Trap, Secure: Navy SEAL Security

by Carol Ericson

  Amy clamped both hands against the wound to staunch the loss of blood. The man’s body shuddered and jerked. His arms flew up and he grabbed her around the neck, his strong fingers creating a vise and grinding her gold chain into her neck. Choking, she clawed at his arms with her bloody hands, her nails skimming off the thick neoprene of the wet suit.

  The diver behind her charged toward them and drove his knee into the man’s throat. Her attacker’s hands dropped from her neck and he slumped, a gush of air escaping from his lungs, a gurgle of blood spouting from the tear in his wet suit.

  Amy hacked and tumbled backward, her hands hitting the sand behind her. She scrambled like a crab across the wet surface, leaving bloody indentations in her wake.

  “Sorry about that.” The stranger pressed his fingers against the throat of the man who’d just tried to strangle her. “Thought I had him. He’s dead now.”

  “W-what happened to him? Why did he attack me when I was trying to save him?” She raised her gaze to the other diver, now on his knees, peeling his wet suit from the top half of his body and toeing off his fins.

  He cocked his head, squinting into the fog with a steely blue gaze. “I stabbed him.”

  Then she noticed a knife plunged into the sand next to him. Screaming, she rolled onto her stomach and launched to her knees. A hand encircled her ankle, yanking her leg back, and she landed on her belly again. She spun around, kicking wildly with her other leg.

  The man fell on top of her, covering her mouth with his hand, grinding salty grains of sand against her lips. She struggled to knee him in the crotch, but his body felt like a lead weight against her, immobilizing her.

  His face inches from hers, he brought a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

  A chill raced up her spine. Then she heard it—the low whine of a motorboat. Salvation. She bucked beneath her captor and worked her jaw to open her mouth and bite his hand.

  His voice growled close to her ear, his briny scent invading her nostrils. “Stop fighting me. Those are some very dangerous men out there on that boat.”

  His words sucked the already-diminishing air out of her lungs, and she slumped beneath his rock-hard body. She moved her lips against his palm in a silent question, the saltwater on his hand working its way into her mouth.

  The maniac flashed a smile, rows of white teeth in a tanned face. They gleamed in the fog that now surrounded them like damp cotton. He winked. “Don’t worry. I’m one of the good guys.”

  Her eyes darted to the dead diver slumped in a heap at the water’s edge.

  “He’s one of the bad guys.” He shifted his muscular frame, giving her some breathing room. “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth and let you up, but you need to stay close to me and we need to get off this beach. Nice job on that rescue, by the way.”

  Amy swallowed, not even minding the sand that scratched her throat. Two lunatics had invaded her beach and now one of them planned to kidnap her. The perfect ending to a lousy couple of months.

  As soon as he removed his hand and his hold, she planned to scream bloody murder and run toward the sound of the boat. She could swim a long distance if she had to. Her gaze tracked over the muscled shoulders and corded arms of the man who held her, and her stomach fluttered. He could probably swim just as fast and far.

  And he had a knife.

  He slid his hand from her mouth, resting it on her throat. Amy dropped her gaze to the stranger’s sinewy forearm and gulped. He could easily finish the job the dead guy started. As she gathered air in her lungs for a big scream, a motor whirred fast, loud and close.

  In one movement her captor rolled off her body and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet. At the same time, a scream ripped from her throat. A loud pop followed her cry for help and the man beside her cursed.

  “Thanks a lot, beach girl. You just gave them a target in this muck.”

  The people on the boat confirmed his words as they fired two more shots in the general direction of Amy’s head.

  “Let’s move.” The man shoved her in front of him and she stumbled as her feet hit dry sand. At least if any more bullets came their way, they’d have to go through his large frame first. And he made a great shield.

  Was he protecting her?

  Keeping his hand pressed against the small of her back, he said, “This fog should give us enough cover to make it to the lifeguard truck—as long as you keep your screaming to a minimum.”

  Either she followed the man with the knife or turned toward the men with the guns. Since he hadn’t used the knife on her—yet—and the guys on the boat insisted on shooting at vague shapes in the fog, even after she screamed, Amy put her money on the guy with the knife.

  Her legs pumped in the sand. She veered toward the tower and grabbed her backpack with her sweats on top. She didn’t hear any more gunshots and the occupants of the boat must’ve cut the motor because she couldn’t hear the distinctive whine.

  The thick fog almost obscured her companion. He didn’t even seem to be breathing heavily, or maybe she couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears and her own ragged breath.

  He bumped her side, grabbing her upper arm. “Where’s the lifeguard truck?”

  “I don’t have a truck on this beach. My car’s parked in the lot.” She tried to shake him off, but his fingers pinched harder.

  “You’d better not be lying and leading me into some kind of trap. That could get us both killed.” His icy blue eyes almost glowed in the fog.

  “You’re the one with the knife.” She pried his fingers off her arm and kicked up sand behind her, hoping she got some in his face.

  The beach remained eerily quiet behind them, but the dense fog could mute sounds. Amy kept up a steady pace, her feet leading her to the parking lot where her car waited. Once they got there, she’d dig her cell phone out of her backpack and call the police. The stranger couldn’t object if he really was on the right side of the law.

  A strip of dark asphalt appeared and Amy pointed. “It’s right there.”

  When the soles of her feet slapped against the gritty asphalt, she swung her backpack from her shoulder and clawed for her keys in the front compartment. She clicked the remote and gasped when the man swept her in front of him, pushing her toward the car.

  “Get in and drive.”

  Before she had a chance to figure out if she could take off without him, he scrambled into the passenger seat. He pounded the dashboard. “What are you waiting for? I said drive.”

  She curled her left fist around her keys and fumbled with a zipper on the backpack crushed between her lap and the bottom edge of the steering wheel. Her fingers skimmed the smooth metal of her cell phone and she pulled it out.

  “I’m going to call 911 first.”

  His jaw hardened as he sluiced back his wet hair, beginning to curl at the ends. With a pair of broad shoulders and washboard abs that tapered to the wet suit peeled down to his slim hips, he looked like Triton or at least some sexy merman. Then he opened his mouth.

  “No, you’re not. We need to get out of here. Now.”

  Sounded like he knew his enemies well. Who was she to argue? She tossed her backpack in the backseat and started the car. “You’re right. Those guys seemed determined.”

  A breath hitched in her throat. Maybe they were determined because they were cops or the Coast Guard, but would they start shooting into a bank of fog after she screamed without even shouting out a warning? Experience had taught her they just might. Her father had taught her to never trust the law.

  Her gaze slid to the knife resting on the man’s powerful thigh encased in black neoprene. She didn’t have a choice right now, anyway, but his reaction to her call to 911 would tell her a lot.

  As she accelerated out of the beach parking lot, she scooped her cell phone from her lap where she’d dropped it and flipped it open. She’d pressed 9 before the man beside her snatched the phone from her hand.

  “You can’t call the cops.” He cradled the phone
in his palm and snapped it shut.

  Amy clung to the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? F-for witnessing that murder....”

  He tossed the phone into the backseat and let out a ragged breath. Squeezing her bare thigh with his long fingers, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you, beach girl. I’m sorry you’re scared.”

  If he meant to soothe her with his gentle touch on her leg, it sent a ripple of fear across her skin instead. Did he plan to rape her before he murdered her?

  Amy swallowed. He seemed like a fairly reasonable lunatic. Maybe she could use logic on him. “Why can’t I call 911? The operator can alert the Coast Guard and go after the...the bad guys. You could be long gone by the time they picked them up, and I swear I won’t tell them anything about you.”

  “You wouldn’t be a very good lifeguard if you did that, would you?” He clicked his tongue as he rummaged through her glove compartment. He pulled out her registration and peered at it. “You can call the cops when you get home. By that time, I will be long gone and so will that dead body on the beach.”

  Her heart did a somersault in her chest. “When I get home?”

  He flicked the paper registration with his finger. “Yeah. Drive back to your place and I’ll disappear in a puff of smoke or more likely a blanket of fog.”

  When she’d pulled out of the beach parking lot, she’d headed in the general direction of her house since he hadn’t given her any orders about where to go. Would he really let her just go home and then call the authorities after he left without hurting her?

  He was right about her responsibilities as a lifeguard. She’d have to report him and give the cops as good a description as she could. She gave him a sidelong glance—over six feet tall, muscular build, a wild, tawny mane of hair that brushed his shoulders, piercing blue eyes.

  She’d have to scale back on the admiration of his masculine good looks when she gave her description to the cops or they’d think she’d fallen prey to that Stockholm syndrome where victims fell for their captors.

  He glanced at the registration again before shoving it back into her glove compartment. “You live close, right?”

  “Yeah, we’re almost there.” She gripped the steering wheel with clammy hands as another thought slammed against her like a sledgehammer. He’d retrieved her registration to see her address. She did not want this dangerous man in her house, but now he knew her address. “My husband, who’s six foot five and very jealous, will be home, too.”

  He snorted. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Can’t I just drop you off somewhere? Why do you have to come to my house with me?”

  “Just want to see you home safely.” He brushed some sand off the leg of his wet suit. “Is there a work schedule posted in the tower listing the shifts for the guards?”

  “N-no.”

  “I suppose the main station wouldn’t give out the guards’ names if someone called making inquiries about which guards are working which beaches?”

  Her clammy grasp on the wheel got tighter. “Of course not. What are you driving at? Do you think those people in the boat will try to find out who I am?”

  He lifted a shoulder, which touched the ends of his wet hair. “If they can. But it doesn’t sound like they’re going to be successful.”

  “What if they come back to that beach, that tower, looking for me? Today was my last day for the summer, but I left everything wide open back there. I’m going to have to return to close up properly.”

  Was he playing her to make her fear the men in the boat more than she feared him? The dying man had choked her, and the guys in the boat had shot at her. This one hadn’t lifted a finger against her. In fact, he’d protected her from the other attacks.

  “I don’t think they’d do that.” But two lines formed a deep crevice between his eyebrows. “They’d have difficulty finding the beach again, and there are plenty of lifeguard towers up and down the coast.”

  She chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t know about that. Imperial Beach is one of the southernmost beaches in San Diego County before you hit the Mexican border.”

  “Request a transfer. They’re not going to find you.”

  “They’re not going to find me, anyway.” She rolled her tight shoulders. “I already told you. I’m done for the season since I only work summers. Today was my last shift.”

  He patted her leg again. “That’s good to hear. And don’t return. Let someone else lock up. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Amy.” She gasped and covered her mouth. How had this man lured her into such a state of naive stupidity so quickly? Next she’d be giving him her social security number. She jerked her leg, dislodging his hand.

  He had the nerve to laugh.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to use your first name against you, and I can just reach in the glove compartment to find out the rest if I want.” He combed his fingers through tangled hair. “And just so we’re even, I’m going to tell you my first name, too. It’s Riley.”

  “Riley.” The name rolled off her tongue. Riley didn’t seem too concerned about the cops knowing his name. Did he think just because he had a friendly, non-threatening demeanor and a gorgeous body she wasn’t going to report this?

  Even though Amy had an innate distrust of authority, Riley had placed his confidence in the wrong woman. She’d had it in for all men since she’d discovered the guy she’d been dating for two months had a wife. Scumbag.

  She rounded the corner of her block and pulled up to the curb in front of her rental house. She cut the engine and dropped her hands in her lap. “You can get out now. Although how you think you’re going to be inconspicuous roaming around in a full-body wet suit is beyond me.”

  “Thanks for caring.” A boyish grin claimed his face. “I have trunks on underneath—just another surfer.”

  “Just another surfer carrying a knife.”

  She shouldn’t have reminded him.

  His fingers curled around the handle and he said, “Let’s go inside to make sure everything’s okay.”

  Tension knotted her shoulders again as she climbed out of the car, groping for her backpack in the backseat. She wouldn’t be able to breathe easily until Riley left the premises and she had 911 on the line.

  It took her three tries to insert her key into the dead bolt with Riley standing behind her, the heat from his body warming her bare back. And then she didn’t even need to unlock the dead bolt—she must’ve left it unlocked when she took off this afternoon. She shoved the key into the handle, turning the knob and pushing open the door.

  Riley stepped in front of her, tucking her behind his broad frame. “Everything look okay?”

  “How can I tell? I’m staring at your back.” Her nose practically touched the cool, smooth skin between his shoulder blades.

  Riley stalked to the center of the small living room, dwarfing it with his take-control presence. Amy shifted her gaze around the objects of the room, her pulse quickening when she spotted a book on the floor by the coffee table. Her cat, Clarence, probably knocked that over before he took off for his pre-dinner prowl.

  “I’m going to have a look in the back rooms.” Riley pointed to the short hallway, gripping the knife in front of him.

  Amy crept toward the book and crouched to retrieve it from the floor. She glanced toward the entry that led to the kitchen and then tilted her head back to peer at Riley disappearing into the bathroom, knife still drawn.

  She could make a run for the portable phone in the kitchen and slip out the back, maybe bang on her neighbor’s door for help. Riley would probably take off, and she’d be safe.

  Launching to her feet, she hurtled toward the kitchen. Just inside the entryway, she tripped over a soft object splayed across the floor. Yelping, she thudded against the linoleum. She scrambled to her hands and knees and spun around.

  A sour knot of fear lodged in her throat as her gaze skidded across the deathly still form of her ex-
boyfriend.

  Chapter Two

  A shriek sliced through the small house, and Riley barreled out the bathroom door, stubbing his toe on the frame. He gripped the knife at his side, ready to do battle. Careening through the empty living room, he launched toward the entryway to what had to be the kitchen. He stopped short, almost falling into the room and over a body on the floor.

  Amy huddled against the cabinets, her hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes forming huge, coffee-colored saucers. A man sprawled across the faded yellow linoleum on his back, one perfectly shined loafer hanging from his toes, and his legs in pressed slacks crossed one over the other. Looked like he could be taking a nap on the kitchen floor.

  Riley squatted beside the man, noting a red blotch on his right cheek, and extended two fingers toward his neck to check his pulse.

  Amy screamed, “Don’t touch him.”

  God, he must’ve been a friend or relative of Amy’s. Boyfriend? His gaze flew to her face, drained of all color beneath her mocha skin. “Who is he?”

  “Carlos... My ex-boyfriend.” She mumbled through her fingers, which seemed frozen in place.

  Very-ex-boyfriend from the look of him. Riley stepped over the body and kneeled beside Amy. “We need to get out of here.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I can’t tell. I don’t see any blood, just a contusion on his face. Maybe someone strangled him or hit him on the back of the head.” He turned back toward the body. “I can turn him...”

  “No.” She sobbed, curling into a tight ball. “We need to call the police.”

  “You don’t get it, Amy. Somehow those guys in the boat tracked you down to your house. Carlos must’ve surprised them. They probably came at him from behind and strangled him or hit him. Carlos’s presence spooked them, but that doesn’t mean they won’t come back.”

  “That’s why we call the police.” She scooted to her left to avoid Carlos’s outstretched hand.

  Riley rubbed his chin with his knuckles. He was flying so far below the radar of the police right now he couldn’t afford to have them question him at a murder scene. Hell, he was flying below the radar of the CIA.