SEAL's Technique Box Set (A Navy SEAL Romance)

by Claire Adams

  "Your quest will not be easy. It is far beyond the Black Fields, far beyond the capability of a mere human," the Soothsayer said.

  "I want to try."

  "Then you must travel far and find the warlock that will lead the Southern clan. He holds a Portal Key. Use that key to enter the dragon's cave. It has been too long since it flew. The Black Fields must be scorched, you must release the dragon," the Soothsayer said.

  The game was evolving based on the players that dominated. The creators had certain ways of leveling the playing field, such as plagues, natural disasters, and dragons. It was my quest to activate one of those levelers. That also meant I had the power to warn people or lure them to the Black Fields and eliminate my enemies.

  My first instinct was to find Owen and tell him about my quest, but before I could leave the Pitch Forest, I was stopped by another player. The Green Witch was unnaturally voluptuous, as most female avatars were. Her iridescent green dress clung hard to her curvaceous frame, and even as she spoke to me, her avatar struck several sexy poses.

  "Don't go that way. Clansmen are all over the trail. It’s not safe," the Green Witch said. "Unless you have something to trade."

  I did not dare ask what she had traded for safe passage. "Thanks, but I think I know some of them."

  "This isn't the Light Clan. It’s new, started by a Thief King. They play dirty," the Green Witch said. "They have Thrall Spells. You can lose two lives or be stuck watching them play for a full 24 hours."

  I thanked her and made my way cautiously through the Pitch Forest. I needed to follow the trail out to the Black Fields, but I barely knew how to play, much less how to play dirty.

  I heard the chatter the closer I got to the trail. The Thief King was building a camp among the redwoods. Once avatars were well-established, they could actually create dwellings. Base camps or homes allowed a player to recharge without leaving the game.

  I stopped and studied the command menu. I needed to know how to walk silently. I also needed to know how to hide. I wanted to hear what they were talking about.

  "I know there's a way to make the Thralls do what we want," the Thief King was saying. "I read about the possibility of a Thrall army. We can do that and take on the Light Slayer."

  I recognized Owen's player name. He was called Light Slayer because early on he had found the Sun Sword. It was part of the reason he was able to become Dark Flag's first clan leader. Too bad others were catching on fast. I did not like the sound of a Thrall army.

  I made it past the camp and crossed the trail without being seen. Once I was amongst the redwoods and pines again, I relaxed.

  It was a big mistake, since out of nowhere, a Cloaked Corpse appeared. Cloaked Corpses traded the ability to speak for unlimited lives. They were not able to work together with other players so they were often alone. But because of the unlimited lives, they were impossible to kill.

  I had no spells, only a Frost Sword. The Cloaked Corpse attacked, and before I could think of a plan, I had to fight. If I did not avoid its razor sharp nails, there was a possibility my avatar would also become a Cloaked Corpse. They were the Dark Flag version of zombies.

  I was about to give up and try to run when a bright flash of light obliterated the screen.

  "Don't worry, Quinn, I got you," a voice said.

  Light Slayer appeared, his Sun Sword sending out solar flares that blinded the Cloaked Corpse. He did not even have to fight to chase off the other player.

  "Stop, don't," I told him. "There's a new clan nearby. A Thief King."

  "His name's Balon," Owen said. "If we let him get more established, there will be bigger rewards when his clan falls." Still, he sheathed his Sun Sword and told his clan members to go and spy on the rival clan.

  We were alone in the Pitch Forest.

  It was strange to stand facing Owen's avatar. When he removed his helmet, I saw his avatar looked exactly like him. Not many people chose to be themselves in the game, but there we were, animated versions of ourselves.

  "I'm glad you're here," Owen said.

  "Me, too." I was about to tell him my quest when I saw his avatar pause.

  "Sorry, Quinn, I gotta go," Owen said. He exited the game and Light Slayer disappeared.

  I stood by myself in the Pitch Forest.

  "Quinn? Can you go get the pizza by yourself?" my mother asked from the top of the stairs. "Your father had to make a phone call."

  He would have gone with Sienna, but I was used to being sent off on my own.

  #

  I got in the car, my head full of Dark Flag. It was easier than thinking about anything else.

  Owen's avatar moved differently than any other player. He knew the commands and sequences so well that his avatar moved fluidly. I was impressed – and more than flattered that he had arrived just in time to save me. The game had notifications so a message could be sent when certain players logged on. Owen must have added me. Dark Flag's first clan leader saving some novice human; there was going to be talk.

  I smiled to myself. It was nice that there was a whole other world where rumors like that were thrilling instead of awkward. I was wondering if I could handle the same talk in the real world when a knock on the window made me jump.

  "I could use a little fresh air," my father said, getting into the passenger seat.

  That meant my mother was taking a downturn. "Fresh air" was my father's polite way of saying he could not take the brunt of her blackening mood. He clipped his seatbelt on and turned the radio off.

  "Should I take the long way?" I asked.

  He nodded as I realized I had no idea which way the long route was. I turned right out of our driveway. My father did not seem to notice the world outside of the car. I kept driving and he did not care. He studied his hands quietly until I wondered if he had drifted off to sleep.

  "Sorry for sending you out like that. I should have just gone myself," he finally said.

  "It’s no problem. I wanted the fresh air myself," I replied.

  My father opened his mouth and then popped it shut. He scrubbed his chin a few times before he said anything. "Your sister always had something to say. She was easy to talk to. There was always the next step of her plan to discuss, the accomplishments she could already check off. Sienna was going up and up."

  "Thinking about the future made her happy," I said. The words left a painful reverberation in the car.

  Sienna was only happy when she was discussing future plans. She never stopped to concentrate on where she was – or who she was with, for that matter. She lived to become a projected version of herself. The perfect version of Sienna was always a few steps away in the certain future.

  If she lost that certainty, even for a moment, a gloom fell over everything around her. When Sienna stopped to look around her, she found faults everywhere and her mood plummeted. I knew that was exactly what had happened, but I could not tell my father.

  "What about your future?" my father asked. "You don't seem to spend much time thinking about it."

  I gripped the steering wheel harder to keep the accusation in his tone from knocking us off course. "I have been lately," I said. "I think I should meet with my advisor again and discuss majors. There might be a better fit out there for me."

  "Of course. Some people would take a tragedy like this and turn it into a reason to work hard with every breath. And some take it as an excuse to go spinning off into la-la-land," my father said.

  I held on tighter. "No. It’s just I think I let Sienna influence me too much. She was always so excited about becoming a surgeon, she made us all excited about it too. I think that's why I chose nursing, not because I loved it. You have to love it to be good at it."

  My father pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, for the love of God, don't tell me this, not now. From what I see, all you love is hanging out in the basement playing video games. How are you going to turn that into any sort of respectable career?"

  I turned the car, taking a shortcut through a n
eighborhood towards the pizza place. The drive could not be over quickly enough for either of us. "It's an entire international, multibillion-dollar industry. People have very successful and very respectable careers in it."

  "People? You mean like that Owen Redd? Please, Quinn, you cannot be drawing inspiration from a guy like him."

  "Owen is creating his own career, his dream job. How can I not be inspired by that?" I asked. I realized too late we were on the street where Owen lived. His apartment, the top-floor loft of a three-story 6-plex was two blocks ahead. I had driven Sienna there dozens of times.

  "Turn right up here," my father said. "Looks like the police are causing some kind of detour.”

  I bit my lip and turned. Two squad cars were parked outside of Owen's apartment building. One of the uniformed officers at the curb was pointing to the top-floor apartment. "I hope there wasn't an accident." My heart flopped and my ears buzzed; the memory of the last time I saw flashing emergency lights squeezed my heart.

  My father ignored me. "You need to understand something about people like Owen. He's taking the easy way out. Just because he has a talent does not mean he'll make a living at it. If he's telling you that then it’s a lie."

  "How can you say that? You don't know anything about Owen," I said.

  "I've seen enough guys like Owen. I've had to defend them in court. If he's telling everyone he's made a successful career out of sitting around on his couch, 10-to-1 there is something illegal going on. Sure, it might look good on the surface, but he's cheating the system somehow," my father said. "Your sister understood the only way you get ahead is through hard work. Following your dreams means you're either dirt poor or you are running a scam."

  I drove the rest of the way to the pizza parlor without saying a word. I was worried about Owen, but my father's words filtered into my brain like acid. What did I really know about what Owen did?

  Chapter Four

  Owen

  I looked out the window and noticed the streetlights had come on. Most people thought I played in a windowless basement. They would never believe I sat in a third-story loft apartment with a great view of the Nevada sunset. The sky had gone from dark pinks and oranges into a purplish blue, and now it was dark.

  As I turned back to Dark Flag, another display of lights lit up my window. The rolling reds and blues of a police car grew brighter. I watched as two squad cars converged and left the lights on. The officers got out and met at the curb. One of them pointed up to my floor.

  I logged out of the game just as the sharp knock hit my door.

  "Police. Open up."

  I pulled open the door wide. "Can I help you, officers?"

  "You can step aside, sir. We have a search warrant for this residence. Are you Owen Redd?" the bald and tight-mouthed officer asked.

  "Yes, sir. What is this about?" I stepped back and let them in.

  Three uniformed officers entered behind the one that spoke. He brandished a folded piece of paper. "We're going to take a look around."

  I almost laughed. The loft apartment was a wide-open room. A kitchen island separated one end from a wall of appliances. The other end was divided by a short hallway with two bedrooms off either side and a bathroom at the end. An L-shaped sofa delineated our living room. There was no dining room table, just a wide area rug where a few bits of my roommate's exercise equipment were scattered. Every inch of the apartment besides the bedrooms was on display.

  The officers drifted to opposite corners of the apartment and started poking around. One eyeballed the built-in bookshelves that stood against the wall to my bedroom. Another strolled through the kitchen and opened kitchen cabinets at random. He left them hanging open. The third officer walked along the picture windows and I half expected him to wave to his partner on the curb watching the squad cars.

  It had to be a joke.

  The bald policeman handed me the folded paper before he turned and opened our entryway closet. Suddenly, all of the officers were going through things with both hands. Books were taken off shelves, drawers dug through, and clothes pushed aside to reveal the back edges of the closet. I opened the paper and discovered a very real search warrant.

  "You're looking for drugs?" I asked.

  The policeman near the windows was running his hands along the top of my television. "Pretty nice setup you have here. Play video games?"

  "Online, multiplayer," I said.

  "What exactly do you do for a living, Mr. Redd?" the bald officer reappeared from the back of our coat closet.

  "I'm a sponsored player for the game Dark Flag," I said.

  "You're telling me you sit around all day playing video games and someone pays you for it?"

  "Yes, sir. I have the pay stubs to prove it. Though from the looks of this search warrant, I don't have to show them to you," I said.

  "You might want to ask your lawyer about that," he said with a mean smile.

  "Why exactly do you think there are drugs here?" I asked.

  All four police officers scoffed and continued their digging without another word. Another stereotype of the gaming world: I sat around high while I played or somehow funded my sitting around by selling drugs on the side.

  I sat on one of the stools at the kitchen island as they delved deeper into their search. All of the books came off the shelves, and the officer sneezed as he flipped through the dusty pages.

  "Yeah, those are more for display than anything. I mean, I don't know what else to put on that many shelves," I said.

  The policeman in the kitchen had light duty, as there were only two pots and a cast iron skillet in the lower cupboards. The upper cabinets had a random collection of pint glasses, a few mismatched plates, and coffee mugs with ridiculous sayings printed on them.

  "Looks like he's a gourmet," he said. The pantry was bare except for a bag of brown rice, a few loose power bars, and a box of popcorn. The refrigerator had a stack of lunchmeat packages, a loaf of bread, and two drawers of fresh vegetables. "What, no cheese puffs and rocket fuel soda?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "I'm more of a stir fry guy. Better protein stops snacking."

  He eyeballed my trim waistline and scowled. "Sure, buddy. There's an awful lot of takeout containers in the trash."

  "My roommate," I said.

  As if that was a cue, the officers divided up and headed by pairs into the two bedrooms. I waited for 20 minutes until they reappeared.

  The bald one was on his cell phone calling in a K-9 unit. "Gotta be thorough. Don't want to waste taxpayer money," he said.

  The officers then ignored me and talked about football until the K-9 unit arrived. A German Shepherd with intelligent brown eyes and an eager pace pulled its partner into my apartment. After the third zig-zagging trip around, it looked up at its partner with a lopsided expression of boredom.

  He turned the dog towards the bedrooms and it dragged him down the short hallway. It was in and out of my roommate's room in five minutes. Four minutes into my room, there was a low woof. The officer reappeared with the prancing dog; a sport coat in his hand.

  I recognized the sport coat as the one my roommate had lent me. It had been in contention for wearing to the memorial service until I decided to wear my suit. If something was found in the pockets of his coat, he'd catch hell at work and most likely get fired.

  "Nothing in it, but Gertrude likes it for something. Marijuana, most likely," the officer said.

  "My roommate wore it to a club a few days ago," I said.

  Even the dog gave me a disbelieving look. I sat back down on my stool – it was going to be a long evening.

  #

  "Convenient that your roommate lent you this coat we found in your room," the bald officer said.

  I was glad when my phone rang. I looked down and saw Quinn's name. My stomach jumped more from her than from the suspicious looks the police gave me.

  "One of your clients?" the second officer asked.

  "The fading scent of pot on a sports coat that was worn to a
dance club doesn't really prove intent to sell, does it?" I asked. "And since I'm not the average under-informed, sub-intelligent criminal I'm sure you're used to making you feel smart, this whole search is over." I opened the door to let them out.

  The K-9 officer was pulled through the open door by his eager partner. Two of the others shrugged and went to follow him, but the bald policeman blocked the door.

  "Funny thing about stereotypes," he said. "They always come from some sort of truth. Like the fact that most criminals get all cocky like you are now before the weight of the law chokes it out of them."

  I found a beer on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator and cracked it open before sitting back down on my kitchen stool. The police officers looked thirsty. "Go ahead and keep searching. You've got your warrant, and I'm not stopping you."

  He scrubbed his bald head. There was no reason for them to remain at my place, but he could not let me have the last word. "Tell us about this alleged roommate of yours."

  "Alleged? His name is on the mailbox and all that mail over there. I would have thought you would know all about him from your search of his bedroom."

  "Are you going to cooperate or what, Mr. Redd?" He crossed his arms over a beefy chest.

  "Fine, yes. My roommate's name is Jasper Collins. He does freelance web design, mainly for commercial businesses and corporations. He's always telling me he's after the 'big fish.' I think he even sent a proposal to your precinct after he got fed up trying to pay a parking ticket through your website."

  "Freelance? So you two just sit around all day staring at your screens?" the officer asked.

  "No, Jasper is more of the go-getter type. He gets most of his clients through face-to-face meetings. Encourages the techno-afraid to let him help," I said.

  "And who was his last client?"

  "A bakery over on Tenth," I said. "He said they have good donuts, maybe you know the place?"

  The cops all sneered, but the tallest one stopped and tilted his head as he thought. "They did. The place closed down two months back."

  I mentally ran through the list of clients Jasper had talked about. As I thought about it, I realized three of the clients he mentioned recently were local businesses I had seen closed or for rent. I never paid much attention because Jasper always paid his share of the rent on time and in full. There were holes all through his work stories, and I had just tripped into one in front of the police.