Accidental SEAL (SEAL Brotherhood #1)

by Hamilton, Sharon

  “Whoa, we having a family gathering here?” Fredo barked. “Sure you got room for a little Mexican?”

  Gunny introduced them to his friends, who were mostly retired police and firemen. Men he’d served with in Korea and Viet Nam. It wasn’t lost on Fredo that these guys were looking for one last good fight. He could tell they missed the hunt.

  He shook his head. “Hate involving innocents,” he whispered to Coop, who just shrugged.

  Coop leaned toward him and, out of earshot of the big guys in the front seats, said, “They’re far from innocent. They heeded the call when you were in diapers, amigo.”

  Ain’t that a fact? Fredo still didn’t like it.

  Chapter 36

  Mayfield decided it was his turn to call the meeting with Timmons. He’d heard nothing from Kyle or Christy, though he’d placed a call to her. There also had been no answer at the house on Stanyan Street, which worried him, too. Hilber wasn’t available, and the office said he’d taken a couple days leave.

  Sure he was. In the middle of a quadruple homicide?

  Maybe he’d waited too long, he thought. Things had started coming unraveled and he was getting more and more uncomfortable with circumstances by the hour.

  “This isn’t an official meet and greet,” he said to Timmons, on the phone.

  “So then that means shots at Jimmy’s.”

  Mayfield looked at his watch. Christ, it was nearly ten. Way too late for a meeting, but never the right time for shots.

  “Can you be there in half hour?” Mayfield asked.

  “I’m here now.”

  He could hear the crowd in the background. It was a Sunday, so it would be tamer than usual. “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Take your time, man. I’m expecting a call from Fredo and the team at any time. I assume that’s who you’re gonna want to talk about.”

  “Yup.”

  “You coming alone?” Timmons asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll wiggle out of my friends.”

  “I appreciate that.” The last thing Mayfield wanted was a public viewing. Here he was conspiring with the Navy against one of his own. But that was what he was about to do.

  Or he’d be on his way to no retirement at that little fishing village in Mexico, where he’d live until the ammo gave out. Forget about the pension.

  The patio outside Jimmy’s was warm, but a blazing fire pit at the center threw off a pleasant glow and heat that felt real good. Mayfield couldn’t get the cold chill off the back of his neck that persisted in spite of the fire and the warm night air. Timmons was watching him from a table in the dark corner. The guy was so still, Mayfield almost walked right past him.

  Cars slowly tooled past. An elderly couple in matching workout clothes walked their little white dog. The dog obviously thought he was leading.

  Maybe he was, Mayfield thought. Not sure why it tickled him, but it did.

  He sat in front of Timmons and in an instant was met by a young nubile thing with a low-cut white cotton smock shirt over an impossibly short skirt. She kneeled in front of him and he couldn’t help but take a quick glance. Just a quick one. She had a wonderful rack. He murmured a forgiveness prayer to Maria.

  “Sir? You want a beer, or something else?”

  The something else came to mind, and Timmons grinned, picking up his drift somehow.

  “Diet Coke.”

  “Coming right up.” She rose and he had to follow those tanned long legs to the bar.

  “How long’s it been, Mayfield?”

  Mayfield checked out his unmanicured fingernails, wiggled his fingers, which moved the little heart tattoo with “Maria” written in the center, emblazoned on his forearm, and answered, “I had a Coke for lunch.”

  Timmons was well on his way to being indecent in public. He tossed back another shot and winced like it was mouthwash, the kind that burned all the way down to your butt. He peered over at Mayfield in what looked like a challenge. He could see the officer wasn’t having a good day.

  And that probably meant Mayfield’s day was shit, too. But what the hell. He leaned in and asked, “I got a dead guy burnt to a crisp in a cabin we haven’t been able to ID yet and two dead ex-deputies in the Palos Vega forest, and a dead personal trainer at one of our most exclusive condo complexes.” He looked right and left, then behind him, then whispered and leaned further across the table. “Something’s seriously out of whack. Everyone around this Lansdowne character is dying. And violently. Only a matter of time before one of your team guys gets it, too.”

  “You’ve got more to think about.”

  “Excuse me?” Mayfield knew he wasn’t going to like the explanation.

  “You’ve also—well, not you, but San Francisco—has a dead shopkeeper and a celebrity billionaire shot in the chest, almost dead. And a dirty cop. Name’s Hilber.”

  Timmons stopped. Then it hit Mayfield. Hilber had gone too far and now the Navy was getting a whiff of his stink. But this caper was long beyond anyone’s control now. Least of all his.

  “Just thought you ought to know,” Timmons added helpfully. Mayfield could see why the man was on the drunker side of conscious.

  “And now I’m missing two of mine,” Timmons added, holding up his fingers in the V sign.

  Mayfield could see his retirement package going through a paper shredder. Shoot, at this rate, he’d have to hitchhike to San Felipe, carrying everything he owned on his back. This was a cluster fuck extraordinaire.

  “I shouldn’t have trusted your SEALs.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I understand you told Kyle to be the bait?”

  The man was right. It was partially his fault, too. “And so that’s what’s happened?”

  “Yup. They’ve got Kyle. As far as I know, everyone’s alive. Point is, we can’t really go in there. We know where they are, but we have to let the locals do it.”

  “I can ask for a certain amount of cooperation from several departments, but that’s only going to go so far. Pretty soon, they’re going to link everything to Lansdowne, make him out as the one running the operation. And, as the man-hours keep ratcheting up in this time of economic crisis, they’ll just come in blasting and sort it out later. You get my meaning?”

  Timmons nodded.

  “Someone’s connected the dots real good. Got ATF, maybe the FBI on it, too. This is becoming one giant fucking pile of shit, Timmons, and you know who is right in the middle of it.”

  “Warren Hilber,” Timmons said.

  Mayfield was going to swear loudly, but the nice young thing with the silky thighs brought his diet Coke, with a lime wedge on the lip for good measure.

  Perfect.

  He saluted her and took a long drag. Then he squeezed the lime over the top and took another. It seemed to ease his belly some, but not enough. “I don’t even want to fucking answer my phone anymore.” He took several ice cubes and ground them down quickly with his molars.

  Timmons was nodding, staring at his empty glass. The girl hadn’t asked him if he wanted another. That meant she could count pretty good, Mayfield thought.

  “So, Timmons, tell me something that’ll make me fucking feel better.”

  Timmons smiled lopsided and speared him in the eyes with a stare Mayfield knew was only the precursor to something bad. Really bad.

  “Kyle and the team didn’t get there in time.” Timmons said.

  “And?”

  “Used her as bait, and now they have Kyle too, just like you instructed.”

  “Okay. Get to the point.”

  “They saved the billionaire’s life. We have to get that word out there. But I’ve asked the two other members of Kyle’s team to come in.

  “And?”

  “They refused.”

  Mayfield wanted to strangle the man, except they were on the same team and he was having his own share of problems. Of course, this news might convince a couple of his superiors that Kyle was more victim than perp, but it was a ri
sk. He knew he’d waited too long to get additional help. He just thought these guys could handle it on their own. But the operation was exploding out of control.

  “The one who is behind it all is Caesar Rodriguez, of the Scorpions. They—”

  “I know who they are. They run guns and provide protection for the big Mexican gangs from San Diego. Got safe houses all the way from here to the border.” Mayfield waved off down the strand. “Word has it, they use ex-military.”

  “No doubt,” Timmons said, frowning. “Our training’s the best.” He sat back and looked into the night air, like he was thinking about what to say. “We try to weed them out, but I’d be the first one to admit, we don’t get them all.”

  “And the dropouts, the DORs?”

  “Them, too. They get just enough training to be dangerous, but we try to get into their heads right away and weed out the nut jobs.”

  “Or the ones with a higher calling.”

  “You know the drill. You were there.”

  That he was. Mayfield could remember the wet and sandy evenings, the chafing, the blood running down his leg under his uniform that Saturday after they’d passed Hell Week. He hadn’t bothered to take off his clothes and had showered in the warm water, shampooed his face, and fallen asleep soaking wet on the cheap motel room bed. He’d woken up twelve hours later and was starving. They all ate together at a café that overlooked the ocean they had spent six excruciating days in. All thirty of them, less than a quarter of the original class, had walked as if they were crab-like creatures from the black lagoon. And when he finally had taken off his shoes, his feet had been green.

  “How’d Caesar get to your guys?” Mayfield finally asked as he ground down another few ice chips.

  “Childhood friend. Someone who knows the family. Got mixed up with Armando’s sister off and on for years.”

  Timmons held his glass up and it was taken within seconds.

  “I think your sheriff is there, in San Francisco,” Timmons said.

  “Good. I’ll throw some shit his way. That I can do.”

  “And Kyle injured Caesar. He’s probably going to need medical attention, from the sound of it.”

  “So we check the ERs. What kind of injury?”

  “Fredo says he thinks an arm thing. The guy was screaming and passing out from the pain.”

  The girl brought two glasses. “Another?” she asked Mayfield.

  “Sure.” He was thinking about whom he could call to get the heat on Hilber, who was probably getting fairly desperate by now. “You know where they are?”

  Timmons hesitated, and then tossed down the first of his two new drinks. “Yup. Know right where they all are. Kyle’s painted.”

  “Painted?”

  “We have a locator on him.”

  Mayfield understood. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “Nope.” Timmons grinned. “Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  They both laughed at that one.

  “You guys have some toys, I’ll grant you that. Shoot, if we had your budget…”

  “You’d catch more bad guys. I completely agree.”

  “Sometimes I think that’s why I tried out for the SEALs,” Mayfield said.

  “Yup. Heard that one, too.”

  Timmons was having a good time playing cat and mouse with him. Mayfield had to ask the question. “Your guys aren’t actually thinking of going in there and getting him? Them, I mean?”

  Timmons cocked his head and thought about it a minute. “Can’t honestly say. I hope not, for the sake of their careers. Hell, for mine, too. And you guys will never convince everyone in San Diego and San Francisco, as well as the Feds, in time, either.”

  “We’re fucked.” Mayfield knew it. No way this was going to work out, unless…

  “I’d put my money on my SEALs. Everything we need is inside that warehouse, or wherever the hell they are. The Scorpion King has no idea what or who they are dealing with.”

  “If he’s still alive,” Mayfield said.

  “Oh, he’s still alive. They both are. Trust me, if either one or both of them goes out, you and everyone else will know it.”

  Chapter 37

  Christy had been placed on a blanket on the carpeted floor, but she still woke up stiff from the few hours’ sleep she’d been able to snatch. She didn’t recognize her surroundings. It was an apartment of sorts. She heart traffic and the ring of a cable car, so she knew she was still in San Francisco.

  In a cruel twist of fate, she was on her side, nearly touching Kyle’s sleeping form, the one person in the world she wanted to be sleeping next to. But he was hog-tied and her hands ached from the zip ties at her wrists in front of her. All night long she kept forgetting where she was and would try to force her arms apart, to adjust to a more comfortable position, but then realization of her situation would dawn and she’d quickly remember comfort and movement was useless.

  She had to pee, though it had been hours, nearly twenty now, since she’d eaten or had anything to drink. That told her there was no real concern for her safety or her health.

  No smell of coffee. No warm bed smelling of fresh lovemaking. No warm shower and lavender shower gel. No warm smell at the back of Kyle’s neck that she could bury her nose in. No touch of his solid ass as he came alive to the caress of her thighs. No holding the man who was a god—perhaps too much of a god. Was it possible to love someone, to need someone so much? Was it a good thing or a very bad thing?

  Death stared her in the face. Kyle looked at peace in his sleep.

  What if Kyle died? What if she had to watch that? What if she died? On the scale in her soul, she knew her life wasn’t worth half of his. This was the man who had touched her on the knee last night and told her everything would be all right. And she had believed him. He’d wanted to take the burden and the pain from her. She vowed if there were a chance, even if it meant sacrificing herself, she would provide a distraction. Somehow she would help set him free. That was the only thing she would focus on today.

  What had he said before he’d been beaten? Stay the course. Not have a nice life, or don’t worry. Those would have been useless words. Unrealistic words. No. He’d asked her to endure. Not give up. Not to think about it. Just go on.

  She knew it all would happen today. There wouldn’t to be a long few days of torture. All she had to do was get through this next day, because she was certain there wouldn’t be another one.

  Time is of the essence. Just like what she’d learned in her real estate classes.

  Madame M had had no time to prepare her end of days, although Christy suspected the woman had not been entirely truthful with her. Christy had watched in horror as Madame was beaten and then shot. Caesar had put the gun to Tom’s chest and got Christy to write the note to Kyle, creating the snare that would entrap him. And then the devil shot Tom anyway. Just for spite.

  It’s all my fault.

  Tom? She’d heard the shot. Was he gone, too? Her thoughts wandered. She allowed herself to explore what could have been her future. Could she have changed the course of his involvement in this drama? She said a prayer for him. God, she hoped he was alive. He didn’t deserve this fate. It was hers. It wasn’t his.

  Forgive me, Tom. She had never meant to hurt him. Never meant to hurt Madame. And Marla. Was Kyle going to be next? Was everyone who cared about her going to die?

  Tears flowed down her cheeks as she fluttered her eyelids so the blurriness of Kyle’s handsome face wasn’t lost to her. She would need that strong jaw line, those blue eyes that made her feel like some great Amazon warrior princess at his side. With this man, she could overcome anything. All he had to do was love her and she would be healed. She was everything she needed to be. She had everything she wanted to have. Even if it was for a day.

  All she needed to do now was save him. Somehow. And today was the day it would have to happen.

  Kyle stirred. A beam of early morning light had crossed the side of his face. The blac
k stubble on his cheeks glistened, the hairs at his neckline rose and fell with his steady breathing. He wasn’t like anyone else she had ever met. His body was a lean killing machine, but his heart was as full and tender as a child’s. Full of life. Full of love. Full of hope—not just for her, but for a nation she knew needed him. A nation that would never be able to thank him the way he deserved. Who would never understand the heart of the man. The heart and dedication of a warrior. Being a SEAL was his true calling, and always would be.

  Another wave of tears shielded the view of him. He nestled his head against the floor and ached his back. His chest expanded and rose. Her fingers and lips had explored the length of that chest not nearly enough times. She hadn’t heard his steady heartbeat enough. She needed to lay her ear against his breast and listen to life as it was meant to be. Until it was all over, the memory of those glorious moments in his arms would be all she would have.

  And though it wouldn’t be nearly enough, it would have to do.

  It was all she had, after all.

  And for right now he was lying next to her, in the morning, with the sun on his chest. And he was alive.

  She fell to sleep dreaming of a life that could have been.

  Chapter 38

  Kyle woke to a splitting headache. He felt like he was wearing a hatchet lodged in his forehead, right between his eyes. Eyes that refused to focus.

  But when the fuzzy red spots in front of him cleared, he saw Christy’s luscious shape. Her cherry red top was half slung over one shoulder and smudged. She was on her side, facing him, her hands bloody from struggling with the zip ties. But right now they lay relaxed and in repose. Like she was praying.

  He looked at her strong arched eyebrows and her long smooth nose, ending with just a slight upturn guarding full rose-colored lips. A little of her red lipstick remained. He remembered everything about those lips.