Pitbull (SEAL Team Alpha Book 10)

by Zoe Dawson

  She finished buttoning up her shirt and gingerly tucked it into her waistband. Poking him in the chest, she said, “I can feel whatever way I want to feel. Thanks for your SEAL bullshit, but I don’t need mentoring, Obi-Wan.”

  She brushed past him, and damn if he didn’t feel that tingle he was trying to ignore in addition to being impressed as hell. She didn’t hesitate to say what she meant. He liked a woman who could communicate in a straightforward way.

  He caught her at the door. “I’m not mentoring, just giving you some wisdom. I’m here to protect you. That’s the mission.”

  “Then do your job and let me do mine.”

  She slipped out the door, and he recognized redirected ire. If she was deflecting anger toward him, he could take it. He did sympathize with her, and sooner or later that kind of guilt and mad would catch up to her.

  When they got to the parking lot, Saint was already in the driver’s seat, and Max flashed him a sly look as he grabbed the door handle to the back. Pitbull was stuck with shotgun since Bodyguard 101 dictated a subject didn’t ride in the front seat.

  He certainly didn’t want to relegate Mak to simply a subject, but they were here to do a job, not hook up. With Helen’s behavior and the possibility of a battle over Samantha, Pitbull would be smart not to add any more females into an already goat fuck of a situation. Mak seemed no nonsense to him. She probably had no interest in dealing with his bullshit anyway.

  Saint drove out of the parking lot, and Pitbull put all his mental gymnastics on the back burner. He went into SEAL mode, his eyes roving as they drove through downtown to the turnoff that would take them back to the airport.

  “Is it true you went mano a mano with a Great White like that sailor said back on the sub?” Saint asked.

  “I minded my own business, and he minded his.”

  “Oh, come on. Details.”

  Pitbull looked up into the rearview, and Max was still smirking. It would be a freaking miracle if he didn’t coldcock that bastard before this mission was done.

  “After I jumped from the platform, he brushed my shoulder as he swam past. He was huge, probably two k.”

  “Damn, not even a shark messes with Pitbull.” Max’s tone was different, and that caused Pitbull to look back at him again. He blinked. Was that respect in Max’s eyes before he turned to say something to Mak?

  It would be a freaking miracle if they didn’t get into it before they left the Triple Frontier. It was moments like this between them that set Pitbull’s teeth on edge. Before the thought could be stopped, he wondered how different it would have been between he and Max before Speed’s betrayal, before the disillusionment of what he’d considered friendship and brotherhood, before everything had broken in their relationship from the personal to the professional.

  Before he’d found out that Samantha was his child. And even if he had been trying to help, he’d still broken the cardinal rule.

  And he couldn’t help wondering how any of it could be fixed.

  But he was beginning to think that if he didn’t heed Dragon’s words, where would that leave him and the team they were supposed to be?

  Saint navigated through the traffic, around people and cyclists expertly. He was one of the best drivers on the teams. As cool as they came when in pursuit or when executing a smash and grab in any type of vehicle.

  “Lots of teeth?” Saint asked, not batting an eyelash when a cab pulled out from the curb and he had to maneuver the vehicle with a twist of his arm, barely missing a sideswipe.

  “Two razor-sharp rows.”

  “Hoo-yah,” Saint muttered and lifted his hand for a fist bump, then hesitated, probably realizing that Pitbull rarely acknowledged anything remotely bro-like from his new teammates. But before Saint could check himself, Pitbull reciprocated. Saint grinned like the devil.

  While Max murmured in the back seat, Pitbull checked the mirrors for any familiar cars following too close. Nothing out of the ordinary traffic until he spotted a white van that he’d noticed had turned from a side street just after the taxi had almost hit them.

  Periodically, as Saint followed the signs to the airport, Pitbull watched the van. Feeling the prickle of awareness, he didn’t say anything, his vigilance acute.

  As Saint slowed down to turn into the rental lot, he got a good look at the driver of the van before Saint drove into the entrance. The van kept on going. He watched as it disappeared down the two-lane highway.

  Pitbull scanned the area. Across the street there was nothing but trees and brush with the same story all around the rental lot. He was aware of the uncertainty of the jungle, the heat, the humidity, the utter silence. The overgrowth was thick, and with that kind of cover, anything could be lurking inside.

  At the entrance to the parking lot, they paused, then drove from cracked concrete to the overflow area where the agents had been taken. There was nothing but hard-packed dirt here. It was cordoned off by the local cops who had stationed two men to keep the area clear of contamination.

  As they exited the vehicle, Mak’s soft laugh from the back seat said she found Max amusing. Pitbull felt instantly annoyed, hating that she might find one of his teammates attractive—Max of all people. There was no way he was competing with Max, not after everything that had happened with Helen and Speed.

  Then she turned toward him, and he expected the light in her dark eyes, but it changed when theirs met, deepened, sparkled, and his heart turned over.

  He let out a short breath.

  She was quite beautiful, her features strong but balanced, the kind of look he suspected was reserved for queens, experienced assassins, and skilled, tough Native American NCIS agents. Her ancestry was in her angles and in her bones, in the deep black of her hair along with that calm, spiritual look that spoke volumes without words.

  Her smile wasn’t for Max, and her energy wasn’t for him either. Everything was directed at Pitbull with an arrow straight to his heart.

  It wasn’t the time or place, but hell, in his business, whenever was it the time or place?

  Max was already moving to the edge of the roped off area, taking up his position while Saint did the same. Mak slipped under the tape and started talking to one of the guards. He nodded and the two of them retreated.

  Pitbull left the vehicle and joined her.

  It was amazing to watch her work. She scanned the ground around the vehicles, then crouched down to get a better look. He wondered about her background, wondered who had taught her.

  She pulled out her camera and snapped off a few pictures, then pocketed it back into her pants.

  She rose and said, “There was a struggle here. Three sets of footprints.” She started to walk. “Here it goes to two.” She pointed at the ground. “Whoever took Paige picked her up. She put up quite a fight.”

  The edge to her voice was banked by fury and concern. She went back to the car, and her mouth thinned, her eyes looking at marks in the dirt, incomprehensible to him. But to her, she saw a pattern. She suddenly crouched down and touched a dark spot with her finger.

  “Blood,” she whispered, then scanned the small patch of dirt and gravel. “Chris,” she said in a tone that was reserved for good friends. “He fought here…was injured. The wound isn’t life threatening.” Her voice was distant as if she was thinking out loud. “Drag marks,” she said, moving at a crouch so she could better see the ground. She did that for several feet. He didn’t have to guess that she was hoping Chris was still alive.

  “How are you reading…dirt and shit?” Max asked.

  “Everything makes a mark in this world,” she answered cryptically.

  For the second time she looked to the bank of trees at the edge of the lot. Walking toward it, she continued to scan the ground. Saint and Max moved with her. Once they reached the dense vegetation, she slipped through and Pitbull followed.

  Mak paused at a stand of trees just inside the undergrowth. She studied the brush of leaves scattered around the base of the trunks. Someone ha
d been through here, and recently, judging by the way the leaves had been disturbed. There were no clear footprints, but he was sure Mak’s trained eye saw more than he could.

  He looked over his shoulder and noted the direct path of cover from where he stood, straight to the parking space where Chris and Paige had parked. Mak was moving again, and he paced her through the copse until they broke out into the yard of a home. A dog started barking, and a man came out of the house.

  He walked over and started to talk to Mak, who gestured toward his gate and then to the rental place next door. He shook his head and she nodded.

  She walked back to him. “He said he didn’t see anything, but he drives a sedan. It’s clear to me that a heavier vehicle was parked here, near the trees. The tracks from the lot end right here. This is where they transported Chris and Paige and then drove them away. That’s why no one saw anything and it looked like they vanished. It would have been very easy for a vehicle to pull up back here on his property. It’s well concealed from the road.

  “Can you tell what kind of vehicle?”

  “I’d say an SUV or a van.”

  “A van,” he repeated.

  She walked toward the gate and examined the post. “One with a scrape from the looks of it. It was a tight fit and the driver grazed the pole. The vehicle is white.”

  She looked at him and her eyes narrowed when he scanned the area. “What’s wrong?”

  “There was a white van following us,” he murmured. “Let’s get back to Saint and Max.”

  They retraced their steps and Pitbull said to his teammates, “We were followed. Stay sharp.”

  Pitbull saw something flash across the street in the heavy brush.

  “Max,” he said. “With me. I saw something. Saint, stay with her while she does her thing, but get her out of here if there’s any threat.”

  “Copy that,” Saint said as Max came up behind him. Together they walked to the edge of the rental building, ducking behind it. Pitbull drew his sidearm and released the safety, chambering a bullet.

  “On your six,” Max murmured, all business, leather creaking as he drew his weapon. His face was as serious as a heart attack. “Where?” he asked as he crouched behind Pitbull when he paused to look across the street again.

  “Directly left from this position, but let’s go further down and cross. Then come in behind him.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Still in a crouch, they moved along the building until they came to another stretch of scrub and trees that would hide them. The only time they would be exposed was when they crossed the road. Hopefully, the watcher was still interested in what Mak was doing.

  Pitbull picked up his pace, moved through the vegetation with barely a vibration. When they hit the road, they stayed low and were soon across, swallowed up into more green.

  Making a sharp left, they started moving parallel to the road, back-tracking to the spot he had seen the flash. About halfway there, a flicker of movement grabbed their attention. Pitbull took off in a hard run when the flutter disappeared as soon as it caught his eye. Something in the distance was moving. Something white.

  He picked up the pace through lush foliage with Max on his heels. The broad branches of palm and towering banana trees obscured their vision while ferns, eucalyptus leaves, and tall grass slapped at their thighs, hips, and shins as they ran. The sound of an engine fired up just before they were able to push their way through the dense growth straight across from Mak. There were broken fronds and trampled vegetation.

  His chest heaving, Max already setting up a perimeter, Pitbull wiped at the beading sweat on his forehead and running down his face as he swore softly under his breath.

  The fucker who had been watching them was gone.

  He moved a few more paces over and saw deep tire tracks. They led to the road, showing displaced dirt and sand where the tires had left the jungle floor and climbed back onto the road.

  The markings were certainly deep enough for a van, but what was this jerk’s game and how did Chris Vargas and Paige Wilder play into it?

  6

  Sinclair Residence, San Diego, California

  Hemingway tried calling his sister again, but again, there was nothing at the other end of the line. Chloe cooed softly in her sleep as he held her snugly in his arms.

  He breathed in her baby scent and worked at not letting despair in. Despair, panic, anxiety and worry weren’t going to help Paige. Decisive thinking, action, and positive thoughts would.

  It didn’t help that no one—no one—had given him any information. Even a simple “We’re working on it” would have helped. But the silence was driving him slowly mad.

  He watched his dad lose sleep and look haggard as two days passed with no word. His brothers were calling constantly, and there was still no contact with Kid.

  Plans were starting to form. Plans that would cause problems in his life. But Paige wasn’t only his sister. She was the woman who raised him, who comforted him when their mother had left, who had been there to help him with his homework, encourage him during every sports moment, and had bandaged his skinned knees and wiped his adolescent tears. She had never wavered or quit. She had never given up or in any way acted like her brothers were a burden for her to raise. She’d just done it and done it so well… His throat got tight and he had to swallow several times to keep from losing it. She had given up so much for them. So much.

  Chloe slept peacefully, unaware that her mother was in mortal danger, her father away on a mission that kept him out of the loop. She sighed softly, and he lowered his head and brought her close.

  He rose and walked to her crib and settled her down, covering her with a pink blanket, white unicorns cavorting with silver hooves flashing. She was so peaceful, her skin baby soft. His protective instincts were kicking in and getting mixed up with Paige.

  He gripped the edge of the crib, his gut twisting until he had a hard time breathing. He was aware that he had a complex relationship with his sister, who had acted more like a mom to him. Maybe that relationship was more intense because she had been so integral in his upbringing.

  After his mom had left, his older brothers had also stepped up to help with family stuff. Hemingway had been too young and was overlooked. He didn’t have an important role in the family as his older brothers, which had given him the feeling of not quite fitting in.

  As a kid, it had been easier to keep his emotions hidden and just do his own thing, and that rebellious streak had led to a craving for risk and adventure and the kind of adrenaline rush that kept him on a natural high.

  He’d built different priorities from his sister and brothers, and he’d naturally put women in a contained box, hemming them into a specific role that didn’t threaten his need for the exhilarating journey he felt destined to take.

  The easy step was joining the Navy, because his only duty was to himself and Uncle Sam. It would satisfy his edgy need for something special, yet temporary, and didn’t demand anything more than he had to give.

  He wanted to be challenged, become part of the elite group of special operators and stand out in his family.

  But everything he was or could become went out the window with Paige in danger. And she was. He could feel it in his gut in a visceral way. She was threatened, her life hanging in the balance. He wasn’t going to stand by and allow Chloe to lose her mother so young and forever have to wonder why she was different from all the kids out there who had a mom to come home to, to know over the years, to fight with and love.

  He also had to think about his dad and how he was trying to handle her disappearance, his only daughter. It was killing him.

  Then there was Kid. He wasn’t here. He was deployed and out of the loop. The anguish he would suffer knowing his wife was kidnapped and in danger while he was unable to help her washed through Hemingway like the slap of freezing water. Kid had gone out of his way to help him in every aspect of becoming a SEAL. He had bonded with his brother-in-law in a way that went beyon
d the teams and beyond a mentor. He couldn’t let him down.

  Hemingway reached out and smoothed his hand over his niece’s head. “It’s all going to be all right.”

  He left the nursery and went out into the living room. His dad was still working, trying to keep busy so he could make it through each day. Hemingway pressed a number, and when Jo Moretti answered, he made his request.

  Command Center, Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil

  For three days straight, there was little sleep and a lot of information gathering, looking into Chris and Paige’s backgrounds, trying to figure out who took them and why. It was ominous that there was no communication from the kidnappers.

  By the beginning of the fourth day, Mak was completely exhausted. It was as if her tracking abilities had failed her and in turn, she had failed her coworkers.

  She was currently staring out the window, her arms wrapped around her torso. She turned to the full room. “What do we have? Anything new?”

  No one spoke and her heart sank. They were at an impasse. “Nothing? What the hell are we doing then? They’re out there, and we can’t find them. There’s been no communication still?”

  “No,” a man with black-rimmed glasses and a shock of dark hair said. He was in a military uniform. “Nothing. No chatter, no witnesses, no clues, no leads.”

  She ran her hand over her face, irritation swept through her, and she kicked a wastebasket. It impacted the wall, and everyone stopped working. Pitbull was sitting in the corner watching her.

  Feeling sick from not eating or sleeping well, she clenched her fists. “Go,” she said softly. “Get some food and rest. We’ll begin all over again when you get back.”

  People, including Pitbull, filed out of the room. She was alone. She clenched her teeth, trying with all her might to push back the encroaching guilt. She didn’t do well with feeling helpless.

  Moments later when she heard the door to the command center open, she turned. It was Pitbull, and he was carrying two plates full of eggs, bacon and toast balanced on one arm while he juggled two mugs in his other big hand.