Hemingway (SEAL Team Alpha Book 11)

by Zoe Dawson

  Max stood next to the kid. “It’s pricey, but I think it’s her,” he offered. Finally, Shea had come to her senses, and he couldn’t be happier for Hemingway. It also made him feel a bit hollow inside. Here the kid was just barely wet behind the ears and he was taking the plunge just like a fearless SEAL. Max wondered again if his limitless life was so limitless.

  The saleswoman who was helping them still looked shellshocked as the eight of them filed into the store, taking up almost all the available space. She just kept looking from one face to the next in a kind of daze. Max smiled at her and she sighed.

  Hemingway turned the ring right and left, the brilliant diamond caught the light and shimmered, glittering facets with tiny rainbows.

  “I don’t know,” 2-Stroke said. “I think a square cut would be a better choice.”

  “No,” Fast Lane said, “that can snag on stuff. My mom had a square cut, and she said it was a pain.”

  “It’s sparkly though,” 2-Stroke said.

  The saleswoman smiled and said breathlessly, “Princess is the…formal name.” He grinned, and she leaned forward. “Do you have a sweetheart?”

  “Nope.” He grinned again. “I’ve got a love though.”

  She looked crestfallen.

  “My motorcycle. It’s very sweet.”

  She laughed, looking hopeful again.

  “I’m telling you. I know a bloke—”

  “Shut up, Dodger. This is Hemingway’s decision. And, you couldn’t possibly know a guy in Paraguay,” Pitbull growled.

  “I bloody well do, you knob,” he said as they squared off.

  The woman looked like she was going to faint.

  “Really, this is Hemingway’s decision?” Saint said skeptically, leaning against the case with his arms folded, looking all scruffy and tough. “There is plenty of barking from this SEAL peanut gallery.” He nudged Hemingway. “Just go with your gut.”

  “He’s not picking out a weapon, for fuck’s sake,” The six of them got into a circle.

  “We’re just trying to help out the FNG.”

  “We want Shea to be happy. She’s an honorary SEAL.”

  Max watched Hemingway choose a beautiful pear shape from the assortment of rings. He nodded and handed it to her. As his teammates argued, she rung him up, and he gave her his credit card.

  Max chuckled as Hemingway walked out with the ring box.

  “Are you hens done? He just left.”

  They looked around. “Aw, we missed it. What did he get?”

  “A pear shape.”

  “That’s a good choice.”

  Dodger followed, his face sullen. “I do know a bloke.”

  An hour later, after a run with Jugs, Max showered once the Malinois was cooled down, fed and watered. He kenneled him and walked out onto the runway, watching the planes land and take off. Pitbull sidled up next to him. “What’s the word, big man?”

  “Waiting for an op is the worst.”

  Pitbull nodded. “Yeah, especially one that’s black and covert.”

  “Protection wasn’t our only reason for being in Paraguay.”

  Pitbull grinned. “The Navy is efficient, and we’re just a bunch of door kickers. What do we know?”

  “Not much.” They looked at each other and laughed. “What do you think of the kid?”

  “Solid, smart, going places.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That kid is destined for either an admiralty, political service, or ambassador.”

  “He is something. But don’t tell him any of that. It’ll go to his head.”

  Pitbull grinned. “Actually, I don’t think it would.”

  Max nodded. “He help bridge the gap? Lessen your loss?”

  Pitbull smiled. “He plugged a hole ten times over, but Speed is gone, and I’ve come to terms with that.”

  They watched the planes for a few minutes. “How’s marriage?”

  Pitbull grinned. “Why? You getting wedding fever?”

  He grabbed Pitbull into a headlock. “Just answer the question,” he said as Pitbull wrestled free with a laugh.

  “It’s great. Someone to come home to, regular, spectacular sex. You need a strong woman to handle what we do. Mak is as strong as they come. I love that woman.”

  Max could hear the emotion in Pitbull’s voice. “You’re a lucky bastard,” Max said.

  Their phones started to chime.

  “Show time,” Max said as they headed for the command center.

  Hemingway headed straight for Shea the minute he left the ring store. The box was in his jeans pocket and burning a hole. He wanted her locked down. He knocked at her door and she opened it.

  “Babe,” she said, giving him a kiss.

  “You talk to Rebecca?”

  “Yes,” she said, sitting down on the bed, then pulling him down with her. “I told Rebecca that I didn’t want to go undercover anymore. She gave me Kai Talbot’s job as she’s moving into a supervisory position at Pendleton. I have a meeting with her in about an hour.”

  “That’s great. But you don’t have to do that for me.”

  “I’m not. I know you’d make it work, but I don’t need it anymore. I was using it to escape my grief. I need to embrace and feel it.”

  “Did you ask her about searching for Jason?”

  “I did, and she agreed.” She bit her lip and he pulled her against him, her breath feathering his neck.

  “You’ll find him.” He turned his head and kissed her temple. His tone gruff, he added, “I know it.”

  She turned her head, so their mouths connected. “Thank you,” she said, her tone husky with emotion. He held her, playing with a lock of her silky hair. Hemingway closed his eyes and tightened his hold, a knot of raw emotion climbing up his throat. He waited for it to ease, then said, “You asked me to ask you again.” He slipped out of her embrace, and going to his knees in front of her, he pulled out the ring and opened the box. He tapped a button on his phone and Luke Evan’s sultry voice started singing, “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” He took her hand. “I’ve been waiting for you all of my life. Marry me, Shea.”

  She went stock-still, then she looked down at the ring, her expression transfixed by a host of emotions. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Yes. The answer is yes. I’ll marry you.” She stared at him for a moment, then took the ring out of the box. He helped her slip it on her finger. Her eyes filled with tears, and she was down on her knees, hugging him like there was no tomorrow.

  “When did you say your meeting was?”

  She flashed him that sassy Shea smile. “Oh, sandman, you are a very bad boy.” She cupped his growing dick. “I like that about you.”

  “Hoo-yah,” he whispered, dragging her onto the bed.

  She looked up at him. “I love you, Atticus,” she whispered unevenly. “You are the most amazing man I have ever met.” With tears glistening in her long, dark lashes, she touched his face with infinite gentleness, then lifted her head and kissed him.

  His throat thick and his chest chock-full of emotion, Hemingway caught her by the back of the head as he opened his mouth over hers, taking all that she offered. She gave him what he wanted. Then she pressed her hand against his face and there was no more time for talking.

  An hour later, tangled up together, Shea said, “You’re not leaving?”

  “No. I’m staying,” he murmured. “We have another mission.”

  “Ah, the real one. The protection detail was just a smoke screen?”

  “Something like that. I can’t tell—”

  “I know. I don’t need to know. Just promise me you’ll be as safe as you can.”

  “I promise.”

  She propped herself on his chest, looking delectable, her black hair a wild tangle around her face. “So did you wear out my graduation gift?”

  For a moment he drew a blank.

  “Aw, you forgot. Daisy Duke still laments the loss.”

  He chuckled. Right—the UDT shorts. How could he forg
et? “No, I’ve still got them.”

  She watched him, a satisfied look on her face. “You’ve got to admit they are the shortest shorts ever to masquerade as part of a Navy uniform.”

  “I warned you not to bad mouth my shorts. It’s like you’re denigrating the whole history of the SEALs and pooh poohing the brave UDT guys that went before us.”

  “Pooh poohing?”

  He watched her, liking the way she held his gaze, liking the intimacy in her eyes. “Yeah. It’s a capital offense. I’m calling NCIS right now.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll look up the charges for pooh poohing. I believe they’re quite stringent. Will you come to visit me in prison?”

  “You are a piece of sassy work, you know that?”

  She opened her mouth, and his cell chimed. He grabbed it and saw they were being spun up.

  “I believe you’re out of uniform, mister,” she said with a giggle. He got out of bed and looked at the clock.

  “I believe you’re going to be late for your meeting.”

  She stopped laughing and said, “Oh, shit.” He wondered if she had any idea what a hell of a mess her hair was in? It looked like it had been styled with an eggbeater and run through a wind tunnel.

  He was laughing now. Bending down, he kissed her long and hard. “I’ll see you soon. Be good.”

  “What’s the fun in that? Stay safe.”

  He zipped and snapped his jeans, pulling his T-shirt over his head. “Brush your hair,” he threw at her before he opened the door. She leaned to look in the mirror and her soft exclamation chased him down the hall.

  Epilogue

  “We’ve gotten a lucky break,” CIA liaison,” Kelly Sparks said. A picture went up on the screen, and Hemingway studied the craggy face. “This is forty-five-year-old Muhammad Angar Said, the most wanted terrorist in the world right now. He’s Pakistani and was born in the Waziristan area, a hotbed of tribal rebellion and terrorism in that country. He heads up a fledgling organization called Al’Irada. It means The Will. He’s Bin Laden 2.0. Extremely dangerous. We got a tip that he was in Ciudad del Este, cementing relations with other terrorist groups, but is now on his way to Asunción. He’s got many wives—six and counting. He has a granddaughter in the region.”

  “Damn, I can barely handle one woman,” Pitbull said.

  “My dad always said, behind every successful man is a surprised woman,” Saint offered with a chuckle. “He’s a brave soul.”

  Dragon said, “It’s easy to get along. Whenever you’re wrong, admit it. Whenever you’re right, shut the fuck up.”

  Hemingway said, “Shea’s the only magic I have ever seen, with the exception of the mysterious force that snatches one of my socks between the washing machine and the dryer.” Everyone including Kelly laughed at that one. “I asked her to marry me.” There was a round of congratulations.

  Fast Lane growled, “Are we done with this knitting circle, ladies?” He looked at Kelly. “Continue.”

  “Believe me. This is refreshing. Our business is so serious, a little levity is welcome.” She turned back to the screen. “Said is going to be here at this remote cattle ranch north of Asunción. It’s on thirty thousand acres of land, on the Paraguay river, a seven-room house for the family, a home for the manager, and houses for the employees of which there are twelve. The only armed men will be Said’s bodyguards. The ranch backs up to the dense jungle to its north, which is full of drug runners and smugglers. Stay clear of it if possible. You will be helo inserted, fast repel, then SPIES extracted.”

  Hemingway had done the Special Patrol Insertion & Extraction System procedure during SQT. When the terrain or the environment wasn’t conducive to a landing, the SEALs, wearing harnesses that clip to a rope from the helo, were picked up and dangled below the vehicle. The chopper then flew them out and they were lowered down to the ground to unclip from the rope.

  “The layout is in your brief packages.” She clicked the screen off. “The Paraguayans don’t know we’re going to snatch this guy, and if you’re discovered involved in this mission, they will be royally pissed, to use the vernacular. The US gets a black eye and gentlemen, we don’t like black eyes. So, do what you guys do best.”

  “As long as the intel is good,” Mad Max said, “We’ll smash and grab.”

  “The intel is the best that we have up to now. We’re taking this opportunity because it’s opened up to us. There were many chances to stop Bin Laden, and we didn’t take those, so it’s a new mind set.”

  “Get them before they get us?” Max asked.

  Kelly tilted her head and nodded with a wry smile. “Something like that. Good luck.”

  She left and Fast Lane said. “We’ll do this dark and dirty. We’ll assault the house, take down the bodyguards and grab Said, then we’ll head to the LZ and extract. We’ll have twenty minutes.”

  The chopper hovered at the edge of the property as Hemingway and the rest of his team hit the ground running. They covered the distance at a punishing sprint, arriving at the ranch house in record time, Max and Jugs taking point. The team had been briefed on their roles, and they moved into position automatically. They took out the armed guards, and Dodger picked the lock to the back door while Pitbull, Dragon, Saint, and Hemingway took out the patrolling bodyguards at the front, entering and neutralizing the guards inside. Saint and Hemingway went upstairs, pulled Said from his bed, gagged and cuffed him and were out of the house in five minutes. Mad Max hefted him over his shoulder, and they ran back to the extraction point. The helo dropped down and after fitting Said with a harness, he was attached to the rope.

  Hemingway was next to last in the order, with Mad Max and Jugs last. The helo took off, clipping the edge of the jungle before heading back to the military base in Asunción. Just as the chopper banked, gunfire emitted from the dense overgrowth. Hemingway saw a muzzle flash red and the helo dropped. Had they been hit? But then righted itself. That was a head rush, Hemingway thought, then looked down, expecting Mad Max to be looking up at him with a grin.

  All he saw was empty air and a frayed rope beneath him.

  “Max!” Hemingway called, alerting Fast Lane through his comm. “He and Jugs are gone, LT! They fell!”

  Dr. Renata Cavalcante woke sleepily in her tent. She had to pee, so she grabbed her flashlight, unzipped the opening and slipped out into the jungle, her pathway spilling with moonlight, then squatted and did her business. Suddenly, she heard a chopper in the distance. Walking a few feet, she peered up into the sky, but she couldn’t see anything. The moon was directly over her and it felt almost warm in the darkness, a cool breeze pushing at the treetops. She stood for a few more minutes, then the unmistakable popping of gunfire cut through the night.

  Yards before her, the water of the Paraguay river was mirror flat, the trees reflecting as if under the surface. The breeze shifted the bushes. Her heartbeat, which had sped up when she’d heard the gunshots, now evened out.

  She was a newly minted anthropologist, and at the behest of her mentor, internationally renowned anthropologist, Dr. Carlos Benitez, she was out here in the dense jungle searching for the possibility of discovering Spanish galleons who were reported to have sunk in the river. She had just come from Capiatá, where she had been interviewing the locals about the treasure that was reported to be lost in the area.

  The government had a stake in anything that was discovered, and Renata was happy to make sure anything monetary would be returned to the state coffers, and anything cultural to their museum.

  She thought she heard something in the distance, but after listening for a bit, there was nothing but the chittering and chirping of the jungle. She headed back to her tent. An American with Brazilian roots, Renata was comfortable in South America, speaking the language and understanding the culture. She was well provisioned by Benitez and the Universidade de São Paulo, located on the east coast of Brazil on the South Atlantic Ocean.

  He’d promised her a position there if she were interested, and it was a
generous offer, as USP was the highest ranked university in Brazil. But she was also holding an offer from the University of San Diego. She’d have to decide within the month, but that gave her time. She zipped the enclosure closed and snuggled back into her sleeping bag, unconcerned with the gunfire and the outside world.

  She slipped into sleep, dreaming about finding one of the galleons and exploring all it had to say about the history of this area and the conflict that had sent the Spanish here in the first place.

  When the sun woke her, she slipped out of the tent and washed up. Getting dressed, she filled a knapsack with some power bars, a compass, and a change of clothes. Heading toward the shore, she started to walk along its edge. She turned into the jungle and spent a better part of the morning looking for anything significant.

  Finding nothing, she broke for lunch, then resumed her search. As the sun dipped down, she started back for camp, but tripped. Once she’d regained her balance, she suspected it was a stone, but when she looked down, something dark and flat glinted.

  She crouched down and dug around the metal object with her fingers, her heart caught, and she hastily pulled off her backpack and dug deeper. It was a helmet, or more accurately, a morion, a type of open helmet originally from Spain, with a flat brim and a crest from front to back. She was sure of it. She pulled out her bottled water and poured it over the object.

  Renata worked until she’d excavated the artifact and, walking over to the river, she ducked it in to clean it off. Wow, this was amazing. The helmet had intricately etched floral designs on the central part and small raised flowers around the brim. It was beautiful. Her first find and she was elated. She tucked the precious object into her backpack, and after noting the location of where she found the relic, she headed back to camp.

  She stowed her backpack inside her tent and started a fire, placing six rocks into the flames. They would need to heat for about three hours, then she dug a hole in the dirt about a foot deep and a couple feet across. Searching for some tall bamboo, six feet would be perfect, she cut it with her machete. Making two intersecting crosscuts at one end, she created four prongs.