.”
Lambert spun on his heel, scowling. “Let’s go, Wilkes. I’ve got places to go and things to do.”
She hefted her pack wearily over one shoulder and headed for the door after “Lambo.” She would lay odds he got that handle not entirely because of his last name but also in honor of a Lamborghini—the sleek, sexy Italian sports car.
“Hustle up, Wilkes,” Torsten said sharply. “Your ride’s already waiting. You’re late.”
She scowled. She couldn’t very well be late for an appointment she didn’t even know she had until ten seconds ago. “What about my gear back at the dorm?”
“It’ll be shipped to you.”
Wow. He really had it in for her, didn’t he?
She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. She spoke with quiet certainty, not by way of a whine, but stating a fact. “You’re making a mistake, Major.”
