“Swear.”
Chapter One
Twelve years later…
Retired Navy Commander Greg Lambert leaned forward to rake in the pile of chips his full house had netted him. Tonight he would leave the weekly gathering not only with his pockets full, but his pride intact.
The scowls he earned from his poker buddies at his unusual good luck were an added bonus.
They’d become too accustomed to him coming up on the losing side of five card stud. It was about time he taught them to never underestimate him.
Vice President Warren Angelo downed the rest of his bourbon and stubbed out his Cuban cigar. “Looks like Lady Luck is on your side tonight, Commander.”
After he neatly stacked his chips in a row at the rail in front of him, Greg glanced around at his friends. It occurred to him right then, this weekly meeting wasn’t so different from the joint sessions they used to have at the Pentagon during his last five years of service.
The location was the secretary of state’s basement now, but the gathering still included top ranking military brass, politicians, and the director of the CIA, who had been staring at him strangely all night long.
“It’s about time the bitch smiled my way, don’t you think? She usually just cleans out my pockets and gives you my money,” Greg replied with a sharp laugh as his eyes roved over the spacious man-cave with envy, before they snagged on the wall clock.
It was well past midnight, their normal break-up time. He needed to get home, but what did he have to go home to? Four walls and Karen’s mean-as-hell Chihuahua who hated him. Greg stood, scooted back his chair, and stretched his shoulders. The rest of his poker buddies quickly left, except for Vice President Warren Angelo, Benedict Hughes with the CIA, and their host tonight, Percy Long, the Secretary of State.
Greg took the last swig of his bourbon then set the glass on the table. When he took a step to leave, they moved to block his way to the door. “Something on your minds, gentleman?” he asked, their cold, sober stares making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, but one he was familiar with from his days as a Navy SEAL. That feeling usually didn’t portend anything good was about to go down. But neither did the looks on these men’s faces.
Warren cleared his throat and leaned against the mahogany bar with its leather trimmings. “There’s been a significant amount of chatter lately.” He glanced at Ben. “We’re concerned.”
Greg backed up a few steps, putting some distance between himself and the men. “Why are you telling me this? I’ve been out of the loop for a while now.” Greg was retired, and bored stiff, but not stiff enough to tackle all that was wrong in the United States at the moment or fight the politics involved in fixing things.
Ben let out a harsh breath then gulped down his glass of water. He set the empty glass down on the bar with a sigh and met Greg’s eyes. “We need your help, and we’re not going to beat around the bush,” he said, making Greg’s short hairs stand taller.
Greg put his hands in his pockets, rattling the change in his right pocket and his car keys in the left while he waited for the hammer. Nothing in Washington, D.C. was plain and simple anymore. Not that it ever had been.
“Spit it out, Ben,” he said, eyeballing the younger man. “I’m all ears.”
“Things have changed in the US. Terrorists are everywhere now,” he started, and Greg bit back a laugh at the understatement of the century.
He’d gotten out before the recent INCONUS attacks started, but he was still in service on 9/11 for the ultimate attack. The day that replaced Pearl Harbor as the day that would go down in infamy.
“That’s not news, Ben,” Greg said, his frustration mounting in his tone. “What does that have to do with me, other than being a concerned citizen?”
“More cells are being identified every day,” Ben replied, his five o’clock shadow standing in stark contrast to his now paler face. “The chatter about imminent threats, big jihad events that are in the works, is getting louder.”
“You do understand that I’m no longer active service, right?” Greg shrugged. “I don’t see how I can be of much help there.”
“We want you to head a new division at the CIA,” Warren interjected. “Ghost Ops, a sleeper cell of SEALs to help us combat the terrorist sleeper cells in the US…and whatever the hell else might pop up later.”
Greg laughed. “And where do you think I’ll find these SEALs to sign up? Most are deployed over—”
“We want retired SEALs like yourself. We’ve spent millions training these men, and letting them sit idle stateside while we fight this losing battle alone is just a waste.” Ben huffed a breath. “I know they’d respect you when you ask them to join the contract team you’d be heading up. You’d have a much better chance of convincing them to help.”
“Most of those guys are like me, worn out to the bone or injured when they finally give up the teams. Otherwise, they’d still be active. SEALs don’t just quit.” Unless their wives were taken by cancer and their kids were off at college, leaving them alone in a rambling house when they were supposed to be traveling together and enjoying life.
“What kind of threats are you talking about?” Greg asked, wondering why he was even entertaining such a stupid idea.
“There are many, more every day. Too many for us to fight alone,” Ben started, but Warren held up his palm.
“The president is taking a lot of heat. He has three and a half years left in his term, and taking out these threats was a campaign promise. He wants the cells identified and the terror threats eradicated quickly.”
These two, and the president, sat behind desks all day. They’d never been in a field op before, so they had no idea the planning and training that took place before a team ever made it to the field. Training a team of broken-down SEALs to work together would take double that time because each knew better than the rest how things should be done, so there was no “quick” about it.
“That’s a tall order. I can’t possibly get a team of twelve men on the same page in under a year. That’s if I can find them.” Why in the hell was he getting excited, then? “Most are probably out enjoying life on a beach somewhere.” Exactly where he would be with Karen if she hadn’t fucking died on him as soon as he retired four years ago.
“We don’t want a team, Greg,” Percy Long corrected, unfolding his arms as he stepped toward him. “This has to be done stealthily because we don’t want to panic the public. If word got out about the severity of the threats, people wouldn’t leave their homes. The press would pump it up until they created a frenzy. You know how that works.”
“So let me get this straight. You want individual SEALs, sleeper guys who agree to be called up for special ops, to perform solo missions?” Greg asked, his eyebrows lifting. “That’s not usually how they work.”
“Unusual times call for unusual methods, Greg. They have the skills to get it done quickly and quietly,” Warren replied, and Greg couldn’t argue. That’s exactly the way SEALs operated—they did whatever it took to get the job done.
Ben approached him, placed his hand on his shoulder, as if this was a tag-team effort, and Greg had no doubt that it was just that. “Every terrorist or wanna-be terror organization has roots here now. Al Qaeda, the Muslim Brotherhood, ISIS, or the Taliban—you name it. They’re not here looking for asylum. They’re actively recruiting followers and planning events to create a caliphate on our home turf. We can’t let that happen, Greg, or the United States will never be the same.”
“You’ll be a CIA contractor, and can name your price,” Warren inserted, and Greg’s eyes swung to him. “You’ll be on your own in the decision making. We need to have plausible deniability if anything goes wrong.”
“Of course,” Greg replied, shaking his head. If anything went south, they needed a fall guy, and that would be him in this scenario. Not much different from the dark ops his teams performed under his command when he was active duty.
God, why did this stupid idea suddenly sound so brilliant? Why did he think he might be able to make it work? And why in the hell did he suddenly think it was just what he needed to break out of the funk he’d been living in for four years?
“I can get you a list of potential hires, newly retired SEALs, and the president says anything else you need,” Warren continued. “All we need is your commitment.”
The room went silent, and Greg looked deeply into each man’s eyes as he pondered a decision. What the hell did he have to lose? If he didn’t agree, he’d just die a slow, agonizing death in his recliner at home. At only forty-seven and still fit, that could be a lot of years spent in that chair.
“Get me the intel, the list, and the contract,” he said, and a surge of adrenaline made his knees weak.
He was back in the game.
Chapter Two
Mike Dorsen picked up the phone as he leaned back in his Adirondack chair and stared at the ocean waves wafting toward the shore. The view was so fucking amazing he didn’t want to miss a moment of it. The sun was setting, and the wind was picking up, but this was his first vacation in years, and he intended to enjoy every second.
He hadn’t recognized the incoming number, but that wasn’t unusual. Calls came in to him from all over the place any day of the week. That was the nature of working for the FBI. Even though he was on leave, the calls never stopped.
“Dorsen speaking.”
“Is this Mike Dorsen?” The voice wasn’t familiar.
Mike stiffened. “It is. Can I help you?”
“Yes. You don’t know me, but my name is Greg Lambert. I’m a retired commander from the US Navy.”
Mike tilted his head to one side, getting a better grip on his cell. “Okay.”
“You’re a difficult man to track down.”
“Intentionally. I’m on vacation.”
“An extended one, I hear.”
Mike frowned. How did this man know so much about him? “No rule against that.” He’d taken a leave of absence after dealing with a grueling investigation for the FBI in Chicago. He still shuddered every time he thought about all the people who’d lost their lives at the hands of the Russian mafia in the name of science. “How can I help you?”
“I’ll cut right to the chase. I got your name from a mutual friend. I need you to do a job for the US government.”
“The government? I work for the FBI. Why wouldn’t they contact me themselves?” Unease crept up his spine.
“Because this isn’t related to the FBI, nor is it above the table. This is a job for someone capable, who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. I’m looking for a SEAL, Mike.”
Mike flinched. He had been a SEAL. He’d worked his ass off to become one only to have the job slip through his hands after four years when his kneecap got shattered in a raid during his second tour to the Middle East. Few people knew he’d been a SEAL, not even inside the FBI. “Who are you working for again?”
“I’m working for the government, the CIA specifically, but the job is under the table. You’ll be paid heftily for your service, but no one will ever know you were involved.”
“You realize how sketchy that sounds, right? If I had any sense, I’d hang up the phone and block your number.”
Lambert chuckled briefly. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
“You’ve made other similar calls?”
“Several. Yes. Listen, can we meet? I know you’re in Norfolk. I just need an hour of your time. I’m not far from you.”
“I suppose you also know where I’m staying?” He rolled his eyes toward the sky, cussing silently inside. Why did he know he was not going to like whatever this Greg Lambert had to say?
“Yes. You free this evening? We could meet someplace neutral, but it would be easier if I came to you so we would have the privacy this conversation deserves.”
Mike inhaled slowly. “Fine. Come at seven.” He ended the call and leaned back again. “Fuck.” Somehow he knew his perfect little getaway was about to go up in smoke.
* * *
As Greg took a seat on Mike’s cozy back porch, he rubbed his hands together, staring out at the ocean. “Your view is amazing.”
“Yes. It is.” Mike was leery. His skin had been crawling from the moment his phone rang that afternoon. Now, he was itching to get this meeting out of the way. “Tell me what you’re here for, Lambert.”
Greg sighed and leaned back, angling his body to face Mike. “I’m sure it wouldn’t shock you to hear there are terrorist sleeper cells all over the country doing their best to undermine us.”
Mike glared at him. That didn’t require a response.
Greg chuckled. “Okay, well, my job is to put those cells out of commission.”
“And you think I can help how?”
“I know your background is in biology. I also know your last assignment was with the FBI, putting an end to a Russian scheme that involved an experimental drug that would have seriously altered humanity.”
Mike winced. Okay, so this guy knew shit. A lot of shit. “That’s completely classified.”
“Yep.” Greg didn’t meet his gaze. He continued to stare at the ocean. Cocky. Confident. Knowledgeable.
“And what exactly do you need me for?”
“Got a situation with a senator. Intel suggests a group of terrorists is planning to use biological warfare against him.”
Mike held back a gasp. “Right here? On US soil?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
A few moments of silence passed. Mike closed his eyes. It wasn’t as though he could turn this guy down if it meant the life of a senator. “Look, I know my biological warfare. I’ve worked in the field. Sure. But you’re talking about a serious ballgame. Why me?”
“Because you’re available. In the area. And a SEAL.” Greg turned to face Mike, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I need someone with stealth.”
“And you want me to do what? Play bodyguard to a senator?”
“Nope.” Greg shook his head. “His daughter. And while you’re at it, perhaps you could catch this motherfucker and kill him for us.”
Mike stared at the man, trying to process what he really meant. “His kid? You want me to guard a kid?”
Greg shook his head again. “Not a child. A grown woman. She’s a lawyer. Assistant district attorney in New Haven, Connecticut. She’s been getting threatening mail and emails. The threats have gotten closer together and more disturbing. Perhaps she defended the wrong guy or put the wrong guy in jail. Who knows? But our bad guy seems to have chosen to fuck with her to get to her father.”
Mike froze, staring at the ocean. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Chapter Three
Two hours later, Mike sat in the dark living room, nursing a fantastic scotch and staring at the thick file Greg Lambert left him. There was enough light streaming in from the moon to keep him mellow.
He’d agreed to take the job. What choice did he have?
He didn’t need to open the file to know exactly who he’d been tasked with protecting. Connecticut had two senators, and only one of them had a daughter who was an assistant district attorney. The second he had his hands on the paperwork, his vacation was history, and his world would forever change course.
“Fuck,” he repeated to the room at large for the tenth time. He ran a hand through his hair and took another sip of the scotch. He needed a haircut. It was overdue. Random thoughts to avoid the elephant in the room. As long as he left that folder sitting on the coffee table, its contents remained a secret.
Oh, who was he kidding?
Finally, he gave in. No way would he be able to sleep anyway with that damn file folder waiting for his attention.
Setting his glass on the end table, he reached for the folder and dragged it onto his lap. With a deep breath, he turned on the light next to him, hating the way it broke through the darkness as if announcing itself as the defining moment when his vacation was officially ruined.
/> He flipped open the manila folder and picked up the top page.
Senator Richard Carver of Connecticut…
Mike swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue reading and accept this new reality.
Daughter, Zola Carver, Undergraduate—Yale University, pre-law. Law school—Yale University…
It was time to pull his shit together and get his head in the game. Zola was in danger. She needed him. He could no more have turned this job down than he could have cut off his own right arm.
For long moments, he read that first page, learning everything he could about Senator Carver and his daughter before dropping the paper on top of the stack. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Senator Carver had spent years lobbying to make it more difficult for terrorists to infiltrate the US. Among other things, the man obviously spent his life fighting against the ease with which terrorists were able to get into the US, purchase property, travel between states, and even acquire weapons.
Mike shuddered. At least he agreed with the man on his politics concerning this issue. Mike had spent too many nights on two tours of duty fighting the same terrorist organizations that were now infiltrating the US on a daily basis. Whether they came into the country under false pretenses or were homegrown, they still represented the same threat.
According to Greg Lambert, there was an imminent threat against the senator and his daughter. Apparently Zola had participated in several court cases against terrorists.
He hadn’t spoken to Zola in twelve years, not since they both left for college. He cringed remembering their final evening together. Best night of his life. Even more than a decade later, he still counted that night as the most important.
After downing the contents of his glass, he reached for the bottle of scotch and poured himself a refill. Leaning back in the armchair, he closed his eyes and let his mind travel down memory lane. He didn’t often indulge in prolonged thoughts of Zola, but tonight he felt he had no choice.
Saving Zola (Sleeper SEALs Book 4) Page 2
