She nodded jerkily and unclipped her seatbelt.
The road leveled off and the trees thinned out. They’d reached a plateau. She’d have to run fast to camouflage herself in the bush. “Say when.”
Up ahead she saw another corner coming fast.
“Ready?” he warned.
She clutched the door handle. Double-checked to make sure the lock was open. “Ready.”
“I’ll slow down as much as I can.”
Sloane cracked the door and when Damon roared around the next curve, she had to lean to the left to stop the heavy door from snapping open and dragging her out. Damon hit the brakes and she flew forward, throwing her hand on the dash to brace herself.
“Now,” he ordered. He didn’t spare her a glance, his gaze pinned to the rear-view mirror.
She jumped from the moving vehicle, something she’d never done before. Underestimating the momentum of the truck, her legs crumpled under her. She tried to gain her balance, but went down hard. Doing as he’d instructed, she tucked and rolled. Not waiting to come to a complete stop, she dug her heels into the loose ground and vaulted to her feet, running a straight line toward the trees while a whirlwind of dust followed Damon as he accelerated down the road.
The Jeep wasn’t far behind. She literally dove between a line of trees and landed on her stomach. Curling around on the pine needle covered ground, she peeked through a branch to see the Jeep roar past in hot pursuit of Damon. Pushing to her feet, she waited a few more seconds to make sure another Jeep wasn’t following. Keeping a line of foliage to her left, she paralleled the road.
No more than three hundred feet of cutting trail through the bush and Sloane ran into a barricade of tight growth. She fought her way through a wall of tree limbs, then stepped back quickly using them to hide behind.
She’d reached the ranch.
* * * *
Greg LaPierre pushed the door open and entered the administration’s department on the base. He looked around at the empty desks. The front door had been unlocked. Someone had to be here. A bone crew at least, during the weekend.
“Hello?” he called out.
A rolling chair from somewhere in the depths of the large office littered with cubbyholes for the admin staff reached his ears. He wondered which one was Sloane’s. A few seconds later, a woman with her brunette hair spun into a bun on the top of her head and wearing a Navy work uniform appeared from an office at the back of the room. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Lieutenant LaPierre. I’m looking for my goddaughter, Sloane Austen.”
“Oh, shit!” The woman dodged the maze of desks at a run. When she reached the visitor’s counter separating them, she slapped her hands on the laminate top. “Sloane isn’t home yet?”
“You know where she is?”
The woman appeared more than anxious with her forehead creased tight.
She licked her lips frantically. “I was going to call her father today. My husband kept telling me to hold off—”
“Please,”—he glimpsed her name tag—“Lt. O’Ryan. Where…is…Sloane?” If he didn’t interrupt her, Greg had the feeling the woman would continue to give him background chatter versus getting to the point.
“They took her on Thursday.”
He shook his head. “Who took her? Where?” He cleared his throat. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just start from the beginning.” Involuntarily, his pulse began to beat with unrest.
“On Thursday afternoon, all staff were mustered on the Grinder. The entire base. Admiral Paulson came with an entourage in tow. A Major, don’t remember his name, and a General Northcott. They said they were looking for participants for an exercise. The men from N.A.B. appeared to be preselected, but then the women were rallied, and the men were told to pick a woman. After that, the participants were whisked away in dark SUVs by CIA operatives.”
“What?” he bellowed.
With the mention of the CIA, his heart plucked a warning, especially with Northcott involved. The General wasn’t a fan of Sloane’s father, and vice versa, since he’d been present at the hearing of Northcott’s uncle, General Caufield, after the virus attack back in 2015—the mission that took Patrick Cobbs’ life.
It was Thane’s statement in a room filled shoulder-to-shoulder with politicians and the highest level of military law that put Caulfield in prison for the rest of his natural life.
Knowing Caufield would rot in a military prison was the only justice Thane could offer the memory of his long-time friend and swim buddy.
Greg’s pulse notched a step higher as he placed his attention back on Lt. O’Ryan. “Sloane was chosen. By who?”
“Lt. Damon—”
“Stone,” he finished for her.
She nodded. “I’m sure she’s fine.”
“What kind of exercise?” he asked, reaching for the cell in his pocket.
“No details were given. They picked, then they left.”
“Do you know the location of the exercise?”
“No, but I received a message from Major Curtis.” She snapped her finger. “That was his name. Curtis. Anyway, the email was addressed to the department heads. Fifteen departments. It said to basically forget what we’d seen. Don’t talk about it.”
He nodded. “Anything else?” His hand getting itchy to make a call to Thane. He’d heard of Admiral Paulson, but not Curtis.
“Do you think something’s wrong?”
Greg stretched an arm to the side and plucked a brochure about joining the Navy’s admin team from a pile pushed against the wall. He scribbled his cell number on the top of the paper and slid it across the counter. “I don’t know, but if you remember anything else, call me.”
“Certainly.” Her brow still furrowed, she said, “I’m sure everything is fine.”
“Sloane’s mother disagrees,” he said curtly.
Lt. O’Ryan collected the brochure from the counter and thumbed the corner. “I agree it was a strange event. Haven’t seen anything like it since I’ve been working here, but surely she isn’t in any danger. Besides, she has Lt. Stone with her, not to mention other SEALs and Marines.”
He nodded his thanks. Palming the door, he exited the building and put the phone to his ear. When Thane answered, he said. “Are you at home?”
“No,” Ghost answered. “Why? Are you at the base?”
“I am. I’ll meet you at your house in ten minutes. Call everyone in.” He hung up and ran for the Audi he’d parked in front of Sloane’s building.
Greg knew Thane enjoyed his retirement, but he’d pulled the pin earlier than he would have liked. The man had morals. Unbreakable ones.
Thane knew how to rub shoulders with politicians and bureaucrats, but he had always been opposed to the dark side of military intelligence. So he did what anyone with his power would do. He inserted himself into the heart of it.
A long time ago, Thane told him that a group existed to deal with issues no news media ever caught wind of. They knew the country’s darkest secrets. And the secrets of other countries. Twelve men and women sat at this table and decided the fate of their nation.
The President had wanted Thane as the thirteenth representative in the clandestine group. The CIA had objected wholeheartedly. The loudest objection came from General Northcott, who already had a seat at the table, but when POTUS furnished a decision, the subject was closed.
Thane became the thirteenth member.
As Greg exited N.A.B. Coronado and turned right on the Silver Strand headed for the Austen residence, he waved at the guard. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. O’Ryan was correct. Sloane wasn’t alone. She had Stone with her, but knowing the CIA was somehow involved in an exercise that Sloane wasn’t allowed to share with her parents or him, bothered the shit out of him. It sent up para flares of unease.
Caught at a red light, Greg remembered a month prior to Thane’s retirement, they’d been hanging out in the SEAL Cave. The girls out shopping for the day meant they could share a
few beers over the limit their wives set for them. After their sixth, Thane had shook his head and said, “Think I’m going to be retiring early.”
Thane never spoke about what went on behind the closed doors of his meetings, but that day he did.
He explained Northcott had tabled a new initiative. While the trends of the day held little sway with the Black Ops group, which included Ghost, they continued to monitor the security of the nation. Lobbyists could yodel at the top of their lungs, badger, intimidate, throw names and try to bribe their hottest topics onto the reigning government’s table, but at Thane’s table, emotion and politics never commanded a vote.
At least that’s what Thane surmised.
Northcott demanded the ban on women in the Special Forces be put back in place, including the Marine Corp and all combat platoons. He said he had proof that women were a detriment to the National Security of the country. Northcott’s initiative was declined. And on that day, Northcott for the first and last time, spoke directly to Ghost.
He’d said, “My uncle rots in a prison because you used him as a scapegoat for Callum Dafoe’s treachery. Now, I have proof that women undermine our entire military force. A treachery we saddle our own fighting forces with, and you decline my findings.”
Ghost waited for him to finish. He’d glanced at the file Northcott had given to each of them, then back at Northcott. “You have no proof. This is a supposition of prejudice with no facts supporting your claims.”
Northcott’s hands clenched tight. “Maybe your opinion is based on the fact your wife served. Are you willing to let men die because they have to take risks to protect the women they’ve been harnessed with on the front lines?”
Ghost had tapped the file with in his index finger while the other members of the table remained mute until he raised a brow and said, “Not getting enough at home, Warren?”
“Fuck you, Austen.”
“Not today, asshole,” he’d replied.
It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Northcott wouldn’t give in easily. Running a few yellow lights, Greg reached the Austen’s residence in record time. He parked on the street because cars filled Thane and Kayla’s driveway. He pocketed his keys, then ran for the front door, feeling like someone had pulled the pin on a grenade.
Thane told him that Northcott hadn’t tabled his request again. Instead, the General began a quiet campaign to earn supporters at the highest levels of the military. During this time, the presidency changed hands and a new president came into power. A woman.
Her name was Alexandria Footling. She’d been groomed for the position of Commander and Chief from the day she was born. Her parents had money. Not a little money, but global decision makers in bed with pharmaceutical companies, oil manufacturers and bankers kind of money. Northcott somehow got to President Footling and she agreed to listen to the General.
Greg burst through the Austen’s front door and into the kitchen jammed with people. Every head turned to stare at him. Ghost and Kayla muscled through the crowd to stand front and center.
“Greg?” Kayla’s eyes were huge with fear. Maybe because she could read a person better than most.
He swung his focus onto Ghost. “Can you get a hold of Admiral Paulson? He’ll have answers.”
“Paulson?” Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “What does he have to do with my daughter?”
“Sloane’s been gone since Thursday.”
“Thursday,” Kayla exclaimed. “Gone where?”
“She was selected for an exercise.” His eyes darted around the crowd. Not knowing how much he should reveal with everyone present.
“Exercise.” Thane’s low timbre sounded like death had found a voice.
Greg nodded. “Run by the CIA.” He paused, knowing what Ghost’s response would be with his next revelation. “Headed by General Warren Northcott.”
“Fuck!”
Shocked expressions on the familiar faces jammed together, like a screen filled with Minions behind Ghost and Kayla, and broke into disturbed murmurs and undulated through the room.
He and Ghost shared a look. Thane’s morality had caused a ripple effect. A no-win situation he could never have seen coming. A year after Thane thought the issue of women in combat was dead, he’d gotten wind the General was planning something. Northcott wanted to prove without a doubt that women should be banned from warfare.
The rest of the tale Ghost told got a little strange, as far as Greg was concerned. But it came down to Thane and Footling in a private meeting. President Footling was a woman in her mid-fifties. Attractive. Single, and known for ruthless decision-making. Hard as nails, but still a woman.
She invited Ghost to the White House, but the meeting didn’t take place in the Oval Office as he’d expected. She invited him to her quarters. The next part, Thane said, he never shared with Kayla. But Footling wanted something in return for her putting a stop to Northcott. She knew Ghost. Ran into him and Kayla at several public functions. And it didn’t matter to Footling that he was married. She wanted him in her bed.
Regardless of Ghost’s infamy. What he’d done or what he could yet accomplish, you didn’t say no to the president. She held the reins and if he didn’t let her ride him, his career was over.
Ghost retired.
Greg had sat astonished in the soft, cushioned couch of the SEAL Cave with his bottom lip slack. No one knew the truth, except Footling, Thane and Greg. The irony of a legend like Ghost being taken out of commission because he wouldn’t fuck a woman was almost laughable. But amazingly, Thane didn’t hold any ill-will against the push toward hanging up his uniform. He’d accomplished more than most men did in ten lifetimes.
Admiral Paulson replaced Ghost at the clandestine table.
At the moment, with Ghost’s old teammates, their wives, and some of their grown children all grasping for an understanding of what the hell was going on, he understood Ghost’s worst fear.
Kayla swung her gaze between Greg and her husband. She pulled at Thane’s arm and asked louder. “What does this mean?”
If Sloane was in General Northcott’s clutches—if he knew who she was—her life was most definitely in peril.
Chapter Twenty-two
A slow drip of fear seeped through Sloane’s veins as she peered between the limbs of the soft-needled pine tree. She watched, her pulse thrumming. A second Army Jeep approached from the opposite direction and attempted to intercept Damon in front of the sprawling ranch house. Dust and gravel spit from the pickup’s tires as he dodged both vehicles and raced from her view. SEALs didn’t only swim like fish, they drove like hell was on their tails.
In this case, the General’s minions had Damon in their sights. Wouldn’t be long before they realized Sloane wasn’t with him and doubled back. She darted across the yard for the front porch, cutting to the left to avoid a patch of wild flowers seeded by hand, but not culled into a neat garden.
A wide wrap-around deck with rocking chairs and a table set with a jug of flowers made an inviting entrance while the fragrant blooms of a Canyon Pea curled around a trellis attached to the gable.
The Army Jeeps hadn’t turned around. Damon led them on a goose chase, giving her time to find a phone. She ran past a green garden hose snaked across the river stone path leading to the entrance. Taking the front stairs two steps at a time, she reached the front door. Banging on it, she turned a look over her shoulder. Sweat drizzled down her spine, the noon hour’s heat stifling in her lungs.
She banged the polished cedar-stained front door again. Pressing her ear to the wood, she nearly fell when it yanked open and a man with tats covering his arms, wearing a plaid shirt and USN embossed ballcap surveyed her with dark eyes and a questioning brow.
“Sir, I’m Seaman Sloane Austen. I need to use your phone.” If she started with “the
Army just murdered your son,” he’d want answers she didn’t have time to give.
He blinked and a woman in her early seventies appeared from a back room with a dish cloth balled in
her hands.
“It’s an emergency,” Sloane added. “Please.”
An Army Jeep came to a skidding stop in front of the house and Sloane bulldozed her way past the rancher and slammed the door. “The phone. Now. I don’t have time to explain.”
The rancher turned an enquiring look toward his wife and then asked Sloane, “Are you part of the exercise on the mountain?” Obviously perplexed why she wasn’t in combat dress. Sloane hoped like hell he didn’t recognize his son’s blue t-shirt with the San Diego Padres logo across the chest.
Before she could speak, a fist hammered on the front door. “Open up. United States Army,” a gruff voice yelled from the other side.
“They’re coming in here whether you open that door or not. I need a phone.”
The rancher’s wife quickly strode across the living room, picked up a mobile phone and handed it to her. Sloane swung around when the front window shattered. She ran toward the back of the Great room, giving her distance and dialing at the same time.
Within seconds, six uniformed men invaded, their weapons pointed at the occupants. They pushed the rancher aside and he stumbled, landing on the couch.
Answer, she begged.
“Thane Austen.”
She slammed her lids shut with relief. They might shoot her dead, but she needed to hear her father’s voice. “Dad,” she whispered.
Cranking a look over her shoulder, she watched two soldiers grab the rancher’s wife. One of the grunts zeroed in on Sloane and yelled, “Put down the phone.” He raised the pistol and shoved the muzzle into the woman’s temple.
Her father’s words hit her with a harsh bark. “Sloane! Where are you?”
Her guts coiled.
“Hang up,” a hulk of a soldier ordered, walking through the doorway.
Sloane recognized the tremor of authority that rumbled through the room with his appearance. The officer strode with purpose and the two silver bars sewn onto the chest of his combat uniform identified him as a captain.
Code Name_War 0f Stones Page 23
