Hot Alpha SEALs: Military Romance Megaset

by Sharon Hamilton

  They stared in silence, communicating clearly. His eyes darkened, lips flattening. The swell of aggression in her heart lightened when he squeezed her.

  “I need a second.” Trace rolled out of bed, throwing the covers around her, and grabbed his pants and phone.

  She hadn’t connected the dots until a minute ago but had never been surer of anything. Her piece-of-shit father had sold her out for a paycheck.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‡

  “You know, it’s a little early on to call in a favor,” Brock said on the phone.

  It didn’t matter. Trace wanted answers. If Marlena’s dick of a father had traded what he knew about her work and her location, then that piece of shit was done in Trace’s book. Proving it required a little more than assumptions, though. That’s where Brock came in, and where Trace was hoping Titan would step in and live up to everything he’d heard.

  “Someone at Titan can connect the dots between Brian McCloud and Romatar. They have the resources.”

  “Don’t forget, Trace. You are Titan. There’s no they about it.”

  “Fine, whatever. Titan has the resources.”

  “I’m not going to give you intel so you can go rogue and off your girl’s old man. Not going to happen.”

  “Didn’t say that was my plan.”

  Brock huffed. “So what’s your plan, kid?”

  Well, that was the plan. How he would do it, he didn’t know exactly. But it seemed logical. All the anger coursing through his system made it feel right.

  “Trace? Goddamn it. I didn’t bring you here to—”

  “How about this for a plan…”

  “Five seconds to make a case.”

  “I connect this to Romatar, deal with her old man without killing the fucker. There’s a biological weapon with its dick flapping in the wind. Every agency in the US must be after it. I find it. I bring it home. Titan and Delta get another a gold star from Uncle Sam.”

  Brock chuckled. “Not sure we’re after gold stars.”

  “Give me the intel and the go-ahead.” He sucked a breath. “Look, if I can’t make shit up for Michael, at least let me do good by this girl.”

  “So it’s like that, huh?”

  “Yeah, buddy. It is.”

  “Never in a million years did I think you’d be the one on the team to pull this shit.”

  Trace paced the hallway. “Heard you have a girl at home.”

  “Yeah. A wife at home. But I’m a decade older than you.”

  Well, shit. They were in two different places in life. Brock was older, a family guy—in the tatted-up, warrior-dude kind of way.

  Brock let out a long breath. “But fuck. I met her right after college too. Dude, that’s a hard line to go down, if that’s what you want. And you don’t know her.”

  “I know what I need to know about her.”

  The team leader laughed harshly. “Yeah, and what’s that?”

  “She’s the only one who can tame my demons.”

  The line hung silent. Finally, Brock sighed. “I’ll send you what you need. If there’s a connection between McCloud and Romatar, you don’t kill him. If you can track intel on that stolen weapon, I’ll take a big shiny star.”

  Relief washed over him. “Thanks, man.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. If the rumor mill is correct, you’re going to wish you hadn’t asked for this.”

  The line went dead, and he leaned against the wall. A possessive fire stoked him from the inside out. When he turned around, Marlena was leaning against the bedroom doorjamb.

  “What do you have planned?” she asked.

  “I’m going to fix everything.”

  “You mean, together we’re going to fix everything? Because I’m done rolling over and walking away.”

  “You’re talking crazy.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m talking like you.”

  Then that was bad, because most times he felt crazy. The only time he didn’t was when he was with her. “Mar—”

  The smile on her face said she wasn’t going to back down. “Trace.”

  “Will you let me take care of you? Of this?”

  Her red hair swayed when she shook her head. “I’ve been building my whole life for this moment. To tell him what I think. To tell him where to go.”

  “Alright then, Cinderella. Put some clothes on, and let’s give your old man a shout.”

  *

  It took Marlena a few minutes to remember exactly how to get back to Brian’s new house. But she recognized the flashy car in the driveway and knew her semi-guessed directions were right. She glanced over her shoulder a dozen times and didn’t see anyone.

  Trace laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re right behind me.”

  “Not worried. Just…” She bit her lip. “This is the right move. Right?”

  “If the guy hasn’t done anything wrong, then this will just be a shitty day for him. Given what I know about him, I don’t care too much about him having a shitty day.”

  And there was Brian’s big, new house. “Pull in there.”

  Trace turned into the driveway and parked. “Porsche? What was he driving before?”

  “A rust-bucket of a Jeep.”

  “Nice upgrade.” He nodded to the house. “Didn’t grow up in a place like this?”

  She snorted her laugh. “Not a chance. Let’s go say hi.”

  A broad grin covered Trace’s face. “With pleasure.”

  The front door opened, and there stood Brian. He looked like a weasel. Even more than that, he looked guilty and wary as his eyes traveled from her to Trace.

  “Brian, meet Trace.”

  Her boyfriend ambled up, shook Brian’s hand until he winced, and said, “Yeah. Meet me. We have business to discuss. But—” He let go, and Brian took a visible breath, shaking out his hand. “First, Marlena has a few things to say to you.”

  Brian stopped shaking out his hand. A laugh slipped from his lips. “I see. Then come in. This should be good.”

  Frustration tickled her mind. It’d be so easy to scream and cry. To kick the bastard and let out the years of pent-up hurt. Instead, she squared her shoulders. “It will be. Trust me.”

  They walked through the front door into the living room. There were new chairs and a couch and department-store bags full of things Brian shouldn’t have been able to afford.

  “Marlena.” He sat on the couch and leaned back. He pointed to Trace then to her, with condescension dripping off his smug face. “I thought you’d met a real man. But I was wrong. Just like I always said, you can’t do anything right.”

  The tension pouring off of Trace was palpable, except Brian didn’t seem to notice. She took Trace’s hand and smiled. “If I so much as sigh funny, he’ll probably kill you. Tread lightly, Brian.”

  “Dad.” Brian scoffed.

  “Never called you that before, and I won’t start now.” She sucked in a deep breath. It was a long shot. But her gut feeling said he’d sold her out to Romatar, and that was why they were sitting on a fancy new couch. There was nothing to go on but instinct and Brian’s propensity to feed off of her. “I know what you did.”

  Brian’s greasy smile grew. “And what did I do, pumpkin?”

  Pumpkin? Her stomach soured. “You knew what I was working on. I told you too much, and you sold that information.”

  “Not a chance. But I did always say your job would get you killed. Two close calls? Proves my point.”

  “You did that to me. That’s where the new car and house came from.”

  “Nope.” Brian shook his head. “Legitimate business dealings.”

  “Bull! You can’t even hold down a job. I’ve supported you my whole life.” Even when she didn’t want to, he stole from her. Or siphoned money from her, stealing anything her mom had left or that she foolishly trusted the bank to hold while she was a minor.

  Brian chuckled. “You didn’t support your old man that well, either.” He stood and turned his attention to T
race. “If you’re looking for a woman worth a damn, I’d keep looking.”

  It happened before she could consider if she wanted to say no. Trace hit Brian, sending him onto the couch in a heap. But seeing her asshole of a father on his butt, scuttling back from Trace… that was what she had wanted. Retribution. Retaliation. Even if she couldn’t prove that he was the one who’d tipped off Romatar, he’d screwed with her for years. “Thanks, honey.”

  Trace laughed. “No problem, dear.”

  She walked over to Brian. “This is the thing. You could’ve had me killed. You are profiting off something that will kill others. It’s wrong. And even if I want to hurt you, that wouldn’t be the worst that could happen.”

  Brian wiped at his mouth, smearing a trickle of blood. “And what is?”

  The disdain in his words made her want to ball her fists and copy Trace. But instead, her newfound confidence shook that off. “This…”

  She stepped to Trace. He nodded, picking up his phone. “Come on in, boys.”

  The door opened. Armed homeland security agents marched inside. They wore full tactical gear, at Trace’s request, even though they were only going to bring Brian in for questioning. The look on her father’s face was priceless—100 percent pure oh-my-fucking-God.

  Marlena nodded to the agents. “I might not be what you dreamed of, Brian. But you sure weren’t what a dad was supposed to be either. Good riddance.”

  The men had him up and cuffed and were dragging him toward the door with little problem. Brian’s shocked face morphed into anger.

  “You’ll pay for this, you little cunt.”

  Trace tucked her under his arm. It only took a few seconds before they were alone in the huge house. “Think I enjoyed that too much?”

  “What, having your dad interrogated for selling national security secrets and risking your life? I don’t think you enjoyed it enough.”

  She sighed into him. “So now what?”

  “Now, I go find the weapon you built.” A grimace flashed across his face.

  “Why do you look sick?”

  “Not sick—” His phone rang. After answering it, he turned away and listened. “Hooyah.”

  Trace pocketed his phone with a blank stare.

  “What was that all about?”

  A smile fought through the grim edges hanging on his face. “Project Cinderella.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughed, but his heart didn’t sound into it. “I volunteered a name for the job.”

  “My biological weapon? That Romatar’s going to sell?”

  “Ten-four, pretty girl.”

  “Don’t sweet-talk me when I think you’re holding back.”

  A half grin hitched on his face. “I’ll be gone a few days.”

  “Gone where?”

  Trace sighed. “Back to hell. Where Michael was killed.”

  Wow, that weapon had traveled the globe. South America, the United States, the Middle East? Her stomach dropped at the thought of Trace leaving soon but… he wanted to go. “I thought you wanted back over there.”

  “I did. But not necessarily in this way.”

  “What way is that?” she asked.

  He hooked an arm around her, and they made their way toward the front door. “The only way to go through this particular gate of hell—with my SEAL team and the CO who wants me in the brig.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‡

  Insurgent attacks were a given at that particular corner of the Khyber Pass. It was one of the oldest routes in history, with stories of bloodshed over centuries to prove it. Michael had died, along with others on his SEAL team, while on a transport job. They hadn’t been on an operation. They hadn’t been targeting a cell. At least, not at that moment. They were doing the most basic of good things for nomadic tribes in the area: helping NATO forces disperse food.

  Just thinking about it made anger blossom in Trace’s chest. He knew the land, knew the exact spot where Michael’s armored vehicle had been blown sky-high. The most upsetting part was that, at that moment, he’d been there making a gesture of goodwill.

  Trace could barely swallow as they approached the unmarked spot. Nomads had torn the vehicle apart, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. Why they had to scavenge and take the dog tags from the bodies, Trace would never understand.

  But on that route, that day, there was no gesture of goodwill planned—nothing that said, “Here’s an olive branch.” No, today, they had tracked down the weapon Romatar had sold to a Pakistani militant who was moving into Afghanistan. Today was the day that they would take home the weapon that Marlena had designed, and none of their forces would be harmed. So help him God, no one else he knew would die at that spot.

  “Reeves,” his CO growled in his earpiece. “No I in team, asshole. You follow the job; you do as you’re told. Do you read me, soldier?”

  He took in the familiar faces of the men who thought he’d abandoned them. “Ten-four.”

  No one had said anything when he was helicoptered in. Not a “Hey, hello, where the fuck have you been?” Nothing—and that hurt. But fuck it; he deserved to have the team give him the middle finger as a screw-you, welcome-home gesture.

  In his earpiece, he heard the strike go into action. “Scout, we have a confirmation?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  They’d been scattered and hidden in the rocky cliffs on both sides of the road. When the Pakistani vehicle passed, they’d intercept it. First stopping the vehicle by sniper fire then swarming from all sides. There was no telling how fragile the weapon was, and everyone was uneasy.

  “Half a click. Two vehicles. Four tangoes, armed in the lead pickup. The second vehicle is a covered truck. No man count.”

  Time ticked by. The harsh sun had melted behind the cliffs, exposing the men to biting cold winds.

  “Fifty yards.”

  Trace could hear the trucks. The sounds of engines roaming down the road in the dark night echoed in his ears.

  “Three, two, one.”

  Two snipers blew out the vehicle tires. The team on foot went into action. They hit the targets, subdued the drivers, disarmed the terrorists, and disposed of the threats. Trace growled through the action, fighting his way to search for the weapon. Praying they had it—

  A hand snagged his barely healed shoulder, and white pain shot through his arm, spinning him. Hand-to-hand fighting wasn’t what he expected, but that was fine. Blow for blow, Trace battled, needing to reach for his sidearm and end it. They tumbled over a rocky edge. His attacker held tight, and they rolled down the black abyss and landed on jagged rocks, dirt crunching around them. He took a breath and focused on his attacker. A knife glinted off the moonlight as the man dove for Trace’s chest.

  “Not today, fucker.” With a quick catch of his arm, the knife clattered to the ground, and Trace wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, twisting and dropping the body. “Thanks for playing.”

  Bent over, he breathed hard, swallowing away the dirt and blood in his mouth and wondering how far down he’d fallen. Operation Cinderella played out in his earpiece.

  And then he noticed a tiny hut a dozen yards down. The slightest bit of candlelight lit the inside of the shabby building, and quiet taps and clinks sounded in the wind. His eyes squinted. Moonlight and stars caught on something swaying in the wind. Trace was drawn to it, slipping farther away as the SEAL team he’d abandoned ended the fight above.

  “Reeves, report.”

  He edged closer to the hut, not mumbling a damn word.

  “Goddamn it, Reeves. You better be dead,” his CO shouted into his earpiece.

  Ignoring the guy wasn’t the right move. Former teammates checked in and recounted what they thought had happened. “He went over the edge.”

  “Reeves went hand to hand.”

  “Where the hell is Reeves?”

  Calls for him to check in were ignored. Damn it to hell. He was doing wrong by them again, but there was something to that shac
k.

  He took a breath. “Reeves here. Alive.” Not that they cared, he was sure. “Coming up in two.”

  But he kept going down. On the front of the hut, cola cans and pieces of armored vehicles were strung up like dream catchers on tinsel wire. Finally at the front of the hut, Trace kept one hand on his sidearm and knocked with the other, unable to stop himself. Two boys—young teenagers, most likely, but so malnourished he couldn’t tell—opened the door, with their own rusted weapons pointed at him.

  Working in that part of the country with his SEAL team, he’d learned more than enough of the local tribal languages to get by. In broken phrases, he offered that he meant no harm, that he was US Special Forces, and could he look at their decorations?

  The kids didn’t lower their weapons but did shed more candlelight on the dream catchers that hung at the door and windows. Dog tags dangled beside broken headlight glass and shards of metal. Trace couldn’t stop himself. He took out his flashlight and ran his fingers over them. United States military identification and tags from other countries too. His fingers touched them, and he turned to the boys, pointing to the tags hanging around the hut. “I need these.”

  Without waiting for an answer, with his flashlight in his mouth, he started to take apart the elaborate designs, reading them as he put them in a bag.

  Reeves, Michael A.

  His heart stopped, and he could read no more. He didn’t need to see the rest of the identifying details to know. Shivers ran down his back, and tears welled in his eyes.

  As though the boys in the hut knew, still brandishing their weapons, they nodded and stepped back inside when he clutched the metal to his chest. With a deep breath, he wrapped it around his fist, turned out the mag light, and slipped his night-vision goggles back on. He climbed the rocks and edges until he found the team waiting for him.

  They must’ve heard him speaking to the boys in their earpieces, and they all stood watching him. No one made a noise. No one stepped forward because they probably didn’t trust his ass. But he lifted his fist, Michael’s tag barely visible in hand, and one by one, a “Hooyah” went up, and the men gave him pats on the back. A quick word from their CO, and they moved as a unit to the rendezvous location for a helo pickup.