Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  Adrian

  As I watch Becca drift off into sleep, I take a deep, quiet breath, letting the sounds of the crickets and the low, crackling fire sink into the world around me.

  I take a seat on a stump nearby, moving quietly despite the fact that we’re a good ways into the woods. I’ve taken the necessary precautions, even if the men coming after us clearly aren’t the sorts who know how to take on someone like me. No Spetsnaz operatives would have carried on the messily bungled operation like the one I took care of earlier.

  Still, I find my eyes looking into every shadow of the woods around us, specters of the night conjured up in my mind’s eye by the low light of the fire I’ve built. No smoke rises from my fire, thanks to the dry wood I was so picky about using for it.

  Those road hogs aren’t planning to look into the woods, but there’s a good chance they’ll find the bodies of the men I killed, and when they do, they might well come after us.

  If that happens, my pistol is at my side, along with a couple guns I took from the dead. I’m ready for them.

  Becca’s chest rises and falls softly as she lies on her back, her beautiful eyes closed gently as she faces the starry sky. She looks so serene there on the ground, even though I know she’s not asleep yet. I’ve learned how to tell when someone’s really asleep or not over the years. But it’s been a hell of a day for her, so I know the exhaustion is going to get the better of her anxiety before very long.

  Even so, seeing her form lying there on the ground, looking at those curvy hips that bore my child, the breasts I’ve ravaged and will ravage again soon, it all fills me with protective instincts unlike any I’ve ever known. It’s something new and powerful I feel deep inside me. My hand grips the handle of my pistol as I tear my eyes from her, turning my ear to the distant sound of motorcycles.

  It’s at the thought of what I have to protect here at home that my mind wanders to the Russians back on the road that I slew, leaving them to rot in the wilderness.

  There’s no doubt in my mind now that I brought the war back home with me. There’s such a cruel injustice to everything about this feud with the Russians.

  They never should have been at the same site as us on that fateful night. They never should have stormed in with guns blazing on us, not knowing what we were doing there. There never should have been any deaths that night.

  None of it should have ever happened, and worst of all, it never should have followed me back home.

  What of the other men in my squad, I wonder? Are they being targeted for hits as well? Are they as prepared for danger as I’ve been? It’s far more likely, though, that I’m the first target in the Russians’ attempt at revenge. I’m the only one whose face they’ve seen, so I must have been the easiest for them to track. I wonder who was captured and tortured to divulge my name.

  That aside, I was clearly the leader of that squad that took Russian pride. Killing me, the strongest among them, would send a message to the rest of the squad — it would strike fear into their hearts and scatter them. If the Russians went after my squad first, I would come after them before they could get far, and I’d be prepared.

  And I think this Spetsnaz commander considered that in making his plans.

  I watch one of the logs on the fire give way and crumble a bit, ember ashes floating up into the air far above us, looking like a few scattered fireflies around the campsite. I smile a little. It’s funny, I could see myself taking Becca on a cute little camping trip in a nice, wooded area, just us and the stars and nothing else in the world.

  But the sounds of motors in the distance remind me that there can be no peace. I’m a man on the run, and the Russians won’t hesitate to either kill my Bex or steal her to be put to some terrible fate. The very thought makes my blood boil, and I almost wish the bastards would find us.

  The more biker bodies I can leave for the buzzards on this godforsaken road, the stronger the message I can send back to the Russians.

  I gaze down at Becca again and realize she has indeed fallen into a deep sleep, the rising and falling of her chest more automated, her hands relaxed at her sides, head turned. I could look on her all night, she’s so peaceful, like an angel in repose.

  As much as I love Becca, I know I’m at a disadvantage here because of her, on this playing field. When I was out doing missions for the service, I had nothing to lose. My team operated as one, all of us there voluntarily, all of us knowing the risks, and most importantly, all of us prepared to handle them.

  Becca can handle herself decently in the field, but she’s not equipped to deal with armed gangs of the Bratva, much less the Russian Special Forces operatives orchestrating the whole thing.

  I have someone very, very dear to me at my side, and thanks to that silver-haired biker back in town, everyone coming after us knows it.

  My heart suddenly feels so heavy, and I look down at Becca with a hint of apology in my eyes.

  She deserves so much better than this. Maya deserves so much better than this. Oh god, Maya — if the Russians did enough digging, I suspect it wouldn’t be hard for them to find her. I haven’t been as honest as I could with Becca about just how precarious of a situation we’re in. I can’t give her that mental burden.

  She already has so much to deal with.

  I run my fingers through my hair, glancing out among the trees and shadows as the weight of it all presses down on me.

  I never should have come back into Becca’s life. I might not have known the Russians would come after me, but as long as the mere risk was there, I should have kept my distance. Tied up loose ends. Contacted an embassy, even conduct a more violent cleanup of the witnesses to what happened, anything to protect my new family back home.

  I feel so blindsided by it all, though. I didn’t know I had a family to protect, just a selfish urge to go and meet up with Becca again. I didn’t know someone was out for revenge. All rookie mistakes. How could I let myself screw up this badly in such a short time?

  I clench my jaw, remembering words of wisdom that were passed down to me what feels like a lifetime ago. The crackling firelight in front of me takes me back into my memories, to the first time there was a casualty in a squad I served with.

  I’m a rookie again, fresh into the SEAL service. Instead of the fire that warms me and Becca, I’m staring into the burning remains of the ramshackle pirate compound on the hot Somalian shore, its embers providing the only remaining light in the moonless night’s sky. It should have been a flawless operation — in and out, wipe the remains of the human trafficking ring off the map, and extract the victims unharmed. All of that has been accomplished, and the rest of the men are loading the half-starved prisoners onto our boat while I stand over the body of one of my comrades. He was caught by a pirate sniper we hadn’t anticipated — Intel told us they didn’t have long-range weaponry, so they must have gotten the rifle that very day. I feel my commander put a hand on my shoulder, and I meet his steady gaze as I clench my fist around my friend’s dog tags.

  “O’Connor,” he addressed me, “I want you to listen close, because you’re going to lead a squad one day, and you’re going to need to say this to your own men. All this intel, all the planning that goes into these operations that make it seem more air-tight than brain surgery?” He shakes his head. “It’s a house of cards, O’Connor. We’re not making plans in a vacuum or the war games. We’re trying to stay afloat in the ocean in a typhoon. Just because we’re better at swimming than most other people doesn’t mean we’re all going to make it to shore. And if you blame yourself every time a rogue wave takes someone underwater…” He crouches down, picking up the body of a man I trained next to for years. “Then you may as well jump right in with them.”

  Those words stuck with me, like some kind of fucking ghost that prodded me in the back at the same time that it kept me grounded. I wanted to prove him wrong so damn much that I nearly quit the service out of frustration. But he proved right over the years.

  And after extra
ction that night in Syria, I found myself passing the same words along to the rest of my squad.

  Becca turns in her sleep, rolling onto her side, her voluptuous figure a warming comfort to me in the still night. In that moment, I know what I have to do.

  In a silent prayer, I vow that I will do whatever it takes to protect Becca in the storm I’ve brought home with me. I can’t save everyone, and I’d go mad if I tried, but I’m going to save Becca and Maya or die trying.

  Unfortunately for the Russians, I don’t die easily.

  Part of me wants to rein myself in, remind myself that I’m going to be a civilian now. There are instincts honed to perfection in my body that I fight tooth and nail every morning to suppress. I’m a hunter of men, a cold and calculating killer. I’ve brought down warlords and politicians alike without breaking a sweat. I told myself that I would put that part of myself into the grave before I came home and brought Becca into my life.

  But I have a family now. That part of me I tried so desperately to hide might be my only chance of getting us out of this mess alive.

  My mind flits back to the half-serious thought of tracking down the men responsible for this, and I realize that’s exactly what I’m going to have to do.

  Old instincts come back to me flawlessly, though, as I begin thinking through the situation like a mission.

  It’s not uncommon for Russian military to fall in with the Bratva, the Russian mafia, after leaving the service. Like so many American veterans who end up on the street or in worse condition, the Russians often leave the service to find themselves without a support network for their mental and physical health, finding their friends and family to have moved on with life.

  Such people have many reasons to find life in the Bratva attractive. Like military service, they have their strict hierarchies, their tight bonds between comrades, and their singular ruthlessness. And the money is good.

  The Russian mafia in America has a very strong presence, and their resources and pockets can run very, very deep. Former Spetsnaz operatives would find the Bratva welcoming their killing and tracking skills with wide open arms and wallets. It’s likely that this vengeful Russian is someone who’s risen through the ranks in a very short amount of time.

  This is both an advantage and disadvantage for me. Such a man has a lot of blood on his hands, no doubt, and many of his promotions probably came out of fear as much as respect. Many of his underlings, like these bikers, will jump at his command, and it may be hard to convince any of them to divulge clues as to his identity or whereabouts.

  But men who rocket through the ranks make many enemies, too. There may well be rivals waiting for my Spetsnaz friend to slip up so they can strike him down a few pegs. Better yet, he may even have an over boss of some kind getting nervous about him. Killers of the mob who become very powerful and very deadly tend to make their superiors nervous, with good reason.

  The question now, then, is whether I can learn enough about my enemies to start wedging in divisions between them.

  Of course, the easiest solution would be to simply round up as many of them as I can and wipe them from the face of the earth. But that kind of planning takes time we simply don’t have.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first: we’ll get an early start in the morning and make for the nearest town, where I can get some cell reception. From there, I can start gathering information and putting out feelers for old contacts that will get me what I need to exact justice on these men.

  From then, it’s just a matter of time before I can start hunting down these killers like the dogs they are. As the thought crosses my mind, it strikes me how little sympathy I have for these men, how readily I’m able to devise plans to end their lives.

  Many of them have families, too. A few might even have kids of their own. I wonder what kind of life the Russian operative out for my blood had? What did he leave behind when he started coming after me? The men I killed in Syria had hopes and dreams, too, but I killed them all the same. How many lives did I ruin? What kinds of friendships did my actions end bloodily?

  Yet none of those thoughts deter me from what I know in my heart I have to do. No matter how relentless the Russians are, no matter what they’re fighting for, the most important woman in the world to me is sleeping at my feet. She carried our child and brought her into this world. She gave me hope and passion to hold onto while I was out in the field. For all I know, I just put another baby into her womb, and the thought of that makes my cock grow, wanting to keep her pregnant as much as her heart desires. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to protect her.

  But that thought gives me pause, too. I clench my fist, the hand that’s taken lives before and will take lives again. If I want to go through with this plan, I have to become the ruthless killing machine I was while I served the SEALs. And there’s a thought haunting me, nagging at the back of my mind as I walk myself through every potential means of assassinating the enemies.

  Will Becca still love the monster I must become?

  Rebecca

  I’m running through the forest in the dark, my long white dress ripped and stained from the branches and vegetation reaching out toward me as I pass. My eyes dart frantically back and forth, scanning the overgrown path in front of me, and my feet pound the cool earth with every frenzied step. I have to move faster, I have to keep going, even though my chest is growing tight and my lungs are gasping for oxygen. My own heart beat is rushing loudly in my ears and I’m scared that my legs might give out beneath me, but I have to go on. There is an ominous alarm going off in my head, telling me that the forces I’m running from are just behind me, hot on my trail, and if I slow down or falter for even a brief moment, they will catch up to me and that will be the end of it.

  Somewhere toward the horizon, waiting for me, is my parents’ home. An escape from this terrible chase, where I can hide away and wait for the troubles to simply pass me by. I know that if I just keep going I will eventually make my way to safety, but I keep tripping over the hem of my ankle-length dress, so I clutch at the fabric of my skirt with both hands, tearing through the woods like a runaway ghost in white.

  What am I running from?

  I almost cannot dare to ask the question, because I am terrified of the answer.

  What lies behind me that could instill such fear in me? What could possibly be lurking in my past which could make me feel so panicked?

  Suddenly, the trees melt away on all sides, thinning out until I can see the sky above in front of me — only it’s no longer nighttime, and the moon has been replaced by an oppressively hot, blinding golden sun. I look around in confusion to find that the forest is gone, and I am surrounded by miles and miles of sand. I’m running through the desert dunes and I have no idea where I’m going.

  “Take me back!” I try to scream, pleading with whatever supernatural force has picked me up and deposited me so far from home. I was almost there — I was almost safe! And now I don’t have any idea how to get back. And my voice is totally gone. No matter how hard I try to yell, not a single breath of sound comes out of my mouth. What is happening to me?

  I stumble to the sandy ground, curling up into a little ball and trying to shield myself from the horrors that are undoubtedly right behind me, poised to pounce upon me and rip me apart. With my heart hammering away in my chest, I turn to face my attacker, readying myself for the end.

  But as soon as I turn around, there is a deep, rumbling, earth-shattering voice calling my name, distracting me from my current panic. “Becca,” the voice growls, seeming to come from the very sky.

  “Wake up,” says the male voice, and I do as I’m told — instantly.

  I sit straight up and let out a breathless little yelp as my eyes open and I start to look around, totally confused and disoriented. I’m not in a bed, and I’m not even inside a hotel room. On all sides I am surrounded by the deep, dark woods, and I don’t remember at first how I even got here. But then Adrian’s calming, deep voice
reassures me, “It’s okay. You were having a bad dream.”

  I feel his massive hand on my shoulder, steadying me and comforting me. Bringing me back to the present moment. I turn and look toward him, blinking blearily in the dim light of dawn. He is crouching beside me, wearing an expression of concern. It all rushes back to me in that moment — our passionate reunion, our whirlwind days of traveling together toward home, and then the violent scene with the motorcycle gang. That’s why I’m in the woods and I feel so nervous.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I murmur, raking a hand back through my hair and sighing heavily. “I don’t usually have nightmares. In fact, I normally sleep like a baby. After having Maya, I learned to sleep through a lot of noise.”

  “Well, under the circumstances, I would say it’s not a huge surprise,” he answers, reaching down to stroke my cheek and give me a sympathetic smile. “Either way, you have nothing to apologize for. I drifted in and out for a few hours myself, and I can tell you that it was not the most peaceful slumber I’ve ever had.”

  “You could have asked me to take a shift,” I tell him, feeling guilty for sleeping while he spent the majority of the night keeping watch over our little makeshift camp. He shrugs.

  “Don’t worry about it. I am the reason we’re in this mess. Besides, I could hardly sleep knowing that you are vulnerable out here. It feels much more restful to watch over you than to go to sleep out here,” he assures me, walking over to start packing things up and stamping out the campfire.

  “What time is it?” I ask, then realize how silly a question that is. Neither of us have any way of telling the time — our phones are dead and we’re in the middle of the wilderness.