Table of Contents
DEDICATION
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Epilogue
Thank you for reading Beau’s story!
YOU ARE THE KEY TO THIS BOOK’S SUCCESS!
About the Author
BEAU
IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
Book 18
IRISH WINTERS
COPYRIGHT
Beau; In the Company of Snipers, Book 18
Copyright ©2018 by Irish Winters
All rights reserved
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover design: Kelli Ann Morgan, Inspire Creative Services
Cover image: Paul Henry Serres Photography, www.paulhenryserres.com
Cover model: Simon
Interior book design: Bob Houston, eBook Formatting
Editor: Linda Clarkson, Black Opal Editing and Proofreading
ISBN Paperback: 978-1-942895-64-0
ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-65-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018957237
DEDICATION
To one of my greatest fans
Captain Robert Dean
Former Commander, US Army 5th Division
1/61st Infantry, A Company
It’s true.
“Rangers lead the way.”
In the Company of Snipers
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IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
This series revolves around former Marine scout sniper, Alex Stewart, and his covert surveillance company, The TEAM, home-based out of Alexandria, Virginia. An obsessive patriot and workaholic, he created the company to give former military snipers like him, a chance at returning to civilian life with a decent job, security, and a future.
This is not a serial with each book ending at a cliffhanger. In the Company of Snipers is a collection of passionate love stories involving strong women and men who are tough enough to take on the world alone. Each is a stand-alone read, complete in itself.
Spoiler alert: Every story contains adult scenes including sexual situations (some explicit), language, and violence. I don’t write sweet romance, so be forewarned.
Book 1, ALEX, reveals how The TEAM came to be, as well as how Alex met Kelsey, how they fell in love and fought all odds to stay together. Each of the following books is a complete romance in itself, where, in the course of an active TEAM operation, one agent comes face to face with his or her demons. The men and women I write about are all patriots and warriors, dealing with what they’ve lived through or mistakes they’ve made.
It’s my hope that you will come to realize along with my heroes...
Love changes everything.
Prologue
On her hands and knees in the early morning Virginia sunshine, Catalina Montego worked hard to make her latest rose garden worthy of America’s notice. To blend in, she’d chosen simple attire for the day. Stonewashed denim jeans. A garish black t-shirt with the red, white, and blue symbol of America in the center of her chest. People here liked that emblem. They identified with it. The plasticized symbol of capitalism had nothing to do with her heart, though. Never. The outfit merely lent the appearance of belonging in this deceitful land of the free, something that would never happen. She was only here on a mission. A gardening mission, so to speak.
But enough of that. Creating new flowerbeds was backbreaking, dirty work, and she was tired from her late night—make that all night—escapades. So much to do and so little time!
But that was the way it had to be. Only with enough blood, sweat, and tears would prize-winning roses be nourished the perfect way Nature intended. The right way. Organically.
A deep purr rumbled at the back of her throat at that delicious word. No one ever said the blood, sweat, or tears had to be hers.
Smiling, she stuck all ten fingers into the newly loosened soil and wiggled them. Ah, yes. America! This was the only place to plant these particular rose bushes. Right under his nose.
Soon, they’d root and thrive and thrive… until the overpowering fragrance from her dearest loves filled the air. Fed by the blood of the so-called righteous, that scent would soon conceal the other odor that accompanied such single-minded work. Like a benediction of sanctified Catholic holy water, she sprinkled two handfuls of dirt over the fresh grave, ahem, hole. Satisfied, she sat back on her haunches at the mere thought of this unique mingling of dirt, soil amendments, and, oh yes, root balls. Every horticulturalist knew the flower was only as strong as the root. But planting balls was… Orgasmic! Simply orgasmic!
Glancing at the lavish home two doors down the road, she allowed another smile. Alexander Stewart would be home soon. Her Spidey senses tingled with the thrilling knowledge of her firm hold on such a fine, brave man. Of all her lovers, he would never let her down. He’d have no choice. Not that he knew the power she held over him, or the very special place he held in her heart. Not yet. But soon.
She literally loved him to pieces. A piece here. A piece over there! Ha! What a noble burial he’d have. Precisely what he deserved! But not right away. Oh, no. Only after enough time and torturous worry, would she allow him to go to his grave. Catalina intended to love Alex Stewart a long, long time…
For years she’d been forced to study him from afar, had even searched for and chatted online with those other fellows who’d been with him that night, Vic What’s-His-Name and Rodney Whoever. They hadn’t known much, but she’d gotten just enough information to bring her to this spot today. And here she was, nearly in the proud man’s backyard.
One thing she now knew for certain, the mighty Alex Stewart was not immune to persuasion. He might think he was, but she was here to prove him wrong. Sacrifice. It all came down to sacrifice. If you loved someone, you took exquisitely good care of them, right? You never—ever—let them, or the hope that they still lived, go. You willingly sacrificed yourself, your time and ultimately, your life to protect them, right? Like a beloved wife. Or a precious child. A dear, dear friend…
Turning to the tightly sealed container at her side, the one marked BIOHAZARD like the rest of the meat she shipped all over the world—prime cut only—she surveyed her early morning effort. At last, the soil was ready. The warm, wet nutrients in this container would decay quickly. Perfectly. Without a trace. Just like the greatest serial killer of all, Mother Nature, had always intended. The circle of life was a stunning concept.
“My heavens are you at it again?” the pretty brown-haired woman asked. She seemed such a startling ray of sunshine for so early in the day. Catalina nearly straightened her dark glasses to block the glow from that welcoming smile. This friendly neighbor brought her pretty little daughter along with her. What a yummy, scrumptious pair.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but you were out here late last night, too. I saw your light through the trees. You must really like gardening.”
Catalina brushed the back of one gloved hand over her forehead in feigned exhaustion. Nosey neighbors were the last things she needed, but this one in particular deserved special handling. Almost as special as these nutrients, so primed and ready to dissolve.
“You know what they say. No rest for the weary, and the wicked don’t need it.” Or something just as idiotic as that.
Rising to her feet—just to lend credence to the charade—she tugged one glove off and extended a hand in what people in America termed neighborly friendship. Catalina called it calculated guessing. Sizing up one’s intended mark. Measuring the fit, weight, and dimensions of her quarry for her specialized—equipment. “I’m sorry if my late night gardening disturbed you. My name is Ca… Ca… Ahem!” She coughed at her near misspeak, then said as graciously as she could muster, “I’m Athena, and you are?”
“Kelsey Stewart,” the pretty woman replied graciously.
Of course you are. My word, your tiny hand is warm and smooth, almost childlike compared to my practiced grip. But that’s what working every day of your life will get you. Stronger. Harder. Better than simpering females like you every single time.
She took firm hold of this innocent’s grip, debating the challenge of prey so easily captured. This one would go quickly into the auger, her bones so fragile and her skin smooth. No doubt saturated with any number of the rich emollients American women utilized every day of their pathetic lives. Nine to one, this dainty little hand had never done more than pamper her silly daughter’s curly locks. Too bad my equipment is already, shall we say, engaged?
Catalina suppressed the urge to act impulsively. Her wickedly cruel but delightful brother had always said—before he’d been murdered in cold blood—that good things came to those who waited. But Kelsey’s long, silky hair was a definite plus. The longer, the better. It made good handles. As did arms. Feet. Twisted fingers. Speaking of fingers... My how the stunning solitaire on this woman’s finger gleams like a veritable beacon of the wealth and arrogance of America’s upper class. Or is that crust?
The stark contrast of the handhold, the difference between Kelsey’s fair Caucasian lack of pigment against the sun-blessed skin of Catalina’s rich Cuban heritage, curved the corners of Catalina’s lips. Just a tiny bit. Not enough to pass for a real smile, but enough to acknowledge she was and always would be the winner. Even at the most basic societal stratification. Ah, yes. She already had what every pasty white woman in America wanted—a year-round tan. Didn’t that make them the pitiful ones?
“I’m just next door if you need any help,” Kelsey said with a bright smile, returning Catalina’s grip with unexpected strength. That was interesting. Not necessarily a game-changer but worth noticing. Maybe even accommodating. “It’s no trouble. Honest.”
What an odd woman. So eager to please. So obtuse. So, so—nice. But why? “Have you been watching me?” Do you already know who I am and why I’m here?
The silly woman’s smile only brightened further at that subtle accusation. Which was further proof that Alex Stewart had married for looks, not intelligence. The dolt. His whimsical, cutesy little wife wasn’t smart enough to realize when she’d been insulted.
This next abduction will be so easy.
“No, but you’re my neighbor now, and I’m here to help unpack or haul boxes or whatever you need. Just ask, okay? Lexie goes down for her nap right after lunch. We’ll have you completely settled in by nightfall.”
How droll the elite’s tendency to overuse the word ‘we,’ as if Catalina had ever—ever—strived to be included in the pretentious minority that took whatever they wanted from the rest of the world. But this friendly neighbor was dressed to ‘help,’ as she’d put it. And her husband would be home soon. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. If only…
Suddenly perturbed at her impulsive actions of the previous evening, she cast a sharp glance over her shoulder at the general location of her new, ahem, workplace. She’d acted rashly. Too much. Too soon. That error in judgment had already cost her hours spent on the road. First from the heart of Washington D.C. to this quaint little bastion of greed, then back to her hotel room near the District. Just because... Alex Stewart needed to remember that actions had consequences. Even the proud eventually fell, and his fall would be stupendous.
Damn. Damn. Oh, bloody damn. Catalina had no choice. She hadn’t yet finished with her previous guest. He was still in there. Might even be awake by now. Normally, she had no trouble handling two guests. She was the stronger one. Survival of the fittest, you know. But Alex deserved so much more attention to detail. As in gruesome, gory Technicolor detail.
The best revenge—the kind where a woman could dance and sing on her enemy’s very fresh grave after she’d made him suffer for years—was, unfortunately, in those details. She let Kelsey’s fingers slip from her hand, sure there would come another opportunity and another day. Soon. But for now… Alexander Stewart will just have to wait his turn.
“You’re too late. I didn’t bring much with me, and it’s already unpacked. I’m just planting a few roses to brighten this drab yard.” She pointed to the ugly saguaro cactus in the corner behind her. “That has to go.”
“Me yikes fwowers,” the little girl babbled.
Standing there with the first rays of morning sun glowing on her face, the child had to be as mentally deficient as her mother. Lexus, was it? Named after a car. How utterly American.
“And you’d attract the cutest baby worms,” Catalina told the child, her tone dripping with affected adoration. She wasn’t into pedophilia and its eventual need for a quick but oftentimes messy and noisy resolution. Her roses required a more robust fertilizer, the sort that came with a youthful spike of male vigor and testosterone.
“Well, enough of this chit-chat. I must get these babies planted. I’ll see you around.” Or not. Either way works for me.
Kelsey turned aside, but not until her gaze scrolled past Catalina to the twelve thorny plants lined up in their black plastic buckets like
brave little soldiers on the brick walkway behind her. “You’re planting all of them today? Come on. Are you sure you won’t need help?”
Catalina arched a brow at the woman’s naïveté. “Don’t be ridiculous. I love these roses to pieces.” And I do mean pieces. “For them to thrive, I must execute, ahem, ahem...” Pressing her wrist to her nose, she let loose several more faux-feminine coughs. “I must plant these flowerbeds with sufficient forethought. One can never be too careful.”
The sudden light in her neighbor’s dark eyes struck Catalina as either extremely odd or exquisitely intelligent. For a moment, an actual shiver skated over her stronger-than-anyone-else-in-the-world’s shoulders that this Kelsey person might possibly be able to read her mind. Or at least, to deduce more than Catalina had originally given her credit for.
But no. Banish that silly thought. Americans weren’t bright enough or traveled enough to see beyond the end of their self-entitled noses. Privileged, yes. But smart? Experienced? Wise to the ways of the big, scary world with all its pains, injustices, and untold miseries? That would be everyone on the planet but a United States citizen.
“Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” Kelsey offered, slanting her shoulder like a barrier between Catalina and that delectable child at her knee. “I’m in the stone and log home two doors down. Use the intercom at the gate if you need anything, and I’ll let you in.”
Let me in? Catalina tossed her head at that inane invitation. Like you could stop me. “Yes, yes, well, back to work. The early bird, you understand.”
“I yikes birds,” the lovely morsel now scooped up into her adoring mother’s arms mumbled as she stuffed all five fingers in her tiny face.
“Yes, Lexie, and you like puppies and kittens and…” Kelsey’s motherly words were lost as she hurried away with her child.
Just as well. Catalina knelt, admiring the row of graves, ahem, rose beds she’d dug with her own two very capable hands in the wee, wee hours. How she loved the smell of dirt, Mother Nature’s delectable, all-in-one morgue and cemetery. The musky, musty fragrance of life undone alone restored a sense of balance to one’s ragged nerves. I must bottle this!
Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18) Page 1
