Cover of Darkness

by Kaylea Cross

  COVER OF DARKNESS

  Suspense Series

  Kaylea Cross

  Cover of Darkness

  Copyright © 2009 & 2019 Kaylea Cross

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  Cover Art: Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  Digital Formatting: LK Campbell

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-928044-38-3

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Targeted by a terrorist cell.

  Bryn McAllister survives a bombing at the U.S. Embassy in Beirut only to be left to die in a desert cellar. When she’s rescued by SEAL Lieutenant Declan McCabe and his team, Bryn must rely on him and his team to get her to safety. But just when she thinks the nightmare is over, she and McCabe are recruited to help track down the terrorist mastermind responsible for the attack.

  Now they’re both fighting for their lives.

  With Bryn determined to see the terrorist brought to justice, Dec joins up to protect her, prepared to do whatever it takes to keep her safe during their hazardous mission. Battling the explosive attraction between them, Dec fights to keep his distance from her so he can do his job and keep her alive. And when everything go sideways and Bryn is captured, he must make the agonizing choice between his duty as a SEAL and the life of the woman he loves.

  DEDICATION

  To DH and the weasels. Thanks for your support in helping me realize my dream; I know it isn’t always easy. Love you guys.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I had so much fun writing this book. I even took up belly dance as research :). Hope you enjoy Dec and Bryn’s nail-biting story!

  Happy reading,

  Kaylea

  Table Of Contents

  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

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COMPLETE BOOKLIST

  Chapter One

  Day 1, Beirut

  Evening

  As the platter of deviled eggs passed by, Bryn McAllister’s stomach howled in protest beneath her elegant Versace dress. The fruit and croissant she’d snagged on her way to the armored Range Rover that had taken them to the embassy that morning had worn off about six hours ago. But her father had more important things to worry about than interrupting their crammed schedule for lunch. She eyed the plates on the buffet longingly.

  “Hungry?”

  She glanced to her right and caught the American ambassador’s knowing smile. “Starving.”

  “No doubt your father kept you busy all day without thinking to feed you.”

  “Yes.” Not that she’d expected anything different. It was always like that when he was working. Her father, a constant whirlwind of energy, would never think to eat unless one of his staff brought him something. She should be grateful they had so many dinner functions to attend while she was here for her visit, otherwise she might starve.

  The ambassador leaned over, his blue eyes twinkling behind rimless glasses. “Food’s probably another forty-five minutes away. Wait here and I’ll see if I can sneak us a piece of bread.”

  “You’re a godsend,” she whispered back, smiling as he left the table.

  As she followed his progress across the dining room, a movement caught her attention, and her gaze halted on a waiter standing in the corner. She would have looked away, but something about the guy’s posture didn’t feel right.

  Stiff against the back wall, dressed in a crisp white uniform, the slightly-built man radiated tension. She watched him for another minute, noting how his gaze darted about him, and how he kept wiping his upper lip across his shoulder. He seemed to be sweating profusely, even though the embassy dining room was quite comfortable, almost cool with the air conditioning. In her halter-neck, peacock-blue silk evening gown and high-heeled sandals, Bryn bordered on the verge of chilly.

  Yet the man in the corner appeared to be melting like butter in a hot sauté pan.

  Either he had a fever, or he was uneasy about something.

  Her instincts went on alert. Then she chided herself for being paranoid. Security was tight, the guards well trained. Ben, her friend and head of her father’s security team, had personally checked the place over before leaving. The embassy would have screened the staff working tonight. Armed U.S. Marines were standing at the door. She needed to ramp her suspicions down a few octaves and enjoy the evening.

  “Your father always boasted to me about how intelligent and beautiful his daughter was, Bryn, but until I met you tonight I thought he was lying.”

  Tearing her gaze away from the waiter, she turned to the other American diplomat seated beside her and regained her polite smile. “Thank you for the compliment. It’s nice to know my father thinks so highly of me.”

  Especially since he’d been conspicuously absent throughout most of her life.

  The American’s plump cheeks, already pink from his third glass of red wine, glowed even more. His bushy white eyebrows reminded her of two fuzzy caterpillars crawling over his forehead. “You must take after your mother.”

  Bryn cocked a brow. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because no man as hard as Jamul could be credited with making such a breathtaking daughter.”

  She shared a friendly laugh with him, glancing over to wink at her father directly across the polished mahogany table. A handsome man, he was in his late sixties, his once raven hair liberally peppered with gray, his clean-shaven jaw a little softer than it had been in his youth, but still strong. A tall and imposing figure even at his age, his sharp, black eyes gleamed with the shrewdness he was legendary for. She’d inherited his coloring and keen mind, her mother’s looks and easy way with people. The best of both worlds in her gene pool, she liked to think.

  “My daughter is a rare flower,” her father acknowledged with a raise of his glass.

  It was stupid, but Bryn blushed at the public praise.

  “Now, if you’re done trying to win over my only child, Ambassador, let’s get back to the task at hand.”

  The diplomat gave a long-suffering sigh and shook his head at her. “Your father, he never knows when to relax and enjoy himself. Jamul,” he said to her father, “we’re having a fine evening here. Good food, expensive wine, your charming daughter to converse with…my advisers and the entire Lebanese interior ministry here enjoying themselves.” He gestured to the other men and their female companions seated down the length of the table. “And all you want to do is talk business.”

  “Perhaps my priorities are different than yours,” her father suggested.

  Her dinner companion gave her an exasperated look. “
Has he always been this way?”

  Bryn nodded, her smile sharp. “Always.”

  She’d grown up knowing all about his ‘priorities,’ and that she and her mother had been at the bottom of his list. That was why her mother had moved home to Baltimore when she was six months pregnant with Bryn. Being a single mother was far easier at home with family around to help than living a lonely existence in the same house with the father of your child.

  “Lebanon still has many wounds to heal, as you are aware,” her father reminded his guest. “There is much to be done to stabilize our government and the region.”

  Yes, but would anything ever be enough to bring peace? The Middle East’s issues were so complex they were overwhelming. She had the feeling her father had summoned her to Beirut for this summit because of her dual citizenship. As Jamul Daoud’s half-Lebanese, half-American daughter, she was the perfect addition to the diplomatic conference. She wouldn’t put it past him to use her as a sort of human icebreaker, someone to soften the edges around the conference’s intent and serve as a living embodiment of the two cultures.

  When it came to manipulating something to his advantage, nothing he did would surprise her. He was as ruthless and determined in his resolve as he was shrewd, which was why he had been appointed to serve in the Lebanese cabinet for the past seventeen years.

  Bryn knew deep in her bones that his inviting her to stay with him for a couple of weeks had less to do with seeing her and everything to do with this important summit. In fact, most of her visits with him since adulthood had coincided with diplomatic events. She didn’t mind, but it would have been nice to have some time for just the two of them.

  The American ambassador returned to his seat with a secretive smile and passed her a roll under the table. She accepted it with a conspiratorial wink and tore off a piece, popped it discreetly into her mouth and listened carefully while one of the ambassadors discussed the positions of the different political factions in and around Beirut and the rest of the war-torn country.

  Her father, ever the analytical businessman, saw the necessity in maintaining strong ties with the United States. While many of his countrymen hated America and all it represented, Jamul knew his country needed U.S. assistance to survive. A necessary evil, if you will. She kept silent, missing nothing, and during a lull in the conversation turned part of her attention back to the strangely behaving waiter across the room.

  He’d moved next to the window facing the front of the building, and as she watched, he darted an anxious glance down at the street below. When he looked up, their gazes locked for an instant. She could have sworn he froze for a split second, then broke eye contact and hurried into the kitchen, out of view.

  Weird, she thought, taking a sip of champagne. Something was bothering that guy. He looked almost frightened. The forerunners of unease prickled up her spine. She was definitely going to keep a close eye on him, and if he kept behaving strangely, she’d quietly say something to one of the security guards. Better to look like an alarmist than sit and do nothing.

  Responding to the conversation where necessary, taking it all in, Bryn remained vigilant for the waiter. He reappeared a few minutes later and stayed close to that same window, wiped his perspiring face twice, three times, dark eyes shifting this way and that, avoiding her gaze. She stared directly at him, instinct shrieking at her that something was wrong.

  Anti-American sentiment was at an all-time high in the region. Beirut itself had its share of known terror cells and many more that were yet unknown. Security was extremely tight in the city, especially around its government institutions and officials. Her own father lived in his compound-like house with bodyguards and other security personnel. Cameras scanned the grounds, and snipers took shifts protecting the property.

  Many groups would love to see Jamul Daoud dead because of his desire to maintain political relations with the U.S. Maybe others would love to see it happen because he’d had a daughter with an American woman.

  Another waiter, taller, with a small scar bisecting his chin, came and stood next to the first one, then leaned down to murmur something to him. The tight anxiety on the small man’s face melted away, replaced by acute relief. He shuffled away to the kitchen and moments later came back with a covered silver dish.

  With what seemed to her like the utmost concentration, he placed it ever so carefully on the buffet table against the far wall, then hurried out of the dining room without looking back. The last piece of him she saw before he disappeared was his sleeve as it wiped across his forehead.

  She glanced to either side of her to find out if anyone else had noticed the strange behavior, but everyone seemed engrossed in their own conversations. Maybe she was making too much of it.

  She turned her attention back to the second waiter, still positioned by the window. A flare of shock hit her when she realized he was staring back at her. Those dark eyes seemed to burn right through her, brimming with hatred, paralyzing her.

  Then he smirked. An evil smirk that sent a cold wave of fear up her spine. He knew she’d been watching them. Still holding her gaze, he drew his finger across his throat in a slow slitting motion, then walked away.

  The implication of the gesture chilled her.

  She shot to her feet, panic grabbing her. “Somebody stop him!” she cried, and the waiter jolted into a run at her words. Everyone at the table stared up at her in shock. “That waiter, stop him!”

  Her father frowned at the unseemly interruption and set his silverware down, his brows lowered. “What—”

  The waiter was almost past the guards now.

  “That man, get him,” she continued, shoving her chair back and almost tripping on the hem of her gown as she pointed impotently after him. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Her alarm must have been obvious, because the others at the table had grown silent, staring at her.

  “Security!” With her heart in her throat, she struggled to get past the ambassador, gesturing wildly to the security guards. Why didn’t they see her? She was waving and yelling like a crazy woman.

  A terrible thought occurred to her. Were they in on it? Was that why no one was doing anything?

  Her father dropped his napkin on the table and shot to his feet, his face concerned. “Bryn, what are you doing?”

  “Just stop him, quick!” She couldn’t afford to wait and explain, so she rushed toward the two Marines standing guard as fast as she could in an evening dress and four-inch heels. They finally noticed her, their posture stiffening at the alarm on her face. God, why was everything happening so slowly?

  Her father barked a quick command and they’d just gone out the doors after the waiter when the power went out. Heart pounding in the sudden blackness, Bryn skidded to a stop amidst the gasps of the stunned dinner guests. Shouts and three distinct gunshots rang out from down the hall.

  Pandemonium erupted around her.

  “Get down! Everybody get down!” More security agents rushed in, yelling instructions.

  Bryn hit the floor and crawled under the nearest table, breath heaving in and out. What the hell was going on? Some kind of terrorist plot?

  A second later an explosion ripped through the room, shattering glass and sending a wall of orange fire through the air. The force of it threw Bryn backwards and slammed her into the wall. She lay there, winded and disoriented. Her head spun. People screamed and sobbed around her, men shouting in English and Arabic, rushing around. She could barely see in the darkness.

  Strong hands grabbed her under the shoulders and yanked her roughly out from under the table. Too weak to protest, she moaned as her rubbery legs gave out and she was dragged across the glass-and-debris-strewn carpet, crying out as jagged shards sliced at her skin. The man helping her was speaking in rapid Arabic. It took her a moment to focus on the words, but when her brain processed them, she realized what he was saying. He had the ‘traitor’s daughter.’ He was not her savior, but her captor.

  Well, he had picked the wrong target. She
would not go quietly, no matter how dazed she was.

  She struggled frantically in his hard grip, managed to land an elbow to his ribs, and he swore. Twisting free, she crawled forward a few feet, her damned dress tangling around her legs. Someone else grabbed her and she flipped onto her back with a cry of rage, lashing out with all her strength, using her high heels as daggers.

  Her feet hit nothing but air, and when she tried to gain her equilibrium, a thick arm wrapped around her throat, cutting off her breath. She tried to jerk her head back, but it only bounced off her assailant’s chest, so she slammed both fists upward, making solid contact on bone. The instant the pressure around her throat lessened, she fought her way free and lunged forward. Smoke burned her eyes and throat. She coughed and blinked fast, blinded by the dimness and her watering eyes.

  Amidst the burning wreckage of the room, people still scrambled around. She couldn’t see her father as she weaved toward the sliver of light coming from the broken door that led to the hallway. Where was he? Was he hurt?

  Chest heaving, lungs burning with the effort, she crawled over to claw at the heavy wooden door, desperate for some light so she could see in the ruined room. Hands wrenched her backward. Someone hit her hard across the back of the neck and something sharp stabbed into her shoulder. She had only a second to register the burn of the needle before everything went black.

  Chapter Two

  Day 1, Off the Lebanon coast

  Evening

  Seated in the officers’ mess hall, Navy SEAL Lieutenant Declan McCabe took another sip of his blessedly hot coffee and tried to figure out the last clue to complete his crossword puzzle, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. It felt damned good to have some downtime after spending the past four months in and around Iraq, deep in enemy territory. He and his team had earned this leave coming to them, and everybody was looking forward to going home in the next day or two.