by Becky McGraw
Slow Ride
Sleeper Seals, Book 2
Becky McGraw
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Eileen, my amazing go-to for all things Navy related, including hot SEALs, and to Carolyn, my editor, steadfast friend, and book-writing rudder. Thank you both for your friendship and sage advice.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SLOW RIDE, Copyright © 2017 by Becky McGraw.
ISBN: 9781943188079
All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.
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Contents
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT | CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE | CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO | EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
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 was 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 Angelo, Benedict Hughes with the CIA, and their host tonight, Percy Long, the Secretary of State.
He 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 CONUS 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 every day.”
“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. “Black 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 three, and the President, sat behind desks all day. They’d neve
r 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. Even 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, 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 contractor, so you 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 intriguing? 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 quickly. “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.
***
Keegan MacDonald knew now why the Navy called it terminal leave, because he felt like he might indeed die of boredom working at his uncle’s motorcycle shop. And it had only been eighty-nine days since he officially left the teams. He had a whole lifetime to fill, and nothing to fill it with except more of the same.
You have one more day to contest the medical discharge and fight for a staff position so you can have the surgery. Do it. Being in the Navy, but not on the teams, wouldn’t be that bad.
“It would be torture—that’s what that would be,” he growled as he twisted the wrench hard.
But you were going to leave the teams voluntarily not nine months ago for a woman. You got what you wanted bud, just not the way you wanted it.
The wrench slipped off of the nut and his knuckles rapped hard against the manifold. He cursed as he dropped it and it clattered on the greasy concrete floor, then slid under the bike. Damned shoulder, he thought, rubbing it as a muscle spasmed. He couldn’t even hold a wrench tight enough to turn a damned nut. How in the hell did he expect to do pull-ups or scale the wall? Even in a staff position, instead of on the teams, he’d have PT standards he’d have to meet.
You’ll never have one-hundred percent mobility again, even with surgery. The surgery could make it worse with the scar tissue.
That’s what the doctor, physical therapist, and the surgeon he consulted with all concluded. That also said, in that condition, if he stayed on the teams, he might be a danger to his teammates—which meant Keegan was done.
Eighty percent mobility was good enough for a normal life, what he’d managed with six months of rehab, but not enough to be an elite athlete, someone his brothers could depend on.
But this was a normal life?
With a huffed breath, he slid off of the creeper to his knees and reached for the wrench. His hand closed around the shaft, but he stayed there and shut his eyes.
You worked your ass off to get through BUD/S to get your trident, went to every hellhole on earth to get to Lt. Commander—and you’re giving that up without a fight? Have the surgery—the doctors might not know everything. They don’t know how hard you will work when you’re determined to accomplish a goal.
Keegan groaned as his hand tightened around the wrench and it cut into his palm. This was all Cee Cee Logan’s fucking fault. He should’ve never gone to Texas to see her. He should’ve never let his feelings for her go beyond their agreed upon terms, or let his fantasies convince him she felt the same. But she sure acted like she felt the same.
That stupidity cost him his career, but he was fortunate, because it could’ve cost him or one of his teammates their life. His mind had been on her, instead of the mission to Syria he was deployed on as soon as he got back from Texas. If it hadn’t been, he would have double-checked that his grenade launcher module was properly attached to his rifle before he fired.
“You okay, bud?” his uncle asked.
Keegan sighed and sat back on his heels. “No, I’m not feeling right today, Uncle Bob. I think I’m going to knock off early and ride to the beach. I’m pretty much caught up.”
“Well, you better get right this weekend because we have two new custom jobs coming in on Monday,” Bob replied, looking concerned.
That didn’t surprise him at all because Bob MacDonald was known as the best custom bike builder on the east coast. Keegan should be thrilled to be here learning everything he could from him, so he could open his own shop one day. That was the plan, but he just couldn’t find the passion he thought he’d have for it.
They’d talked about him coming to work at MacDonald Customs for years now. Keegan dreamed about it while he was deployed. It kept him sane. But now that he was doing it, it just didn’t give him the satisfaction he thought it would.
Being a SEAL was the only thing he ever seemed to have a passion for in his life, and now that he wasn’t one, Keegan had no idea what to do with himself. He had one more day to decide if he could deal with civilian life.
This weekend, he was going to the beach to surf and get his head right.
“A little surfing should do the trick. No worries, Unk, I’ll be here on Monday in a better frame of mind.” Keegan forced a smile as he stood.
“Find yourself a mermaid while you’re down there. That’s what you need, Son,” his uncle said with a wink and a hearty laugh.
A woman was the last thing he needed right now.
“You know it. That’s on the list right under surfing.” And a lobotomy.
Blowing out a breath, Keegan walked to the back of the shop and out the back door. He strode across the rear lot to the trailer he temporarily called home. Ninety days and he was still in the twenty-foot travel trailer.
“Stop it!” he shouted, as he grabbed the door handle and yanked it hard. Ten years of his life given to this country was enough. I
t was time for him to stop the pity party and figure this shit out. He was going to do that this weekend.
After a quick shower, Keegan filled his go bag with board shorts and tanks. He tossed his phone inside and zipped it up, but as soon as he picked up the bag, his phone rang. With a growl, he set it back down and fished it out. An unfamiliar number showed on the display, but he recognized the DC area code, so he thought it might be something to do with his forced retirement.
“This is MacDonald,” he grumbled.
“Lieutenant Commander Keegan MacDonald?” a deep voice, repeated. The fact that he included Keegan’s soon to be former title told him this was a related call.
“Yes, for now,” Keegan replied, pushing it past the knot in his throat. Who the hell was he without that title and SEAL behind his name?
“This is Commander Greg Lambert. I’ve seen your medical report and believe you can still perform a service for your county, so I have a proposition for you.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Bike’s coming along nicely,” Bob said, and Keegan flashed his uncle a smile that felt strange on his face. Smiling wasn’t something he’d done a lot of lately.
Thank God he’d undertaken this project on his bike or he’d likely be in a rubber room right now. Being led on was something he’d had just about enough of. First by Cee Cee Logan, then by Commander Greg Lambert and his, evidently fictional, counter-terror division staffed by former SEALs he’d recruited.
There’d been plenty of terror to go around in the United States in the last eight months, but the Commander had been on radio silence since that first call. Keegan had come to the conclusion that either he had been blowing his BDUs up with smoke, or he’d placed him on the B-team due to his injury, in which case he’d never be called up unless there was nobody else. With every day that passed, his certainty of that grew, as did his feeling of uselessness.
