Accidental SEAL (SEAL Brotherhood #1)

by Hamilton, Sharon

  He had no right to be thinking about them right now. Cooper and Fredo were right—those kinds of thoughts could get a good team guy killed. That wasn’t the hard part, he thought. He didn’t want to make Armando and Christy sacrifice for his mistakes. That just wasn’t going to happen.

  Soft blond curls hugged the dark canyon along her neck. Her shiny shoulder, transected by a red satin bra strap, rose and fell with her even breathing. They hadn’t beaten her, thank God. Her black, form-fitting pants hugged those long legs of hers, with one crossed over the other. His gaze followed down to her ankles with just a couple of blue veins visible at the top of her foot.

  And then there were those heels.

  They were still shiny, as if she’d been protecting them. Probably expensive, he thought. He fantasized what those bare legs would look like with the patent leather, spiked heels wrapped around his waist or flat up against the wall as he sunk himself deep inside her.

  Not helpful, these thoughts. Dangerous. His package was coming to life. Oblivious to danger. Maybe because of the danger. What kind of thinking was that? It was gallows humor, for sure.

  She was trying to turn over in her sleep. She arched her spine just enough so he could see the outline of her breasts under the top, the hint of shadow he could remember that played between her nipples those times when he buried his head there, those times when he tasted this gentle woman who had the heart of a lion in a siren’s body.

  Knowing her, it was the first time he’d found someone who could take everything he could dish out. All of it. All the lovemaking, all the moodiness and distances he had to maintain to keep sight of the mission, all of who he was. She was his equal in every respect, and perhaps superior to him in many. If it took every ounce of courage and life force, he would make sure she survived.

  Maybe if he didn’t survive and Armando did, his buddy would take care of her, protect her, and learn to cherish her like he had. Christy deserved someone in her life who would bring her a deep love that would rock her to her core, not something casual and brittle. Something deep, everlasting. Something worthy of her courage and strength.

  If it can’t be me, let it be someone like Armando.

  Kyle did feel the pangs of regret and jealousy. Had he mentally agreed to give her up? Well, if he died saving her life, that is what he would do. She was worth it, after all.

  He scanned as much of the room as he could see. And he listened. Spanish music was playing outside on the street somewhere. The sound of traffic came from below, which meant they were in an urban neighborhood, most likely on a second or third floor. He could hear morning delivery trucks. An occasional car swished by. Doors slammed and motors revved, and then he heard the telltale ring of a cable car nearby.

  He was in San Francisco. People were coming and going about their lives.

  A cheap dresser with pictures stuck into the mirror frame was on the opposite side of the room. He could feel fabric and the metal band of a bed frame behind him. Someone was snoring on the bed. He hoped it was Armando, but after listening to the rhythmic snoring, he realized the pattern wasn’t familiar. So one of his captors was with them.

  Where was Armando?

  He heard a door slam shut downstairs and footsteps get closer. They were heavy, like combat boots on wooden steps, two—no, three sets of boots. And whoever it was, they were big men. Like the ex-military types he’d seen at the warehouse.

  So it was all starting now. He checked his heartbeat. No evidence he’d been drugged. But he had a dull ache at what probably was a big knob at the back of his head where he was sure he’d been gun-butted. Hilber’s love tap, he thought. Kyle squeezed his fists and released them twice. Time for dealing with Hilber was soon approaching.

  He wiggled the flap on his zip ties, twisting his wrists so a finger could move the flap back and forth like they’d been shown in captor training. In a few seconds the plastic failed, and his hands were free. Quietly, he rose up and took a quick peek at the bed. Sure enough, one huge guy dwarfed the bare twin mattress. He was fully clothed and a 9mm was laced in his limp fingers. It was too much of a risk to go for the gun.

  Kyle worked the tie on his ankles and saw Christy’s eyes open. He put a finger to his lips and she smiled. God, he would have to stretch, but he would kiss those lips. Slowly, quietly, he arched, lifting his torso in a one-armed pushup so he wouldn’t drag over the carpet and make a sound.

  She kept her eyes open when he kissed her.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered. She nodded and looked at his lips again. When he kissed her again, she tried to arch her chest to his. Her sweet breath and kisses were furtive, desperate, strained at having to be kept quiet. Like she didn’t think she’d ever get another kiss. He could feel the moan in her chest she wouldn’t reveal. He smelled the perfume in her hair as her pulse points released her scent to him. She was his woman in every sense of the word. The better half of him. The half he would save. Even if the other half had to die.

  Chapter 39

  By nine o’clock in the morning, Mayfield made the calls to the IA Department at the San Diego sheriff’s office, promising a full written report on Deputy Hilber and his involvement in the gang’s swath of violence. As a courtesy, he also called the sheriff, who said he’d had his own suspicions about Hilber’s extracurricular activities. There’d been rumors, he told Mayfield.

  A politician’s answer.

  For jurisdictional harmony, Mayfield bought the story, for now. He didn’t need another enemy just at this moment in his career. He knew the elected man was going to do everything possible to keep the dirty cop angle minimized.

  Mayfield also alerted his chief, who pulled in the commissioner. One thing going for them was that it didn’t look like any regular SDPD units were involved. And that was one hell of a good thing. At least the war was only on two fronts. Not like what Kyle and those poor bastards in the Navy had on their hands in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Arab Spring, my ass.

  All he had to worry about now were the drug gangs and the rogue deputy’s protection racket. He knew what they were after. And he knew they’d never succeed. He may not have trusted Kyle with his daughter, if he had one, but he knew the young man would rather die than resort to a life of crime and violence in the private sector. No guns for hire with this lot.

  He believed Timmons’s assessment that the two SEALs were still alive. No big explosions, shootouts, or vehicles bursting into flames had been reported. And it had been two days without another dead body turning up. Thank God for small favors.

  He had no choice but trust the men Timmons trusted. He wondered how Timmons was managing to keep the brass off his back.

  Not my war. It’s his.

  Whatever private hell Hilber had created, the man wasn’t going to be able to hide behind the badge anymore. Even if he survived, his days of running protection for the San Diego gangs were over. At least now the public could breathe a little easier.

  Until the gangs found someone else. Hell, they probably had several eager candidates already lining up. Someone who needed money. Someone who felt they deserved a little extra special retirement package in exchange for their years of faithful service. The money was enough to tempt a saint.

  Mayfield sometimes wished he felt the same way. Maybe life would be easier. Just sell out. But no, that would never happen. The system wasn’t perfect. Lots of holes in it. But it was the only one around that made any sense, and, in general, the system improved the lives of the public. And they were his real bosses. Not the brass or the guys who signed his paycheck. He worked for those couples in the matching leisure suits out walking their dogs on a balmy San Diego night. The little people. The people who had families, went to work, paid their mortgages, and sent their kids to college.

  He thought maybe Maria would like it if he went back to church. Maybe he’d get to spend more time with her there. He chuckled. She’d scold him. He’d been having some thoughts lately. And admitted for the f
irst time, perhaps he was lonely after all.

  No replacing you, Maria. Just saying a man has needs.

  Maybe if he went to church and asked for help, she’d put her head together with Jesus and they’d find someone good for him.

  Nah. Not going to happen.

  He knew as sure as he was alive today that if he ever did that, he wouldn’t be able to hear Maria scolding him any longer. Like she’d be gone forever.

  And he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  Mayfield called the SFPD’s office of Special Affairs, the ones who handled jurisdictional cooperation, and told them about Caesar and his injury. They promised to alert ERs in the San Francisco Bay Area. He knew SFPD would get Caesar. And he didn’t mind that they would get credit for the collar. There was a need for San Francisco to show some toughness on crime, and this gave them that opportunity on a silver platter. Mayfield didn’t need the medal.

  He didn’t even take joy knowing the DEA and ATF would send out hunting parties, rounding up gang members, weeding out their support system and wiping the slate clean for a time. He never really liked manhunts. Probably was a good thing he’d never made it through the SEAL program to earn a Trident.

  Mayfield wondered how long it would be before Hilber would lose control over those gang members. He couldn’t ever recall hearing Hilber speak Spanish. That was a real handicap. And if Hilber was no longer a deputy, he might be more of a liability, more of a loose end to the gangs than he’d ever figured he’d be.

  Could be, sooner or later, Hilber would find himself a nice watery grave, if the gangs even bothered to find a grave at all. With Caesar out of the picture for a while, someone else no doubt would soon step up to fill his shoes. The new guy would need to do some housecleaning. And that would be bad news for the soon-to-be ex-deputy.

  But it was also true that if Kyle and Armando wouldn’t cooperate, they’d be loose ends as well. Mayfield knew from experience that the real leadership was in Mexico, hiding in plain sight, probably running operations right out of some territorial police captain’s office, one or two steps from a prison term himself. Maybe even paid for by US anti-drug task force money.

  Crime finds a way. It doesn’t really pay, but for a time, crime always looks like it’s winning.

  He checked his watch. Only nine-thirty. Today was going to be a big day, if his instincts were right. He decided it was time to do a little research in the field to help set up the next phase of hunting down and putting behind bars the bad guys. That was his job, after all.

  Felicia Guzman was hanging laundry in her backyard when Sergeant Mayfield drove up in his patrol car. He saw her flowered dress and the braid wound up on top of her head, just like how Maria used to wear her hair. The sight almost took him back a step.

  The house was painted bright yellow. Way too bright. An explosion of huge bursting dahlias and fragrant columns of pink and blue flowers grew all along the front of the stucco house. In front of the tall stalks was a profusion of low bedding flowers. In contrast to the rest of the neighborhood, Mrs. Guzman’s house looked like the Fourth of July and Christmas all at once, only without the flags and twinkle lights. No way you could drive down the street and miss it.

  The dark little woman wiped her hands on her apron and prepared to greet him. He could see she was steeling herself for some bad news. Didn’t she know if bad news was being delivered, the Navy would be the ones to call and not some lowly San Diego police sergeant?

  “Ma’am.” He wore his badge on his uniform and she was staring at it. “I’m Sergeant Mayfield from the San Diego Police Department.”

  “You have some news about my son?”

  She had a lined face that was full of character and resolution. The way she stared back at Mayfield almost made him embarrassed for some reason. Her large nut-brown eyes were soft but demanding. He didn’t see any trace of the fear and concern he knew she felt.

  A young, twenty-something woman came dashing down the front steps. She had a gauze pad taped to her forehead. She was stunning in every sense of the word. A total knockout. Her long dark hair and tanned limbs nearly took his breath away. She was a taller, younger, and thinner version of her mother. The mother was quite stunning as well.

  “Mom. I’m going down to Gina’s place for a couple of hours. She wants to help me pick out some clothes for the baby. We might go shopping, but I’ll be home before dinner. You want me to get you anything?”

  “No. Mia, I don’t like you leaving the house.” She frowned and addressed Mayfield. “Mia, this is Sergeant—I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name…”

  “Mayfield.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mia said as she extended her hand.

  He saw the same strength her mother showed, but also saw defiance, especially directed at his uniform. What could be so attractive about the low-lifes like Caesar when she had a home and a mother like this little woman standing next to her?

  Mayfield shook her soft hand, very tentatively placed.

  “You will stay home today, Mia. Have you no respect for your brother? Now go back inside. I need to discuss some things with the sergeant here.”

  “Oh, Mama. They probably think I’m in the hospital. Besides, if they were looking for me, they would never expect me to be with Gina.”

  Felicia Guzman dropped her gaze. “Mia, I am not happy about this. It isn’t safe.”

  “You worry too much. He’ll…” Mia looked up at Mayfield.

  He blurted out, “I know about your brother. That’s why I’m here.”

  Mia took her mother by the shoulders and leveled a gaze at her that translated to a rejection of Felicia’s demand.

  “He’s going to be okay. You’ll see. Armando always finds a way.”

  After Mia gave her mother a peck on her cheek, they both watched Felicia’s daughter saunter out to her car.

  “Armando’s sister. You’ve met my son?”

  “No. I have not. Heard a lot of good things about him, though.”

  “That’s good. He’s good to his mama.” She pulled a pair of clippers out from her apron and began to deadhead a rose bush. “You have news, then, about my son?” she said to the bush.

  “Not really. You’ll have to be talking to the Navy about that. All I know is that he’s still being held, but we believe he is alive.”

  She put her palm to her throat and closed her eyes. “Thank God.” She crossed herself. “And Kyle Lansdowne? Is he safe?”

  “Not quite. They are together. And the girl, too.”

  “What girl?” She was alarmed.

  Mayfield looked down the street and saw he was attracting some attention. “Would you mind if I grabbed a glass of water and discussed this with you inside? I have some questions I need to ask, in private.”

  “Oh, pardon my manners. Of course. Come.”

  Mayfield followed her inside, and it felt like he was going back in time to the early days of his marriage with Maria. When she had felt better. When she filled his life with sunshine and joy.

  When she grew big showy dahlias just like Felicia Guzman’s.

  Chapter 40

  Kyle heard an argument going on in the next room, and it was getting louder. He was expecting the staccato of gunfire at any moment. He pulled a thin razor wire from the flap in his belt and cut Christy’s ties. She rubbed her wrists together, showing him with her eyes how grateful she was. He motioned for her to stay down and she nodded. He was on his feet and had garroted the sleeping thug with the razor wire,

  He checked the man’s weapon to make sure it was operational. He found two clips he knew he’d need, and then rolled the body toward the wall, dumping a pillow on the man’s head to hide the blood. He checked for an additional weapon and found one stowed in his groin. Kyle tucked it in the front of his pants under his shirt. He lifted a limp arm over the top to make it look like the guy had fallen into a deep sleep.

  When Kyle turned around, Christy was watching him from the floor. She’d just seen him kill a man. H
e saw the twins: fear and acceptance. But there was more.

  Admiration.

  Not what he needed, but what she wanted to show.

  He helped Christy up so she wouldn’t stumble, and she did, but against his chest. He felt her breasts press him and the brush of her hair under his chin. With his free hand, he clutched the back of her head and sunk a deep kiss, feeling her arms go up and around his neck. Her body went limp in his embrace.

  But this was folly. He pulled her away and asked her with his eyes if she was ready.

  Christy nodded.

  That’s my girl.

  Kyle debated whether or not he should arm Christy with the 9mm and decided not to. He motioned for her to stay in the corner. A sliding closet door was opened, but not wide enough for her to slip into. He shook his finger at it so she wouldn’t consider trying to enter. She crouched down in the corner, the shiny patent leather pumps dangerously delicious, even now. She looked like cat woman. He wanted to fuck her so bad it really did hurt. His package was rubbing against the blue steel of the weapon.

  “How many?” he mouthed to her.

  She looked up to the right, and then leveled back at him. She held up six fingers, then pointed to the man on the bed and turned a finger down. Five.

  “Armando?” he whispered.

  The arguing in Spanish stopped abruptly and Kyle tensed, then leaned flat against the doorframe. Christy pointed through the wall to next room.

  Armando was next door.

  The Spanish conversations resumed, but the voices were calmer now. Kyle heard four distinct voices and the rustling of bags. He guessed the three returning boots had brought breakfast. And they’d want to share it with the dead guy.

  Something was said in Spanish outside the door. Kyle and Christy waited.

  The door burst open. Kyle let the gunman enter the room fully before he pushed the door closed, twisted the man’s neck, breaking it instantly, keeping his palm over the man’s mouth to muffle any sound.