CODE NAME: War of Stones
A Warrior’s Challenge Series
Book Seven
Natasza Waters
Sensual Romance
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A Waterfall Press Book
Code Name: War of Stones (Book Seven) A Warrior’s Challenge series
Copyright © 2018 Natasza Waters
E-book ISBN: 978-0-9952598-3-6
First Publication: April 2018
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
Other Books
Message from Nat
Dedication
For you, Dad.
On the day I write this, I don’t know what the future holds for you, but I hope each day, you grow a little stronger.
Acknowledgment
A big thank you to Carolyn owner of Write Right Edits. Did I spell that right?
Captain Kimberly, for you and your family, thank you for approaching me at the conference after I’d written Code Name: Ghost. It’s more than a reader/writer relationship. It’s friendship.
To Waters’ Warriors for sharing my books with other readers and dropping by the site to post and brighten our days.
Dawné Dominique, your ESP skills are still spot on.
Thomas Gunter, you make a fine hero and you brought Lt. Damon Stone to life. I hope you find your true love and a happily-ever-after.
For everyone who’s come along for the ride on this series, I thank you. There’s more adventures ahead.
When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.
Nelson Mandela
Prologue
Years ago, Admiral Thane (Ghost) Austen and Kayla (Snow White) Austen walked through the smoke and mirrors of battle…and survived. They had two children. Sloane is their daughter. Like her father, she’s stubborn, resilient and loyal. It’s June of 2038. Twenty-three-years old and assigned to N.A.B Coronado, Seaman Sloane Austen serves her country like her parents once did.
Code Name: War of Stones
A Warrior’s Challenge Series
Book
Seven
Chapter One
June 20th, 2038
Sloane rubbed the pinch out of her temple after disconnecting the caller. Tearing the sheet from her message pad, she swiveled in her chair, searching out the Administrations Lieutenant. “Ma’am, do you know a Lieutenant Damon Stone?”
Sarah popped her head up like a gopher from a hole. “Sure. Why?”
She pulled her sweater from the back of the chair and covered her shoulders, suddenly cold. “I have to deliver this message.”
“Email him,” the Lieutenant suggested, and turned her attention back to the computer.
“Not this kind of message,” she said, catching her lieutenant’s attention and attracting interest from a couple other women working in the department.
Glancing at the scribbled note, Sloane shook her head. Considering her duties on the base, she’d dodged a bullet not having to deal with this before now. Absentmindedly, she tucked a stray wisp of hair from her bundled ‘doo to adhere to Navy standards.
Six months had passed since enlisting. Basic training ate a few weeks, and then she was briefly posted at another Naval base in northern California in the logistics department, a fancy name for paper pusher. She’d immediately requested a transfer to Coronado.
She hated to admit nepotism had played a role in getting her request approved to come back to San Diego so quickly. Her Godfather, Greg LaPierre, and probably her dad, had a heavy hand in making it happen, although both had denied it.
She liked the fast pace and the stressors of the demanding workload involved in a base the size of Coronado. Varied responsibilities kept the humdrum away with the intake of new personnel, preparing and posting the Plan of the Week, preparing awards, writing directives, and the enlisted evaluations, which were piling up on her desk. She tracked personnel leave, reviewed and disseminated correspondence and the file logs, but she was also responsible for incoming message routing.
She wasn’t prepared to leave the message she held in her hand like a grenade in Lieutenant Stone’s mailbox. He needed to know.
Sarah stepped over to her desk and quickly scanned the note. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “He’s one of the BUD/s instructors. They could be anywhere right now, but check the Grinder first. The recruits are probably being thrashed on the pavement.”
Sloane adjusted her cap and straightened her navy blue uniform skirt. “I’m going to deliver this in person.”
Sarah crossed her arms over a plentiful chest. “If I were you, I’d leave it at his office. I wouldn’t interrupt them.”
Sloane nodded, but wasn’t going to let the poor man open this message without some kind of warning. This was a hand delivery. Not a pleasant one, either.
“What does he look like?”
Sarah arched a brow. “Bloody gorgeous, actually. He’s a big guy, and easy to spot. Blond hair, shoulders about a mile wide and eyes the color of tropical water. Single, I think,” she added, pinching down on a smile.
Shoulders a mile wide described half the men on the Coronado Amphibious Base, the West Coast headquarters for the Naval Warfare Special Command and the Navy SEALs. The single part didn’t interest her. Her policy on dating SEALs was strict and unwavering—never again.
Besides, she had enough SEALs in
her life.
Sloane Austen left the administrations building and headed for the Grinder, likely the most hated piece of pavement in California, if not the planet. At least by any man accepted into the Basic Underwater Demolitions program known as BUD/s. The instructors propelled the recruits through grueling exercises during the hottest part of the day. It was just one of the challenges you faced if you wanted to become a Special Warfare Operator. Most didn’t make it, but that was the point—only the best did. Every man was thrust to his limits. Those who didn’t ring the infamous bell signaling his own retraction from the program, went on to receive about a million dollars’ worth of training, and became a warrior for Uncle Sam.
She rounded the team’s main building to find the pavement littered with lean, sweating bodies. Most girls would swoon seeing the strained muscles roping down the men’s ripped torsos.
Not her.
SEALs were a no-go-zone in her books. All of them wore an invisible placard across their foreheads that said, “Man Whore.” There wasn’t a SEAL alive who would change her mind, although plenty tried.
The cement square known as the Grinder sweltered under the scorching sun’s relentless barrage. Half the men lay flat on their stomachs, with their hands laced behind their necks and feet crossed.
A whistle blew, and the other men standing on the sidelines dove to the ground, covered the backs of their heads with their hands and opened their mouths, crossing their legs at the same time. This was a simulation position, one they took with an incoming artillery round or risk their innards exploding like apples.
Two more blows on a whistle, and they crawled toward their instructor. Three more whistle blows, and they jumped to their feet.
Watching them, she thanked the lord she’d been born a girl. With the ban on women in Spec Ops lifted many years ago, some tried, but most didn’t make the cut. Living on the edge of a well-trained blade every time the teams were tasked on a mission wasn’t her idea of a good time.
Clutching the message in her fist, Sloane headed across the Grinder toward the man with the whistle. He fit the description Sarah had given.
The instructor turned his attention to her as she aimed for her target. When she was about twenty feet away, the whistle dropped from his lips and bounced once on a very broad chest rolling with defined muscle. With his t-shirt strained tight around his biceps, the man could probably curl a small building. Narrow hips and strong legs spread two feet apart towered him to at least six-feet-three. He reminded her of a statue of an Olympic god.
“What the hell are you doing, Seaman?”
For an instant her steps became heavily laden, seeing his features tighten with disapproval, but she pushed on until she stood a few feet away. Blue eyes cut into her, the look on his face pure annoyance at the intrusion. Her heart drummed, but she maintained eye contact.
Sarah was right for a change—this man was uber-hot, and she was about to make him uber-sad.
“Are you deaf?” he shouted at her.
“No, sir.”
“What makes you think you can saunter your little ass through my exercise? What the hell is the matter with you? Would you walk through a bloody minefield that way?”
Not unless you were chasing me, but kept the retort to herself. This guy was hardcore and pissed, not something she was totally unfamiliar or uncomfortable with.
She glanced quickly to see the entire squad of recruits watched her dressing down. “Lieutenant Damon Stone?”
The Grinder had gone very quiet, even the other instructors stopped blasting the recruits with insults and watched while the lieutenant grilled her with a glare hotter than the San Diego sun.
“Are you blind, too? What the hell does this say on my shirt?”
True, but she wasn’t looking at his shirt. Instead, Sloane marveled at the invisible aura of strength wavering around him.
She took another step toward him, and let out a breath. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I just received a call—”
“And it can’t wait or be delivered by something called email? Ever heard of that? It’s an old friggin’ invention. Works wonders,” he roared, loud enough to reach the other side of the base.
She glanced down at the message in her hand and then stared up at him. Removing her cap, she took one more step closer. Wanting him to take a breath and listen, she waited. That’s what she’d always done when her dad shot into the stratosphere.
Thrusting his arms across his chest he leaned over her. “Am I supposed to use ESP? You’re wasting my frigging time. Do you have something to tell me or not?”
Although he was riled, her gaze lingered on his amazing eyes, a brilliant blue color, not quite like her father’s, but close. Normally, she’d fire a smart-ass remark his way, but not under these circumstances.
She was about to ruin his day, probably his week, if not longer.
The lieutenant stilled, and his gaze ran over her—slowly—but it might as well have been his fingers because it had the same affect. He tilted his head a little and his lips parted, but he pressed them closed. This man noticed everything in a single glance, including her name tag.
Finally, he deflated as he pulled his ball cap and ran a hand through his hair, eyeing her. “What is it, Seaman Austen?”
“Sir, your sister called. I’m sorry to have to inform you, your mother passed away a few minutes ago. When you can, please call your family. She says they need you.”
It was the oddest moment she’d ever experienced. Lieutenant Stone’s gaze and hers met somewhere in the space between them, tangled up with no urgency to untangle the invisible connection. Then like a spring thaw, she saw, or sensed his pain, and had the overwhelming yearning to hug him.
His jaw tightened and he nodded sharply, releasing his hold on her by dropping his gaze to the ground.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” She held the note out to him. “And I apologize for interrupting.”
Without looking at her, he gently grasped the note, and Sloane turned and walked away. Tears welled in her eyes. One day, someone would tell her the same thing and she would be thrashed to ribbons. She loved her parents, and by the look of the lieutenant, he loved his mom too.
Chapter Two
Dripping wet, Sloane snagged the fluffy, white bathroom towel to dry herself. A glance in the mirror rewarded her with the reflection of Randy’s taut buns, a broad back tapering to narrow hips—all tanned to toasted brown marshmallow perfection. God, she was one lucky woman.
He strolled across the bedroom and gripped the top of the bathroom door frame. Oh yes, and let’s not forget the thick perfection hanging between his thighs, a work of art in her estimation.
With one sleek move, he tilted his head, giving her a long, warm kiss. Pulling away with that fiery, self-assured smile he always sported as if he had a secret no one else knew, he said, “Do you mind if I grab a quick shower, sweetheart?”
“Bathroom’s all yours. I’m going to go put on some coffee.”
“Wish I could stay for round four!” He grinned.
The man had one helluva rigid jawline, a jaw begging to be traced with a feather touch and sensual kisses. And she’d kissed it—all night—until the San Diego sun rose to reveal a beautiful June morning.
“Do I look like a wealthy woman?” She grinned back, toweling her hair.
One strong shoulder lifted in a shrug. “You’ll always have customer satisfaction with me, no matter when you call.”
“Uh-huh!”
Sloane gave him a light smack on his ass as she passed him, then went in search of her negligee, lost between tussled sheets. She flung the see-through, red silk fabric over her head and turned for one last glance at his miraculous ass before Randy disappeared behind the shower curtain. He must have sensed her gawking approval because he cranked his head around and stilled.
The cocky grin slipped away, and the look in his eyes changed to thoughtful. “You’re something else, you know that, Sloane?”
The heat in her c
heeks told her she was blushing. “Bet you say that to all your customers.” She winked at him.
Randy gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. “Actually, I don’t.” Then he stepped out of view.
Maybe if he wasn’t a businessman, he might fall head over heels for her. Then again, what gal would want to boast that her boyfriend used to be a male escort? Her inner Hoochi-Mama leaped up and down saying, Me! Me! I would. I would.
Down girl. More important issues were at hand—such as her stomach, which growled with need, a desire that didn’t require a big bank account.
Kitchen. Coffee. Breakfast. That order.
A knock landed on her front door as she pressed the button on her coffeemaker to perk. She took the few steps to cross the living room, then leaned in to listen. “Can I help you?”
“Uh—yeah, Sloane? It’s—”
The in-your-face, barking instructor from the base. What did he want?
There was a pause before he said, “Damon Stone.”
She pulled the door open enough to see around it but kept the rest of her barely covered body hidden. Yup, that’s who it was all right. The last man she’d ever expect to see standing on her threshold.
“Hi.” The handsome SEAL tipped his head then glanced toward the green Berber carpeting of the hallway.
The question of why he was here must have been slathered all over her face. Although he’d minced, diced, and ground her in front of the BUD/s recruits working out on the Grinder the other day, she still couldn’t help having a little empathy for him. Even a hard-ass like him had a soft spot for his mom.
Holding the door in front of her to block her attire—or lack of it, she asked, “How are you doing?”
“Pretty good.” The man’s eyes shone with a laser cerulean beam, but he kept studying the outer hallway carpet instead of looking at her. “Could I—um—come in for a second?”
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