Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Handling Haven: A Deimos/Trident Security/Delta Team Crossover (Kindle Worlds)

by Samantha A. Cole

  Once they were alone, Carter leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “I’m sorry about that, but I was afraid if I warned you, you wouldn’t have come.”

  The man took a deep breath and let it out. “Do you know what Dominants and submissives are?”

  His eyes narrowing, Frisco replied, “Like in BDSM? Yeah, I’ve heard of it. A few Deltas are into it, and I know Ian Sawyer and his brother own a club down in Tampa. He told me if I was ever in the area to stop by and see the place, but it’s not my thing. What’s it got to do with Haven and why I’m here?”

  “It’s not for everybody, but it’ll hopefully help me get my point across. There are different levels in the lifestyle, and each couple negotiates the terms of their relationship. But no matter what, it’s a Dom’s job to make sure their sub gets what he or she needs, and that may not always be in sync with what they want. There’s a high level of trust needed between the two of them. You’re interested in her, that’s plain to see, and I’ve gotten the impression it’s more than a passing fantasy. While neither one of you is in the lifestyle, you could use the theory behind it to help her get past this funk she’s in. She needs to let go of her anger and fear, stop overthinking everything, and realize she’s still a desirable woman who can still do things most people can. She needs a reason to take a step forward in the right direction.” Carter paused as the waitress came back with their frosty mugs of tap beer. He winked at her. “Thanks, darlin’.” As she walked away with a blush across her cheeks, he shook his head in disbelief. “Jeez, I’ve been in Texas, on and off, for six weeks, and I’m talking like freaking Egghead. Shoot me now.”

  “It’s infectious. When I go home to San Francisco, my buddies all make fun of my twang.”

  Carter smirked before continuing. “All right, back to Haven. I assume you know the seven stages of grief.” Swallowing a mouthful of beer, Frisco nodded. “Shock or disbelief, denial, anger, bargaining, guilt, depression, and finally acceptance and hope. Well, Haven is stuck on those first three stages. I was hoping if she saw you as a human being and not just someone to blame for what wasn’t your fault, she’d start getting past it. She really is a sweetheart, but this has her spiraling out of control, and I’m afraid she’s going to find a way to end it all.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d react any differently in the same situation—being an operative is all I know. And in our agency, there are very few friends and even fewer family members, if any, to rely on in situations like this. But Haven’s refusing to even try to get on her feet again. It’s like she feels this is her penance for something. What, I don’t know. Like most of the agents at Deimos, including myself, her past can’t be connected to her present. As far as anyone who knew her before she came to us knows, she’s dead. She was given a new name and background history. The only two people, that I’m aware of, who know of her life back then are McDaniel and the agent who trained her. Unfortunately, Luis Benito is dead.

  Having been a part of the black-ops community for the past few years, Frisco wasn’t surprised Haven wasn’t her birth name, but it did make him even more curious about her. Not that it did him any good now.

  “Anyway,” Carter continued, “the only person Haven hasn’t gone off on over the past two months is Reardon—he calls her a few times a week. From what I hear, he’s dealing with his own misplaced guilt about what happened that night. He’s the only one Haven puts on a front for—pretending everything is hunky-dory when it’s not. Everyone else is subjected to her wrath. My boss has already located a house for her nearby that’s wheelchair accessible, but until she’s able to take care of herself with little assistance, she’s going to be bedridden. Jordy and I have been doing everything we can, but she’s fighting everyone. I don’t know what else to do.”

  As the man stopped to take a drink of his beer, Frisco pondered everything he’d said. “Well, I doubt my visit made a difference. You obviously heard her throw me out.”

  “Maybe. But maybe it did make a difference. It may not have been what she wanted, but, instead, what she needed—and it might take a bit for that to sink into her thick skull. Just don’t hate her for what happened back there, because if she does finally reach that last stage of acceptance, she might want to make amends. And I think that’s something you’ll need, too.”

  Frisco doubted that would ever happen, but a kernel of hope was planted in his heart. He just wished it would see the light of day sometime in the future.

  “I cannot believe you. Are you out of your goddamned mind? Wait, don’t answer that, because it’s obvious to everyone around you that you are.”

  Dropping the shirt into her lap, Haven rolled her eyes. “Go away, Jordyn. I’m not in the mood for you right now.”

  “Well, too fucking bad.” She tossed her small purse on an empty visitor’s chair. “Unless you can get out of bed and kick me out of this room, you’re stuck with me, because I sure as hell am not going to leave like that poor guy just did until I’ve said my piece.”

  Haven’s eyes blazed with rage. “That’s a shitty thing to say to someone who’s paralyzed! Don’t you think I want to get out of this bed?”

  “No, I don’t.” Jordyn took two steps forward, crossed her arms over her chest, and cocked her hip to the side. “If you really wanted to get out of that bed, you’d be down in the physical-therapy gym every chance you got, doing everything you could to get back on your feet again. All I see here . . .” She gestured to Haven’s broken body lying on the mattress. “. . . is someone who’s given up, wallowing in self-pity. I see someone who I know can kick ass suddenly rolling over and playing dead. It’s fucking pathetic, Haven, and as of today, I’m not going to stand by and watch you spiral down into a pit of destruction. Until you get off your butt, literally, and start taking your life back, I’m done, and so is Carter. We want to be here for you, but I refuse to be treated like a piece of shit, nor am I going to watch you treat anyone else that way. That man . . .” She pointed to the door. “. . . that heroic, yet incredibly sweet man was the first one running across that lawn to get to you. He even beat Ian, who was hauling his own ass to cover your six and get you and Kenny out of there. You begged Frisco to leave you and let you die. How fucking dare you do that to someone like him . . . or anyone else, for that matter? Frisco’s not some wet-behind-the-ears kid trying to play Superman. He’s lost teammates on the battlefield—had them shot and killed two feet away from him—watched them get blown up in the Humvee directly in front of the one he was in.” It wasn’t surprising Jordyn knew his background. If he’d been allowed into Haven’s room, someone had to have cleared him.

  “No one survived in the vehicle he was supposed to be in. Because of a damn joke, he ended up in the other one. He grieved, and then he got his ass back in the game so their lives were not taken away in vain. He’d give anything to have his buddies back again, and you . . . you turn around and beg him to leave you to the same fate they didn’t have a choice about! How fucking dare you put him in that position? He risked his life for you and Kenny, and then he held your hand the entire chopper ride to the ship and wouldn’t let go until he had to when you were passed off to the surgical staff. And he’s been worried about you ever since, according to his teammates. He didn’t shoot you, and I’ll be damned if I allow you to blame him for anything.”

  Jordyn shook her head as if she’d come to a sad conclusion. “You know what? You’re not the person I thought you were. I remember watching Luis Benito train you. No matter what he threw at you, you worked your ass off until you had it down pat—hand-to-hand, shooting, the obstacle course, everything. Luis must be rolling over in his grave right now, disappointed about how his favorite protégé just gave up when the going got tough. If you want to continue having a pity party for the rest of your life, don’t invite me, because I’m fucking done. Call me if you decide to return to the land of the living.”

  Without giving Haven a chance to say another word, Jordyn grabbed her purse, spun on her heel, and stormed out of
the room. The sudden silence that filled the air, as the door slowly closed behind her friend, grew more oppressive as seconds and then minutes passed. For the first time in Haven’s life, she felt truly alone, and that was saying a lot considering she had no family left and few friends. Her gaze fell on the T-shirt still in her lap. Wake up, kick ass, repeat. She took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out while staring out the window.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had gone by before the door swung open again and her lunch was brought in. The young woman, whose name tag read Shanell, eyed her warily, and Haven realized she was waiting to be bitched at for something. God, you’ve been a real ass to everyone.

  The hospital employee carefully put the tray down on the second bedside table Haven had insisted on, since her laptop was always on the other one, and wheeled it over to the bed. Before she could move away, Haven reached out and grabbed her hand. Startled, the woman’s eyes went wide. Haven tried her best to put a warm smile on her face. “Thank you for bringing my lunch. I’m sorry I’ve been a bitch to you and everyone else. It’s not fair to any of you.”

  Shanell’s shoulders relaxed, and she squeezed Haven’s hand. “It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot. I hope this means you’re ready to get better.”

  “I hope so too.”

  Nine

  Six months later . . .

  G roaning, Frisco climbed out of his truck. His shoulder was stiffer than usual this morning, and he couldn’t wait until the physical therapist put the damp, heated pad on it to loosen it up. Three weeks after badly straining the trapezius muscle that ran down his neck to his left scapula, during a rescue operation in Syria, he’d finally regained full range of motion of his arm again. But last night, he must have slept wrong because when he’d woken this morning, it felt like he’d pinched a nerve or something. Hopefully, it wasn’t going to delay his recovery—he didn’t want to miss out if his team got called up for another mission. So far, he’d been lucky.

  Striding across the parking lot of the Carl R. Darnall Army Medical Center in Fort Hood, he reveled in the cooler air that a weather front had ushered in last night. It was the first time in weeks the temperature had dropped below ninety degrees. When he entered the lobby, the air conditioning caused goosebumps to pebble across his skin, and a shiver went down his spine. Knowing the way to the physical therapy department by heart, he headed down the correct hallway and made two rights and then a left.

  The older civilian receptionist greeted him with a smile as he entered the waiting area. “Hi, Frisco. You can go on back. You’re on cot number two.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Schaffer.”

  As usual, the huge PT room was filled with a number of physical therapists and their aides working on men and women who were recovering from various injuries, some worse than others. Several patients were on the treadmills and stationary bikes, while others were doing stretches and exercises on other equipment. One man, with a prosthetic leg, was using the parallel bars for support as he took steps toward a waiting wheelchair he was probably working to get out of permanently.

  Ordinarily, Frisco came in the mornings, but due to a scheduled 0900 team meeting, he’d asked for an afternoon appointment. Climbing up on his assigned cot, he waited for someone to bring a TENS unit—an electronic nerve stimulator—and a heating pad for him. Tilting his head from side to side, Frisco winced in annoyance as a sharp pain shot through the left side of his neck. “Damn it,” he muttered. But there was no way he was complaining about it louder than that, not with all of those recovering from far worse injuries than his nearby.

  He glanced around the room, and a brown-haired woman in a wheelchair, with her back to him, caught his eye. She’d turned her head just enough for him to see a partial profile, and there was something familiar about her that caused him to stare, waiting for a chance to see her face to identify her. As if sensing a gaze upon her, she grabbed the wheels and spun the chair around, just as his regular therapist, Chad Walker, called out from across the room, “Hey, Frisco. I’ll be right there.”

  Giving the man a distracted wave, Frisco’s heart pounded in his chest when a set of soft, brown eyes met his hazel ones. A flash of uncertainty was replaced by recognition on the pretty woman’s face, and he was shocked when the corners of her mouth ticked upward before she pushed on the chair’s wheels, propelling herself toward him.

  Haven. The woman he still hadn’t been able to get out of his mind all these months. He’d even tried to hook up with a chick he’d met in a bar one night a few weeks ago, but it hadn’t felt right, even though she’d appeared to be a sure thing. Instead of taking her up on the offer to go back to her place, Frisco had politely declined, to her obvious disappointment. Now, he was glad he had.

  Haven stopped at the end of the cot he sat on and cocked her head. “Frisco Ingram?” When he silently nodded, still trying to convince himself she wasn’t an apparition, she continued. “You didn’t have that full beard the last time I saw you. It was much shorter then.”

  A grin spread across his face, gaining one from her too, as he realized she was wearing the T-shirt he’d given her all those months ago. It was a little big on her, but she didn’t seem to mind. He ran a hand down his whiskers. “Yeah, it definitely needs a trim. How are you, Haven? You’re here for therapy, I assume.” He was a little surprised since it was a military facility, but there were too many people around to ask her about that. No one there knew he was Delta, and he had to assume no one knew she was from Deimos, an agency most, if not all, of those in the room had never heard of.

  “Yeah, I am. Finally got off my sorry ass and decided to come back to the land of the living, as my friend Jordyn says.” She paused, her mouth flattening again as contrition filled her eyes. “Um . . . look, I’m sorry about what I put you through—both the night I was shot and then again at the hospital. You didn’t deserve any of that. I was the ultimate bitch to you. This . . .” She gestured to her legs. “. . . isn’t your fault. The damage was done by a bastard who’s hopefully rotting in Hell. I shouldn’t have taken my fear and anger out on you. I really am sorry. Thanks for getting me and Kenny out of there alive.”

  Frisco sat up straighter, feeling lighter than he had in the past eight months. “Apology accepted. I’m glad to see you’re doing okay and not carrying around a death wish anymore. How’s everything going?”

  “You mean my legs?” He nodded again. “Actually, better than I expected. The swelling has gone down around my spine, and they’re working on getting me up on my feet again with braces and crutches. The doctors and therapists think I’ll be able to kick this chair to the curb one of these days. It’s hard work, but not much harder than my training.”

  He didn’t doubt that. From what he’d learned from Carter, Jordyn, and Sawyer, Haven had been a hell of an operative, able to take down men twice her size, who’d been dumb enough to underestimate her. He suspected she could still take someone down, despite her injury, given enough motivation. And, damn, that thought turned him on. Even with her long hair pulled up into a ponytail and without a stitch of makeup on, she was prettier than he remembered, which was saying a lot. He was still having erotic dreams about her a few times a week. He couldn’t help it—his subconscious seemed to be in that movie Groundhog Day, where it just kept repeating itself. His cock twitched in his BDUs as he recalled what his fantasy Haven had been doing to him just that morning, and he mentally ordered it to behave.

  “So, what are you doing here?” she asked. “Where’s your boo-boo?”

  His grin spread wide as he chuckled. “My boo-boo? I haven’t had one of those since I was five or six and my mom kissed my skinned knee to make it better. But the reason I’m here is a strained muscle that’s, literally, a pain in the neck.”

  “Hmm. At least it’s not a pain in the ass.” She snickered. “Sorry, bad pun.”

  A bark of laughter escaped him. He was thrilled she felt comfortable enough to crack a joke with him. “Yeah, that was pretty bad. But, tell yo
u what—you can make it up to me by letting me take you to lunch.” Please don’t shoot me down.

  Her eyebrows flew upward as she was clearly surprised by his invitation. “What? When?”

  “Are you still in the middle of your treatment or can you stick around for a bit? We can go after Chad is done torturing me.” Having overheard the sarcastic remark, the therapist smirked as he approached with a TENS unit and a heating pad.

  “Torture? Nah, Chad doesn’t torture anybody,” Haven said. “Just be grateful Clarissa, aka Attila the Hun, over there, isn’t your therapist—I think she’s a sadist or something. All she’s missing is a leather whip and over-the-knee boots.”

  Glancing to where she pointed, Frisco had to agree the six-foot-tall, female therapist did look like she knew a thing or two about intel retrieval via pain. His gaze returned to Haven, where it heated. “So, lunch?”

  Once again, she caught him off guard as a pink blush appeared on her cheeks, but she still kept eye contact with him. “Um . . . sure. Actually, you might be able to help me with something.”

  “What?”

  She gave a quick glance over her shoulder when her name was called. “We’ll talk about it later. Attila is calling me. It’s time for me to learn how to tap dance again—not that I ever knew how to do it before.”

  For the next hour, while he did his own exercises and received treatment, Frisco watched in awe as braces were attached to Haven’s legs, and, with help from the therapist and one of the aides, she stood and used all her strength to support most of her weight with her upper body while “walking” from one end of the parallel bars to the other. Her lean arm muscles bulged as she struggled to place one hand and then the other further down the bars, before taking one step and following it with a second. She then started the whole one-two-three-four process over and over again. Sweat covered her face, but it was out-shined by her determination.