Hot Alpha SEALs: Military Romance Megaset

by Sharon Hamilton

  “You have to either belong to a cartel or pay the cartel to protect you,” said a voice through the earbud. Swede, the computer guru and all-around electronic techie on SEAL Team 10, kept them connected through comm equipment.

  “Just remember, Fish, we’re not here on vacation.” Gator’s gruff voice rattled in Jack’s ear. Remy had been on SEAL Team 10 longer than Jack and had seen a lot more action. He’d taken Jack under his wing on his first day in the unit.

  “It’s hard to keep that in mind when the water’s so clear I can see fifty feet down. I’d rather bust out my scuba gear and do some recreational diving.” Jack adjusted his sunglasses. “You sure there’s not some old abandoned shipwreck we can’t blow up close by?”

  “Save it for when we nail the pirates who’ve been stealing boats around here,” Gator said. “No doubt we’ll have plenty of action and opportunities to blow up shit.”

  Jack stared out at serene blue waters along the coastline of Honduras. As smooth and calm as the bay was, this area had seen its share of trouble. In the past month, four expensive pleasure yachts had been hijacked and disappeared. Their rich owners had been taken hostage by leftist guerillas operating under the name Castillo Commando. Most of the hostages had been ransomed and released, their ransom dollars used to fund the guerilla activities.

  In the latest attack, they’d stolen a yacht owned by wealthy American business owner William Bentley and his nephew. His high-powered political contacts included the Secretary of Defense, who called in the Navy SEALs to locate and recover the missing hostages and eliminate the leftist guerrilla pirates from the Honduran coastline.

  Jack, along with a twenty-two-man team from SEAL Team 10, had been deployed to handle the mission labeled Operation Constrictor.

  They’d located the scuttled yachts in a nearby island inlet, but hadn’t found the hideout of the Castillo Commando. Their only lead was a few satellite images of a couple of boats landing on the bay of Trujillo around midnight the day Bentley disappeared.

  The Secretary of Defense, along with Bentley’s wife, secured another yacht to use as a decoy loaded with Navy SEALs and complex intelligence-gathering equipment to help them recover the missing yacht owners and eradicate the guerrilla pirates. Four days had passed and no pirates had come or gone from the shores of the bay. They hadn’t taken the bait or even come out to sniff around.

  “Some vacation, huh?” Jack said as he strolled along the beach, collecting seashells.

  “At least you’re on the beach with half a chance of seeing women in bikinis,” Swede grumbled.

  “All we have here are some kids playing and old men in fishing boats.” Jack stopped on the sand and performed a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. In one direction were the old men and fishing boats. In the other was an empty skiff dragged up on the shore.

  Jack lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the sun sinking lower over the jungle. At the edge of the sand in the shade of the jungle was a small gathering of dark-skinned locals. They seemed to be crowding around a group set up under a tent awning.

  Curious, Jack set off across the sand to check it out, feeling a little naked without his combat gear or even a weapon as part of his attempt to appear as a bored, rich young man looking for something to do. Because he had the fewest tattoos of his SEAL brothers and he rocked a California surfer look that usually captured attention, he’d been chosen as the lure.

  As he neared the gathering, he heard a voice call out in Spanish, “Please, wait your turn.”

  Standing at the edge of the gathering, Jack noted a woman holding a child with a skin rash over his belly. Another woman held a little girl with long black hair who cried softly against her mother’s breast. A long jagged gash in her leg looked like it wasn’t healing properly.

  A narrow gap opened in the throng, giving Jack a view of the focus of the locals’ attention. Three men and two women wearing scrubs sat on campstools with a folding table between them. One by one, they examined each patient, cleaning wounds, stitching lacerations and prescribing cleaning techniques. Some of the patients received shots, others pills, but they were all treated with a smile and gentle words and gestures.

  A bald man in scrubs led a woman and a small child to a pretty medical worker with light brown hair and green eyes. She wore green scrubs and had her hair pulled back in a messy bun with tendrils falling around her cheeks.

  “Dr. Rhoades,” the man said in English. “This child needs your attention.”

  The woman smiled at the dark-eyed little girl who limped toward her followed by an older woman. When they got close, the child buried her face in the old woman’s skirt, crying.

  The older woman spoke in rapid Spanish. “My granddaughter was bitten by a spider. Her leg is swollen and painful, and she is frightened of the doctor, afraid she will take her away from her family.”

  Smiling, the woman with the soft brown hair and gentle face rose from the campstool and dropped to her knees in the sand, putting herself on eye-level with the little girl. She spoke quietly in halting Spanish, smiling gently.

  Jack couldn’t hear her words, but he fell under her spell just as easily as the child.

  The little girl nodded.

  Dr. Rhoades spoke again.

  The child and her grandmother both laughed.

  When the doctor held out her hand, the little girl took it and allowed the doctor draw her onto her lap. She let the child listen to her own heartbeat through her stethoscope before she listened. Then she set the girl on the table beside her and examined her leg. By the time she’d cleaned and bandaged the leg, the little girl was smiling. Then she and her grandmother both hugged her and thanked her for helping them.

  As Jack watched the line of locals slowly dissipate, he noticed the sun had slipped lower in the sky, making the shadows thicken on the edge of the trees. A shout caught his attention, drawing it away from the medical team.

  Pushing his way through the remaining patients, a scrawny teenager spoke, waving his hands toward a dirt road. He grabbed a woman’s arm and dragged her in the opposite direction. He let go and took another’s hand and pulled her along, leading her away from the medical team and the dirt road that had him so upset. He turned back and ran toward the doctor, shouting hysterically.

  Jack stiffened and glanced around, realizing he’d zoned out while watching Dr. Rhoades work with her patients. To keep the teen from reaching the doctor, Jack stepped in front of him.

  The boy tried to dodge him.

  Jack grabbed his arms.

  The teen shouted something in Spanish but he was so distraught, Jack had a hard time understanding him. Two words stood out in the rest of his hysterical shouts. Castillo Commando.

  Jack stiffened.

  As if someone pulled the plug on a sink, the remaining locals disappeared into the trees.

  Frantic, the boy twisted until he broke loose of Jack’s hold and raced into the trees.

  The doctor and the others wearing scrubs quickly packed their medical kits, folded tables and chairs and hurried toward the boat on the beach, glancing back over their shoulders.

  “What’s going on, Fish?” Gator spoke in his ear.

  “Not sure, but I think the Commandos are coming.” He stared at the shadowy woods, shocked not a single local could be seen. If he hadn’t observed them for himself, he would have thought the beach had always been deserted.

  The sound of gunfire from the dirt road at the far end of the beach jerked his attention to the north. A truck sped toward the medical personnel.

  Jack bolted for the jet ski. His gaze shot to the doctor’s small group.

  One man dropped back to get behind the female doctor. No sooner had he let her go ahead of him, he jerked and grabbed his leg. He dropped the chair he’d been holding and limped as fast as he could, leaving a trail of blood in the sand. The rest of the crew ran across the sand to the little boat and threw in the chairs and tables. They turned and helped the injured man into the boat and then pushed off as, one
by one, they jumped in, landing at odd angles.

  The doctor and the bald guy were the last to climb aboard and the water was getting deep.

  “Go! Go! Go!” The bald guy yelled as he pointed toward the open water.

  Dr. Rhoades dragged herself over the side of the boat and fell into the bottom.

  The tattooed bald man jumped in, and all of them ducked low as bullets pelted the water around them.

  From a crouch, Jack shoved the jet ski across the sand and into the water, hitting the start button. The engine stuttered. “Start, dammit!” He hit the button again and the engine roared to life. Gunning the throttle, he rocketed out into the bay, laying low over the machine.

  “What’s going on, Fish?” Swede demanded.

  “We’re under attack. I’d say we found our guerillas.” Jack swung wide to follow the little boat chugging toward a larger one, it’s side marked with a big red cross, anchored in the bay. They’d almost reached it when a jet boat, equipped with a mounted machinegun and a dozen armed men rounded the spit at the edge of the bay, barreling toward the ship. The skiff filled with medical personnel barely slid alongside the bigger boat as the attackers opened fire.

  “Shit!” Jack called out, feeling helpless and outgunned.

  “A little intel would help, Jack,” Swede prompted.

  “A fully-armed gun boat is heading toward what I suspect is a floating medical boat in the bay here. I could use some air support about now.”

  “Scrambling the Black Hawk. ETA ten mikes.”

  His body tensed. “There won’t be anything left in ten minutes.”

  “Hold that thought.” Swede went silent for a few precious seconds and came back on. “It’s your lucky day. The Black Hawk is airborne. The fact they got restless is working in your favor. ETA five minutes. Think you can hold off the guerillas for that long?”

  “Sure. No weapons and nothing but a jet ski?” Jack snorted. “I’ve got this.”

  “We have a boat on the way, ETA five mikes.”

  Jack kept heading for the medical boat. As he neared, he noted all hands were on deck to secure the skiff and get the bigger boat underway. Only one man stood on deck with a handgun. The weapon would be too little too late once the machine gun came within range.

  He had to do something. Turning away from the big medical boat, he steered toward the fully-equipped gunboat. One unarmed man in nothing but swim trunks, riding a jet ski against a boatload of guerillas. The odds didn’t look good, but when did a SEAL run from a challenge? The only easy day was yesterday.

  He aimed dead center of the bow, knowing the placement of the machinegun would be most effective off the port or starboard. As long as none of the guerillas moved forward with their rifles, Jack might get close enough to…

  Hell if he knew. This wasn’t one of those carefully crafted operations where the team practiced every move from start to finish in mockups of their target. This was ad-lib, and he was going it alone. No one had his six, or laid down supporting fire to keep the bad guys occupied long enough for him to close the distance.

  As he neared the gunboat, he spotted three guerillas moving to the front, bringing their weapons to their shoulders.

  So much for the element of surprise.

  Jack zigzagged as he closed on the boat and dodged to the right, leaning hard to create a large rooster tail of a splash, drenching the armed men. Unfortunately, the turn placed him on the starboard side of the gunboat, giving the machine gunner a perfect target.

  Bullets pelted the water all around him as he zigzagged across the ocean’s surface. One clipped his thigh, tearing through his favorite swim trunks. Well, damn.

  “Come on, air support!” he yelled, throttle wide open as he led the gunboat away from the craft the doctor and her staff had boarded and set underway.

  With the roar of the jet ski in his ears, he didn’t hear the Black Hawk until he saw it swoop in and strafe the gunboat with fifty-caliber bullets.

  Dr. Natalie Rhoades hovered on the deck of the Nightingale, watching as the man on the jet ski headed straight for the guerilla gunship, her heart lodged in her throat. “Is that guy insane?”

  “He’s buying us time to get away,” Mac Pennington, a bald, tattooed combat medic, stood at her side, shaking his head. “And yes, he’s insane.”

  The drumbeat of helicopter rotors filled the air as a Black Hawk helicopter popped over the shoreline trees and headed straight for the gunboat.

  Hallie Kristofer joined Natalie and Mac, clapping her hands. “Yay! The cavalry has arrived!”

  The machine gunners abandoned their attack on the man on the jet ski and focused on the helicopter.

  With the Black Hawk keeping the gunboat full of leftist guerillas engaged, the jet ski turned toward their boat. They had barely gotten underway when he caught up to them.

  “We have a visitor, Skipper!” Mac shouted.

  “Should we stop?” Hallie asked.

  Natalie gripped the rail. “Yes, of course. He saved us from the guerillas, the least we can do is bring him on board and thank him properly.”

  “Steve and the Skipper are the only ones with guns on the boat.” Mac stretched to look overboard toward the rider. “Skipper has to drive the boat, and with Steve out of commission due to the gunshot wound, should I get his gun?”

  “No, I saw this man on the shore,” Natalie said. “He looked pretty harmless.” She was stretching it by saying he looked harmless. Unarmed would have been a better description. The man was big, like he worked out…a lot. He didn’t have a spare ounce of flesh on his body and the tattoos on his shoulders and back gave him a motorcycle rider, bad-boy appearance. But those clear blue eyes and shaggy blond hair softened that image. He could have been any beach bum off the coast of California. Either way, he’d made more of an impression on her than she cared to admit.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Hallie warned with a frown.

  Natalie nodded. “But he risked his life and saved us from attack. We have to give him the benefit of a doubt.”

  “I’ll go help Daphne and Jean-David,” Mac said. “Just to be sure.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Natalie said. “We’ll go under the assumption that there is safety in numbers.”

  A shout rose up from the back of the boat, “Throw me a line!”

  The boat slowed. Ship’s deckhand, Daphne Bradford, tossed the man a line off the back.

  He grabbed it and dragged himself and the jet ski up to tie onto the dinghy at the rear. Jean-David and Mac both held out their hands to help him on board.

  The jet ski rider grabbed one of each and let them haul him onboard.

  Hallie turned and shouted toward the pilot house, “Go!”

  The engine engaged and the Nightingale sped away from the gunboat that was still taking fire from the Black Hawk.

  Natalie stepped forward, her pulse kicking up as she faced the man with all the muscles. Up close, he was much larger than when he’d been standing on the edge of the crowd of women and children on shore.

  “Who’s in charge?” he asked, scanning the three on deck.

  Her knees wobbling more than they should have, Natalie stepped forward. “I am. Welcome aboard the Nightingale. Thank you for saving us from the guerillas.” She held out her hand.

  He took it in his, those blue eyes shining as she gave it a firm shake.

  “I’m Jack Fischer. Thanks for letting me come on board. My jet ski was getting low on fuel. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back to my boat. How’s the guy who got shot?”

  Hallie answered before Natalie could. “Dr. Biacowski is working with him now.”

  Natalie had taken a cursory look at the wound. “He should be okay, barring any infection.” She glanced around the end of the bay. “What boat did you say you came from?”

  “I’m with some buddies of mine on the Pegasus.” Jack pointed to a large pleasure yacht anchored near the southern end of the large bay.

  Even from a distance, Natalie could see the gl
eaming white hull of the craft. She glanced back at Jack. He didn’t quite fit the image she had of a rich yacht owner on vacation.

  His lips quirked and he stared down at his naked torso with the tattoos and his torn shorts. “I’m working for my passage aboard the yacht.”

  Blood dripped off the bottom hem of Jack’s black swim trunks onto the white deck.

  “You’re bleeding!” Hallie hooked his arm and led him toward a bench. “Come over here and sit down. Mac, could you get Dr. Rhoades’s bag?”

  “It’s right here. I’ve got it.” Natalie grabbed her satchel from where it landed when they transferred from the dinghy. She’d been content to stand back and let Hallie and Mac do all the talking, but with an injury at hand, her natural instinct was to heal.

  Hallie pushed Jack onto a bench. “If you’ll hand me the scissors, I’ll cut away the fabric.”

  Natalie pulled her surgical scissors from the bag. “No need. I can do this,” she told her nurse.

  Hallie moved away, giving Natalie room to kneel in front of Jack. When she raised her scissors to cut away the fabric, Jack jerked his leg out of range.

  “I happen to like these swim trunks. If it’s all the same to you, I can pull them up.” A grin spread across his face. “Unless you want me to take them off.”

  Natalie’s eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. He was practically naked already and she was breathless. She was afraid she’d pass out if he were completely nude. Mentally chastising herself, she focused on the injury, not the man. Hell, she’d seen naked women, children and men. Jack Fischer was no different. Every body had much the same characteristics.

  Jack just had more in all the right places.

  Heat rose up her neck and suffused her cheeks at that errant thought. “Just pull it up,” she said, her voice squeaking, causing the heat in her cheeks to intensify.

  “Wow,” Hallie said. “You’ve got some powerful thighs.”

  “Hallie!” Dr. Rhoades snapped, not so much because of the inappropriateness of her statement, but because she’d been thinking it herself. “Put your tongue back in your head and hand me some gauze and alcohol.”