Desert Exposure

by Zoë Normandie

  DESERT EXPOSURE

  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

  To J, for the inspiration and support.

  I would also like to thank my editor, Amanda. Your keen eye and sharp editing took this book to the next level.

  Amanda Bidnall Editing and Writing

  http://amandabidnall.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  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

  Call for Reviews

  EYES ON

  Also by Zoë Normandie

  About the Author

  Prologue

  MONTHS EARLIER

  Lieutenant Commander Doug Fuller, in command of a highly elite troop in the US Navy SEAL’s warfare development group known as DEVGRU, stood on a podium in front of a mass of reporters. His SEALs were in trouble again. War crimes? They were starting to make the Rangers look like absolute fucking squares.

  Flashing lights and microphones were shoved toward him. Sweat beaded on his bald, misshapen head, and he felt the remnants of nicotine percolating in his body. He stood at attention and with confidence, not betraying the rage roiling inside him.

  “Commander, what do you have to say about allegations of war crimes in Mali?” The reporter screeched loudly to get his attention over the buzz of the crowd. “Do these behaviors warrant pulling the whole platoon out of theater?”

  “Did you know what the SEALs were doing?” another demanded. “Did you witness any detainee executions?”

  Fuller clenched his teeth, unwilling to go off script. Who the fuck were these soy-sipping pansies to question him? While he was fighting for their freedom, they were busy in their liberal arts colleges, debating the challenges of terrorism and combat like they knew something. But they fucking didn’t. They had no idea of the hardships of war. It was never as black-and-white as the libs liked to imagine. It was all fucking shades of gray.

  A sharp female voice emanated through the microphone system. “Please hold your questions until the end.” She was instructing the press to shut the fuck up.

  Fuller took a deep breath, collecting his deep-seated anger toward the pony show. Behind him, the banner of the US Naval Special Warfare Command hung on the wall of the stage. Big Navy had forced him onto the podium to address the allegations under his command and the subsequent NCIS investigation that had taken place. Hell, even the secretary of defense recognized that the situation was dire: SEALs were gracing the news for more bad shit than the National Guard. And there was a serious rectal pucker factor when the phrase ‘war crimes’ found its way into the headlines.

  Needless to say, the top dogs were pretty fucking happy when the resulting NCIS investigation was open and shut damn fast. Anything to quash the bad press and placate the masses.

  Without wasting any time, he began speaking into the microphone, addressing ravenous, salivating reporters left and right.

  “Six months ago, I stood before you to announce the start of an NCIS investigation into the disturbing allegations regarding the Wolfpack Troop’s behavior on mission in Mali,” he began. He remained still and poised, with as much decorum as any elite commanding officer. “I’m proud to announce today that the NCIS investigation has shown those allegations to be nothing but categorically and unequivocally unsubstantiated.” He felt his own dick lengthen as he said the words, enjoying the taste of every syllable. “The NCIS investigation has shown that our operators have continued to act lawfully in their actions, and we have no incidents of war crimes our hands.”

  It felt fucking good to make that announcement. It was a giant fuck-you to everyone who questioned him. And it was a giant nod to his boss, the man who’d orchestrated everything, who had strategized the words coming out of Fuller’s mouth. The boss knew very well that the press release—and its claims of vindicated SEALs and unsubstantiated allegations—wouldn’t go down easy in the media, and he expected the headlines wouldn’t be in his favor. But, really, all they had to do was keep up the façade. That’s all the secretary wanted to see. He didn’t give a fuck what was actually happening as long as they were getting the mission done and there wasn’t bad press.

  As Fuller looked left to right, questions were being asked about his leadership. About his ability to keep his men in line. Calming the eruption, he spoke again. “Do not let these lies take away from the honorable work being done by the courageous American men and women in the Sahel. They are protecting the people of Mali from a dangerous terrorist force.”

  He continued in an upbeat tone, feeling the momentum of his own deceit. “We are committed to excellence and committed to the well-being of our operators.” He stared down all the reporters who had stood up, ready to jump down his throat. “As a result, the Navy has awarded a contract to a Washington consultancy firm to assist us in determining areas of improvement in our… workplace culture.”

  The last two words curdled on his tongue. When had the Navy gotten so fucking soft? Culture. What a joke. Sending some civilian quack into theater to understand DEVGRU culture—SEAL culture—was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard, second only to the concept of almond milk.

  And if the Secretary expected him to go out of his way to keep that particular civilian alive, then he was smoking something stronger than even the White House’s typical tomfoolery.

  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 brow
n 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.