by Zoe Dawson
His eyes had been so dark and unreadable when she’d told him to be careful after that heartbreaking kiss. She’d never wanted to hide who she was, but it was a necessity that was dictated by her job. Never break cover, for any reason.
Except Craig Hennessey had shot her cover to hell. Hemingway was involved, and she’d argued with Rebecca bitterly over telling him. She wanted to go by the book, but Shea knew the book was out the window. She vowed that he wasn’t involved, and because of her impeccable record, she was given the okay to reveal who she was and what was going on.
It had shocked and hurt him. She had never wanted to do that to him. But now that they were intertwined, it was going to be inevitable. There was no going back.
She was in for a long haul. NCIS forensics were going to process everything quickly, and they were going to have some clue to go on to run these guys to ground. So far, her list had already produced one member of the NWO. Craig had been number three on her list. Daniel Wilson number one and Walter Manning eighth.
She parked in front, grabbed her ID, gun and badge from her glove box and walked through a weathered, brown double-wooden gate with a white stucco fence surrounding the property, then she followed a salmon-colored flagstone path past a giant Saguaro cactus up to the Spanish mansion’s reinforced wide wooden door. Located on forty-five acres of land not far from San Diego, this ranch was as much undercover as its covert operatives.
The three-bedroom house had been converted into offices with a state-of-the-art tech center, gym, and shooting range. Rebecca acted as the operations manager, overseeing agents Makayla Ballentine, Kai Talbot and Griffin Crawford, who had recently Chris Vargas when he’d been transferred to DC to head up his own team after his joint JAG/NCIS investigation of pilot deaths aboard the aircraft carrier USS James McCloud.
This mansion and land used to be a citrus grove and was subsequently called The Grove, and it had a detached structure that was used for interrogations referred to as the Woodshed.
Using her ID to open the door, she stepped inside, her boot heels reverberating against the polished wood floor.
The agents’ desks were located in the great room with French doors, fitted with bullet-proof glass on both sides, overlooking the front and back of the property.
Mak looked up when she walked in, both the doors to the enclosed area behind them where the tech center sat, and Rebecca’s office were located were closed. She settled into a chair across from Mak’s desk. Behind her, a table and chairs in a conference style seating along with a fifty-inch wide screen, currently showing Craig Hennessey’s picture and his application and paperwork for BUD/S along with his performance stats were displayed.
“Pendleton got back to us already about the cause of death,” Mak said, handing a folder over to Shea.
“Strangulation,” Shea saw in the space provided. “From behind?”
“Yes. He was attacked from behind and his attacker used a military choke hold to kill him.”
“DNA?”
“Yes, recovered from under his fingernails. We are currently working on getting a warrant for a blind search of the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology database of blood samples used to identify a service member if they die while serving their country.”
“How long do you think that will take?”
“Can’t tell. Because of the threat to the candidates, Rebecca is pushing for it, so I’ll have to leave that in her hands. In the meantime, what does your gut tell you?”
“I’m not really a homicide investigator, but I have good instincts.”
Mak nodded. “You do. Your thoughts on a prime suspect?”
“Daniel Wilson.”
Mak leaned back in her chair. “He was standing watch.”
“Was he? I think you should dig into that alibi. My money is on him as the ringleader just as Max stated.”
“I’ve worked with Max before, and he has good instincts as well. But it’s all about what we can prove.”
“If we can break Wilson, then we can get the names of the others in their terrorist group. I might not be an investigator, but I’m a trained interrogator. Just give me time with Wilson, and I’ll get you the names.” With her heart pounding from the stakes of this undercover assignment and its increasing urgency, she leaned forward. “The lives of dedicated and heroic men are on the line, Mak.”
“I am aware. My husband, Errol Ballentine, is Max’s teammate. I worked with Atticus Sinclair on an op, and I have a soft spot for the SEALs. So, you’re preaching to the choir.”
“Believe me, lady. We’re all over it,” a masculine voice said behind her. She turned to find a tall man. Black hair was brushed off his face, making his stunning pale blue eyes stand out, dark stubble accentuating his full lips. He wore a fitted red hoodie that stretched across a well-muscled chest and over thick biceps along with a pair of black jeans and work boots.
His stance was action-ready, direct and confident. Warrior.
“Griff, this is Shea Palmer. Shea, Griff.”
“The ever-elusive undercover agent,” he said with a dazzling smile. He reached out his hand and they shook briefly.
“Guilty as charged.” She smiled back.
“Griff is a former SEAL.”
“That fits,” she said, and he leaned against the desk across from Mak’s and folded his arms.
“Those are my brothers being threatened, so we’re all in.”
“We’ll keep them safe,” she said.
“Hoo-yah,” he replied.
They worked through all the men on her list until the wee morning hours. With strong coffee and a break, they were back at it. It wasn’t until she’d headed home to her condo to catch a few hours of sleep and take a shower that she saw she’d missed Hemingway’s calls. She could only hope the warrant for Wilson’s DNA in the AFIS database would be granted. That would give them probable cause to toss his room and question him.
Hemingway was already in his fifty-meter underwater swim evolution when Shea finally got back to Coronado. Shea was a swimmer, and she knew the water, respected it. But SEALs were the ultimate maritime commandos. Their task was to swim underwater and hold their breath for fifty meters. There would be no dive, no pushing off the wall, just a somersault, the swim down and back. Her lungs hurt just thinking about it.
Most of the class was in the front to back sitting position to stay warm, with only a few candidates looking dejected as they pumped out push-ups. One guy was shaking so badly, her heart went out to him. While she filmed and watched, his face contorted as he rose and said something to the instructor, who nodded. Slowly the candidate walked off the deck. She suspected he was headed for the bell.
He looked crushed.
“This is his second time through, he was medically rolled back. Solid guy, played football in high school. Tough disposition, but he has pneumonia, and getting through this stage of the game with a lung issue isn’t happening. Each candidate is only allowed two medicals. He’s out,” Mad Max said, watching the guy’s progress, no sympathy in his eyes. This was some hard, heartbreaking business, and there could be no weakness, no failures, no quitting. Max and the rest of the active SEAL teams depended on each other.
Standing there, watching him walk away, Shea looked to Hemingway, who was shouting out encouragement to the men who were still swimming. This was what it looked like to become one of the SEAL brotherhood. The class was starting to get tight—she could see it in their faces, the way they cheered their classmates on. This was deep commitment, fierce focus, full investment. She envied Hemingway for a moment, as her line of work was more of a solitary nature. Of course, she knew she would be backed up by fellow agents, but this was different, iconic, legendary. He was a part of it, in his element.
Her throat got tight. He deserved someone better than a woman who couldn’t face her own fears, who couldn’t let go of her need to see the man who murdered her sister dead. She dreamed about it, planned it. It had to be done whether she was falling for him or not.
<
br /> When he entered the condo, Shea was cutting up fruit—watermelon, kiwi, strawberries, bananas. At this stage in the training, Hemingway was hungry all the time.
“That looks good.”
“There’s enough here for me to don a whole basket and start singing like Carmen Miranda,” Shea said, joking to release the tension across her shoulders.
She started singing a silly song in Spanish. He breezed past and ducked into the laundry room. Her stomach dropped a bit. He’d barely had time today to say two words to her. She wiped her hands on the dish towel and covered the fruit, setting it into the fridge. She planned on ordering pizza.
Walking to the laundry room, she pressed her back against the frame. He’d stripped off his shirt and was chucking his clothes into the washer.
The thick muscles beneath his tanned skin flexed and bunched with every move he made. He didn’t acknowledge her, even though she knew he must have heard her behind him. Her stomach tightened.
She took in his buzzed, golden hair, the chiseled cut of his jaw, and that beautiful mouth that had given her so much pleasure. She’d wanted to see him smile and her lame Carmen Miranda joke wasn’t doing it.
“I’m thinking pizza, extra cheese, mushrooms and black olives.”
He grunted in the affirmative. She pulled out her cell and ordered while reading his body language without effort, observing the nuance in his movements as he continued with his laundry. This skill of hers had been handy in undercover work. There didn’t seem to be much anger left there. He was releasing a whole lot of frustrated energy, but there was a resignation about him that made her think their time apart had been productive for him.
He finished loading the washer and started the machine, finally turning around to face her. It was hard to keep focus on what they had to discuss, with his muscled arms, his defined chest and lean belly, and the way those jeans rode low on his hips distracting her.
With a shiver, there was a sudden shift between them. Her pulse ramped up, along with his scrutiny. He watched her, his eyes intense and searching, as if he were trying to figure her out, who she was beyond the woman he’d thought he’d met. What more she could be hiding?
She might have spilled the beans about what she did for a living and intentionally blown her cover with him, but she would never tell him the ugly secret she harbored, her own volatile emotions and soul-deep pain. She couldn’t bear the way he would look at her, this emerging warrior with the bright, seductive blue eyes.
She would rather be the one doing the analyzing.
“In the military, you learn the essence of people. You see so many examples of self-sacrifice and moral courage. In the rest of life, you don’t get that many opportunities to be sure of your friends.”
Did those words mean he didn’t trust her? Truth be told, she’d always felt safe undercover, being someone else, always aware of and digging into other people’s lives and feelings but keeping her own hidden away. She’d never felt threatened that someone might realize her ploy, or that Hemingway might have that ability to make her feel this vulnerable. Because while his integrity and heart were out there for everyone to see, she kept everything close to the vest, buried deep, and she’d had no desire to allow anyone close enough to unearth them. In the past, her relationships had always been short-lived, easily ended before they got too serious.
Friends in her line of work were luxuries.
Yesterday, she realized that Hemingway had that power, and it was a realization that shook her to the very core of her being.
“I can’t be sorry for hiding my real job, but I do regret that you got hurt.” She had no problem being honest on this particular issue. “Lives depend on me getting this right, so if you don’t trust me—"
“Don’t go beating yourself up,” he said, his tone low and sincere, his gaze still watching her. “While I’m not thrilled about you faking your job, I understand the necessity of doing so. I can’t fault you or NCIS for wanting to keep us all safe.”
Her shoulders lost some of their tension but tightened right back up again.
“But I won’t say it wasn’t a shock not really knowing who you are. I don’t like that, Shea. Not one damn bit. I don’t intend to be used.”
“I told you I wasn’t using you. I don’t need access to you to get access to them.” She breathed a sigh of relief that it was the honest truth and felt compelled to let him know she understood his feelings.
He crossed the room and grabbed her by the back of the neck. His soft, warm lips touched her skin, his words a rasp of need. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all day.” Shivers washed over her. His damp mouth and hot breath rushed over her skin and teased the shell of her ear. “I hear vibrations make it better.”
A shudder rippled through her, drugging her mind, her limbs. When he stripped her shirt, yoga pants and underwear off her, she only moaned. He lifted her and set her on top of the moving washing machine, his mouth capturing her breast. The fire took them both.
Later, they ate pizza and fruit on the balcony, snuggling against the cool breeze. They each had work to do and that work would eventually tear them apart. She’d already accepted it.
She told him about the investigation so far, and he nodded solemnly, not surprised by Wilson landing at the top of her suspect list.
The second week of First Phase passed with a grueling pace. Shea had no idea how these guys weren’t dropping from exhaustion. Hemingway was showing signs of wear and tear. Cuts, bruises, sore muscles and chills. He was also experiencing nightmares.
Shea yawned, covering her mouth. It was the middle of week three and Shea was standing near Ensign Adrian Lane. He was one of the younger officers and his encouragement of his men only made them even more loyal to him. But there was barely any effort on the dark-haired, handsome officer’s part. He was a natural born leader. His focus was always on his men.
It was ten minutes to five, and most of the men had mustered for PT, looking beat, but determined. Shea knew from experience that if they had a bad muster, they would get surf torture. One of them stopped in front of Lane. “Sir?”
Lane continued to check things off his list, his duties taking up a lot of his time. The class leader had to prepare the IBSs, vehicles, first aid equipment and classrooms for the day’s training. But there was no impatience in his tone. “Seaman Battersby.”
The candidate lived up to his name. He looked worse for wear.
“I can’t take this anymore.”
Lane looked up from his clipboard. “You want to quit, Battersby?”
“Yes sir. DOR. I thought I could do this, and that I wanted it, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“There’s no shame in admitting there’s a different path for you, seaman. You’re decorated, have a fine record and will do extremely well as career Navy if that is what you want to do. Don’t waste time or energy in beating yourself up. It’s an intelligent decision. The right one for you.”
“Ensign, we’re running out of time,” Hollister said firmly, but Lane ignored him.
“You know my record?” Battersby said, his voice hushed.
“I know all your records. It’s my job and my duty to know everything about you. Do you think I take that lightly?”
“Adrian! We’re going to be late, and it’s wet and sandy for us.”
Lane turned and said, “We’re going to get wet and sandy no matter what. Now focus on getting muster and an accurate count, Hollister. Add one DOR. You got this.”
Lane reached out and set his hand on Battersby’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good luck to you.”
“It would have been an honor serving with you, sir. I’m the one who’s poorer for my decision.”
“Thank you. You were a solid performer, and I’m sorry to see you drop out. Ring the bell and go see Proctor Keegan.”
“Yes, sir.” Battersby brought his hand up to his temple for a fierce salute. He held it for a moment as Lane returned the gesture, then Battersby turned and jogged to the bell,
rang it three times, and set his helmet next to the long line of green to the left of the brass. He disappeared into the offices.
After PT and chow, the students jogged with their boats in the low carry, hanging on to straps all the way to the Hotel del Coronado where they were going to get instruction in rock portage. Shea caught her breath as they came to a halt near their IBSs, forming into their boat crews.
She watched as they manned the boats and headed north, just beyond the breakers. The surf was pounding today, roaring into shore, surging on the high tide. She shaded her eyes and looked toward their destination—a pile of rocks, jutting out into the ocean, forming a dark and treacherous jetty. The candidates would have to land their IBS on the high boulders that was a recipe for disaster, one wrong move resulting in broken bones, and if things went terribly wrong—death.
The surf hammered the rocks with white foam, soaring spray and violent waves. Her heart lodged into her throat as Hemingway’s boat crew came in for the maneuver. After seeing Lane’s leadership this morning, she felt marginally better that he was the one in charge. From what she’d seen, Hemingway’s boat crew was tight-knit, often the winners of the races, and encouraged and supported each other.
“They’ll have to do this at night during Hell Week,” Max said as he walked up beside her.
“Next week,” she murmured.
He nodded. “How’s the kid holding up?” His interest was keen, and she could tell by the expression on his face that he cared a lot.
“He’s a trooper, never complains and is in good spirits. He’s made a good friend—Milo Prescott.”
That soft smile hitched up one side of the man’s face. “Yeah, a good sailor. He’s going to make a fine SEAL.”
“Many of them are,” she said, no doubt at all in her mind.
He kicked sand. “This will be a bitch. Glad Lane is the one handling them.”
Shea nodded, preoccupied with watching the scene unfold. Guests from the hotel had gathered, curious about this craziness. She walked closer to the unfolding maneuver. The ocean roared like a beast, alive, the breaking of each wave as it smashed against the rocks a threat of broken bones and concussions.
