by Seton, Cora
Or so he’d practiced in his speech. But the moment had to be right. He’d planned on popping the question while on their Christmas vacation in the Rockies. The only thing standing in his way of leaving for the trip was this mission, an operation they’d been planning since they’d received intel the Taliban leader was holed up in this village, holding its inhabitants hostage, threatening to kill the women and children should word that he was there leak out.
One brave old man, who’d seen more than his share of Taliban strong-arming and senseless murders, had left the village in the middle of the night and walked all the way to an American marine outpost to report on what was going on.
Within a matter of hours, the word was passed to all the right places. SEAL Team 10 had been given satellite photographs and been briefed on the buildings the Taliban had taken over.
The truck lumbered toward the SEALs’ positions, and they fell back into the alleys and behind boxes or barrels, out of the direct beams of the dingy truck headlights. Once the truck was past, Remy moved closer.
The men who’d been standing outside reentered the nearby building, and the door closed behind them. A guard stood outside, an AK47 in his hands.
Irish took the lead, slipping up as close to the building as he could.
Remy tossed a pebble so it landed several yards farther into the village.
The sound jerked the guard’s attention away from Irish’s position for a moment.
That was all he needed. Irish lunged forward, grabbed the man by the throat and sliced a deep slash, hitting his carotid artery.
The man slumped to the ground, his eyes wide, staring blankly at the moon above.
Remy moved to the door, opened it and stepped into a narrow hallway. He switched to his MP7 submachine gun, a lighter, quieter weapon he normally used in close combat, especially when searching buildings from room to room. On the previous mission, Irish had killed a man with this weapon in one room, while the people in the next room never heard the shots fired.
Using the tip of his boot, Remy nudged open a door. A man lay on a pallet inside. With his knife, he took out the man without ever waking him.
Irish moved past Remy to the next doorway and waited for the team leader. Tuck moved into place, and with his weapon raised, Irish pushed open the door. The room was filled with cardboard boxes and wooden crates. A supply closet.
Remy hurried past to the next door, behind which he could hear voices. This had to be it.
Seeing Irish and Tuck were in position, Remy nudged the door open with his MP7. Seven men glanced his way with unsuspecting glances. Tuck and Irish opened fire, mowing down four of the seven men, their cries of surprise and pain reverberating around the room.
The other three dropped to the floor and hid behind boxes, firing at them with whatever weapon they had in hand.
Remy dove into the room, somersaulted, and came up firing. He hit one of the men only half-hidden behind a wooden crate. Another man aimed a rifle at him. Remy threw his knife, but not quickly enough.
The Taliban fighter’s bullet clipped his thigh. A sharp twinge of pain burned across his skin, but didn’t slow him down. Remy fired again, neutralizing the man with the gun, leaving only what appeared to be their target, cowering behind a crate.
Then the man stood, yelled something about Allah, pulled the pin on a grenade and lobbed it toward Remy.
Irish shot the Taliban leader as the grenade rolled to a stop at Remy’s feet.
“Well, fuck.” Remy bent, picked up the grenade and raced down the hall. He didn’t know how long he had, but at least, he’d get the explosive away from his buddies. As he passed the room with the dead man on the pallet, he lobbed the grenade inside and closed the door, then threw himself to the ground, covering his ears.
An explosion shattered the wall beside him, slinging plaster, sticks, mud, and debris through the hallway. The concussion vibrated against Remy’s eardrums, but he’d been fortunate to plug his ears before it happened. Still, a persistent whine filled his ears and blurred his vision.
Dust rose like a fog, choking off any visibility and filling Remy’s lungs. He pulled his T-shirt up over his nose and staggered to his feet, brushing the crumbled stones and broken bits of wall from his shoulders.
“Gator?” Tuck’s voice barked through Remy’s headset.
“Still among the living,” he answered, and coughed up a lungful of dust. “Did we get him?”
Tuck pushed past Remy, hand trailing on the wall to feel his way toward the exit. “Target was eliminated. Got a positive ID and a color photo for a souvenir. Let’s get out of here.”
Unless they eliminated all potential threats, the exfiltration portion of a mission for the SEAL team was even more dangerous than infiltration. Now, the enemy had been alerted.
Tuck was first through the door, poised and ready.
Remy could already hear the pop, pop, popping of gunfire. Not until he emerged into the open night air did Remy feel the warm wetness of something dripping down his leg. Blood. A thought caught him in mid-stride, and he came to an abrupt halt, lowering his weapon for a moment to feel for his pocket. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea—
A sharp report of a rifle and the whiff of a bullet winging past his ear made Remy drop to the ground and search the corners and rooftops for the sniper who’d almost plugged him in the head. Movement snagged his attention from the top corner of a low building, two structures away. Aiming through his rifle’s sight, he waited. One thousand one. One thousand two.
A green heat signature at the top of one of the buildings lit up his NVGs.
The terrorist raised his rifle and fired. The bullet hit the ground beside Remy.
Unfazed, Remy steadied his hand, inhaled and caressed the trigger. The bullet left the chamber one second, and in the next, hit its target.
The man who’d been firing at Remy slid off the corner of the roof and hit the dirt at the base of the building.
“We got trouble coming,” Big Bird said into the headset. “Two trucks full of Taliban headed for the village. ETA, five mikes.”
Tuck spoke, “Time to blow this popsicle stand.”
The plan was to leave the village as soon as they’d dispatched the target.
Remy followed Tuck and Irish through the tunnel-like streets toward the rear wall. A loud explosion shook the ground.
When Remy rounded a corner, he faced the back wall of the village, which now had a gaping hole where Dustman had created their escape route. Remy counted heads. The gang was all there, minus one. Big Bird, who had been the lookout at the entrance to the village.
With the entire village awake now, and two truckloads of angry Taliban heading their way, getting out wouldn’t be a cakewalk.
Tuck was on the radio calling for their taxi. If all went according to plan, their ride would be there in less than two minutes. The group held their positions.
The thumping hum of rotor blades filled the air, and the two Black Hawks from the 160th Night Stalkers swooped in and hovered at the prescribed location on the north side of the village. Big Bird joined them, and they slipped through the crumbled wall and out into a poppy field. Gunfire erupted from one of the rooftops.
“Go!” Remy yelled and motioned his hand forward. “Fish and I will cover.”
Fish took a position a couple yards from Remy, and together, they laid down suppressive fire while the rest of the team raced for the helicopter. Once they were safely on board, one of the helicopters lifted off, and the door gunner took over the job of keeping the enemy busy while Fish and Remy ran for the other chopper.
As the second Black Hawk left the ground, Fish dove in and Remy jumped in beside him, wincing when he bumped against his wounded leg. With everyone on board, they left the village behind.
The leading helicopter had circled back. From the open door of the Black Hawk, Remy watched as a missile launched from the other helicopter, hitting the first truck dead on. A fiery burst lit the sky as the two helicopters hea
ded back to Camp Leatherneck.
Once they were out of range of RPGs, Remy could no longer ignore his own gunshot wound. He leaned forward, jammed his hand into his side pocket and cursed. “Damn.”
“Were you hit?” Fish sat up beside him and pushed away his hands to check his injury.
“I’m fine. It’s just a flesh wound.”
“Is that all?” Fish snorted and pulled out a pressure bandage from one of his pockets, tore the fabric of Remy’s trousers, and applied it to the torn flesh. “The way you were cussin’, I thought it might be worse.”
Remy pulled his hand out of the pocket of his trousers, the ring box in his grip. The exterior had been damaged, ripped open on the side where the bullet had hit the box before slicing his leg. He flipped the box all the way open and his heart fell.
The ring was gone.
“Fuck!” He dug his hand back into his pocket and fished around.
“Hey, will you let me finish dressing the wound?”
Remy shoved aside Fish’s hands and dug deeper. When his fingers touched metal, Remy nearly fainted with relief. “Thank God.”
Fish taped the dressing in place and clapped a hand on Remy’s shoulder. “Thank God for what? Did you think you were going to die? Like you said, it was just a flesh wound. Your Cajun ass is gonna live.”
Taking a deep breath, Remy laid back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe so, but I almost lost the goddamn ring.”
*
Thirty-six hours later
If Mitchell Sanders could pace at that moment, she would have. Instead, she sat quietly in the Eastern District Court of Virginia in Norfolk. The trial had gone on for days, and finally, the jury had reached a decision. They would find Rocco Hatch guilty of four counts of murder and thirteen counts of human trafficking, including forcing a seventeen-year-old girl to have sex for money. They had to find him guilty and get him off the street for life. The man was evil, and should be put to death.
At least, that’s how Mitchell felt. When she’d gone undercover to expose him, she hadn’t realized just how many women’s lives he’d ruined. Hatch and his partner Candy Sweeting were the lowest scum of the earth.
The members of the jury filed in and took their seats.
“Have the members of the jury come to a decision?” the U.S. District Court judge asked, his face drawn and tired.
A heavy-set man stood, holding a single piece of paper. “Yes, sir, we have. We, the members of the jury find Mr. Rocco Hatch guilty of all charges against him.”
The spectators all let go of the breaths they’d been holding in heartfelt sighs and muttered praises to God. The judge closed the trial, and Rocco Hatch was led from the courtroom, his narrowed stare on Mitchell as he walked toward the door.
Mitchell stood, her gaze on the man who had wrecked the lives of so many women. Good riddance. Now, to get back to her own life. She had to pack and get ready for her first vacation in years, and the best part was that she was sharing it with the man she loved.
As Rocco neared the exit, he stopped and jerked free of the bailiff’s hold. “Hey, Sanders! This isn’t over.” The man glared and shook his handcuffs.
The evil in his eyes so palpable it sent a shiver down Mitchell’s spine. She left the courtroom more shaken than she should have been. The trial was just another event as an agent in the NCIS. She’d caught another criminal, and hopefully, the sentencing would put him behind bars for the rest of his douche-bag life.
Out in the parking lot, she drew in a deep breath of fresh air and tried to shake off a bad feeling, telling herself she shouldn’t let Rocco’s words get to her.
In less than two hours she’d be at her apartment, waiting for Remy’s return. He’d texted as soon as his plane hit the ground in Norfolk. As usual, he couldn’t come straight home. He had to go to his unit for the mission debrief, and then he’d be home. She’d have him back, safe and sound, in her arms and all would be right with the world again.
In her SUV, she unlocked the specially built safe in the console, removed her .40 caliber Glock from the compartment, and tucked it into the shoulder holster she wore beneath her black suit jacket. Comforted by the cold, hard steel, she shifted her vehicle into Drive and eased out of the parking lot onto the street.
A crowd still hovered around the door to the courthouse. As she came to a halt at the stop sign, she spotted Rocco as he exited the courthouse with his armed escorts.
The media mob swarmed him and the police officers as they edged toward the waiting police car.
For a moment, Mitchell lost sight of Rocco. Her pulse sped up and she craned her neck, searching the faces in the crowd for the bastard. Then he emerged, both cops still at his side.
While Mitchell had been searching for Rocco, she hadn’t noticed the dark van speeding toward the group until it raced past her, jumped the curb, and plowed into a reporter and one of the police officers holding onto Rocco.
Women screamed and the crowd scattered.
Rocco butted his head into the other officer’s nose so hard the man let go and grabbed his own face, blood streaming out between his fingers.
The van door slid open. Four men wearing ski masks and wielding automatic weapons jumped out and opened fire into the crowd, hitting the bleeding police officer and several others around Hatch. Those who could, took cover; those in the open either ran or hit the ground.
Hell no! Mitchell jammed her SUV into Park and dropped out of the vehicle, her gun drawn. Using the SUV as cover, she aimed at the nearest gunman and dropped him where he stood.
One of them grabbed Rocco and threw him into the van. Another turned his weapon toward Mitchell and pelted her SUV in a wicked burst of bullets.
Mitchell hit the ground behind a tire, her pistol no match for the power and rapid delivery of an automatic. Still, she searched for any opportunity, aiming from beneath the SUV at their feet and fired again. She hit one in the foot.
But he managed to limp to the van along with the others. The door slid closed, and the driver sped away in a fog of scorched rubber.
The officers who’d taken cover behind the police car emerged into the street and fired at the van, but it was too late.
Rocco had escaped.
Mitchell rose from her position behind the SUV, her heart hammering against her ribs, a sick feeling filling her belly as Rocco’s last words in the courtroom echoed in her mind.
This isn’t over.
Chapter Two
‡
“Mitchell! I’m home!” Remy flung open the door to their apartment and dropped his duffel on the floor beside the entry. He cocked his head and listened. “Mitch?”
Stone-cold silence met him, not the excited rush of his warm, welcoming, soon-to-be-fiancée, slamming into him and wrapping her arms around his body. Perhaps she’d gotten caught up at her office.
He stared down at his watch. Wow, past seven o’clock. Past normal office hours. But then, when did the NCIS keep normal hours? Heck, when did SEALs? He checked his cell phone and found a text message from Mitchell.
Shit hit the fan at the courthouse, had to file a report. Will be home soon.
His disappointment faded. Mitchell was as dedicated to her job as he was to his. He couldn’t fault her for that. But every once in a while, he wished they could be a normal couple and have more time to spend together. He was glad his commander had allowed him to schedule leave so far in advance. Making plane reservations could be troublesome when you didn’t know if you’d be called out on an operation, or when you’d return.
He raised a hand to his chin and scratched at the scraggly beard that had grown over the last couple months. With time to kill, he could shit, shower, and shave, and be ready with dinner for when Mitchell came through the door. She’d be too tired to go out, and he really didn’t want to. Remy would much rather have her to himself and catch up on all the lovemaking they’d missed while he’d been out of country.
Pushing aside the exhaustion of traveling halfway arou
nd the world in the back of a C130, he headed for the bathroom. An hour later, clean and his face scraped free of the beard, wearing a pair of cutoff sweat pants, Remy settled a pizza box on the counter and took out a slice. Cheese ran in a long string from the box to the wedge, the scent of fresh crust and tomato sauce making his stomach rumble.
Still, Mitchell hadn’t appeared.
Too hungry to wait, Remy dove in and polished off four slices before he was satisfied.
His cell phone rang and his hand darted out to answer. He sighed. The caller ID indicated Irish.
“Hey, I just saw your fiancée on the news. Everything all right?”
Remy’s pulse leapt. “Don’t know. I’ll get back to you.” Dropping his phone on the couch, he dove for the television remote, clicking it on, and setting it on the local news station.
Images of the courthouse appeared on the screen, with gunmen and people scattering in all directions. In the background, he made out Mitchell’s SUV. The image switched to a reporter pressing a microphone into Mitchell’s face, asking her what had happened.
Mitchell’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was grim. “No comment,” she said, and pushed past the reporter, her body tense.
The news anchor droned on about Rocco Hatch’s escape as Remy absorbed what had just happened. He was reaching for his cell phone when the scrape of a key in the lock caught his attention. Before the lock twisted, Remy was there, yanking open the door.
Mitchell stood in the frame, her face tired, the knees of her suit trousers ripped, and a smudge of dirt across her face. Her lips lifted. “Hey.”
“Oh, baby.” He opened his arms and she fell into them. He eased backward and closed the door behind her, gathering her against his body.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said, her words muffled against his naked chest.
Her breath was warm on his skin, stirring his blood. “Yeah, and you’re not so bad yourself.”
She snorted and pulled back enough to give him a crooked smile. “I had planned on being home hours ago, having a gourmet dinner cooked, and lying naked on the couch for when you walked through that door.”
