by Zoe Dawson
“ETA to target five minutes,” the pilot said, and they prepared to exit the helo. As it touched down, Jugs was off first, with Max following closely since he kept the Malinois on a leash whenever he wasn’t dealing with a squirter or involved in direct action.
In the distance, in the middle of nowhere, there were lights twinkling against the darkness. Parked just off the road were dark SUV’s with many people standing near them. The team approached, and Max recognized Special Agent Makayla “Mak” Ballentine who also happened to be Pitbull’s fiancée. He also recognized Special Agent Kai Talbot, but Special Agent Christophe Vargas was absent.
“Hey, guys,” Mak said, giving Pitbull a sweet smile. He nodded back.
“Where’s Chris?” Dodger asked.
“He’s on an assignment on the USS James McCloud and won’t be back for a while.”
“He’s all recovered?” Max asked.
“Yeah, he’s doing great.” She turned to the man next to her in full tack gear. “This is Supervisory Special Agent Nick Donovan from our Regional Enforcement Action Capabilities Team. The rest of the REACT team is under his command.”
Fast Lane offered his hand and they shook. “Listen up,” Fast Lane said. “Overwatch has already scanned the NWO base and discovered quite a few recruits here. There is one main structure and five smaller ones. Looks like the outlying buildings are sleeping quarters, five people to each. That gives us twenty-five individuals to neutralize, along with roving guards. Four along the perimeter here in the forward part of the compound and four at the back. We are going in assuming all of them are armed.”
“We’d like to arrest them all, but if there is resistance, we’ll have no choice but to use force to subdue them. The more we bring in alive, the more chances we have of discovering if the rumor about the NWO inserting terrorists into the current BUD/S class is true,” Mak added.
“Hoo-yah,” his teammates said softly behind him. He concurred. Anything to protect the men who would eventually fill out their ranks and become their brothers.
“We’ll take this side. Your REACT team will go to the back of the compound and neutralize the guards there, then we’ll assault the barracks. Stealth is our friend. The quieter we subdue, the fewer combatants we’ll have to engage in a firefight,” Fast Lane said.
“Copy that,” Nick said, then with precision they started to move out.
Max looked toward the compound, the REACT agents melting into the forest. The NWO had cleared the land around the fence to minimize cover, the darkness their only camouflage. There was nothing on either side of the complex, just tangled and twisted forest.
“2-Stroke, fence,” Fast Lane said. His teammate pulled out wire cutters and snipped the chain link, making a hole for them to slip through. “Pitbull and Dragon, guards.” Inside the compound, they moved at a clip toward the first small barracks. Pitbull and Dragon veered off, disappearing into the gloom. As Max advanced, Mak moved to his right, as his remaining teammates moved quickly behind them.
“Two guards down,” Pitbull said, his deep voice gone to a rumble through the mics.
“Copy that,” Fast Lane responded. “We’re heading in.”
Ahead, the barracks were dark and there was no movement anywhere. He felt rather than saw Mak beside him and kept up with her as she rushed ahead, taking a position for the next advance.
They reached the building, staying low at the windows and glancing inside. Max stopped at the entrance, Jugs pulling at the leash. Max pointed to his eyes, then the window. 2-Stroke made a cutting motion across his throat to indicate there was no movement. They breached the door, rushing to the five cots and silently restraining the five men inside, gagging them before they could shout a warning.
They checked the rest of the room, then stepped back out into the dark.
“Forward guards neutralized,” Pitbull said.
“Three rear guards down, searching for fourth,” Nick reported.
They cleared two more barracks. With three down, they only had two left. Moving toward the rear of the compound, a round cracked the night. Lights came on in the two-remaining barracks as the men inside scrambled toward weapons.
“The Fuck Up Fairy in all her magical glory,” Max growled as he, Mak and the team picked off the two NWO members who came through the door. The sound of breaking glass tinkled through the night and muzzles flashed as the lights were doused and bullets peppered all around them.
“Max, Mak, Dodger, work your way around. More gunfire erupted near the last cabin and toward the back of the compound.
“Guard is entrenched,” Nick said over the radio. “He has us pinned down with a fifty cal.”
“Dragon?”
“On it,” his teammate responded. “Pitbull is heading your way.”
Max, Mak and Dodger were already moving toward the REACT team’s location when out of nowhere Max saw movement to his right. The glint of a weapon barely registered as he threw himself forward toward Mak who was advancing just ahead of him. As soon as he released the leash, he gave Jugs the command to attack.
A line of bullets sliced across Max’s position and impacted his vest across his back, knocking the wind out of him, so when the pain screamed through him just below his armpit, he barely had enough air left to gasp. They hit the ground, and Mak cried out, but without hesitation, Max reached for his sidearm, pulling it from the holster as he rolled to his back, and pulled off four shots. The guy with the automatic flew back, the spray of bullets arching into the air until his back hit the ground and he lay still. As the guy behind them took aim, sixty pounds of tenacious Malinois slammed into him. The tango’s screams and Jug’s growls filled the night, mixing in with the automatic gunfire.
Juggernaut was aptly named. He was a hairy rocket with a brain, and like his handler and the team, he had the same temperament—never quit. Jugs had that inner fire that set him apart from not only his breed, but his species. He had enthusiasm and tenacity in spades. There was no way that guy was going to get off another shot with Jugs clamped to him. Every time he tried to move, the dog dug in deeper and the guy’s screams got more desperate.
Dodger rushed over. “Max!” he shouted. “Mak!”
Mak was on her knees, her hand clutched to her shoulder as blood soaked into her white shirt. She’d pushed up the NVGs and there was an anxious look on her face. “Max,” she said, her voice subdued, filling with shock. Fuck. She’d been hit.
Max tried to pull in air, but struggled, the edges of his conscious going gray. Had he failed her? Pitbull?
“Medic!” Dodger screamed and there were running feet. Saint’s face materialized above him as Dodger covered them.
“Mak,” Max gasped out, indicating to Saint he wanted her taken care of before him. Saint turned to her and with precision ripped open her sleeve.
“No,” she said, her voice shaky, pulling away from him. “Take care of him first. It’s a flesh wound.”
Saint applied a pressure bandage to her arm, set her hand there to hold it, then turned back to him. “Hey, buddy. Breathe slow and easy. She’s in good shape.” He turned to Dodger and said, “Help me get his vest off.” They pulled and unwound him from his armor, the pain intensifying, and he gritted his teeth, panting. Mak was still kneeling next to him.
He tried to keep his attention on Saint, but his eyes flickered closed. “Come on, Max. Stay with me. Let me see those baby blues.”
Max huffed a laugh at Saint’s drawl. Someone was restraining the downed tango and Max weakly called Jugs off. “Target is secure.” The dog came running back over to him, blood on his muzzle and sniffed around, then whined softly. Max reached up and petted him. “It’s okay, buddy,” he whispered.
Jugs lay down next to him and even though Saint nudged him away a bit, he refused to move.
“Move, Jughead,” Saint said with determined gentleness. Jugs whined again, then moved over slightly. With a huff of wry humor, Saint shone a light, his concerned expression something Max only saw when his t
eammate was in the heat of battle or taking care of one of them. His eyes were steely, and laser focused on the wound. “Through and through. Looks like it caught you in the fleshly part just below your armpit. It’s those amazing lats, man.” He started working faster, bandaging him up while Max laughed and worked to stay awake, his mind going fuzzy. Probably from the loss of blood.
The gunfire got more sporadic, until it also finally ceased. Dragon’s voice over the comms indicated his target was neutralized.
The sound of a helo coming in for a landing broke the momentary silence as Dodger and Saint worked to get Max on a portable litter they carried with them. Pitbull came over, his gun slung down against his side to help Mak up and hold her against him, murmuring to her. She nodded a couple of times and then looked toward Max. He grinned at her, and she blinked a few times and shook her head. “Thank you,” she said.
Max nodded and briefly met Pitbull’s gaze. The gratitude in his eyes only solidified what it meant to him to be a team guy—brotherhood.
“I got it,” Pitbull said, shouldering Dodger aside as he picked up one corner of the litter, Jugs pacing them as they began to move. The wind from the chopper blew across Max, and Pitbull shielded him from most of the swirling wind. They loaded him into the bird as another larger chopper landed to transport the REACT guys, their prisoners and dead NWO terrorists.
Jugs jumped up as soon as they lowered him to the deck. He settled against his side, the warmth of the dog bolstering him as he buried his hand in the dog’s fur. He made a soft sound and licked Max’s face. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said softly to soothe him, his amber eyes worried.
As soon as the team was situated, Fast Lane looked down at him and said, “You hanging in there, Max?”
“Hoo-yah,” Max said, the morphine kicking in, his speech a bit slurred.
The chopper lifted off and banked toward the north, swinging around to head to the south and Coronado.
From Max’s position on the deck, he had a perfect view outside the door. The sight below them chilled his blood. His arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as he lifted it enough to get Dragon’s attention. Dragon looked down to see what Max needed, and he weakly pointed out the open door. Dragon’s eyes widened, then hurriedly clicked his mic.
“Make another pass over this area,” he instructed the pilot. “Fast Lane!” Dragon called, pointing to the ground below. “It’s the O-course,” Dragon’s tone saying it all.
There was no doubt about it. These guys had been training men to qualify to enter BUD/S training and insert themselves into Special Forces. Oh, hell no. That wasn’t going to happen on Max’s watch.
Motel, Coronado, California
Shea woke at first dawn the next morning, a cold wash of dread snaking through her. She’d done something immensely stupid.
She opened her eyes to find him.
The beautiful boy from last night lying next to her.
Oh, fuck her for being a complete idiot.
This was such a no-no. She was undercover. She had a job to do and that didn’t include looking down his hard body to his morning wood with that rigid and tantalizing appendage.
But it wasn’t just about the job, about being an NCIS agent, about being undercover. This was personal. NCIS didn’t know all her secrets or why she needed access to databases and intel. Rebecca Lawrence didn’t know her. No one did. She’d already been through the most heartbreaking experience of her life.
Shea carried the pain with her everyday but kept her emotions on a short leash. She didn’t need people asking questions. The moment her hunt ended, she’d let go of that leash and rain fire and hell down on the man who had betrayed her in the worse way.
Rogue.
It wasn’t just a definition. It was who she was.
Sentiment hadn’t been part of her life for a long time now. There was only darkness in her heart, and it was reserved for one man who was eventually going to be at the business end of her gun. Keep thinking you’re safe, she thought. Keep on believing I won’t get what I need to make you pay, you bastard.
But taking another look at the man in the bed only made her chest tighten until she had to take a deep breath. The dark angel in her, the hunter in her had responded to the sheer fire in his eyes when he’d met her gaze at the door to that club.
He was golden in the light, golden hair, golden skin, golden stubble, gold in those sky-blue eyes.
His exquisite beauty was heightened by the way he moved—definitely someone like her, a warrior, something lethal behind the handsome, innocent mask he showed the world. He’d backed that bruiser in the bar down like a junkyard dog against a Rottweiler. The guy easily had fifty pounds on this man, but when that bruiser had looked in his eyes, into that silent, deadly, “Don’t fuck with me” message, he’d seen all the shades of lethal.
This man’s face was rugged, his body chiseled, his skin burnished by the fingers of sunlight that worked its way through the cracks in the blinds, falling on one gorgeously ripped body, contoured with layers of ironbound muscle.
Touching him, sliding her fingers across his skin was heaven. She flexed her hand over his heart and felt the deep, strong rhythm resonate through her palm and skate across an already deeply embedded awareness. How was it possible that he had given her more than pleasure?
This man made her feel that odd sense of security. It didn’t make sense, but her instincts told her it was true. For a woman who didn’t trust love or men at all, this was jarring.
They’d made love in an out-of-control, over-the-edge way that had sent her someplace she’d never been before, into rapture—utter, unequivocal rapture—and nothing had ever felt more right, safer. There was that word again.
Sadness enveloped her as she sat up on the bed and started to reach for her clothes. This would be a moment, like a flower under glass, that she could remember in the long, lonely moments stretching ahead of her.
She didn’t want this to be a one-night stand, but by all rights of definition, she was and it was. She would never see him again, and that’s exactly as it should be. She would sacrifice anything for what she had to do.
Anything…
She found her dress, panties and boots, slipping them all on, zipping up the back. Her jacket was in a heap by the door, tangled with his, and as she bent to pick it up, the scent of him hit her like a freight train.
She felt the impact in the same places she’d felt all the others, in her throat and upper chest—a pure lung reaction as he took her breath away. It was ridiculous. She was too old for this, too jaded. She’d been with men before and never had a man gotten her so hot, from zero to sixty with just a look. Nothing short of a complete and utter wreck.
Everything since she’d slammed her gaze into his had been hot, and wild, and edging on frantic, as if she’d just located something that made her…complete. Losing her mind and sinking down into crazytown with a big ole’ heaping side of meltdown.
She’d gotten so tangled up in him, his big, strong hands, his scent, his body, his skin and his mouth…on her everywhere.
Everywhere.
Her hand slipped off the doorknob, her palm sweaty. She glanced at him again—and got hit hard by the memory of last night one more time, except this impact was closer to her solar plexus, and way lower down. She leaned against the door, overcome by a craving so intense, it took all her willpower to turn and open the door.
About two more minutes and he’d be firmly relegated to memory, the whole thing behind her. She took a breath, calm, easy.
Regret wormed its way through her as she softly closed the door. She headed for the sidewalk and kept walking.
3
Hemingway opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the rumpled sheets of where “The Babe” had slept. He remembered her body beneath his, the feel of her satiny skin, the sounds she made when he was deep inside her.
If his dick hadn’t already been hard, it would be now for sure. Disappointment washed through him as he pu
shed up in bed, noting that the room was empty. He had no intention of getting involved, especially not now. He needed his full focus to be on BUD/S and the next eighteen months of training. But right at this moment, the thought of having her underneath him again was overtaking all rational thought.
Meeting “The Babe” had been freaking inconvenient.
Regret filled him as he got up and stepped into the shower. He didn’t even know her name or one thing about her. They had done all the talking with their mouths and bodies. It was the single most erotic experience of his life. His body still zinged from her touch.
He enjoyed the hot shower, the feel of the water against his skin. He knew the next six months of his life were going to be about suffering—sore, burning muscles, being pushed to the limits of his endurance, wet, cold, sandy and miserable.
But remembering her wouldn’t be a hardship and enjoying his body and hers would stay with him for a long time.
He shaved, taking special care with his face, inspecting every inch of his upper lip, chin and neck. Inspection was no joke, and he wasn’t going to get dinged for a bad shave. He ran his hands through his hair. Stepping out of the bathroom, he went to the closet where he’d hung his dark uniform and bent down, giving his dress shoes a quick once over. They were still a glossy black.
He donned his white briefs, undershirt, then the jumper or tunic and pants. He adjusted the black neckerchief until satisfied, grabbed up his cover—the Navy’s term for the iconic sailor’s hat—along with his duffel and checked out of the motel. He got into his car and drove to the base, entering through the main gate. He was directed to the Bucklew Naval Special Warfare Center.
Another flash of pleasure snapped through him as he parked. The memory of The Babe kissing his neck, collarbone, the softness of her mouth. Her aggressive biting flashed in his brain. He took a breath. Dammit. Why couldn’t he push her to the back of his mind or forget all about her? He had some serious business to attend to, and he couldn’t have his focus fragmented.
