Covertly Strong (The Strong Series Book 1)

by N. A. Alcorn

  Laughter. Harsh, deep chuckles fill the room.

  Her body trembles.

  Hot breath caresses her face as she senses a hovering presence. The smell of sweat and whiskey and cigars permeate her nostrils.

  “I’m so fucking ready for this,” a voice growls into her ear as hands roughly grasp her cheeks.

  Her spine goes rigid, nerves prickling in fear.

  She fights. Her arms and legs and torso thrash, struggling against the restraints, desperately trying to break free.

  A harsh moan escapes her chapped lips after a swift strike is released against her face.

  A sweaty hand covers her mouth.

  Her teeth sink into his skin.

  “Fuck!”

  The presence is no longer near.

  Lungs heave in desperation. Eyes still struggle to see through the darkness.

  “I can’t even get within three feet of her without her fucking biting me! Give her more, you fucking idiot! ”

  Another needle. A different vein.

  Darkness welcomes oblivion.

  THANK GOD HE’S HERE.

  I can see him—my Nix.

  Sunlight bounces off his golden-brown hair. His cerulean eyes shine with love. He’s looking at me, beckoning me to come towards him. His arms are wide open. The ocean stands behind him, the waves of the sea crashing into the sand.

  He smiles. The smile he reserves just for me.

  I try to smile back, but my lips refuse to move.

  “Meli!” he yells, urging me to go to him.

  So I run. I run towards him.

  Running—Running—Running—Running—Running.

  But I’m not closing the distance between us.

  The sun no longer exists.

  Darkness consumes his form.

  And I’m falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Into the darkness.

  Until my love is gone.

  LOVE IS WORTH THE RISK—it’s worth everything.

  NIX AND THE SIX OTHER men of Black Mamba Platoon arrive promptly in Pueblo, Mexico, after receiving a call from Senior Chief Franklin six hours ago. They were flown in a matter of hours from their training base in Virginia Beach, where they were preparing for another trip to Al Udeid Air Base, a United States military base west of Doha, Qatar. But their current plans have changed. An assignment came down the pipeline that only a SEAL Team with lightning-quick response could accomplish. Senior Chief Franklin is, hands down, the greatest at his job. He has a knack for finding only the best jobs for his SEAL Teams, missions where he knows they have a real chance at victory. Now, for this new mission they’ll be shipping out for in a matter of hours, every second that ticks away on the clock is one second closer to failure.

  And SEALs do not fail. Ever.

  Nix contemplates sending another email to Sloan. He’s desperate to know if she’s okay, but the shitty Wi-Fi on base isn’t making communication possible. He strives to focus on the task at hand but finds himself continuously going back to thoughts of her.

  Is she okay?

  Her safety is his biggest concern at the moment, and he’s well aware that this is not good. He’s here, in Mexico, for a mission where his men need him to be at the top of his game. There is no room for error.

  He observes the rest of the guys joking around with each other, the familiar excitement buzzing about the room. The men of Black Mamba are ready. They’ve been ready since their boots stepped foot on American soil a few months ago.

  Hell, these SEALs were born ready.

  Nix takes a drink from the Styrofoam cup filled with stale, black coffee and shakes the nagging feeling of worry that clenches his gut.

  Get your shit together, motherfucker. Meli is fine. She’s strong and she knows what she’s doing. He attempts another mental pep talk. The same goddamn pep talk he’s been replaying in his head for the past couple of days.

  “You all right, Boss?” Julian asks quietly while the rest of the guys continue to chat around them.

  Nix gives a small nod in response, his eyes facing the front of the room as Senior Chief Franklin strides in, files and a laptop in hand.

  “So glad you boys gave up your beauty rest to pay me a visit,” Senior Chief announces as he sets his laptop up, ready to brief them on their current assignment.

  Seven sets of intrigued yet determined eyes are on him, prepared to hear the details of their time-sensitive task. He dims the lights and a PowerPoint appears on the large screen highlighting the small, confined space.

  He addresses the room. “We hadn’t planned on shipping you out until a few more weeks, but right now, we need you here. We’ve got a CIA agent who’s been taken hostage inside a known drug lord’s compound and another agent who’s gone completely AWOL.”

  Chief begins to explain the pertinent details as he flips to the next slide. A picture of a dark-haired beauty fills the screen, her russet eyes serious, her mouth set in a firm line. “This is CIA Agent L-55. Her real name is Sloan Walker. She’s been with the CIA for over ten years and has obtained intel on some of the world’s worst criminals. She’s been working under the identity of Dr. Felicia Santora, a plastic surgeon who runs a charitable organization called Project Smiles.”

  The next slide is another picture of Sloan in all of her physician glory. Her normally curvaceous body is hidden by a pair of light-blue scrubs. She poses with a small group of ecstatic children, a professional smile etched on her flawless face.

  Nix’s stomach drops as the worst kind of feeling permeates his gut. Pain points its gun and lands a bullet straight into his chest. The powder of the ammunition ricochets into his veins as his injured heart frantically pumps the crushing realization throughout his body.

  Fear. Adrenaline. Anger. All of it feeding his shattered soul.

  Fight-or-flight kicks in and Nix is ready to fight.

  And, God damnit, he will fight for her.

  His eyes wildly scan the PowerPoint as Senior Chief moves effortlessly through the slides, telling Nix everything he already knew deep down about Sloan. He wishes she would have been the one to tell him, not his fucking superior minutes before he’s due to strap on his combat boots. His reality has now morphed into his worst nightmare.

  FUCK. He silently curses everything as he runs an anxious hand through his hair, desperately trying to maintain his composure. If his superior gets the slightest feeling that something is off with his state of mind, he will dig until he finds out the problem. And Nix is one hundred percent certain he would be pulled off this assignment faster than he would have been yanked from BUD/S if he’d rung the bell three times.

  I’m going on this assignment. There is no other option. Get your fucking head on straight, he thinks to himself. He knows that he’s putting his career on the line by not owning up to his relationship with Sloan, but he doesn’t fucking care. This is the first time in his SEAL career that he is willing to risk everything—his career, his livelihood, his life—and he doesn’t give a shit. Being a SEAL doesn’t mean a goddamn thing if Sloan isn’t by his side.

  He will give his own life if it means saving her.

  Nix takes a deep, cavernous breath and struggles to distance himself emotionally from the fact that Sloan is the reason his Team is about to head into battle.

  “And here is the man, the myth, the legend: Hector Arturo. I personally enjoy calling him Goat Fuck, but most know him as Snake Eyes. The precious snake eyes tattoo that adorns Senor Goat Fuck’s neck makes it obvious where the clever nickname stems from,” Senior Chief informs the group while all seven SEALs are shown pictures of Hector Arturo and a few of his right-hand men, including Nico Delgado.

  Their superior continues discussing Hector Arturo and his ongoing criminal activity with drug and sex trafficking. His ties with several known terrorists groups in the Middle East are also brought to light. It’s obvious to everyone in the room that Hector Arturo
is one of the world’s worst up-and-coming criminals. He lives to create havoc. He’s a man without a soul, a man who thrives off watching other people suffer. His torture techniques go beyond evil, and the odds of someone escaping from his tyrannical hold are slim.

  Senior Chief has a shitload of intel on this dictatorial asshole, making it obvious that Hector Arturo has been a target for both the CIA and FBI for a while now. This information shows that this cruel man has no boundaries. Hector Arturo will cross every line or he will at least die trying. He is a brand of evil that is beyond understanding to most everyday Americans, and now, the asshole has landed himself on the list of fanatical sworn enemies of the United States. There’s a room full of pumped-up and pissed-off frogs to prove it.

  “Do we know what kind of condition Agent L-55 is in?” Rob asks from the back of the room.

  “We know that she was kidnapped from her temporary residence in Guadalajara. The scene Chief Dubois’s agents came across was not good. They found her DNA in most of the blood that was spattered across her living room. We are confident that she is still alive, but we are not sure the kind of condition she is in,” he answers and looks towards Andrew. “Go prepared with as much medic equipment as you can carry. I have a feeling you’ll need to stabilize her once she’s been recovered and you are en route to Galveston.”

  Andrew—the medic and sniper two of the Platoon—nods his head, showing his understanding.

  “How many innocent women and children are we looking at coming across in the compound?” Smith questions.

  The Rules of Engagement for Navy SEALs have been solidified since the war on terror began after 9/11. They cannot shoot, kill, or injure unarmed civilians. Those rules may seem simple to most, but once SEALs step foot in enemy territory, shit isn’t black and white.

  War isn’t black and white.

  War is fucking gray, and the enemies of the United States know the rules and the unfortunate gray area they can use to their advantage. Unarmed criminals oftentimes pose as innocent civilians to get the location of American soldiers and then give that information to armed criminals who come out with guns blazing, ready to kill every man fighting for the red-white-and-blue.

  “We’re not sure. We’ve estimated around sixty occupants that reside there full time, and that includes women and children. This is going to be your biggest challenge, and I know you men will handle it with the utmost care. We’ve all been made aware of the ROEs, so I’m not going to waste my breath rehashing it for you. We want you there before daylight, so you’ll be shipping out of here in thirty minutes,” Senior Chief responds immediately as a slide of the Arturo compound’s layout appears on the screen. “You will be entering the compound through the tunnel at the back entrance. There are three open doorways you will encounter. The first two doorways open up to dead-end hallways on either side. Basically, you venture down one and you’ll be up shit creek without a fucking paddle. The third will lead you to your exit point, which lies on your right as you’re moving in. Our hostage is being kept in one of five cells that are behind a steel door at the end of the tunnel. This is where shit is going to get tricky and timing is everything,” he declares with a stern face.

  “You’re going to need a doughnut charge to blast the locking mechanism. We are certain that occupants inside the cells will be safe from the interior explosive breaching along with any debris that may scatter in its wake,” Senior Chief updates with certainty encompassing his demeanor. “But this is where timing comes in, because you’re bound to wake a few of Arturo’s goons up, if not the goat fucker himself. You will have two minutes to clear what’s left of the doorway as well as move through each cell until you locate Agent L-55. Basically, you need to move quickly and you need to do so as if your asses are on fire. We will have three Humvees on the ground locked and loaded with enough ammunition to take out all of Guadalajara. Obviously, that goes against our precious ROEs—but you catch my drift.”

  A small smirk turns the corners of Senior Chief Franklin’s mouth as chuckles fill the room.

  “The Humvees are already in place three miles out from the Arturo compound. Once you’ve cleared the third open doorway, you will communicate to your snipers monitoring the outside perimeter to radio out to your ground transportation. They will be waiting outside approximately one hundred yards on the south entrance of your location. You will have two minutes to get Agent L-55 and an additional two minutes to move back through the tunnel, down the hallway to your exit point.”

  Nix can feel all of his brothers throwing concerned glances in his direction. His entire platoon is worried about his emotional well-being. Nix knows that he has to prove to his men that his head is in the right place. He doesn’t have time to break down over Sloan’s kidnapping. He only has time to react to the situation at hand and be one hundred percent on point. No errors in judgment can be made or else he could risk the lives of his brothers—and he could risk losing her forever. He pushes all of his emotions, the overwhelming grief that consumes him, to the back of his mind and goes into full SEAL mode.

  “Do we have an idea when Agent L-55 was kidnapped?” he asks with an unwavering voice.

  “We believe she was taken hostage a little over forty-eight hours ago, but that information isn’t definite.”

  “And in regards to her injuries,” Nix says, delving further into her current state. “Are we aware of specific injuries or life-threatening trauma she has sustained? Gunshots? Knife wounds?”

  Chief’s mouth sets into a serious line. “We know she’s sustained at least one bullet wound. Brass of a Trejo .22 was found at the scene of her kidnapping.”

  Nix nods in understanding. He mentally takes a sigh of relief, knowing full well that the human body could sustain an injury from a .22-caliber pistol as long as it didn’t hit any vital organs such as the brain, lungs, or heart. He’s praying that such is the case for her.

  “How many of Arturo’s watchdogs are we estimating on coming across once we move in?”

  “We’re estimating three, but could be as many as five, and obviously more if your presence becomes known. Any more questions before I continue to brief you on the plan of action and what each of your roles will be?” Senior Chief asks the group.

  No one adds to the conversation, so their superior continues to provide Black Mamba with the down-and-dirty strategic plan they will use to get inside the Arturo compound. Stealth is the name of the game and laser-sharp execution is what will allow them to depart from Guadalajara with all seven men of Black Mamba—without injury—along with the addition of female cargo.

  The goal being that Sloan Walker arrives at their final destination in Galveston, Texas, alive and safe.

  BLACK MAMBA PREPARES FOR THEIR time-sensitive mission. This isn’t like their last where they were focused on straight surveillance and reconnaissance in the Hindu Kush. They aren’t merely observing and photographing suspected terrorists from a discreet location. They are stepping inside enemy lines, and they are going to face Hector Arturo and his cohorts head on. Bullets and bloodshed are unfortunate givens for this type of assignment. And SEALs are no strangers to either. This is what they live for, and this is what they will risk dying for too.

  Operation Snake Eyes is mere minutes from being a go. With transportation, communication, and available air support already in place, all seven SEALs suit up for battle. Their bodies are covered in combat gear, their heads adorned with brain buckets—helmets strong enough to deflect sniper rounds—and camouflage cream is smeared across their faces. Each carries a heavy pack filled with the essentials, and weapons—with enough ammunition to blow an entire city up—are secured to their muscular bodies. They follow the motto, “light is right,” choosing only the essentials for this assignment.

  As they’re driven down to the special ops helicopter area on base, the radio of the Hummer echoes, “Rolex, fifteen minutes.” Operation Snake Eyes is a go and their chopper is waiting.

  Nix finds six pairs of eyes locked on hi
m. He knows what they are all silently asking. Should he be going on this mission?

  He clears his throat, preparing to be the leader he needs to be. “I know what every single one of you is thinking right now. I can’t say I blame you, and I appreciate the fact that nothing was said regarding my connections. I know that if any of you were in my situation—if it were your wife or your girlfriend or your fiancée being held hostage— you would make damn sure you were a part of this operation. I know you would refuse to take no for an answer...just like me,” he discreetly conveys.

  “But this is all I’m going to say. I am first and foremost your leader. I am your brother; I am your Teammate. I know what my role is in every single mission, and I will fulfill my role one hundred and ten percent. The second our boots hit the ground, we are a Team. We work as a Team, we fight as a Team, and we make this fucking mission our bitch as a Team,” he continues as his voice begins to rise, adrenaline starting to spill into his bloodstream. “We are going into that compound and we are going to show that tyrannical piece of shit what real men look like, what real men fight like, and what real men do with pieces of shit like him!” he exclaims

  “Hooyah!” all seven men growl from deep within their lungs, adrenaline and excitement coursing through their bodies.

  “On time! On target...” Rob shouts.

  “Never quit!” they respond in perfect unison.

  War cries fill the Hummer as they pull up to their chopper.

  Senior Chief Franklin is there to see them off. “Bye, boys. Give ‘em hell,” he declares with a confident smile. He shakes Nix’s hand and pats him on the back as the men of Black Mamba file into the chopper. The platoon is confident, gung-ho bravado oozing out of their cocky demeanors.

  Let’s do this shit!

  “Snake Eyes is a go!” The call comes through their earpieces, and the familiar sound of the rotor blades of the chopper begins to resonate into the night sky. The helo lifts off the runaway, embarking on the correct course.