FRACTURED HONOR

by Kaylea Cross

  FRACTURED HONOR

  Crimson Point Series

  Kaylea Cross

  FRACTURED HONOR

  Copyright © 2018 Kaylea Cross

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  Cover Art: Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  Developmental edits: Deborah Nemeth

  Line Edits: Joan Nichols

  Digital Formatting: LK Campbell

  * * * * *

  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: 978-1-928044-29-1

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Dear reader

  Excerpt from Buried Lies

  About the Author

  Complete Booklist

  About the Book

  An elite warrior struggling to find his place in the civilian world.

  Weary from his years on the battlefield, SF Captain Beckett Hollister has returned home to Crimson Point to take over the family business for his dying father. But adjusting to life outside the military is harder than he imagined, and being back home forces him to confront things he’d rather not face. Including the one woman he shouldn’t want and can’t have—his best friend’s little sister.

  A love that was always meant to be.

  Town vet Sierra Buchanan has known Beckett her entire life. She’s crushed on him for years, but because of his relationship with her family, the stubborn man refuses to see her as more than the girl he grew up with. As tragedy brings them together, neither of them realizes that the sins of Beckett’s past have come home to haunt him. When Sierra becomes the target of his unforeseen enemy, Beckett must vanquish his demons to save her.

  Dedication

  For Katie, who helped me dream this place and its characters up in the idyllic mountain village of Leavenworth, WA.

  Love you bunches.

  xo

  Author’s Note

  Welcome to the beautiful town of Crimson Point on the wild Oregon Coast, with all its hidden dangers and drama set against the dramatic, rugged landscape. I hope you’ll fall in love with this place, and the new cast of characters I’ve dreamed up.

  Happy reading,

  Kaylea

  Chapter One

  “I’ve got movement, eighty yards northeast of target. One male, two bodyguards exiting a silver Toyota pickup,” Captain Beckett Hollister murmured into his mic.

  Lying prone behind some scrub brush on a ridge overlooking the valley below, he watched the target through his high-powered binos in the cold, November dawn. A mud-colored brick compound Beckett’s twelve-man Special Forces A-Team had been sent out last night to provide recon on, now slowly beginning to lighten on its eastern side as the first weak rays of sunlight peeked over the Anti-Lebanon Mountains.

  They’d been waiting up here since oh-dark-hundred, providing intel to command back at headquarters outside of Damascus. The mission was fluid, could change at any time from a simple recon job into a direct assault on the position, or providing backup for the Delta unit currently on standby to perform the captures and hostage extraction.

  “Copy that,” headquarters responded. “Can you get a visual ID on any of them?”

  Without lowering the binos, Beckett spoke in a low voice to Jase Weaver, his assistant operations and intel sergeant, stretched out beside him. “Recognize him?”

  Jase Weaver was quiet a few moments while he did his own assessment. “Negative.”

  Whoever the newcomer was, he wasn’t their high value target, or even on the list of suspects they’d been given at the mission briefing. Which meant the three American security contractors being held hostage down there by the wanted militant leader were going to have to wait a while longer for rescue. Command wanted Delta to perform the assault and rescue, not Beckett’s team, and only when the militant leader was present. Because that would allow them to do a one-and-done op.

  Beckett had been through and seen a lot over his twenty years of service to his country, but this kind of situation never got any less infuriating. Fucked up as it might be, at the end of the day, capturing this HVT was worth more to the American government than saving its imprisoned citizens—who had been sent here on its dime in the first place to guard some of its officials.

  Beckett and his team didn’t give a shit about the politics behind it; they were here to do their job. But no matter what command said, it was impossible to disregard their three countrymen being held down there. He and his team had read the files on the captives. Knew their names and faces, where they came from. Two of them were Army vets, men who had served their country faithfully before turning to contracting. Beckett wanted to help get them out.

  Except all he could do right now was wait and watch.

  He remained silent with the rest of the twelve-man team spread around him in two groups as the minutes ticked slowly by, until more than an hour had passed. Lowering the binos, he cupped his gloved hands and blew on his frozen fingers to thaw them. At this elevation and time of year, this part of Syria was damn cold. His nose and lips had gone numb hours ago, and he could barely feel his toes even with the thick winter socks and heavy boots.

  “Damn, it’s as cold here as it was back in Afghanistan,” Weaver said in a low voice.

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “That’s because you’re freaking old. Most of your nerve endings are probably already dead.”

  Beckett cracked a smile. “I wish.” At thirty-nine, he was the oldest on the team and his body definitely felt all the aches and pains that came with two decades of punishing military service. A little less feeling in some areas would be welcome right now, especially in his bothersome lower back that felt like it belonged to an old man most days.

  “Well, give it another couple hours and it’ll be just above freezing again. We can pretend we’re in the mountains in California instead of here.”

  “By all means, pretend away.” Special Forces life wasn’t easy. Now that he only had a few more months left in his contract, Beckett was seriously considering getting out this time when his time was up. The Army had given him a lot but his service had already cost him several nagging injuries, more dead friends than any man should ever lose, and his marriage. It was time to do something different, and he wanted the chance to enjoy what was left of his life.

  Or at least try to.

  He shifted to reach into his front pocket for the last of his MRE, now a frozen lump in its package. Tasted bland as hell but it was protein and calories that would keep his core temp steady and his belly full, so he couldn’t complain. And as soon as they completed this mission, the
re was a hot shower and a pot of coffee waiting for him back at base. He didn’t even care if it was stale, as long as it was hot and black.

  “I’m guessing you don’t feel like sharing that.”

  Beckett glanced at Weaver. “Not really.”

  “Jerkface.”

  “That’s Captain Jerkface, to you.” He made a low grumbling sound of appreciation as he chewed the next bite, earning a grudging chuckle from his teammate that cut off sharply a split-second later, his face growing serious as he watched through the rangefinder.

  “They’re moving the prisoners,” Weaver said.

  Beckett snatched up his binos and took a look. Sure enough, armed guards were herding the prisoners from the building into an open courtyard in the center of the compound. One guard for each of them.

  He informed command, his mind already racing ahead. Moving the prisoners out into an exposed position where they could be seen only made sense if the captors intended to put on a show and make a statement to anyone watching. Even if they couldn’t see Beckett and his team, they had to know the American government had people watching. Right now Beckett’s A-team was the only unit close enough to offer some kind of response and make a rescue attempt if things went south.

  “Hey, Cap. Seven o’clock off the courtyard,” one of his men said.

  Beckett focused there, his heart jolting when he saw a new man emerge from the shadows to stand at the edge of the courtyard, dressed in a dark suit instead of traditional garb. “You guys all seeing this?” Spread out as they were at various points along the ridge, everyone had a different vantage point and angle.

  “Affirm,” Weaver and another one of his guys said at the same time.

  “Snipers, what’s your status?” Beckett asked.

  “Alpha and Bravo teams both green at this time.”

  Beckett informed command. “Be advised, a secondary HVT is on scene.” He gave the man’s name. A guy affiliated to the HVT the government was desperate to capture in this op. “Looks like he’s inspecting the hostages. Both sniper teams are green.”

  “Copy that, team leader. Hold your positions.”

  “Roger. Is the assault force en route?” Command had been annoyingly silent about the Delta team’s positioning. If they were going to do the captives any good, they’d better be damn close already.

  “We’re alerting them now.”

  Translation: the Delta boys weren’t getting here anytime soon, and likely wouldn’t even be launched unless the primary HVT showed up.

  He shelved the curse in his head. “Understood. Request permission to move in for—”

  “Negative. Hold your position.”

  Beckett clenched his jaw and didn’t respond. He was trained to be calm under pressure, in any given situation. To maintain a clear head and make decisions, sometimes hard ones, in bad circumstances.

  Even in a firefight his heart rate didn’t elevate much. But being this close with that asshole right out in the open and in their sights, and not being able to act while three American lives were on the line tested his resolve.

  Beckett watched the newcomer position himself in the middle of the courtyard to study the prisoners. All blindfolded, hands bound behind them. All of them had taken beatings recently.

  Beckett wanted to get in there, capture the secondary HVT and save the hostages while they had the chance. Not wait to see if the primary HVT would magically appear in time so command would let them act.

  “Oh, shit, Cap…”

  He tensed at Weaver’s low voice and shifted his gaze right. Down in the courtyard, a struggle had broken out. One of the hostages must have reached his limit because he was now fighting back against his captor.

  Cole Goodman. An Army vet-turned-contractor from Ohio.

  Shit.

  The two men rolled on the ground for a moment before the captor came up on top, straddling his bound and blindfolded prisoner. He landed several brutal punches to the helpless man’s face while the militants swarmed around the remaining prisoners like angry bees.

  Beckett and his team were too far away to hear what was being said, even with the parabolic listening dish, but it was clear that things had just taken a deadly turn.

  He informed command of what was happening, then spoke to his sniper teams again. Both responded that they were green. One command from him, and they could help even the odds down there.

  Things were out of control. They had maybe seconds to do something to prevent the worst. Take out the armed men and the bodyguards, maybe stop what he knew was coming next. “Sir, request permission to—”

  “Negative.”

  He took a breath, tried again. “Sir. We need to act now if we’re going to save those men.”

  “Captain, you will maintain your position and await further orders,” the man said in a clipped voice.

  It took everything Beckett had to keep his tone professional. “Understood.” He shared a loaded look with Weaver, the frustration eating him alive as he went back to watching what was going on in the courtyard.

  Only the self-control drilled into him from almost two decades in the military and the desire to avoid seeing his guys wind up facing court-martials and dishonorable discharges for disobeying orders kept him from giving the command to open fire on the tangos.

  “They’re gonna kill them,” Weaver said, his voice flat.

  Beckett didn’t answer. With orders and rules of engagement preventing his team from doing a goddamn thing other than watch, they were forced to remain where they were and let the inevitable unfold.

  He watched through his binos with a sinking heart as Goodman was seized by the hair and dragged to his knees. Blood covered his face. He struggled weakly but the beating had depleted his strength and even without that he had no chance against so many armed men.

  The other two captives were lined up and forced to their knees beside him. One of them bowed his head. His mouth twisted, shoulders jerking as he faced the certainty of his death.

  Beckett’s heart drummed in his ears. “They’re about to execute the hostages,” he told command, his entire body rebelling at what was happening. For fuck sake, let us do something. It’s not too late to stop this. But it would be in another few seconds.

  It took a moment for the response to come back. “Understood. My original order still holds.”

  Cold spread through him. He forced himself to lie still, called on all his discipline and his ability to emotionally detach as he watched the armed militants gather into a line in front of the hostages, but it didn’t ease the sickness inside him. Three militants stepped forward in front of the doomed men, raising their weapons.

  Around him, Beckett’s entire team was silent. All of them having front row seats to watch the executions. It took everything he had not to close his eyes or look away.

  The militants opened fire.

  The AKs’ reports echoed sharp across the valley floor and up the side of the ridge to Beckett and his team. Down in the courtyard, all three hostages lay sprawled dead or dying in the dust, their hands still bound behind them.

  He took a deep breath. “All three hostages down,” he reported quietly even as anger seethed inside him.

  “Copy that.”

  A wave of resentment pulsed through him. This. This was the kind of shit that ate through a man’s soul and haunted him the rest of his life.

  He drew another quiet breath. I’m done. The thought was loud and clear in his head.

  “Snipers, what’s your status now?” he asked, though he already knew the answer because the HVT had just stepped back inside the building.

  “Alpha and Bravo both red at this time.”

  They’d not only sat back doing nothing while the hostages were executed, they’d also missed the window to take out the secondary HVT. Now that asshole was safely barricaded back inside the compound, laughing at them while American contractors lay dead in the courtyard.

  Those men hadn’t had to die. Goddamn it.

  “Capta
in, return to base with your team. New intel suggests the primary HVT is headed to a different location.”

  “Roger that.” It was a relief to finally lower the binos. But even though he no longer had to look at the dead men his team could have saved, he would still see their faces for a long time whenever he closed his eyes.

  He couldn’t wait to get out of here. “Come on, boys. Let’s go.” He eased backward down the rear side of the ridge before standing and shouldering his ruck, welcoming the stab of pain in his lower back that shot down the rear of both legs. The shadows were deeper here, the cold penetrating bone deep.

  It didn’t match the ball of ice sitting in the center of his chest.

  Next to him, Weaver didn’t say a word, his jaw set, anger and frustration burning in his aqua gaze. Beckett understood. He was done with this shit.

  The heavy, sick feeling that condensed in the pit of his belly as they humped back down the ridge for extraction solidified his decision. He was so damn tired of the wasted lives, of the weight he carried on his conscience.

  It was time for him to get out and go home. And not simply stateside to North Carolina, where he’d been stationed since earning his green beret.

  Home.

  To Crimson Point, Oregon. The only place outside of the Army where he’d ever truly felt like he belonged.

  Chapter Two

  The lamplight glowing in the front windows made the gray-shingled craftsman house look so warm and inviting against the late November gloom. Beckett could practically smell the Thanksgiving feast from here, could almost hear the chatter and laughter of the people inside.

  But how the hell could he make himself go in there when he felt half-dead inside?

  He turned off the engine and sat there in the driveway for a few minutes, feeling anything but festive. A cold, relentless rain pounded on the roof of his truck as he worked up the nerve to go ring the doorbell.