The Mission (Clairmont Series Novel Book 2)

by L. J. Wilson

  The

  MISSION

  A Clairmont Series Novel ~ BOOK 2

  L.J. WILSON

  AB Edge

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2016 by L.J. Wilson

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 978-1-943020-04-1

  www.ljwilson.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ABOUT L.J. WILSON

  PROLOGUE

  Present Day

  Nickel Springs, New York

  All eyes were on a worn, leather duffel bag. Alec had hauled it, with urgency, through the kitchen door where it hit the floor with a thud. Honor startled. Aaron swallowed hard. Troy sucked in a breath like he saw a ghost. Ruby, sitting at the kitchen table, looked curiously between the Clairmont siblings.

  Years before, when Alec left for Navy SEAL training, Sebastian Clairmont had given him the leather bag. “It saw me through a vicious scrape or two, son. I hope it does the same for you.” Inside the Clairmont house were family photos and family recipes, the little jewelry that belonged to Evie—a wedding ring, of course, not among her possessions. But with its supple scarred hide and nicked brass buckles, the duffel bag differed from other mementoes. Its mere existence told a story, and Alec had sometimes wondered about the secrets it could tell. A thick leather strap was attached to either end of the bag, and every Clairmont kid could picture it hanging from Sebastian’s wide shoulder—sometimes coming, sometimes going. Today the duffel bag held Alec’s things, and it definitely said he was going.

  After receiving Jess’s cryptic texts and remote crash site photos, the Clairmonts had been unable to reestablish contact. Alec had moved forward with a plan and his family, the Tribe of Five, agreed to it. There was a plane wreck that might hold answers to their parents’ mysterious disappearance years before. Then there was Jess Donnelly—journalist, buddy, and roommate—the woman Alec was determined to find. All of it required he get his ass to Colombia ASAP. His flight left in a few hours. Standing in the Clairmont kitchen, Alec took out his phone.

  “No word?” Aaron said.

  “Nothing. I thought maybe there’d be a text. This isn’t like Jess. Worse, it’s such an isolated region of South America. I don’t like it. Almost anything could have happened. I did put a call in to her ex, Julian Silva.”

  “The way Jess talked about him…” Honor drew a breath and shrugged at Alec. “I’m not sure how much help he’ll be.”

  “I guess we’ll find out. Julian agreed to meet me at the airport in Bogota, and he did say he’d seen Jess before she left on her assignment.” Alec bent over the duffel, tightening the straps until leather squealed. “I mean, it makes total sense, right? What woman travels three-thousand miles and doesn’t pay a visit to her fucking almost ex-husband?” He stood upright. A room full of blank stares met Alec’s. “Anyway,” he said, letting go of the bag. “Right now, he’s our only plausible connection to Jess.”

  “And if Julian Silva hasn’t been totally forthcoming,” Aaron said, “my guess is he’ll get a frogman-type lesson in the art of communication.”

  “Count on it,” Alec said.

  The brief exchange about Alec’s SEAL past was the closest thing to a conversation they’d had on the subject in some time. It always happened that way. The moment Alec wrestled that part of his life silent, there it was again—like a weed. His brother’s recent go-round with crime and punishment, evil and justice—namely Stefan Gerard—had been enough to stir memories Alec would rather forget. He refocused, glancing at his watch, calculating ground zero coordinates for the Sneak and Peek—aka, recon mission. He had spare time, which wasn’t his strong suit. “You packed?” he said to Troy.

  “Yep. Ready to ship out.” Alec heard military lingo that made it sound as if his brother was reading his mind. “But maybe with all this happening I shouldn’t be heading off to a movie set.”

  “Go,” Honor insisted. “Jake is expecting you. You’ll know anything the minute we do.”

  “Yeah, but I was thinking,” Troy said. “Since I’m already packed, maybe I should go with Alec—be his wingman or something.”

  “I appreciate that,” Alec said. “But I’ve got it covered. Stick with the plan, Troy. Go soak up Jake’s movie star life. At least it’ll be air-conditioned.” He tried to sound upbeat and loose. The potential hazards of dragging Evie and Sebastian’s youngest son into the unknowns of Colombia was more responsibility than he needed.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Ruby had been flipping through a photo album. While the pictures were new to her, any Clairmont could describe the next page before she turned it. “Heaven forbid I inflate a Clairmont ego, but you are a ridiculously handsome bunch,” she said, tipping back her head to smile up at Aaron.

  “It felt… necessary to take the album out,” Honor said. “Maybe I just needed to see their faces.”

  “I get it,” Alec said. With Honor and Ruby seated, Alec, Aaron, and Troy huddled tight to get a closer look at the album. In the next room, the dining room—a space they rarely used—was a sideboard. It was cluttered with family photos. First pictures of Evie and Sebastian from the late 1970’s—when they’d first met. Those photos were followed by pictures of Alec; the kind you’d take of a first-born—like he’d been the first of a species. Pictures of Aaron came next, the brother who looked even more like Sebastian with the same striking green eyes. Photos racked up fast after Alec and Aaron, showing off the Clairmont twins, Jake and Honor.

  They looked largely unalike—but maybe that was more of a boy-girl thing. The sideboard held just enough room for photos of Troy, the last of the Tribe of Five. The progression of photos ended with a final Christmas snapshot. It was taken not long before Evie and Sebastian’s fateful flight to South America. It showed a messy mob of barely adult children, piled like dogs under the tree, a mountain of torn wrapping paper surrounding them. After their parents disappeared, the Tribe of Five decided there would be no more photos added to the dining room sideb
oard. They kept it exactly as it was—a small piece of the Clairmont house where time stood still.

  Others photos were scattered about the rooms of the Dutch colonial—Troy’s high school graduation, Alec on leave in Dubai, deployed to Iraq, Honor with Rowan, her fiancé, before he was killed. He guessed there’d be a wedding photo to come, Ruby and Aaron’s. Alec shook his head at what seemed like a wild concept. For some families there might be the amazement of a first-generation college graduate. In Alec’s family, amazement would describe the first Clairmont to marry—his parents included. Good for Aaron, if that’s what he wanted—and it seemed he did. His brother had hardly taken his eyes off Ruby, who looked at the photos, gleaning bits and pieces of Clairmont family history.

  Honor turned the page. Her fair hand wasn’t reminiscent of their mother’s, which was sturdier, less delicate. Honor’s fine bone structure always stood out. In the photos, her blonde head was shades lighter than Evie’s and even Jake’s. Alec sometimes wondered if the loss felt different to Honor. She was the only girl, the only daughter who’d lost a mother. She’d been the person capable of ruffling Sebastian Clairmont at his core. Alec could remember the way Sebastian looked at his daughter—as if stunned by her existence, unlike his four sons, who were subtle variations of one man.

  Alec stepped back, blindsided by a loud memory. It was clear in his mind how his father had also looked at him. He recalled the prideful gaze as he’d graduated from SEAL training, the medal ceremonies that had followed. But there was also the way Sebastian would catch himself, sometimes losing his temper at a younger Alec. He’d loved his children—categorically—but Sebastian could also be abrupt. Over the years, his work had taken him away for months at a time. Once, on Alec’s first leave home, he remembered doing shots with his father. Sebastian didn’t drink often, but on those rare occasions he did it up right. It had to be the booze talking, Alec had thought, as Sebastian wove in and out of conversations about the past—a time before Alec was even born. “Your mother and I—it wasn’t an easy thing. In fact, every day, I still wake up amazed she’s mine.”

  Alec was quiet. He’d been half drunk, half listening to a story that didn’t sound like one he’d heard before. “Evie, she never saw where I came from. It was bad enough what she did know. Truth be told,” his father had said, “I should have never made it off those docks—a man soured on life, an older version of the punk prick who didn’t give a fuck about anyone.” He’d snickered. “I was supposed to turn out to be my old man.”

  Alec’s woozy gaze had traveled to his father, who’d stood an inch taller than his eldest son. He’d never met his grandfather. He didn’t know anything about him. Sebastian never talked about life before Evie. Maybe that’s why the description had made such an impression—soured, punk prick didn’t fit. Sebastian Clairmont was rock solid—albeit a little unsteady in that moment.

  His father had poured them each one more shot, downing his. “Remember that, Alec. We all work with what we’re given. I wasn’t given anything but a will to survive. A skull too thick to know to quit. If you knew where I started, who I was… Well, the last thing you’d want me to be is your father.” Alec had stepped back from the bar. The mirror image, the steely interior—he couldn’t fathom another man in that role. No Clairmont could. “Years before today… what you see now…” His father’s words slurred and his lumbering frame had leaned hard into the bar. “This wasn’t me. Not even close.” He swiped a broad hand across his mouth. “God and Evie, they know I wasn’t always Sebastian Clairmont.”

  1976

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Sebastian Christos rolled over and looked at the body breathing next to him. Easy girls from the neighborhood behaved this way. She wasn’t from the neighborhood. He knew because he’d fucked all those girls—twice. Daylight pointed out bottled blonde hair and a tangle of sheets. Her skin, he now saw, had a ruddy Irish look. She stirred. Sebastian tipped his head at her fluttering eyelids—one set of lashes looked fur-lined, the other skimpy and paper-bag brown. He supposed it was her natural color. He lifted the sheet draped across her midriff. Yeah. Natural color. Along with her willingness to sleep with him, she’d been predictable—nothing special. Raking a hand over his stubble-covered face, Sebastian thumped a fist unceremoniously into the mattress.

  Nothing special. That was his life.

  He was ready to get out of bed, but she stopped him, her hand coming across his body, stroking his broad chest. She cleared her throat—a croaky combination of tequila shots, come, and cigarettes. Sebastian wondered which might kill her first. He arched his brow and examined the scene—bare toe to pillow top. Considering how quickly she’d slept with him, this girl would fuck the wrong guy long before the booze and cigarettes got to her. She groped downward, reaching. His dick did the opposite of his brain by responding. On the nightstand were condoms, a bottle of tequila, and two empty shot glasses. “What the hell…” he muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking a gulp like mouthwash. He tossed a condom wrapper onto her stomach. She tore it open and went to work sheathing him. He’d been damn clear about that.

  A moment later, Sebastian, whose frame largely shadowed hers, rolled the woman onto her back. She moaned softly as her legs parted on cue. She closed her eyes again, and he felt flamingo pink fingernails rake down his back. That woke him up—maybe more so than the mechanical thrusts into her. Her noises were more prostitute than passionate lover, although she wasn’t either thing. She wasn’t anybody. Her long legs wrapped around his body, and her breathing amped to complementary gasps. Could be she really was enjoying it.

  “God, Sebastian… I’ve never done it so many times, not like this.” He doubted that.

  “Maybe… uh, maybe after…” she said on airy whispers, “we could get some breakfast. Or I can make you something.” She giggled. “I’m guessing we can use your kitchen to cook.”

  The remark threw him—or maybe it was just her breath. But she shut up, her pouty mouth connecting with his unshaven neck. Images of last night jutted through Sebastian’s mind—fucking her against the refrigerator. Coffee. A canister of coffee had shimmied from the counter onto the floor, the rousing scents of java and sex filling the air. One jacked him up enough to get through the days, the other delivered distraction. She was talking again, although Sebastian wasn’t listening. Now that she’d proven to have remembered his name, Sebastian was trying to remember hers. It seemed like the decent thing to do. She moved her hands lithely down his back and onto his ass as she hitched her legs up, urging him on. Other odors hit him hard. Her hair reeked of cigarettes and the sheets smelled of a different girl’s perfume. One from the neighborhood who he’d fucked two nights ago.

  That girl had slipped from his bed before dawn, saying something about leaving a kid at home. Super good-bye to that, he’d thought. Kids belonging to anyone were an absolute point of avoidance. Random thoughts replaced those as he thrust harder into her, striving toward precious seconds of nirvana. The ones that indicated he was alive. A thundering orgasm shot through him, a powerful sensation.

  Maybe too powerful.

  The whole bed rattled. An object rocketed past them like a Russian missile. It slammed hard into the wall above their heads. The girl screamed. Shock, instead of ecstasy, penetrated Sebastian’s ears.

  A thickly accented voice boomed from the doorway. “You ’bout done in here?”

  The girl tried to wrench away, but Sebastian’s body had her pinned to the mattress. She clawed for the sheet, legs still wrapped around his ass. Her wide-awake hazel eyes blinked starkly into his. He looked away, annoyed when specifics registered. Sebastian reached around and hauled the sheet over them.

  “Yeah. We’re done. Give us a minute,” Sebastian said.

  “I’ll give you thirty fucking seconds and not a speck more. Do your banging on your own time, Bash—you hear me? I’ll not pay you to put your cock in chickies after sunup. You and your dick were supposed be on that dock at dawn.”

  S
ebastian rose in a pushup-like movement, twisting his neck toward the warning. In the doorway, he caught a glimpse of the old man and, he suspected, his future. Sebastian looked to his right and saw the telephone lying where his head had been. It made sense— hurling it at him was classic Andor retaliation. The phone had sat on the hall table. It was the closest, hardest object within Andor’s reach. A sprinkle of freshly dented plaster flaked downward. Sebastian glanced at the girl, whose ruddy complexion had turned redder. “I said I’ll be right there.”

  “See that you are.” The door slammed but opened again. Sebastian sighed, stiffly holding his body over the girl. “And clean up that fucking mess of coffee on the kitchen floor.”

  He peered down at the girl. “No coffee. Explains his off mood.”

  “Off mood?” she said as Sebastian rolled away. The girl darted to a stance more erect than his dick had been. “Who… who the hell was that?”

  “The man who calls the shots,” Sebastian said, getting out of bed. Wadding the spent condom into a tissue, he threw it into the trashcan—a dead center shot from six feet out. He pulled on his underwear and glanced at his watch. A shower was out of the question. The girl gathered a telltale trail of clothes that led from the doorway to the bed. “Hey, do you, um… have a way home?” They’d come back to the house in his car. He hadn’t thought about how she’d arrived at the pool hall where he’d picked her up. “I could take you, but… Well, you heard.”

  “I, uh…” She reached for her purse, which had spilled onto a chair. It seemed to hold all the cosmetics that held her together. With the bed in between them, she skimmed her gaze down his body, a more distant full daylight view. She seemed to forget things like fear and embarrassment. “Wow. It’s a mind-blowing combination.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Muscles and scars. Last night I thought your eyes were the best part—guess I was wrong.”

  “Guess we better keep on truckin’.” Sebastian shuffled into jeans and yanked on a thick crewneck sweater. He couldn’t do anything about the eyes, an unusual milky green. They attracted attention—all kinds. The sweater smelled of salt air and sweat. He often wore it to the docks. The wind was cutting and the sweater was bulky over his jeans, which was helpful.