by Misty Evans
DEADLY FORCE
A SCVC Taskforce novel
by
Misty Evans
Deadly Force
Copyright © 2014 Misty Evans
ISBN: 978-0-9907984-2-2
Cover Art by The Killion Group, Inc.
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
Editing by Marcie Gately and Amy Eye
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“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled,
or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs,
who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming;
but who does actually strive to do the deeds;
who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself on a worthy cause;
who at the best in the end knows the triumph of high achievement,
and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly,
so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”
~ Theodore Roosevelt from The Man in the Arena
~
“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.”
~ Jane Austin, Persuasion
Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the men and women in the arena striving to do the deeds that need doing to keep our country safe and free.
And to those who never stop loving their soul mate, no matter what.
Thank you, Mark, for loving me.
Chapter One
Culver’s Marina, Chula Vista
0900 hours
Cal Reese’s boat rocked hard, waking him. Heart hammering, he reached for his gun.
Assess.
Waves crashed topside. Maggie, the black Lab lying beside his bunk, whined.
Remnants of a nasty nightmare filled his head, lingering snapshots of his last mission. He rubbed his eyes and blinked them away. He was back in the States. No firefights, no shouting, no exploding RPGs. Drawing a deep breath, he let it out slowly as he forced himself upright. Dull pain throbbed at his temples.
Maggie’s cold nose nudged his arm. He reached over and patted her head. She was the only one who had his back these days. If not for her, well…he’d probably be six feet under like the rest of the men in his unit.
The feel of her warm breath on his face, and the happy lap of her tongue, made the blood and screams of the nightmare recede. Setting his gun next to the whiskey bottle on the shelf above his bunk, he scratched her ears. Soft thunder echoed in the distance. “Storm moving in, girl. Nothing to worry about.”
Except for the fact that he wouldn’t be working today. Another day of twiddling his damn thumbs. Maybe that was good considering he’d already overslept, lost in the nightmare of the past.
Night terrors, the doctor called them. Usually followed by sleepwalking.
He glanced around. Nothing seemed out of place. He didn’t have much in the run-down boat, but everything he did have was right where he’d left it.
All clear.
Oversleeping was unacceptable, but mostly surprising. Since Afghanistan, his internal clock was as much of a fucked-up disaster as his head, although he’d never had a chance to set a normal work/sleep routine until now anyway. In high school, he’d always stayed up too late, got up too early, working his ass off to get the grades, the girl, and some hope for a future. The day he graduated—twenty-four hours after his high school sweetheart tore his world apart—he walked into the Navy recruitment center and signed on. Three years later, he was in BUDs, and up until thirteen days ago, he’d headed a special SEAL commando team hot on the trail of terrorism sponsor Otto Grimes.
The only “normal” in his world had been coffee—black—and his deep-seated love for water.
Now all he had was time to kill and memories to drown. And for the first time in his life, he had a dog.
Rising, Cal ignored the bottle of Jack and the pain in his temples thanks to the brown liquid. He went through the uncomplicated act of filling the coffee pot, scooping grounds, and searching for his single coffee cup.
Normal was…okay. Even good some days. He’d learned to appreciate simple things again. If only the flashbacks would leave him the fuck alone. The goddamn nightmares, yeah, they could go AWOL and he wouldn’t miss them a bit.
Stay in the present.
He breathed in the aroma of grounds and hot water and listened to the waves hitting the hull. A glance out the starboard window told him there was no rain yet, but the dark clouds over the ocean were ushering in a doozy.
The incoming storm had just freed up his calendar. No scraping barnacles off yachts or fixing motors for Chewy at the boatyard. Maybe the storm would blow itself out by noon and the Southern Cali tourists would keep him busy at the marina’s rental shop wanting their jet skis.
Maggie whined and Cal set down his cup. Time to take care of the love of his life, then hit the shower.
Pathetic. His life had dwindled down to the barest of needs, the loneliest of lives. Thirteen days ago, he’d been in nonstop action. His team had been seconds away from taking down that bastard Otto…
Now Butcher, Avery, and Tank were dead, and he’d been put out to pasture by his country. Worse, he couldn’t remember the details of what had happened in those moments after gunfire broke out.
Welcome to PT-fucking-SD.
Snagging a ratty T-shirt and a pair of shorts, he dressed, tossed on a windbreaker, and hooked Maggie to her leash. Bring on the wind and the rain. He and Maggie loved water. A run would do them both good. Clear the lingering images of the nightmare and that horrific last mission from his brain.
Maggie’s tail wagged furiously as they climbed the four short stairs to the top deck. The dog froze, and Cal looked up.
His heart lurched and so did his cock. No fucking way.
Standing on the dock, hands on her curvy hips, was the one woman he thought he’d never see again. Never wanted to see again.
Talk about a storm blowing in. “What are you doing here, Bianca?”
She pointed to the name written in flowing script on the boat’s side. “The Love Boat? Really?”
Maggie danced on her feet, straining at the leash and wagging her tail like Bianca was the best thing
she’d seen in days.
Traitor.
B still looked as young, fresh, and innocent as the day she’d broken his heart in high school. But she wasn’t innocent. Not by a long shot. She’d ripped his heart to shreds again six months ago.
The NSA agent working on the Southern California Violent Crimes Taskforce never rested in her quest for information. “You’re still wearing your ring.”
The damn gold band around his finger was an exact match to hers. “You didn’t need to bring the divorce papers in person. The post office delivers bad news every day.”
The wind toyed with strands of her hair, making his fingers itch to do the same. Her mouth quirked. “Do you even get mail here? On a boat?”
The headache in his temples pounded as hard as his heart. “What do you want?”
The smirk left her mouth and she looked around as if she were worried about the approaching storm. Or maybe she was worried someone would see her talking to him. She stepped forward, lowered her voice, and her pretty blue eyes met his head-on from behind her sexy librarian glasses. “I’m in trouble, Cal. Big trouble.”
“Trouble’s always been your middle name, B. What’s new?”
“If I’m going to live through the next twenty-four hours…” She hesitated a moment, then said the words he’d never thought he’d hear. Ever. “I want—I need—you. After what I’ve stumbled across, you’re the only man who can protect me.”
What angle was she working to save their marriage now? He climbed the steps and brushed past her. “Drama queen doesn’t quite suit you.”
Her hand landed on his forearm, stopping him. “I’m serious. I know what happened with Operation Warfighter. At least, I think I do.” She looked over her shoulder, back to him. “Something you should know. You’re not going to like it.”
He couldn’t do this today. Not right now. His head hurt and hearing the words Operation Warfighter made his heart kick like a jackrabbit inside his chest.
Her paranoia—faked for dramatic effect or otherwise—immediately set his nerves on edge.
Assess. He scanned the boat dock. Was she telling the truth? Did she have details on the operation? Why did that put her in danger?
Fuck. His fingers itched for his gun, even though he saw nothing out of the ordinary in the marina.
Regardless, he’d never been able to deny Bianca anything. His love, his protection, his goddamn loyalty…
She shifted her weight from her right to left foot, watching him—no, pleading with him with those big baby blues. Her reach was long and deep inside the NSA, although his instincts told him he didn’t know everything about what she did. No telling what dirt she might have dug up.
But dirt that had sent her to him in his current state on the country’s blacklist? She must be desperate. The last time she’d made contact was to tell him to pack his things and get out. She wanted a divorce.
Cal glanced past her petite shoulders. A few of the local hardcore boaters were out fastening down their boats in preparation for the storm. Otherwise, the marina was quiet.
Regardless, Cal’s instincts were on high alert. He wanted nothing more than to protect the woman in front of him.
Damned instincts. “Go inside and stay there. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He didn’t wait to see if Bianca followed orders, giving Maggie her freedom and running with her for the boardwalk.
Bianca watched Cal take off, his muscular legs flexing as he ran with the dog. The wind blew the windbreaker tight against his back, outlining his broad shoulders and V-shaped waist.
Every time she saw him, it was a blow to her senses. He topped six-one, weighed a lean two-ten, and looked like a fighter straight out of an MMA ring.
But it wasn’t his gorgeous body or his chiseled jaw and bristling attitude that knocked the air from her lungs every time she saw him. It was his eyes. The chocolate-brown peepers were nearly black thanks to his Spanish lineage.
Gypsy eyes, her mother had called them. Haunted was more like it.
Cal and the dog hit the marina’s parking lot, and a few seconds later, disappeared from view.
What’s new? During their long and rocky relationship, she’d always been the one staying put while Cal took off for parts unknown. She loved him fiercely, but he was never around.
That’s what I get for marrying a military man.
She’d never dreamed when she’d finally caught up with him after high school and said “I do,” that Cal would end up career military. He’d run to the Navy to get away from her. Once he had her, she figured he’d serve out his term and come home.
Wrong.
Once he’d served, the Navy had gotten into his blood. He’d become driven and relentless in his quest to serve his country, especially after he realized he couldn’t give her the future they’d both dreamed about as innocent kids.
She’d matched him career-step for career-step, graduating top of her class with a double major and an offer from the National Security Agency. When she’d told Cal she had accepted the position, he’d brought her champagne and chocolate truffles and then made her swear on his tattered copy of The Art of War—a book he kept close at all times—that she’d keep her nose out of his work.
Hard to do when you worried constantly about your husband’s safety and you had access to everything he and his commando team did.
From down below, she caught the whiff of wet dog and screwed up her nose. The dog’s new.
Cal had always been a dog guy, but with their insane work schedules, having any kind of pet was out of the question. “Someday,” he would always say, “I’ll retire and we’ll have a dozen dogs and a couple of kids.”
Devoted as he was to the SEAL team, someday had never come. Not until now.
Bianca scanned the marina, saw no one watching her. It’s the one you can’t see that you have to worry about.
Which was what had brought her here. There was a man looking for her. A man who had a bullet with her name on it.
She’d lost her family, had no friends because of her insane work hours and need for secrecy, and she was in the process of giving up Cal—her only touchstone. Now her job and her life were on the line.
Loser. Her mother had always called her that, and maybe it was true. She’d never done anything right, no matter how hard she’d tried. With her high intelligence and photographic memory, she’d never been normal. Hated the very word. So here she was, on the run and about to screw up Cal’s life all over again.
What choice did she have? She’d told the truth…he was the only man in the world who could protect her.
That’s what being abnormal got you.
Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she sought cover inside The Love Boat.
Chapter Two
Stark was the only word to describe Cal’s new home.
No one would call this place home, Bianca thought, her heels clomping on the deck to the descending wooden stairs. She’d never been sentimental and could appreciate a functional, sparse place, but this was downright sad.
The upper deck held the bridge and navigation station. Below deck, the walls were unadorned except for a set of weather instruments to measure wind speed and barometric pressure. From the looks of their ragged frames and scratched glass, they were originals. Ditto on the sailcloth curtain hanging over the window above the bunk bed, and the cheap, dark paneling lining the galley and head.
Living quarters. That’s what Cal would call it. It was definitely no love boat.
The place smelled like freshly brewed coffee, wet dog, and sea air. Bianca’s gaze skimmed over the bed with its tussled sheet, a bottle of Jack Daniels on a shelf, a gun next to it, and across from the bed, a small table with a bench seat.
Her eyes came back to the bottle. Cal never touched hard liquor. Was the bottle a left-over remnant, like the weather instruments, of the previous owner?
She picked up a squat glass from the sink and examined it in the low light. A few drops of brown liquid
clung to the bottom. She sniffed and the acrid scent of whiskey met her nose.
If the previous owner had left the bottle behind, Cal had made use of it. As much as it surprised her—he never drank anything stronger than beer—she didn’t blame him for seeking comfort with a shot of Jack. Being a SEAL meant everything to him, and now his career was over. He’d lost three men, was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, and was facing a military investigation. If she knew him at all, she knew he cared little about the outcome of the investigation compared to the deaths of his friends and teammates. Those men had been closer to him than brothers. He’d carry the responsibility of their deaths, and the families they left behind, forever. Even if, in the end, she proved he wasn’t responsible for what had happened in that terrorist compound.
Her eyes fell on the gun. Cal always had guns, but she didn’t like what her brain synopses were floating past her frontal lobe. Setting the glass in the sink, she checked the gun’s chamber.
One bullet.
Her stomach did a dive.
Cal, suicidal? He wasn’t the type. After what had happened, however, who knew what was going on in his head.
Why didn’t he come to me?
Because your marriage is over, the voice in her head admonished.
Pain in her chest made her place her hand there. It wasn’t logical…her IQ was 146, genius level, but she couldn’t figure out how to fix her marriage.
The real irony was that her EQ, emotional intelligence quotient, was so low it caused her all manner of interpersonal problems. Cal had been the only person she’d ever had a real relationship with. He’d brought passion and excitement to her life, to their marriage. He’d protected her from the first day he met her—no small thing to a young girl with no father and an abusive mother.
