2-Stroke (SEAL Team Alpha Book 14)

by Zoe Dawson

  It wasn’t until she had been threatened when they were in eighth grade that they had started to get to know each other. It was then that she found out that Neo’s aloofness was his layer of armor. Armor that hid a bona fide knight beneath all that teenaged angst. She found his maturity and honor increasingly sweet and endearing.

  Hanging around with him became second nature as a real closeness developed between them. In many ways, he was easier to be around than anyone in her class or home. She loved her grandmother fiercely, but her time was always limited. There was also a slew of foster kids that took up a lot of time and energy.

  Neo became someone very special and significant in Chry’s life, a friend, a confidant, the brother she never had.

  It wasn’t until their freshman year in high school that he had been more intractable, even to her. Something had happened over the summer he wouldn’t talk about. It wasn’t as if their friendship had…diminished. It was more like Neo had retreated inside himself. He was always working out, running, pumping iron, doing pushups, pullups, swimming, and martial arts at the local YMCA, adding muscle and definition and driving her mad with his distance.

  But even then, even with all that had happened to him, he had come to her rescue at thirteen and everything seemed to change once again. She had developed a wild crush on him, but he had been nothing but a gentleman, and even as her hope blossomed, it had been dashed when he left without a word before the graduation ceremony. Sitting there with all their classmates hadn’t felt like a new beginning, but a terrible end. She’d only discovered later, from Dean, that he had gone off and joined the Navy.

  She believed that one of the reasons she’d joined the CIA was because of Neo, because of what he had done with his life.

  He stirred, his moan soft and painfilled. The light from the rising sun spilled over his face, contouring his features with shadows, the sharp angle of his jaw harder than she remembered, the straight dark lines of his brows, the seriousness of his gaze…and the world’s most amazing mouth.

  In the distance, as the sky brightened and a new day dawned, she could see nothing but green below them, a huge forest with no sign of civilization. She closed her eyes and from somewhere, a well of determination, she found the hope to continue to fight. They were both alive, and they would escape or get rescued. Their team had come so close.

  The helo descended and the drop brought 2-Stroke fully awake. His lids popped open, and he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were burning with regret that he hadn’t been able to shoulder her out of the chopper. It made her gut churn to think if he had succeeded, he would be all alone with these assholes and she might have been safe, but unable to be thankful for his selfless act. She’d rather be here, fighting alongside him.

  As the helicopter continued to descend, the dense overgrowth of the forest opened to reveal a huge structure. As they drew closer, it looked to her like a logging camp.

  The helo touched down, and the wind generated by the blades made her shiver as the doors opened and Zasha shoved her out. The ground beneath her bare feet was cold. She wondered if she would ever be warm again. The guard dragged 2-Stroke out, and he slumped against the large man as if his legs couldn’t carry him.

  He looked at her from beneath that mop of chestnut hair, looking beat up but not out of the fight. She realized if he tried anything here, it would be useless. They exchanged a look that said later.

  Zasha prodded her and she broke eye contact with 2-Stroke. They moved across the camp, the workers barely paying them any attention, obviously used to this type of situation. Walking up the hill, Chry noticed the corral of horses. Several were saddled, some milling around eating grass. It was clear they must use these animals to travel around. She tucked that away, thinking horses didn’t need keys and were very easy to borrow.

  She’d never ridden, but in this situation, she’d be willing to play cowgirl. When they got free, and they would get free, they would need some fast transportation. They marched them up a dirt road to a residence constructed with gorgeous wood and flagstone and river rock. It looked like an upscale mansion that would look right at home in LA or New York. Darko obviously loved to live large, and she had to wonder if he owned this logging operation. Could the crime lord be involved in a legitimate business?

  They went around the mansion to an entrance that was placed to the side of the structure. The guard, now joined by three more men, opened a door at the bottom of several concrete steps.

  The first thing she noticed as they entered was the warmth. It was a boon to her equilibrium. Even the stone beneath her feet was warm. They were then ushered to a room where there were two chairs. Nothing else. The chairs were against a plain gray wall.

  Chry turned to look at 2-Stroke and his mouth tightened. What the hell was Zasha up to now?

  “Take a seat. Don’t resist. It won’t be good for you, and I’m really pissed at what happened at the island. Your team is quite clever, using Darko’s…obsession against him. We won’t be easily manipulated again.”

  2-Stroke looked like he was going to fight, but Chry knew it wasn’t going to help and would only diminish them and their ability to free themselves. She reached out and clasped his forearm, squeezing until he looked at her.

  There was an inflexible set to his face, as though he were struggling for control, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. As if surfacing from a long-deep dive, he hauled in a ragged breath and slowly relaxed, sending a look of understanding her way, some of the hardness leaving his face.

  He took one of the seats and they tied him to the chair.

  “That was touching,” Zasha said. “I might have been going at him in the wrong way all along. I wonder what he would give up for you.”

  She didn’t give Chry the option of taking the chair on her own. Zasha set her hand in the middle of Chry’s chest and shoved her. She stumbled back, and the guards caught her arms and slammed her down into the chair, quickly binding her wrists and feet.

  Chry’s tailbone ached and the skin at her wrists and ankles stung as they bound her to the chair. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned toward the figure. But he stayed in the shadows by the door. All she could make out was a pair of Nike sneakers, blue jeans, and just the hint of a red shirt tucked into the waistband. He had a slight build, like that of a teenager.

  Why didn’t it surprise her that Darko didn’t care what a young boy saw?

  Zasha pulled out her phone as one of the guards handed her a selfie stick. She attached the camera and started speaking.

  “To whom it may concern. I have your people: Petty Officer Neo Teller and Officer Chrysanthe Steele.” She moved the phone toward them, then continued, “Let me preface my offer with the warning that their time is running out. I’m done playing.” Anger radiated from her, and her voice was dangerously quiet. She took some steps away from them, and Chry was sure they were out of the phone’s picture.

  Apprehension shot through her when Chry saw the unyielding gleam in her eyes. There was something coldly hostile about the tension in Zasha’s jaw, and she had the unnerving feeling that Zasha was setting the stage…for something terrible.

  “I will turn both of them over to you at a designated place, but in return, I want you to give me Lieutenant Ford Nixon for crimes against my family. A blood feud if you want to call it something. If you don’t turn him over to me, both Neo and Chrysanthe will die. I’ll make sure you all get a front row seat.” She panned back to them and Chry worked at keeping her face neutral in the wake of Zasha’s offer. The Navy would never agree to such a trade. Zasha had to be aware of it as well. She was going to claim their lives in the name of her blood feud. Maybe she hoped Ford would see this video and take matters into his own hands and give himself up to Zasha.

  She prayed that didn’t happen. Where she and 2-Stroke had the advantage of clinging to the hope of life and escape, Ford would be executed almost immediately without any chance of rescue.

  “I’m not unreason
able. I understand there are procedures and protocols, and the engine moves slow. I vow to keep your people safe and comfortable for two weeks. After that time is up, I will either get Ford Nixon or I will kill them…or sell them to the highest bidder. I believe Muhammad Angar Said would be amenable to a deal. The torture I put them through will be mild compared to what will happen to them once he has them. Just food for thought.”

  She smiled, then turned toward them, nodding at the guards. Without warning, a hood dropped over her head, and the sound of knuckles hitting flesh was the only sound in the room.

  “Oh, one more thing. I reserve the right to punish Petty Officer Teller for his defiance in pushing that ATF agent out of the helicopter.” Her voice hardened as the sounds continued and she was released from the chair and dragged away.

  “Neo!” Chry screamed. “Stop it, Zasha. Leave him alone!”

  But the beating went on until the sound of his pain and suffering retreated into the distance.

  She vowed she would do anything and everything to get them out of here. They were leaving here together, and she and Neo would show no mercy in their escape, for there was none in Zasha or Darko to spare…if any at all.

  Saint watched the beginning of the video and clenched his fists and jaw against the sight of 2-Stroke and Chry, bound to chairs, looking worse for wear. Their skin was ashen, bruises everywhere on their faces and necks, but he was bolstered by the determination in their eyes. They weren’t out of the fight.

  They had been called to the ready room at their home base in that government-provided building in Sarajevo. Licking their wounds and feeling frustrated and angry at the way the rescue op had gone down—they hadn’t botched a hostage rescue ever—they sat helplessly and had to swallow her dictating terms to them.

  When Zasha, that bitch, got to her one demand, he wasn’t the only one who rose to his feet in denial.

  “Fuck her!” Hemingway shouted.

  “She can fucking kiss our asses,” Pitbull yelled.

  “No way!” Dragon barked.

  Then the room descended into chaos until Anna, with her shrill whistle, signaled them to all be quiet. She had paused the video when the room erupted into foul language and anger.

  “There’s more here, and it’s…just watch.” She pressed play and Zasha, who had been frozen, started speaking again.

  When they heard the sounds of 2-Stroke’s beating, Saint had never felt the cold-blooded thought that he would kill this woman on sight. He was a SEAL. They were trained in combat, shoot to kill. But so help him God, when he had her in his sights the next time, he wasn’t going to hesitate to put a bullet in her head. He looked around the table at his quiet, anguished teammates and knew they all felt the same way. This was a personal attack, retaliation toward their CO, their teammate, and their CIA liaison, putting them all through a ruthless wringer designed to break their morale and make them feel helpless.

  But her actions had the opposite effect. There wasn’t a man sitting there who didn’t feel the same way as Saint, renewed in purpose, dedicated to action, unanimous in agreement that they would risk much to see Zasha and Darko either captured or dead. There would be no place either of them could hide now. Their tireless pursuit was a given.

  The video ended abruptly with Zasha’s smirk and triumphant gleam in her eyes.

  Anna was silent for a moment as if she had to compose herself all over again. “The brass has already declined the remotest chance that we would willingly trade one of our own for certain execution. It comes all the way from the White House. Fast Lane will not be traded under any circumstances. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Then let’s figure out where they are and go get them.”

  Saint didn’t like the soft exhalation and the bruised look in Anna’s eyes.

  “We do know the general area where they are. But, unfortunately, that’s not good news.” She clicked on a thickly forested area. “This is Bosanska Krajina, a region in northwestern Bosnia, north of Banja Luka, the second largest city in Bosnia and the de facto capital and largest city of Republika Srpska.” She clicked through a few more slides. “We picked up the helicopter from the ship and a satellite caught it entering Bosnian airspace. We lost it once the satellite passed. We believe they landed somewhere in this wilderness.”

  “What’s the holdup then?” Pitbull asked.

  “While the Prime Minister was happy to have us work out of Sarajevo, he will not permit us to enter his home area. He assures us he will send in his own people to assess the situation and report back to us. He is aware of the timeframe for the exchange. He will interpret any attempt by us to enter this area either overtly or covertly as an act of war. We are grounded here in Sarajevo where all we can do is gather intel as best we can.”

  “Bullshit,” Saint said. “He’s in Darko’s pocket. I guarantee it. He called in a favor and the PM denies us access. Are we going to stand for this?”

  “We have no choice in the matter. Our hands are tied.”

  With that crushing information, they were dismissed. They went to their bunks, bitter with the decision not to launch a black ops mission to save their people. It went against everything they stood for—never leave a man behind. Neo was their teammate, their brother, part of the SEAL ethos, their inaction rubbing them all raw. Chry was their liaison, but it seemed the CIA was also tied up in this decision by the PM, leaving them literally no recourse but to buck authority and launch a mission to save them on their own.

  Hours later, unable to sleep, Saint got up and headed for the mess for a cup of tea. He passed one of the balconies on his way there and stopped when he heard muffled noises. Someone was in distress. He stopped and retraced his steps, pushing the balcony door open. The air was chilly, and he saw a hooded figure, bundled up, shoulders shaking, leaning against the concrete edge of the terrace.

  He realized the person was crying. It made his chest ache to hear the soft weeping. He couldn’t leave them alone like that in that kind of grief. He touched the person’s shoulder and they stiffened and hastily wiped at their face. Finally, the person turned, and Aella’s face, pale in the moonlight, her eyes swollen with tears, stared up at him.

  As though there was an enormous energy built up in her, she met his gaze, her shoulders square, her chin up. “What are you doing up so late?” she asked, her voice shaky with emotion like she was trying to hold everything in. “I thought…I was alone.”

  His own throat suddenly tight, he abruptly stuck his hands in his pockets, not trusting himself. Unable to tear his gaze from her face, he said, his own voice gruff, “You’re not alone, Aella.”

  Her expression crumpled at his words, then suddenly she covered her face with one hand and started crying in earnest. “Oh, God, this is terrible and it’s my fault. I failed. I should have made him leave. He saved my life, and we can do nothing.”

  In spite of all the reasons he should keep his hands off her, he just couldn’t stand to watch this tough woman fall apart like that. “It’s not your fault. You risked everything to save them. It was just bad luck,” he said softly, reaching for her.

  He held her in a tight, secure embrace. Caught under enormous pressure, his heart felt squeezed in his chest. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard and tightened his hold, his years of being a medic kicking in. With her warm and soft against him, Saint locked his jaw and made himself take a deep, slow breath, the heat from her body making his blood thicken. Ah, but it felt so good to hold her—so damned good.

  She cried softly for a few moments, then pushed out of his arms. “I don’t normally let anyone see me like this. I keep it private.”

  “Yeah, because you’re such a badass.”

  She dashed at her tears. “That’s right,” she said. Her honesty made his heart roll over and his chest clog up. “What are we going to do about this? We can’t leave them to die, Saint.”

  Feeling as if he might lose it himself, he nodded. “We aren’t. We just have to figure something out, and w
e will. I promise you. We’re not going to leave them to die.”

  Chry sat on the bunk in her cell, curled in the corner with her legs drawn up. They had given her a bucket of tepid water and clean clothes along with socks, allowing her to wash—not in private, but she did her best to keep her nakedness to a minimum aware that the guard was watching her. She didn’t encourage him. She didn’t have to. His manipulation would be the beginning of the end of their captivity or she would die trying.

  There was comfort and warmth from the blankets, but her heart was cold and in complete turmoil. She had no idea where 2-Stroke was, and unless they put them together, there was going to be a slim chance for them to figure out how to get out of here.

  Suddenly, she felt a presence and her head jerked up. Someone moved in the shadows outside her cell. “Who’s there?” she called.

  He stepped into the light, and she recognized the clothes—blue jeans, white Nikes, and the red shirt. She’d been right. It was a teenager who had watched from the shadows during Zasha’s demand video, and he couldn’t be more than fourteen.

  She softened her voice. “What do you want?”

  He motioned her over and pulled something out of his back pocket. She sat there for a moment, unsure if this was some kind of trick conjured up by Zasha. She rose from the bed and walked over to the cell bars.

  He slipped something through the opening, and she looked down to find a bar of chocolate.

  “I’m Aleksandar Custovic, Darko’s nephew, but call me Alek. I’m sorry about what he’s doing to you. I can get more.”

  She clasped his hand, ignoring the chocolate. “Do you know where Neo is?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Yes, not far from here. I like him. He’s cool.”

  Her heart jumped with the news. “You’ve talked to him? Is he all right?”

  He nodded. “Beat up pretty bad, but my psycho uncle and his crazy girlfriend let our doctor patch him up. Zasha is at least true to her word. He’s clean and has been fed as well. But he’ll need to heal for a bit.”