Fighting For Olivia
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Fighting For Olivia
A Navy SEAL Romance
Zoë Normandie
Copyright © 2019 by Zoë Normandie
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Coming from a military background myself, I am an intense supporter of the military, and admire those in service. The sacrifices they have to make, and the decisions they are faced with are not easy or simple. Talk to anyone in the military or special forces and they will tell you that the system isn’t perfect, and there is always room to improve how we do business.
That said, please keep in mind that these books are fiction. Some of the content is dark and extreme, and used only to illustrate difficult questions. These books ask – how do you fight for what you believe in, fight for the values you hold inside, fight for someone you love?
In real life, SEALs are highly trained, highly dedicated operators and what you see in these books are fictionalized stories. I admire SEALs and all service people because of what they do - they fight for what we all believe in - and that’s what makes them heroes.
A portion of the profits made off of these books will be donated to veteran’s charities.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Several Months Earlier
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Guarding Aisha
Also by Zoë Normandie
Hunting Avery
Also by Zoë Normandie
Also by Zoë Normandie
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About the Author
1
Master Chief Special Warfare Operator Ryder Luciano’s heavy utility boots stomped down the sandy path between the makeshift metal buildings. He was on a compound deep in the Sahel and hell-bent on a mission.
While DEVGRU didn’t operate in a traditional Naval way, he damn well expected the guys under his command to follow his orders. Lives depended on it. He exhaled deeply as he marched, trying to mitigate his frustration. He was going to rip a piece of someone off. He was sick and tired of carrying everyone on his back.
He swiftly turned the corner of a low metal building, finding the group of sailors he was looking for. Leaning against the wall in the shade, all three quickly stood to attention as soon as he came within sight.
That was the reaction Ryder was used to. Their quick obedience helped dilute his ferocity.
The wind of the Sahara whipped against the woven black-and-tan kaffiyeh tied around his neck. A relic from his days in reconnaissance, it was a desert necessity.
“Master Chief.” A fair-haired, twenty-something man with a brown beard stepped forward. The sailor had allowed the Malian sun to burn his flesh, something that should have been avoided. Even in the dead of winter, the sun was blistering in Northern Mali—something the young man should have known. But Ryder knew he wasn’t experienced in sub-Saharan Africa. He was a DEVGRU rookie, and he’d struggled with adjusting to the tour.
Ryder gritted his teeth. Where was his team lead? He shouldn’t need to babysit junior members. That wasn’t his job.
As Ryder looked him over, the young man nervously fiddled with the gun belt fitted over his dusty tan cargo pants. Just brought on board after the grueling SEAL selection process, the young sailor was still finding his place in DEVGRU, once upon a time known as SEAL Team Six. DEVGRU had been home to Ryder for a decade, leading him on endless operations in the war on terror era. The goddamn OPTEMPO was insane, and unmanageable for most.
“I told you that I was making the drive.” Ryder began tearing into him as the young sailor sank back against the wall. “But now I hear you asked fleet to prepare a truck?” His tone was hard and intimidating enough to make a young man shit his pants.
The young sailor bore a surprised look and shook his head quickly. “Master Chief, I’m— I’m sorry. I got confused.”
He got confused? What the hell was that?
He damn well looked confused, too. The young man swayed slightly. Ryder took a moment to assess him, doing everything he could to keep his own emotions cool. He had to set a good example of self-discipline, something the troop had struggled with lately.
And then Ryder realized what was going on. Of course. It wasn’t insubordination. He should have known.
So he pivoted, transforming from challenging to protective. He observed the symptoms and concluded that there was something wrong with the junior member. And that meant that Ryder was going to have to hold the kid’s hand and do something about it, since everything was always left up to him. He had no backup.
“It’s the mefloquine,” Ryder said sternly. “Get to the medic, stat. The confusion is only going to get worse.”
Ryder protected his own. He wouldn’t let the condition go untreated. The antimalarial drugs were wreaking havoc on the troop, which was already down five men due to hallucinations. They were recovering in med bay. Side effects like that could mean life or death on an operation or in active battle. The rebels were fierce fighters, and mistakes were met with bloodshed.
He had to look out for his guys. Protect them. No one else would. Ryder was their last defense before reaching an echelon of out-of-touch and self-obsessed command staff. And—damn—the commander of the mission was a broke fuck.
The other sailors stood stiffly, waiting for further instruction. Ryder knew the young men under his command took comfort in his confident leadership. His authority. He was harsh but fair, and certainly well-meaning.
“See that he gets there. Now,” Ryder barked at the bunch.
They moved like a gun had been fired, and Ryder stirred as the frustration became suffocating in his chest. His heart rate was high, and lately he couldn’t shake what had become an unmanageable edge. Especially when it came to the safety of his men.
He’d done bad things to protect them. Unthinkable things. Things that violated laws of armed conflict.
But he had to do it. And he did it alone. He carried the troop alone. That’s why he lived with a weight inside his chest. He’d been on a hair trigger since the problems had started in their troop a few years ago.
Ryder watched as the young sailors marched toward the medic outpost, a small metal building erected near the front of the dusty, blanched compound. He hoped the young man would be taken care of and returned fit for duty. There were enough mind-fuck problems to manage without antimalarial drugs making shit worse. The funny thing was, he hadn’t seen one fucking mosquito since he’d been there. They were in a goddamn desert.
Ryder continued on his way to fleet, grumbling the whole way. The special forces knew how to ride its guys into the ground. They were literally in a never-ending war. It had been like that since 9/11. Every year, Ryder saw all these young hopefuls clambering on top of each other for a chance to become a SEAL. For a spot in DEVGRU. All the glory, all the glamor. Shit, they had no idea. He stopped having a life years ago. He wasn’t capable anymore.
As he approached the entrance to the compound, he saw the fleet vehicles lined up. Most of them were locally styled pickup trucks that had received ‘upgrades’ to make them battle ready. The point of DEVGRU, and the point of their mission, was to be covert. Secretive. They were ghosts. No one knew they were there.
As such, the compound looked like just a regular property from the outside: high stone walls, guard towers, metal gates. Nothing different than any other beat-up, war-ridden compound in the area. They had appropriated its use years ago when the secretary of defense had blessed the mission, and they’d managed to keep it hidden. They even kept a bunch of fucking goats out front to stylize it.
Turning his thoughts to his task, Ryder reflected that the black bulletproof pickup truck ahead was ready for him, and he needed to get on his way if he was going to pick up the consultant in time.
The civilian.
It was a task he had been volun-told for, which was yet another cause for grumbling. It seemed the commander wanted Ryder to ‘take care’ of their latest addition to the roster. No surprise there. Ryder was ordered to take care of every fucking person on the mission.
He didn’t know why the secretary thought it was a wise idea to send a civilian consultant into the heart of conflict-ridden Northern Mali during the heat of their counterterrorism efforts. It was only a few months ago that Timbuktu had been reclaimed from the rebels. Either the secretary was trying to kill her, or he was damn desperate to pretend the Navy was doing something about the dirty war crimes rumors. But Ryder knew the truth that no one wanted to admit out loud: in the never-ending war on terror, it had become pretty damn difficult to right the ship and address the systematic ethical problems poisoning the SEALs.
No doubt the allegations against his troop were pretty damn alarming. Shooting prisoners in the back? Offing unarmed teenage combatants? Hell, even Ryder was disturbed by the rumors—especially because of what had transpired over the years. What he’d seen. What he’d done.
But, rumors or not, bringing over anyone without a gun was a dumb idea. The consultant was just one more person he would need to protect. He didn’t need any more bad karma if something happened to her.
He was burnt out. He needed someone on his side. He needed support. Someone he could trust.
Because he was damn well running out of energy to do it all.
2
Olivia Forbes’s plane began its final descent into Modibo Keita International Airport in Bamako, the capital city of Mali. As the haze of the morning West African sun burned through her window, sweat dewed on the back of her neck, curling the loose brunette strands.
She’d gone from late-winter snowflakes in Washington to African heat. And that heat that would only intensify as she continued her trek north to the Sahara. Or so she had read—she’d never been to Mali before.
The aircraft jolted up and down, driving fear through her veins.
The pilot’s muffled voice sounded through the radio. “Sorry, folks—just a touch of turbulence as we land.”
She began to feel sick. Whipping off her scarf, she put her cold aluminum water bottle on the back of her neck. The coolness was only a momentary distraction. She peered out the window, but the sight of the brown, muddy river that ran through Bamako only made her more nauseated.
After a hellacious few minutes, the wheels touched pavement, and the passengers clapped and cheered. Gazing out the tiny window at her seat, she drank in the landscape, which was markedly different from home—and anything she’d seen before. Thick red dirt lined the runway, and patches of emerald-green grass framed the area. A cityscape loomed in the background with tall gray towers of urban infrastructure.
As they taxied to the airport, Olivia grabbed her cell out of the seat-back compartment in front of her. She absently cruised through the last messages she’d received at the Paris airport and reread the message from her boss, Jacqueline Hart, a partner at In Context.
You are my client relationship ambassador here—you are going to rock it! I’m jumping, just thinking of all the future work for the firm…
Olivia released a slow breath, letting out the tension. She was excited and proud to be leading such an important account. It was incredible how much faith the firm had put in her—an entire client relationship hinged on her! And she had every intention of keeping the client happy by any means necessary.
Out on the tarmac, the passengers were escorted through the traffic and into the airport. It was a low building with interesting modern architecture and colorful decorations that spoke to the multi-tribal culture of the region. Inside, the airport was chaotic, as she’d expected. Bamako was a busy hub in West Africa.
Customs and bag check went by without incident, though she was given a funny look when she told her immigration officer that she was consulting for the American military. She didn’t say Navy SEALs. She didn’t say Naval Special Warfare Development Group, DEVGRU, or SEAL Team Six. She didn’t say counterterrorism. She knew better than that, even before the CIA security briefing in Washington the week prior.
Rule number one: Don’t make your job sound too exciting.
That wasn’t the only rule she’d received in her briefing. They read her the riot act, to the point where she questioned the Navy’s faith in civilians to follow orders. At the end of the day, she was a big girl, and she understood the importance of rules in theater and the Naval code of conduct.
Olivia waited inside the lobby of the airport, knowing it wasn’t a good idea to stand alone curbside in Mali’s capital city. Years and years of conflict had rattled the country, creating a tense atmosphere for foreigners. She was well aware that visitors were regular victims of petty and violent crime, sometimes by criminals and sometimes by extremists.
So Olivia stood firm and waited for her driver inside.
She took off her dark-rimmed, tortoiseshell glasses and wiped a layer of filth off the lenses. Something about traveling made everything need a pressure wash. She had transferred in France to get there, and the whole trip had taken almost a full twenty-four hours.
She was tired.
Jacqueline had told her that the lieutenant commander was arranging her transport to the compound as well as every detail of her movement and security. And Olivia made no mistake—every move she made needed to be planned and monitored. Up north was a fucking war zone. Westerners and white people were regularly kidnapped and killed.
Her firm and the Navy had approved her visit only because the rebels were falling in the north and Timbuktu had been reclaimed. She’d be well inside the safety zone, they said. Well inside.
Rule number two: Stay ‘inside the wire’ of the compound.
She wasn’t even sure how long it would take to get to the compound, five hundred miles northeast of her ultimate destination. As it was, she was a sitting duck. A young, white woman with a perky brunette ponytail and rosy cheeks would be a prime target.
The Navy had assured them that once she got there, of course, there was no need for additional security to follow her around. The SEALs on the compound would offer the best possible security while she worked on her project. Whether or not the commander was thrilled about babysitting her remained to be seen. She had every reason to hope for his cooperation—the Navy had commissioned her firm, after all—but she wasn’t so sure how it would go down in reality… well away from DC’s watchful eyes.
A horde of Malian men stood outside at the curb, trying to wrangle passengers for their makeshift taxis. They were pushy to the point of being scarily aggressive. A large bus sat on the curb, corralling passenge
rs and their luggage.
It felt like chaos everywhere, and Dulles airport had done nothing to prepare her for this. She took a deep breath and tried to remember all of the other rules from her security briefing. Clinging to what security she had, Olivia stayed inside the airport doors, scanning for anyone that looked like they could have been sent for her.
“Miss! Miss!” A man called for her in an Arabic accent. She saw the man up ahead, raising his hands at her, vying for her attention. Her instincts told her that he was not who she was looking for, so she ignored him, willing him to go away.
The aggressive man snuck past the guards at the lobby doors and reached down to take the one piece of luggage glued to her side. He was a thin man with a scraggly, blackish-gray beard and skin darkened by the hot sun. He didn’t seem malicious, but he was certainly determined.
She began to wonder why exactly the Navy felt she didn’t need additional security.
“No. Go away,” she said firmly, her frustration rising.
Of course she would get accosted at the airport. She didn’t want to deal with it. She wasn’t prepared to deal with it. She was so goddamn tired.
Why wasn’t her ride already there? Where were these purported SEALs?