Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs

by Sharon Hamilton

His boxers were pink.

  Jameson knew he would never outlive this day.

  The mission the next day was successful. Coop said Hassan reminded him of the camel spider they’d found on their last mission sorting through trash in Syria—skinny and sickly looking, with a pot belly, of all things.

  The squad was returned to Djibouti, where they awaited their next mission. In the meantime, they conducted demonstrations and training for some of the Joint Spec Ops guys, as well as checking on missions from returning men who had been flown all over the middle east and east Africa.

  Over the next two months, he and Lizzie developed a routine, and on one occasion, Charlotte was put on the phone, dressed in a green witches mask with her new watermelon hat on top. Having the girls to talk to was a lifeline, and helped him feel normal.

  Yet he knew things were not normal at all. Small terrorist and lone gunman attacks on US soil worried them all, since they were so far from home. The guys tried not to talk about it, but it was always brought up by someone during the conversations about home. They were to return stateside in a week, having retrieved all the warlords and troublemakers they’d been tasked to get, without having a single casualty among the squad, and no major injuries. Best of all, there had been no civilian collateral damage. That was sometimes the hardest part and the bad guys knew it, so kept their women and children around them as much as possible.

  One more week, Lizzie. Coming home to you in a week.

  Jameson said a prayer every night to protect his girls until he could be there in person to do the job himself.

  Chapter 22

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  Victor Qabanni waited by the van for the others to show up. Two large tour busses arrived as a crowd of elderly exited and headed for the elevators at the parking lot level to take them to the tasting room.

  Good to know.

  Somehow, in the report he was given, that detail had been omitted. Above the elevator was the swimming pool deck and veranda, band stand and outdoor picnic area. Since it was late fall, there still could be some warm days and people might be using that area, but the pool was closed so this would not make a good target. But it might be a great way to transport some equipment.

  He was irritated Adnan was always late. Some days Victor felt more like a babysitter than the team leader. Most of the young boys who came over were part of the stepped-up refugee program. He had to weed out the ones who were loyal enough to die. Most of them hated the United States or any Western country who brought so many of their countrymen overseas. If the public knew there was actually a bounty paid to get into the States, they’d be shocked. Sometimes people hesitated coming here because security was so much better than in Europe.

  But with this new demonstration, all that would change. Meanwhile the boys just kept pouring into the mosque in Sacramento and other places on the West Coast. Promising pupils were sent his way. Now he had ten, and that number was the “tipping point” as his business professor used to tell him.

  What bullshit all that was. He reduced it down to the number it would take to kill at least a couple hundred children who would be protected by women. Even women could sacrifice themselves for the children, he’d learned. Some knew how to shoot. But in California, guns were more difficult to get and very unpopular except for the extremists. It was a much safer haven to operate in.

  And that was good news for their little cell.

  He thought about what his Russian father and Syrian mother would say if they were still alive. Would his father be proud of the mission he’d taken on? The man’s blue eyes stared back at him every time he looked in the mirror. It was useful that some people mistook him for Italian. His light skin helped him blend in as well.

  But as light as his skin and as blue as his western-looking eyes were, his heart was pure black. He lived a singleness of focus, peppered with occasional gifts from God given out of opportunity. He was given money, and most of it he spent on cigarettes and prostitutes. He liked the light-haired girls who spoke with Russian accents, or tried to when he paid them more. Made him feel closer to his dead father that way.

  Adnan’s old Chevy Malibu came roaring into the parking lot, trailed by a long grey band of smoke. The windows were down, and they had been playing some rock and roll, drawing too much attention to themselves. Adnan was a cocky sonofabitch. More than likely, if he wasn’t killed during the attack, Victor would have to put a bullet in his brain himself. And then he wouldn’t have to put up with his incessant questions and complaints.

  His second-in-command rolled up his window and locked the door as everyone else piled out. Victor counted seven. Now that was a red flag. On the highway with four people in the back seat, and three in front, they were Highway Patrol bait, which was stupid.

  Adnan was about to say something to him, but Victor cut him off. “Shut up. Not a word.”

  “Victor, I wanted to—”

  “Yea, I wanted to fuck your wife one more time too before we die, but I resisted.” He loved teasing Adnan about his pretty new bride back home he wasn’t likely to ever see again, though he told the man otherwise. Adnan was a true believer until it hurt. He wondered how he’d feel when he lost a body part in a shootout, or what he’d think as he saw his guts fly out of him from a stomach wound.

  The recruit was furious. His dark eyes smoldered. Victor decided to take his mind off the incident.

  “I notice you locked the doors, but that will do no good with the windows open.” He pointed to the dirty American car with the Give Peace A Chance sticker on the back bumper. The back window on the driver’s side and the passenger front seat window were both still rolled partially down.

  Adnan cursed and would have hit someone, directing them to fix it, but he was the only one with the keys. Victor looked at him like the piece of shit he was. It was hard enough designing the plan, but having to think for his second-in-command, who should be the one who caught his mistakes and played backup, was not a good sign.

  We make do with what God provides.

  It meant everything had to go like clockwork the first time, because there wasn’t likely to be a second chance.

  When Adnan returned, Victor began his little lecture, noticing the group had dressed better than they usually did. A quick trip to the Salvation Army gave them acceptable American clothes that looked like old trusted uniforms so they wouldn’t stand out from a crowd.

  “You’re tourists today. You walk around and study everything. I know some of you cannot read or understand many words in Americanish.” He liked to call it this because English to him meant double decker busses and red phone booths and Big Ben, which would soon be another casualty of the war against the West. “But just pretend you are on a cultural exchange. You smile and point and nod. Americans love that. They like people who like their things.”

  The group was stoic.

  “You getting what I’m saying?” he asked them, and got some nods. He wondered how many of them had taken the uppers he’d given them two days ago. Or perhaps they had taken them over those two days and burned themselves out. They looked about as alive as his dead cat, God rest her soul.

  “So I want you to notice the old pickup in the showroom. It was used in the drive-in movie scene in the Zombie Apocalypse movie—” Searching their faces, he realized they didn’t have an idea what a drive-in movie was, although they sure as hell knew about Zombies because they’d been playing that game ever since they’d gotten their cell phones.

  God will provide. Everything we need is at his hands. Praise be—”

  He saw a very attractive and shapely blonde get out of her car, and sashay, really sashay the way it was supposed to be done, with her fine ass swinging back and forth, encased in her light pants and no pantyline either. He loved that American women wore thong underwear. Their men were idiots to let them go out like that, just asking to be fucked. Her delicate footsteps clacked up the stairway in her high-heeled sandals. He watched every motion until she reached the top and disappeared insi
de.

  He worried they would see his distraction, but all the boys were gaping as well, whispering amongst themselves.

  “That one’s off limits. You are not worthy to lick the ashtray she uses or sniff the tissue she wipes herself with in the rest room, understood?”

  They nodded, but grinned just the same.

  Babies. Perverts.

  Well, there would be time enough for all that thought, if they survived. “So, as I was saying, the blue pickup has room behind the seats, and in all four wheel wells. You are to take pictures with your phones if you like, so you can remember where you’re going to put the material.”

  They nodded.

  “Then, at the bar—and there are two, so don’t go to the tasting bar, go to the one that serves coffee and drinks—there are cubbies and compartments all over the place. Over this area, and I’m not going to point, but I’ll go up and order an espresso and you can see, above the bar are the executive offices and private conference facilities. We don’t have access to that area, but we don’t need to be there.”

  He further explained that the tall copper spires would make it impossible for firefighters and rescue workers to fight any blaze or conduct a rescue from a rooftop setting, which gave them an advantage.

  “You are to smile, be respectful. Examine things in the showroom, but when the clerk comes up to ask you if you need help, and they will, you tell them you don’t have any money and are just looking, okay?”

  “Can we buy something?” Adnan asked. The group standing around him looked back to Victor for an answer to this serious question.

  “Like a bottle of wine? They’ll ask you for I.D. and you want to show yours, Adnan?”

  “No, of course not. But some trinket to take home, perhaps?”

  Victor wanted to tell them it wouldn’t be necessary, but decided to be more prudent. “If you like, but keep it small, something you don’t have to take in a bag, which they will charge you for, but something you can slip into your pants pocket. A pen, perhaps, keychain, or a magnet. But I warn you, they are expensive.”

  He inhaled and began his way over to the elevator. He pushed the call button and within seconds they heard the rumbling of the old commercial lift. He could see Adnan sported a frown, having discovered he’d missed it in his report.

  The doors opened to reveal a handcart stored in the back corner, but otherwise it was clean and vacant. They pushed the “2” button and exited on the deck by the pool. Crossing the patio, they walked through the double glass doors with the distinctive scripted Zs of the Marco Zapparelli Winery etched into the glass.

  Music from movie trailers echoed throughout the building. The back wall of the tasting room bar played Westerns, but without sound to interfere with the trailers. Victor casually walked to the show room, admiring the shiny green pick-up truck on display. In the driver window sat a tray, affixed with long plastic covered hooks, which balanced on the glass window. The tray had simulated drinks with straws and imitation fries and hamburgers wrapped in red and white checkered tissue paper.

  He stepped on Adnan’s foot when he caught the recruit examining under the rear tire wheel well. Several of the men took pictures. They peered inside the cab, and then dove into wine barrels filled with shiny metal objects with the distinctive Zapparelli logo. Books and tee shirts, as well as coffee mugs, beer steins, cookbooks and journals were carefully displayed around the room.

  Through the tasting bar, he could see the attractive blonde on the other side talking to the bartender. He was suddenly thirsty for his espresso, and made the motion of sipping a cup, pointing. He was pleased when the group didn’t break and follow him en masse, but one by one made their way toward the same area he was headed.

  “He’s supposed to meet me here to approve the list of donors,” the lovely lady said to the man behind the bar.

  “Go check with the reservations desk,” and he pointed to the podium beside the entrance to the restaurant. The podium was vacant.

  She looked back at the man, and he added, “They should be right back. They have a telephone to call upstairs.”

  She said thank you and then left.

  “Help you, sirs?” the bartender asked Victor, giving quick side glances to a man on either side of him.

  “Yes, we would like three espressos.”

  “You take anything in it?”

  “No. Just black.”

  The aroma of fresh coffee was delicious, but not as delicious as the view of the blonde lady from behind. He could stand all day and sip espresso, watching her fine ass and the way her long blonde hair nearly touched her butt cheeks.

  God provides everything we need. It is all in God’s hands.

  But Victor was already thinking about other hands, and what it would feel like to squeeze her flawless white flesh.

  “That will be eight and a quarter.”

  Victor took out his wallet and paid the man a ten. Victor brushed his hand to the side, indicating he didn’t need change.

  Adnan and the other men stayed in the vicinity, examining the glass cases with pictures of the scenes from western movies that were playing on the wall. He was also fascinated with the zombie mannequin holding the severed head, and pointed to it. He and two others had a quiet conversation about things Victor could only imagine. He wondered to himself why the director, who owned the winery, would put such a disgusting bloody display in the middle of an area where people would be walking to eat dinner or taste wines.

  Americans are strange.

  He knew that in France or Germany, it would only be in a museum such could be found, and he’d seen several that were much worse than this display, depicting prisons and torture devices, almost as if it were an art form. Torture was a Western failing and something he disliked. But he never feared death. He looked forward to it, as a matter of fact.

  Their surveillance was over approximately an hour later. He noticed the posters for the children’s event were plastered everywhere, calling parents and teachers to bring the little ones.

  He knew the vineyards were harvesting soon. He was beginning his harvest as well. He was grateful for the opportunity his harvest would afford their cause. If he made it back to Syria, it would be to a hero’s welcome.

  God is good.

  Chapter 23

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  Lizzie dressed Charlotte all in pink, matching her pink dress. She’d braided her hair and placed flower barrettes at the ends. Lizzie wore a matching clip in her hair, drawn up over her left ear.

  She’d gotten the news that Jameson would be back in California this evening, and then he’d be headed on the first flight out he could get to Sonoma County from San Diego tomorrow. He’d stepped on the transport and didn’t call her until he’d actually lifted off.

  Home! He’s coming home.

  She felt Charlotte’s excitement too as she hopped around and twirled, not wanting to sit still to finish her breakfast and going into the bathroom twice but forgetting to go potty.

  “Stop wiggling, Charlotte. I know you’re excited, and I am too, but you’ve got to help me out or we’ll be late.”

  “Okay, Mommy.” But before Lizzie could slip on her shoes and find her car keys, Charlotte was jumping and clapping her hands together. “I want to wear my watermelon hat too.”

  “But I just did your hair.”

  “But I want to wear it because Daddy’s coming home.”

  Lizzie got the hat, but let Charlotte put it on.

  “Perfect! Now, think about your story, Charlotte. We have to concentrate.”

  “I am, I am!”

  Traffic was heavy, so Lizzie and Charlotte took the elevator up to the reception area once they got to the winery. Tables were set up outside, one for every group or school represented, as well as some examples of the student projects done there. Charlotte’s reading camp was supposed to be represented. A string of portapotties were lined up on the outer wall of the pool area, blocking exit to the staff parking structure.

  Amy
met them on the deck. “Thought I was going to have to go find you. They’re sitting down now. Zak is saving seats.”

  “Need to just pop in to say hi to Charlotte’s reading coach, but I don’t see her.”

  “Okay, but we have to hurry. I understand Mr. Zapparelli was looking for you earlier.”

  “Oh Christ. Must be something wrong.”

  She found the table for the camp, but no one was seated behind.

  “I think they’ve gone inside. You guys are up second or third. Early in the program. I think they’re getting set up.”

  “Makes sense.”

  The trio darted inside. The entire restaurant had been converted into a mock library with book shelves stocked with children’s books for all ages. In the center, chairs were arranged in a semicircle theater-style, surrounding the raised podium where the performances were going to be. Lizzie saw Zak saving three seats near the kitchen side about two-thirds back. He waved, but as they slipped through the crowd to take their seats the strong arm of Marco Zapparelli grabbed her, yanking her back behind one of the shelves. Zak frowned, looking concerned.

  “I have to talk to you. It’s an emergency,” Zapparelli said.

  Lizzie could see his eyes were wide with panic. She turned, “Amy, can you take Charlotte? I’ll only be a couple of minutes, I promise.”

  “No problem.” Lizzie could see she was mad, but took Charlotte’s hand and led her to the reserved seating.

  Whirling around, Lizzie barked at Zapparelli. “I’m with my family. My daughter’s reading—”

  He cut her off. “The Fire Marshall said there’s been a bomb threat called in, and he wants us to consider shutting down.”

  “A bomb threat? Today? Who would want to interfere with a children’s festival like this?”

  “I think it’s bogus. He was all over my case with a punchlist a mile long. Had to bring those ugly green plastic things in and put them poolside just to keep him happy.”

  “I saw those. They weren’t pretty.”