SEAL My Home: Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 2 (SEAL Brotherhood Series 9)

by Hamilton, Sharon

  Rory grabbed the top of the laptop, pulling it gingerly over the back of the seat and placing it on his knees. He stared into the eyes of the woman he loved, if it was her. Megan’s face was swollen with a grotesque red and purple bruise on her right side. Part of her cheekbone was sharply contoured under her skin, indicating there was a broken bone. Her nose was nearly twice its normal size, but her eyes, he couldn’t even tell if her eyes were open or closed.

  Her hands were bound with yellow nylon cord. Someone had placed a headscarf on her and wrapped it around her lower jaw, tying it behind her head like they did in the desert. But this one was positioned to be a gag.

  Several invectives were hurled in hushed tones as members of their team piled in and viewed the screen.

  “He’s a dead man, Chief.” Rory meant it.

  “No, he’s fucking not. We’re not going to do anything like that,” Collins corrected him.

  Fredo was the loudest. “Fuckin-A. This one’s going back to the source, no doubt about it.”

  “Kyle?” Collins voice was nearly screaming on the other end. “Get me Kyle.”

  Rory handed his LPO the phone, and everyone in the vehicle could hear the words Collins was shouting. “You got a lid on this, Lansdowne? We don’t do any vigilante justice. I didn’t call you to stir everyone up for a bloodbath.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief. You’re breaking up,” Kyle yelled back. “Chief Collins? Collins? Are you there?” Kyle carefully scanned the faces of his team, putting his forefinger to his lips. “Fuck, I think we lost the Chief,” he said to the other men. “Let’s get the hell out of here and head back to the airfield.” He carefully punched the red disconnect button.

  Everyone understood the stakes, the violation that had just occurred. And it would never get any further than the inside of the OSV.

  “Read the message, Rory,” T.J. said. “There’s a message below the pic.”

  Mr. Kennedy,

  Someone is going to die very soon. It will be either your woman here, or you, or both of you. You will be given instructions very soon and you must comply. Please acknowledge you have received this message.

  Rory shook his head as he started to place his fingers on the keyboard.

  “You can’t fuckin’ answer it, Rory. It’s gonna take us six hours at least to get home.” Kyle said.

  “I have to, Kyle. I have to tell him I can’t get back there. If he’s expecting me to respond quickly, and I’m in the air, what the fuck good will that do? I’ve just killed her, Kyle. That’s what would happen.”

  T.J. had exited the second seat and opened the driver door, pushing Kyle aside. “While you ladies are deciding what’s on the menu, I’m getting us the hell outta here and back to the airstrip.” He started up the vehicle. “Everyone, we good? Got all your gear?” Everyone nodded, except Rory.

  Rory was in shock, staring at the picture of Megan on the screen. Kyle shook his shoulders. “Rory?”

  “I got it LP,” said Brady. “He’s good.”

  “For what it’s worth, Kyle,” said Cooper, “I agree with Rory. Tariq has got to feel like Rory’s trying to cooperate. The worst thing we can do is disrespect his authority by ignoring him.”

  Kyle searched Rory’s face. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to make him think we’re going rogue and going to catch hell for it. After all, it’s consistent with our reputation,” he added.

  “I agree. I’ll just tell him we’re leaving now, and I’ll contact him when we land.”

  “All you can do, Rory. I’ll take the heat for it, if it comes to that.”

  “Excuse me, LP, but you weren’t the one he gave the order to. It was me.”

  “And I’m responsible for you following those orders, Rory. I’m tied to the same outcome.”

  T.J. hit a huge trough in the ice trail and they all slammed into the ceiling, rising off their seats by nearly a foot. The vehicle swerved back and forth so T.J. could avoid a bigger swale. The engine whined as they maneuvered their way faster than they normally would have. Rory could hardly think straight it was so loud.

  “Now would not be a good time to crash this thing, T.J.,” said Kyle. He got a three-finger salute.

  “No disrespect intended, Lannie.”

  “Oh, I like fuckin’. I got no problem with that. It’s your fuckin’ driving I have a problem with,” Kyle said punching T.J.’s arm.

  Fredo pretended to type on the computer. “Go rot in hell with the donkey you rode in on,” he feigned.

  Rory pushed him aside. “Get the fuck out of my face, Casanova.”

  There was a general “Wooo” from everyone in the vehicle. Fredo was quick with his answer. “I guess being married to Armani’s sister is rubbing off. That’s what we used to call him, remember?”

  Fredo got some agreement.

  “Guys!” Rory was in a panic trying to figure out what he should say. “I gotta send a message and you—you guys act like we’ve just stolen a car and are running from the cops.” He slapped T.J. on the shoulder, and he too got the salute. “You’re nearly running us off the trail. I can’t type when you’re bouncing this shit all around.”

  “Pardon me, Sir Rory,” T.J. began in his best imitation British accent. “I’m dreadfully sorry about the bumps. Perhaps next time, I’ll bring the Rolls.”

  They hit the main highway, which was smoother, but filled with craters and potholes. It led straight to the airport. At last Rory could send a message.

  “In Alaska on a training,” he said as he typed. He hesitated and looked up at Kyle. “Can we tell him that? We don’t even tell the ladies that half the time.”

  “Let me take out my Code of Conduct and check the rules.” Kyle quipped and turned back around.

  Cooper thought that was funny as hell. “Don’t ever say that in front of Libby. She’ll think there is such a thing and she’ll be demanding I produce it. She’s big on rules.”

  “I believe they call them ‘Safe Words,’” Fredo inserted.

  “We don’t do any of that shit.” Cooper crossed his long arms and legs and slunk back into the third seat, pulling the back of his shirt. “Leave him the hell alone. He’s gotta write a letter.”

  Fredo collapsed nearly in Brady’s lap, and got shoved back into Cooper’s side.

  Tyler leaned into Rory from the side. “Out of country on training. Will be back in seven or eight hours.” Tyler gave Rory time to catch up to his dictation.

  “I’ll say seven.”

  “Leaving within the hour. Will contact you when we land.” Tyler waited again. “Just so you know, I’ve risked my career to answer your email.”

  “Nah, don’t say that,” Kyle objected.

  “Tell him he’s going to hell,” Fredo shouted.

  “Ask him if you can take him to dinner at that little kosher place downtown,” T.J. offered.

  Rory was getting more agitated by the second. “Fuckit, guys. This is life or death shit. I don’t get this right, she’s—”

  Instantly the vehicle got quiet.

  Kyle finally turned back. “Hey, Rory, just send it without the getting into trouble part. No sense putting that crap in writing. I trust Collins about as much as anybody, but I don’t trust Forsythe,” said Kyle.

  Tyler nodded his head, “Yeah, man, just send it.”

  A slight bump forced Rory’s finger off the keyboard momentarily before he could hit return. When he examined the message he’d sent, a picture of a puppy dog kissing a heart had appeared right under his typing.

  “Fuck me!”

  The three teammates in the third seat leaned over and saw the message with the little dog bouncing up and down kissing the pulsing hearts. Cooper and Fredo looked at Kyle and began to laugh.

  How could I have been such a stupid idiot?

  Recognition spread over Kyle’s face. “Oh, that. That’s my sig line. You must have hit the left arrow command button. I sign messages to Christy that way.”

  “Well, boss. Now Tariq’s got one too,”
said Tyler.

  The transport was waiting for them. They transferred the keys to two young Coasties who were sent to do the pickup of the loaner vehicle. In less than five minutes, they were on their way back to San Diego.

  Rory’s hands were red from digging his fingernails into his palms. He worked on his breathing, tried to sleep, used one of T.J.’s relaxation tapes, but every time he heard something he jumped. It was like he’d had twenty cups of coffee. He knew he would need his strength, the power of his quick thinking. But he’d never outright wanted to kill anyone so bad in his life. It eclipsed anything he’d felt in the theater. Kyle had been looking at him every time he opened his eyes. He finally transferred to the vacant seat across so he didn’t have to experience the “evil eye” his LPO was giving him—real or imagined. Next time he opened his eyes, there were three of his buddies staring back at him, and Fredo’s eyes were crossed and he’d stuck his tongue out.

  They laughed of course. He knew it wasn’t at his expense, but as the hours ticked by, it felt crappy that he had to wait so long to find out if she was even alive. He knew how fragile life could be, how quickly things could change.

  In the early morning hours, the transport finally landed at the Naval Air Station. Kyle was first out and was met by both Collins and Forsythe. Brady, Cooper, T.J. and Fredo all carried most of the gear. Rory rocked impatiently behind his LPO, his backpack in hand, trying not to engage eye contact with Collins. He didn’t want to show disrespect to the man he owed his life to, but without Kyle’s presence he’d have run past his Chief and Forsythe and headed straight for his Hummer, probably ending his career. He wouldn’t do that with Kyle standing beside him.

  “You fuckin’ disobeyed a direct order, son.” Collins was the maddest Rory had ever seen him, squinting around Kyle to deliver a nasty sneer, making his left eye twitch. He stood ramrod straight and barked at Kyle, “And whose fuckin’ idea was it to send a fucking puppy gram?”

  T.J. and Cooper worked hard to stifle a snicker, but Collins didn’t find it funny at all, and Forsythe was ballistic.

  “It was an accident. The Jeep was bouncing all over the road. We were traveling like a bat out of hell and my finger slipped. It’s not my computer, sir,” Rory pleaded.

  “You were given express instructions not to mess with the negotiations,” said Forsythe with his lips making one firm line.

  That got Rory’s attention. Negotiations?

  “I guess I did the right thing by keeping your computer, in light of this. I sure as hell never counted on you being this stupid, son,” added Forsythe.

  “Let’s get back to the Team building where we’ve got some plans. We’ll respond to him there.”

  Oh, good. They have a plan.

  He’d give them a few minutes of his time, and then he would be out of there, working up a plan of his own. If they found her location and she was gone, there wouldn’t be anything left but scorched earth. If it took the rest of his life, he’d get even.

  Chapter 40

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  Megan woke up stiff, the pain in her hip from being tossed about and equal to that in her rear from the fall onto the concrete. Her feet were swollen, the bottoms stung from cuts and who-knew-what embedded in those cuts, festering. It was daytime. Filtered light shone through the white cotton pillowcase still covering her head and neck.

  As she tried to right herself to sitting position, she felt the case unstick from the clotted tissue crusted on her nose and cheeks. The unmistakable metallic taste of her own blood in her mouth and down the back of her throat was coupled with the warm sensation that new blood was flowing down between her breasts again.

  With her hands tied in front of her, she lifted the pillowcase, pushing it back on her head, then with her fingers she pulled down the headscarf and used it to blow her nose quietly. It did help to clear her breathing passages a little but the bleeding continued. She was so weak she could hardly take in a deep enough breath to expel and dislodge some of the dried material.

  She looked around her. A broken window was on the opposite wall to the right. The place had been some sort of storage facility. Boxes and packing material littered the whole area. A workbench was to her right, peppered with glass jars of some sort of gray meat that looked like fish.

  At least with the hood pushed back, she could get some air. It was a blessing the room was cold for the wounds she was suffering on her thigh, wrists and ankles. It was a blessing the headscarf kept her neck and chest warm. She didn’t know how many hours had passed by, nor how many hours there would be to come in this cold and depressing condition. Instead, she chose to focus on the heat from her own breath and leaned her head back to touch the wall, grateful she didn’t have to sit on a cold floor, grateful she could sit at all, and grateful she could make some of her own body heat on the mattress.

  And I’m still alive. I’ve survived so far. I haven’t given up. I won’t give up, nor give up the hope that one day I’ll be able to walk out of this place of horror.

  She managed to move herself to the side a foot or two so she could pee into the mattress and then moved back again so she didn’t have to sit in it.

  She thought about the folly of her complaints. She thought about how she’d taken her everyday life for granted. How ungrateful she was of all the opportunities she’d had, all the places she’d traveled, how she’d grown up without parents at a most important time for a young girl and she’d survived.

  If she ever made it out alive, she wanted to travel to all those places she read about in her books. She’d take a cruise, go dancing at midnight under the stars in the warm night air. She’d travel to Paris and visit Italy, and maybe visit Buenos Aires and learn to tango.

  She remembered her parents and missed them. She’d been guilty of being too busy to sit by their graves and talk to them. To hold her little brother’s virtual hand when he got so afraid of the dark. To tell them she had survived and was happy. That everything turned out well. Was this nostalgia for things past her body’s way of preparing for an ending of life? Would this be all that she did, all that she accomplished? How could she have dreamed about so many things and done so very few of them?

  Megan knew she hadn’t started this war. But she refused to be a casualty in it. If they came to her, if they filmed her death, she would try to look bravely into the camera so people would see her eyes, so maybe someone somewhere who had influence over all the craziness of the terrorists’ world would see she was a good person. A strong person. A person who should have lived, not a person to be discarded in some grand scheme she didn’t believe in. Someone might see the waste of it all and say enough is enough. Some woman, perhaps, who just wanted to live a life with her husband and children in the warm bubble of freedom instead of in the shadow of fear, intimidation, bloodshed and war in a society that had gone completely insane.

  Then she thought about Rory. She couldn’t help the tears from falling as she felt the power of what he had become. What he stood for. The intensity with which he loved. And now she knew what he needed. He needed a kind heart, a happy spirit, and a place where he could belong, where he could heal between deployments, someone who honored the sacrifice he was willing to make for his country. Someone who could give him a home and family of his own, something he never had growing up. Something he deserved. Something he could have for his very own. Something no one else in the whole world had.

  Her love.

  Megan wondered what Rory would do in this situation. He’d be looking for things to use, ways he could escape or defend himself or ways he could disable an assailant. What had she seen? She racked her brain. What did she know and didn’t even realize she knew?

  She’d heard the freeway overhead. There were sea gulls, lots of them, flying outside the broken window. She could not see any buildings, but did see large pampas plumes that grew near the bay. Perhaps they were close to a landfill or a public dumping ground. Something was attracting the birds. She smelled fish and some sort of sour smell.
<
br />   It was vinegar. And the bits of grit on her feet, when she concentrated on it, they felt like grains. Grains of rice. She guessed it was Saturday still, or Sunday. If she could last one more day, perhaps two, maybe others would be nearby on Monday. Someone who could get her some help.

  She heard a bell from a church. Then when she concentrated further, she realized it wasn’t a church chime. She had been hearing a bell from a buoy, one of those in the harbor, not where the expensive boats were, but in the brackish water that was shallow. Recognizing the smell, she remembered a little fishing village where Lindsay had talked about having pancakes with Brady, some place the SEALs liked to go, away from the fast glittery life of San Diego. She’d seen that place before one time when she’d gotten lost. There were modest trailers and fifth wheels with the truck motors long-since silenced, where old fishermen still lived. There were twice as many decayed boats in dry dock as there were ones that might be seaworthy, owned by men who fished every day. Where there were lots of seagulls that shared their catch. Men who lived on unmentionable things that survived in the dirty water of the inlets.

  Tilting her head backward, concentrating, she smelled the faint odor of a fire. And where there was fire, there were people. The sounds from the freeway were softer than they had been last night. She guessed it was early morning, not during commute times, not a workday. Maybe a touch of fog still hung on the cliffs like it did so many mornings there.

  She wondered if they were going to feed her. Careful not to make a sound she decided to explore her surroundings a bit. Standing up against the wall, using it to brace herself, careful not to lose her balance on the lumpy mattress, she carefully took tiny steps toward the corner, toward the workbench with the shelves.

  She touched one of the cool jars, shaking it. She opened the metal lid, heard the sucking sound as the vacuum seal was broken. The smell nearly bowled her over, but urgent to get food in her stomach, she held the jar with both hands poured some of the disgusting contents into the side of her mouth and swallowed the cold slimy material. She used her fingers to stuff the disgusting-smelling meat far back enough so her molars could crush it before she swallowed the cold chunks.