Protecting Cassie (Special Forces: Operation Alpha)

by Desiree Holt

  Protecting Cassie (Special Forces: Operation Alpha)

  Desiree Holt

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  From Desiree

  More Special Forces: Operation Alpha World Books

  Books by Susan Stoker

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 ACES PRESS, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Edited by Wizards in Publishing LLC Cover by Croco Designs

  No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.

  Dear Readers,

  Welcome to the Special Forces: Operation Alpha Fan-Fiction world!

  If you are new to this amazing world, in a nutshell the author wrote a story using one or more of my characters in it. Sometimes that character has a major role in the story, and other times they are only mentioned briefly. This is perfectly legal and allowable because they are going through Aces Press to publish the story.

  This book is entirely the work of the author who wrote it. While I might have assisted with brainstorming and other ideas about which of my characters to use, I didn’t have any part in the process or writing or editing the story.

  I’m proud and excited that so many authors loved my characters enough that they wanted to write them into their own story. Thank you for supporting them, and me!

  READ ON!

  Xoxo

  Susan Stoker

  To Margie Hager

  Best friend, best damn beta reader ever beta reader, all around everything

  You have enriched my life in so many ways

  I bless the day we met.

  About the book

  Injured and discharged, he is lost…

  Sam Alvarez is newly discharged from SEALs that had been his entire life. Without the Team he is lost, but a bad injury to his left arm ended his career. His rehab is sow and he resents everything. The tiny isolated cabin in Maine former SEAL John “Tex” Keenan found for him is just what he wants.

  Frightened and in hiding…

  Physical therapist Cassie Malone had a job she loved, great friends and a man in her life she thought was Prince Charming. Until by accident she discovered he’s one of Boston’s drug kingpins. Now she’s hiding out in tiny Castile and scared he’ll find her.

  When Fate throws Cassie and Sam together, it’s a battle for him to let her help him relearn everything. His surliness is in high gear and she’s always looking over her shoulder. But neither of them counted on or expected the hot, hot attraction blazing between them.

  When drug smugglers show up and put everyone in danger, including Cassie, it’s up to Sam to use his skills to take them down and save the woman he’s come to love. But can he do it before it’s too late?

  Chapter 1

  Sam Alvarez stepped out onto the little front porch of the isolated cabin and inhaled a lungful of crisp, clean air. Below him, the choppy waters of the Gulf of Maine, which fed into the Atlantic Ocean, lapped vigorously at the narrow, sandy beach and wrapped its foamy lips around the harsh outcroppings of rock. He zipped up his jacket and cautiously made his way down the flight of wooden stairs to the beach. He’d discovered a stretch long enough to jog easily without getting his feet wet. After that, as he did every day, he’d finish his exercises out behind the cabin. It was painfully obvious to him that without the help of a professional physical therapist his arm wasn’t going to get better than it was. Bad news, because he wasn’t sure he could stand being around another human being right now.

  So, he’d complete his routine then relax—or as much as he relaxed these days—in front of the fireplace with a mug of hot coffee. But the lungful of salt air in the beginning always stung his senses and woke them up. He needed that, or he’d spend the day curled up in the big leather chair feeling sorry for himself, and lord knows he’d done enough of that.

  He made a conscious effort not to stuff his hands into his jacket pockets. The doctors had told him his left arm could end up with a permanent crook in it if he didn’t keep it mobile. At times, he wasn’t even sure he cared. The explosion of an IED had sent shards of shrapnel into the bones of both the upper and lower left arm. The three surgeries necessary to piece his arm back together had been his exit pass from the SEALs.

  With a sigh, he dug a pair of gloves from one pocket and pulled them on. Thankful his legs had not been injured, he turned his face into the wind and began a slow run. The wind whipped against his cheeks, swirling in the air around him, turning the surface of the ocean into a sea of whitecaps and filling the air with salt spray.

  He’d been here a week now. The first day, he’d stocked up on groceries so he wouldn’t have to make a trip too soon into the tiny little town. After that, every day was the same routine—a morning jog on the beach, sitting on the porch watching the activities on the water play out, and drinking hot coffee. In the evenings, he’d taken to reading, mostly thrillers that someone had left in the little bookcase. He hadn’t had much time for reading on active duty, and it was kind of nice now to lose himself in stories that were so much fantasy. He deliberately hadn’t bought any beer. The temptation to feel sorry for himself and ease that self-pity with large doses of alcohol was too tempting.

  Most people wouldn’t like the solitude of this place. Or maybe isolation was a better word. But it was exactly what Sam wanted. The nightmares had deceased in number, but they still came, jolting him awake, heart racing, sweat pouring over his body. He could still hear and see the flash of the IED and feel the intense pain shooting from his shoulder to his hip. When that happened, he forced himself out of bed, got a glass of cold water from the kitchen, and counted backward from one hundred, a trick his therapist had taught him. He never went back to sleep, knowing the dream would just grab him again. Instead, he spent the balance of the night forcing himself to read to redirect his brain.

  It wasn’t just the injury that gave him nightmares, or the injuries to his teammates. He’d been a SEAL for ten years and then, suddenly, he wasn’t. In the SEALs he had found identity and purpose. Now, he had none. He had no idea what came next in his life. He was a little too old to stay with his parents and let them fuss over him. That only underscored the loss of who he was, anyway. His sister and two brothers were busy with their own very productive lives and didn’t need him putting a damper on things. It stunned him to realize he’d lost all contact with any friends not in the Teams. But he stayed away from even those, unable to share how damaged he felt. Instead, he’d withdrawn more and more.

  The only two people seemed determined enough not to be ignored. One was Tex Keenan, who had called twice to see how he was doing and how he liked the place. The other was his former SEAL teammate and close friend, Chase “Scooter” Winslow. Lately, however, he’d been letting those calls just
go to voice mail. After all, what did he have to say?

  Sitting around feeling sorry for himself had proven nonproductive. Apparently, the only person showing him pity besides his parents was himself. What he really needed was to get his fucking head on straight and figure out what to do with the rest of his life. He guessed he was damn lucky when their team leader, James “Wildcat” Malone, showed up at his apartment to give him a kick in the ass. He’d turned him onto John “Tex” Keenan, another former SEAL and one whose injury was far more debilitating than Sam’s. Tex had lost part of one leg, but apparently it hadn’t stopped him. He had unmatched computer skills and now provided support for his old team when they needed him as well as others. And he’d found himself a super smart, super-hot woman who thought he hung the moon.

  Besides showing him that his life was far from over if he embraced that possibility, Tex had found a place for him where he could have all the isolation he wanted, yet still be close enough to civilization to take care of his needs, such as food and physical therapy, a necessity if he ever wanted to regain more use of his arm. Castile was a very small little hamlet of no more than ten thousand people tucked into the Maine coast not far from Bar Harbor and about a forty-minute drive from Bangor. The cabin he was renting sat by itself outside of town, one of six or seven dotting the coast in that stretch of highway. It was rustic but clean and certainly suited his needs. He liked being here at the back of beyond. It was a place he could try to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. So far, he hadn’t made any progress.

  He ran at a slow pace along the packed sand, careful to avoid the outcroppings of rocks and the water breaking on the beach. There were few pleasure boats in the water today, and understandably so. Nobody liked battling the rough water, not if it was for fun. There was a marina about a mile down the road and, sometimes when he sat on the cabin’s front porch, he could watch them heading out towards the horizon. Sport fishermen. Whale watchers. Pleasure boaters. Kayakers, although he couldn’t imagine how anyone but frogmen would enjoy paddling a kayak in these wild waters.

  The lobstermen would all be out by now, having left the harbor early in the morning, usually by five or six a.m. Sam knew lobstering was a hard job, and each boat daily tracked down every pair of its lobster traps, emptied them, and filled them with fresh bait. Although as Tex describing it, “fresh” was an oxymoron where lobster bait was concerned. Then they’d head home, getting there early enough to sell the day’s catch, clean the boat, and prepare for the next day. In less than a week, several of the boats had become familiar to him. He knew who stayed out longest, who returned the earliest.

  He reached a point where the beach curved into a notch in the rocks, a place where people might picnic if not for the fact the ocean might sweep you away. He stopped for a moment, just to check out his surroundings. It wasn’t a picnic kind of day, and besides, he wasn’t good company for anyone, now or at any time. A week into his self-search program, he still had no idea what the fuck he was going to do with the rest of his life.

  First, you have to get your head out of your ass.

  He could hear Tex’s voice in his brain, vibrating through his body. Telling him this wasn’t the end of his life. Telling him he had a future. Wasn’t he supposed to be figuring that out? Wasn’t that why he was here?

  He looked up the steep face of the cliff to the tiny overlook above the area. An SUV was parked there less than two feet behind a woman who was leaning against the railing. He’d noticed her there twice before as he jogged home but never really stopped to look. And here she was again. Well, that was weird.

  He squinted up at her. It was hard to judge her height from this angle, or her build, for that matter, with the ski jacket she was wearing. But her blonde hair, like spun gold gleaming in the sun, was picked up by the wind and streamed out across her face. She tucked it behind her ears in an almost absent-minded gesture. She was staring out across the water, seemingly fixated on a lobster boat that looked as if it might not make it another hundred yards.

  Sam had noticed that boat every day, sure it might either break apart in deep water or sink before it reached shore again. Unlike the other lobstermen, this one went out early in the afternoon and returned after dark. When you had nothing to do except sit on the porch freezing your nuts off, your brain registered things like that. He wondered idly who was stupid enough to go out in rough seas in a craft that looked so unsteady. And why today they were suddenly out in the water well before their usual time. Well, it was none of his business, but still, he couldn’t help wondering.

  When he looked up again, the woman was still staring out at the boat. Was it someone she knew? Was she worried about them? Then he saw her shift and look down at him, jerk away from the railing, and take a couple of steps back toward her car.

  He shook his head. Weird. He waited until he saw the car pull away before he resumed his jog/walk. He kept going until the came to the next cabin, perched high above the water like the one he was renting, with steps leading up to it built into the rock. Then he turned and headed back.

  By now all the lobster boats were well out to sea, and the first of the pleasure crafts and sport fishing boats were cutting through the waves. He missed it, the water. Heading out in the dark toward a target in a Zodiac, or with his entire team in a Special Operations Craft-Riverine (SOC-Riverine). Swimming underwater, so silent not even sophisticated listening equipment could hear them. Operating as part of a team so synced to each other that only the barest signals were needed to communicate.

  Well, shut the fuck up, Alvarez. That’s done and finished and feeling sorry for yourself gets you nothing.

  He climbed up the steep flight of stairs to his cabin, but as he grabbed the rail without thinking, he felt a sharp twinge in his left arm. Damn it. Tex had warned him not to drop out of physical therapy, that he’d pay for it later. But he just hadn’t been able to get up the stones for it. After all, what was the use? He’d never be what he was.

  But you can be something just as good, that damn voice whispered in his head.

  And as the intensity of the pain increased, he realized he was just being stupid. He might not be a SEAL anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to settle for being a cripple. He thought about Tex, who had lost half of one leg, forging ahead and building a new life for himself, and shame washed over him.

  Inside the cabin, he opened the tin box where he’d put the goodies he bought at Rolling in Dough, the town bakery the agent from the realty office recommended to him. Empty. Damn! He didn’t have a huge sweet tooth, but this place turned out pastry’s angels sang about. He knew he should get started on resuming his physical therapy, but not today. Today he was going to answer the urgings of his sweet tooth.

  Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d dig out the number of that physical therapy place in Bangor and see about making an appointment.

  Cassie Malone told herself she was crazy to keep coming here to this overlook. What did she expect to see? She was already running from one kind of trouble. Why would she look for another. For the first two weeks after she arrived in Castile, she’d hardly ventured out of the cottage at all except for necessities. Then she decided she had to create a new life for herself. She certainly couldn’t go back to her old one. Not unless the danger to her disappeared, and that didn’t feel like it was happening any time soon.

  The possibility of a connection between this and the mess in Boston was so farfetched, she should just forget about it. Of course, they were close to the Canadian border. How easy it would be to bring merchandise onto the water and somehow make the exchange. God almighty. Talk about letting her imagination run away with her. It had to be a product of her overactive mind, rolling around like a loose ball since her life had blown up.

  With a sigh, she climbed into her SUV and cranked the ignition. Then she sat there for a few moments, collecting her thoughts. Who on earth was the strange man jogging along that dangerous beach? Didn’t he know breakers could come in almo
st to the jagged rocks? Or that some of the rocks formed out so close to the water he could trip over them?

  She didn’t recall seeing him in town. She knew she would have remembered. Even at this distance she could tell he was tall, and the windbreaker and jeans did little to disguise a muscular body. Her therapist hands automatically wanted to stroke over those muscles and trace the lines of his body. His thick brown hair was on the long side, and the wind picked it up and tossed it into a sexy, disheveled mess. Sexy. Sexy? With the mess her life was in, she was thinking sexy?

  In any event, she didn’t recognize him. He was probably staying in one of the isolated cabins Down East Realty rented out on a regular basis. Okay, semi-regular. From May through September they were full but Ted Simmons, who ran the real estate agency, had a hard time filling them starting in October. Only hermits or isolationists wanted them during those months.

  Although her own place wasn’t much better. The cottage her aunt Jennie left her sat on the other side of town, not close to any others. Her aunt had wanted it that way, and Cassie was grateful for the isolation. When she first arrived, she hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone. Now, when she came home at the end of the day, she felt the same way. For the most part.

  Because, out of nowhere, she’d made a friend. She wasn’t quite sure how she and Margie Hager, owner of Rolling in Dough, had connected so fast. Maybe it was her addiction to the bakery’s famed chocolate muffins that had her coming in every morning. One day they got into a conversation, and that was it. Margie was the ideal friend. She didn’t pry, just offered friendship, support, and delicious pastries. If ever a woman could be said to be an angel, it was Margie Hager—pretty, smart, sharp, and caring. Cassie pinched herself every day at her luck in connecting the way they had. And Margie was the one who had turned her onto the physical therapist job at the new clinic in town