Covertly Strong (The Strong Series Book 1)

by N. A. Alcorn

  “Always such a pussy,” Slade goads beside him.

  Julian chuckles and eyes Slade with amusement. “You’re calling him a pussy? You’re the one drinking that piss-poor domestic shit.”

  Nix laughs loudly at his buddy’s expense, ignoring the initial jab towards his manhood. “You two need to knock it the fuck off,” he mutters under his breath once he overhears Slade and Julian tossing out more colorful insults to each other.

  Goddamn Navy SEALs. You can’t take ‘em anywhere.

  He shakes his head in exasperation as he sits down at one of the large, round tables centered in an impressive ballroom located inside the San Diego Conference Center. Tonight, he is attending the Navy Compassionate Warriors Dinner—a yearly event the Navy puts on in support of the SEAL of Honor Foundation, also known as SHF.

  Normally, Nix avoids these kinds of events, but this foundation’s mission is important to him. The SHF stands behind all US Navy SEALs, Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen, Naval Special Warfare support personnel, and their families. It’s a wonderful organization that also takes the time to reach out to other charities with a strong military focus. Yeah, they’re not just a bunch of gun-toting, cocky assholes performing covert missions. Most current and former Navy SEALs strive to donate and help out several charity organizations. They are a family—a brotherhood—and they are always there for each other no matter what.

  Lieutenant Nixon West is, first and foremost, a Navy SEAL. He is the leader of his platoon. This job is his life—his sole purpose to get out of bed every day.

  SEALs are named after the environments in which they operate—the Sea, Air, and Land. They are the foundation of Naval Special Warfare combat forces. They are organized, trained, and equipped to conduct special operations missions in every type of environment. SEALs operate on their own set of rules. They’re unmonitored and the funds to train and perform duties come directly from the president himself. Basically, they’re kind of a big fucking deal, and Nix doesn’t mind that they have access to the highest tech, most classified toys in the world.

  They’re the best of the best—the brain surgeons of the military, the one Team that’s sent in to perform the most dangerous assignments. They make the impossible possible and always finish with the same result—they win. SEALs are naturally ingrained with an inability to fail.

  Nix is highly intelligent and can use, work, fix, and disarm any type of weapon in the world. Some might call him a cocky, confident killer, but like most frogs—a common nickname for SEALs—Nix only sees this as a compliment. He prefers to think that they’re essentially saying that SEALs are highly skilled warriors of the military. They’re the experts—the strongest critical thinkers in the United States military who can perform any time, anywhere, and any way.

  Not only is Nix a Navy SEAL, he’s assigned to the most top-secret SEAL Team—SEAL Team Six. The Team that no one even knew existed until it was leaked to the press that SEAL Team Six took out Osama bin Laden. Everything is kept highly classified and confidential in relation to this Team. Even the President of The United States couldn’t get the names of the SEALs who took out bin Laden.

  There are two platoons within SEAL Team Six: Nix’s platoon, Black Mamba, and Blue Krait. No one knows the names of the men on these platoons.

  Nix—codename Boss—is the leader of his platoon. He received the nickname during BUD/S Training. Apparently, his outspoken, ambitious, and highly competitive nature stood out to his soon-to-be commander.

  But see, he’s only competitive against the enemy.

  The men on his platoon are his brothers and he would lay down his life for any of those guys any fucking day of the week. They’re a tight-knit brotherhood, and this is what makes them the best—their ability to work together in the most difficult situations. Their confidence, their cockiness, and ability to be experts at becoming experts in any challenge that’s set in their way—now that’s what gives them the undeniable edge over everything.

  There are six other men in Black Mamba.

  Smith—Mac—McNamara grew up just outside of Las Vegas and became a SEAL after graduating at the top of his class from the prestigious Naval Academy.

  Slade—Hawk—Hammersmith joined the Team in his early thirties and was considered one of the most skilled Jiu-Jitsu fighters in the world.

  Jack—Ghost—Verbeck is their number-one sniper and can outshoot anyone in the United States military.

  Andrew—Ace—Barringer grew up dirt poor in Detroit and avoided a life of gangs and crime by enlisting in the Navy at the age of eighteen. He’s their medic.

  Julian—Bomber—Knight is a smartass in his own right and one of the most fearless guys Nix has ever met. He joined the Navy when he was in his early twenties, and ever since then, his life’s sole focus has been fighting for his country.

  And last but not least, Rob—Irish—Stratton. He’s the humblest of the group, and no one would know he’s a SEAL just by talking to him. He’s the only guy in Black Mamba who is married. He keeps a lock of his wife’s hair in his pocket on every mission. His fellow SEALs call him a pussy for this, but Irish doesn’t give a shit. He loves his wife Mary with every ounce of his soul.

  These are Nix’s guys—his brothers.

  They’ve had two months off since their last assignment, which had them dragging their asses all over the Hindu Kush, and his guys are itching to get the call. He let his Team take two weeks off to be with their families and relax before delving deep into training, and that’s all they’ve been doing for the past six weeks.

  Slade, Julian, and Nix make their way towards one of the open bars and find the rest of their platoon standing around, drinking beer. This event was considered mandatory for them, but Nix still didn’t think it was the best decision for the Navy to put an entire platoon of SEAL Team Six in the same room. At least they were smart enough not to put us all at the same table.

  All of the members of Black Mamba are formal tonight—wearing their dress blues with confidence—but anyone who’s actually paying attention—anyone who really observes—would be able to notice that these men stand out. They’re not clean-cut with buzzed heads like the rest of the Navy. Nix and his teammates are definitely rougher around the edges.

  Most of the guys of Black Mamba sport facial hair, and only one of them, Julian, keeps his head shaved. He says that he only does it because he’s old school—having put six years in the Navy as an engineer before he switched roles and became a SEAL—but his fellow frogs tell him that it’s because he can’t get laid with a receding hair line.

  Most might see the guys of Black Mamba as appearing like the misfits of the Navy, but that’s how it is for SEALs. They play by their own set of rules, and the funny thing is, former and/or current SEALs are the only ones who can point out other SEALs. They’re ingrained that way—a completely different kind of male species. Consider SEALs the most exclusive fraternity in the world—a fraternity that spends the majority of their time skydiving out of planes and swimming six miles in swamps to covertly reach their targets.

  “They better serve some good shit here tonight. That twelve-mile run in the sand Boss forced on us today has me fucking starving,” Jack states with a sly grin.

  Rob laughs and chides, “What about the mile swim? That was completely fucked up.”

  All six of Nix’s guys start chortling, and he can’t hide his own laughter.

  “Someone needs to keep your pansy asses in shape. After two weeks off, Rob was starting to get a gut from all of the food-lovin’ his wife was giving him,” Nix jokes.

  “Oh don’t worry. My baby wasn’t just loving me through food.” Rob flashes a devilish smile.

  “You’re such an asshole, Rob. Just because you’ve got a cock warmer to go home to every night doesn’t mean you need to shove it in our faces,” Julian responds with amusement.

  Rob immediately smacks him upside the head. “If you ever call my wife a cock warmer again, I will beat the fucking shit out of you,” he warn
s with a stern tone. And then…he smiles.

  This kind of banter among Black Mamba is par for the course. Out of uniform, they’re constantly teasing the hell out of each other, but once they put on their military fatigues and suit up for battle, they’re one hundred percent in the zone—the ultimate Team.

  “God damn, I’m hungry. I hope the Navy shelled out some cash to serve us something worth my time,” Julian announces as he runs a hand over his buzzed head. He’s the most intense-looking of Black Mamba. His green eyes urge every woman in a fifty-mile radius to flock towards him just to get a chance to have that emerald gaze flashed in their direction.

  He’s never short of opportunities with the opposite sex—that’s for sure.

  “Yeah, I’m here for the food, and the Navy better step up to the plate tonight,” Nix announces to his brothers.

  He supports the charity this event is promoting, but he honestly couldn’t care less about events like this. He’s a SEAL—his top priority revolves around his job. He’d much rather be skydiving from a plane with his weapon strapped around his shoulders than sit around in his dress blues drinking champagne and listening to speeches. Some might call him an asshole for thinking this way, but he knows that this mindset is what got him through BUD/S training, and it’s most definitely what made him the SEAL he is today.

  AN ANNOUNCEMENT IS MADE FROM the podium that stands front and center in the room, encouraging everyone to take their seats. “Dinner will be served shortly and our planned speakers for the evening will soon take the stage.”

  Nix orders another Guinness from the bar before following Julian and Slade back to their assigned table. Out of all of the guys of his platoon, Julian and Slade are his closest buddies. They went through BUD/S training together and formed a bond that will last a lifetime.

  BUD/S is the grueling six-month-long SEAL training course held in Coronado, California. It distinguishes the men from the boys. The real fucking deal. Only a select few manage to come out of BUD/S without ringing the bell three times and still be ready to continue on as a Navy SEAL.

  They sit down at the table, surrounded by a few of the Navy’s finest officers.

  The three of them are undoubtedly an interesting sight among the normal clean-cut attendants. And still, the only one looking remotely close to the preferred military style is Julian. But despite his presentable buzzed head, he still sports a nice three-day-old scruff on his well-chiseled jaw. Slade has the most striking looks of the group. His full, tousled, jet-black hair and indistinguishable dark gaze is highlighted by the dark facial hair that adorns his face. Nix isn’t lacking in the looks department either. He’s undeniably handsome, with an edge of strength. His deep-blue gaze exudes an alpha dominance only he could manage with such finesse.

  Outside of their capacity as Navy SEALs—when they’re living a normal day-to-day life at home—all three of them stand out without even trying. And the attention they receive from the opposite sex is nothing short of overzealous. Not many women could deny the sexual attraction—the magnetic pull—that men like Nix, Julian, and Slade emanate.

  “No way. I guaran-fuckin-tee that Irish put on at least six pounds during our two-week hiatus. No doubt Momma Stratton kept his ass well-fed,” Slade adds to the current topic of conversation.

  “I can’t deny that, if I had a wife who possessed cooking skills that rivaled Mary Stratton’s, I’d probably put on some weight too. Have you ever had that woman’s chicken fettuccine Alfredo? Shit, she can cook,” Julian throws out as his mouth practically salivates at the mere idea of Momma Stratton’s undeniable cooking talents.

  Nix chuckles and nods his head in agreement. “I’m not disagreeing, but by the slow pace Irish managed today on the run, I’m thinking that she might have outdone herself.”

  Rob was the last guy to complete the six-mile run and intense swim the guys of Black Mamba participated in earlier in the day. Although a six-minute-mile pace isn’t slacking, it’s not considered stellar by men who’ve completed some of the most intense workouts known to man. The training they’ve been through over the years would make the men who finish the notoriously challenging Ironman Triathlon look like amateurs.

  Their conversation stops when they hear the emcee for the evening announce the first speaker of the night. A nice introduction about the accomplishments Dr. Felicia Santora has achieved with the charitable organization known as Project Smiles is revealed and the crowd gives a welcoming round of applause as she takes the stage.

  Nix lazily watches a woman stand up from a table towards the front of the room. She elegantly walks up the stairs that lead to the main stage. Her olive skin is revealed beautifully from the tasteful gown she wears.

  Damn, she has a fantastic body, he immediately thinks to himself as his gaze takes in the perfect curve of her toned ass.

  Her hair sways gently against her back as she makes her way to the center of the stage. She reaches the podium, shakes the emcee’s hand, and then turns to face the crowd.

  Once Nix’s eyes take in the presence of this woman, his entire body goes ramrod straight. His breath catches in his throat and the beat of his heart comes to an abrupt halt before starting back up at a furiously wild rhythm. Every cell in his body is acutely aware of her familiarity.

  What. The. Fuck.

  He blinks his eyes several times in absolute confusion as his retinas frantically scan her up and down, trying to make sense of the situation. His brain must be deceiving him. He surreptitiously glances down at the glass of Guinness that sits before him, silently questioning if someone slipped hallucinogenics in his drink.

  None of this is making sense.

  There is no fucking way it’s her—Sloan Walker. My Sloan.

  Adrenaline courses through his blood stream and his entire equilibrium is overwhelmed by the woman who stands before him, front and center in this very conference room. His hand goes to his chest, rubbing gently at the very spot that’s a constant reminder of the past. The last time he touched that spot was a little over a week ago when he was faced with a terrible nightmare of her—when he let himself remember her, remember the time they’d shared together.

  He tries to focus on the present.

  The emcee introduced her as Dr. Felicia Santora, but Nix knows that face. He knows those brown eyes and that perfect smile. His fingers have traced every inch of that silky, smooth, olive skin.

  She smiles warmly towards the crowd as she adjusts the mic at the podium. “Good evening, everyone. I am very humbled to be up here…”

  The sound of her voice and the shock of her presence spark electricity in his veins. Her voice. Yes, it’s been over fourteen goddamn years, but he knows that voice. He’d still know that voice anywhere.

  Is it really her?

  His mind races through a million questions, desperately searching for logical explanations. But nothing seems logical. His entire being is tangled up in chaotic confusion. Once he realizes the ridiculous placement of his hand, he quickly sets it down in his lap, his focus still gawking at the stage in complete misperception.

  Julian nudges him and Nix catches his sly grin from his periphery, but he’s too dumbfounded to respond to his friend’s knowing look—a look that says, “This woman is smoking hot.”

  Fuck, he’s right. She is beautiful. She is just as painstakingly beautiful as he remembers.

  He’s rooted to his seat as he watches in stunned fascination. His gut instinct says, It has to be her. A woman he never thought he’d see again continues to talk about her travels to third-world countries and surgical deeds for the organization Project Smiles and under the name Dr. Felicia Santora. There’s no explanation other than the possibility that she’s using a different persona—some sort of alias. The ache in his chest reassures his brain that his eyes are not misleading him. Feelings of confusion and frustration and indisputable anger course through his bloodstream. Every cell inside his body knows that it’s her.

  The woman who is standing at the podium is Sloan Wa
lker.

  Why in the hell is she going under a different name?

  He’s skeptical and curious and acutely aware of every question that races through his mind. So many questions. He needs to know everything. He wants to know more about this woman who is familiar yet so unfamiliar at the same time. He wants to know what she has been up to. He wants to know what she’s hiding from.

  There are secrets behind her chocolate eyes. Those eyes used to be an open book. Nix used to know exactly what they were saying, what they were thinking with just a single glance, but now, those eyes are different—harder, sharper, and undeniably secretive. There is an edge to those eyes that he has never seen.

  So many years have passed since he’s seen her—since he received the last and final letter.

  A letter he’s saved and hasn’t had the heart to get rid of.

  He spent the early part of his twenties trying to track her down but obviously had no luck. It was like she had just disappeared. A piercing pain shoots across his chest as he thinks back on the past.

  Why did she give up? Why did she just disappear? Why didn’t she ever want to contact me?

  A large part of him is angry at her. Angry that something so perfect was tossed aside like it had never meant anything. He thought they’d had a love that could withstand anything, but obviously, he was wrong. Dead fucking wrong. The first year he went without hearing from Sloan, he told himself that it wasn’t because she hadn’t wanted to keep in touch with him. He convinced himself that something had prevented her from reaching out to him. Something had happened and he was sure they would eventually find each other again. But then time continued to pass…and not a word from her. Not a single call or letter… Nothing.

  As the days and months and years went by, Nix finally let himself come to the realization that she wasn’t going to make a reappearance in his life. He spent his mid-twenties trying to find her replacement through one-night stands and fleeting affairs. But deep down, his soul still longed for her. Subconsciously, he knew she was the type of girl who could never be replaced, and eventually, he began to accept the fact that he would probably never experience that type of love again.