Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  It made my blood boil. Everything we’d worked so hard for was being turned against us. So we did the only thing we could do and banded together, all us dock workers.

  So the Union Club was formed, and we’ve been butting heads with the bosses and their minions to keep them off the honest workers that are left. If they won’t allow unions to protect the workers in an official way, we’ll protect them outside the law.

  But my past with the Bratva has been a liability more often than I like to admit. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if someone got a connection from Washington to come investigate me. I can see the headlines now, “Mobster in hiding exposed, affiliated with former corrupt union!” They’ll do anything to smear common folk in this town.

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” I finally answer Genn, “so I want to know who she is, sooner rather than later.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “Hard to miss,” I say, and it was true that she’d made a hell of an impression. “Flaming red hair you could spot a mile away. Full lips, high cheekbones, and and a nose that turns up a little at the tip. Blue eyes, bluest eyes I’ve seen in a long time, bright and keen. Whoever she is, I can tell she’s a few notches sharper than most of the cops I’ve seen. But she didn’t identify herself, either — what the fuck kind of game’s she playing?” I shake my head. “Anyway, she was dressed like most of the plain-clothed feds are. Trenchcoat and jeans.”

  The bearded man smiles with a chuckle. “Sounds like you were paying attention, Prez.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fuck off, Genn.” But even as I say it, I can’t help but realize he’s right. She was fucking hot. I’ve always been a sucker for a woman who can move like that. And there’s something about her that I can’t quite place, nagging at the back of my mind like an old dream, but it doesn’t come to mind.

  Genn nods, understanding, and he turns over to a couple of keen-eyed members wearing the club jackets and playing pool in the corner. “Anya, Vasily! The two of you were patrolling out by the I-78 this morning, you see anyone that sounds like what Prez is looking for?”

  Vasily blinks in confusion, but Anya had been listening in on the conversation. The two of them were truck drivers for the docks before the union got busted and the bosses decided they could pay immigrant workers a third of their wages.

  “Yeah,” said Anya, “I remember someone like that stopping by the same gas station Dmitiri and I were refueling at on her way in. I remember her chatting up the old cashier like they’ve known each other for years.”

  “What, are you kiddin’ me?” came Rodya’s voice from behind the bar, looking over at all of us with a look of disbelief. Rodya’s an older guy with a good heart who’s lived through the best and worst times, and he’ll do just about anything for the club, but he’s too laid back to want to earn a kutte. “I’d recognize a gal like that anywhere.”

  “Got something to say, Rod?” I ask with an arched eyebrow, and Rod laughs at having the upper hand on local intel for once. It’s always been a friendly rivalry between the two of us, seeing who can keep the better ear out for the locals: the bartender or the club president.

  “W-well yeah! I mean, I’d think you recognize her, wouldn’t you?”

  I stare at him a moment, then gesture for him to keep talking.

  “Shit, Prez,” he goes on, “there’s only one gal who knows anyone in town who looks like that. You’re telling me you really don’t remember Cherry?”

  The beer can in my hand nearly falls to the ground, and Genn’s eyes widen as he slowly looks to me. Hell, half the bar does.

  “Cherry,” I repeat in disbelief, “Cherry LaBeau.”

  Out of all I’ve left behind from my old life, that woman is the one thing I wish I could have back.

  “Come on,” Rod says with cheerful reminiscence in his voice, “you think I forget anyone who’s tried to buy a drink from me underaged? When you and her were teens, I remember you strutting in here all tough, trying to order her a whisky sour. You’re the only ones I ever did that for anyway, too, you put on such a good show of it.”

  Genn bites back a grin, but I chuckle and give him an elbow in the side nonetheless. Cherry had been someone I knew when I was a teenager around here, it was true. But last I’d heard of Cherry, she’d gone up into the city for bigger and brighter things. Fancy college degree, maybe even a career and a metropolitan apartment. She’d always been the type to want to chase after that.

  “Cherry LaBeau,” I repeat again, dumbfounded. “Shit, she didn’t recognize me either. Have we really changed that much?”

  Genn gives a warm smile and claps me on the shoulder. “It’s been lifetimes, Prez. Hell, look at me, calling you Prez when I remember you so young you hardly came up past my knee.”

  I shake my head before downing the rest of my beer and setting it aside.

  “Well that tells me something,” I say, authority in my voice as I address the rest of the bar. Everyone’s already paying attention to me, and I speak to them like the leader I have to be.

  “First of all, she’s no cop. The Cherry LaBeau I know doesn’t deal with cops. At least, unless she’s fallen a hell of a long way, and I don’t know about you, but I want to find out what the deal is, got it?”

  There’s a rousing cheer of agreement before the club settles down and I keep talking. “And one more thing — she’s got the biggest stake of all in chasing after the truth behind John LaBeau’s death,” I say, my voice lowering to a normal speaking voice.

  “Because John was Cherry’s father. And the Union Club never abandons its own.”

  “Hell no!” comes the general consensus from the bar, the men and women of the club exchanging confident looks and looking to me with admiration. Half of them look ready to go round up some crooked cops right now, but as I open my mouth to speak again, the door of the bar swings open. My vice-prez, Eva, a woman with short, black hair and a sharp nose, strides in with two other patch-members flanking her. Since the union was an equal opportunity employer, so is the Union Club. Unlike most of the other MCs out there, we allow in women as patch members, and it’s always worked out in our favor.

  “Sorry to break up the party, but we’ve got trouble,” she announces, casting a look around the bar as it quiets down before resting her eyes on me.

  “Prez, the FBI is back in town.”

  Buy the rest!

  Description

  “I was sent to kill her.”

  There was one rule for this job. No witnesses.

  Then I saw her. She wasn't supposed to be there, and I can only imagine what those dirtbags had been planning for her with her gorgeous blonde hair and her deadly curves. So I did the one thing I knew I shouldn't: I killed every a**hole in that room and I took her as my prize.

  I don't save people's lives. I'm a killer, a hired hitman for the Russian mob. But I tell her to trust me, and I mean it. I'm not going to let anyone take her away from me. I'd sworn off women long ago, but I can't resist her long legs and wicked mind, and every time I tell myself I'm being foolish, she gets down on her knees and begs me not to leave her.

  I'd rather die than lose her and the baby I know she'll give me.

  A full length Standalone Romantic Suspense novel. No Cliffhangers. Safe from cheating. Explicit language & swearing.

  Mikhail

  My cock throbs in my hand as I stare at the page in a glossy magazine. It’s not like I need it. It’s not about her, the sexy woman sprawled along the centerfold. Even jerking off is all business.

  My veins pulse as my grip tightens, and I lick my lips as I start to stroke myself. It’s a slow, rhythmic thing, letting the tension gather in my shoulders. I need to feel tense now so that later, I can find the perfect calm I need.

  Not too fast. Slow. Teasing. My thumb gathers the precum at the tip, running it along my swollen head, adding a hint of lubrication. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a woman, by my own choice. I don’t have room in my life for a girl, not even
a fling. My job is too dangerous to drag someone into, even if I wanted that.

  So instead, I stroke myself to a skin mag and groan as the stress keeps building in my gut. I have a big job tonight. Something important, and nothing can distract me, especially not this damn urge to fuck. To go to a club, find some hot piece of ass, and take her. Meaningless, useless, unfulfilling sex, but it’d be something.

  I grip myself harder as I lean back on the couch, the tension travelling from my shoulders down to my back and into my belly. I force it lower, so that when I start jerking myself faster, I can rid myself of this fucking stress.

  Gritting my teeth, my breathing speeds up, and I close my eyes. The centerfold doesn’t do much for me. Most women don’t.

  So instead, I just focus on the feel of my hard cock, pulsing like mad in my hand. This is what life should be made of. Pleasure exploding in my brain as I get closer and closer to the edge.

  And when finally I burst, my entire body empties. It’s not just my balls as they tighten and spurt their cream over my abs. It’s not just my mind that clears of its fog.

  My entire body feels lighter for that perfect, pure moment of orgasm, and I’m ready to do my job tonight. There’s no room for error. There’s no fucking this up.

  Tonight, I’m a killer.

  The group of revelers spills out of the limousine. All but one are men, dressed in expensive tailored suits, ties mostly loosened. They look like they just came from Wall Street, pretentious and full of themselves and whatever perceived victory they’d just been celebrating.

  Some of them hold bottles of ridiculously expensive booze, but it’s clear that a few of them are on something much harder, looking wired. But it’s the sole woman in the group that catches my attention once the others are tallied.

  I hate excess casualties in my line of work. It’s an increased risk, and one I don’t care to take. The other men are all on my list, but this woman? A young blonde, in high heels and a red dress? She’s stumbling a bit but somehow managing to make it look gracefully natural. She’s had more intoxicants than she’s realized, I can tell. I’ve seen that vaguely confused look before.

  By my reckoning, one of those shit heads has slipped her something extra into her drink before they head up to the penthouse for the real party.

  All targets accounted for, and one extra person isn’t too much for me to handle, not even close. But there’s something about her, that bright smile upon her face, the twinkle in her eyes. She doesn’t strike me as the usual sort of drugged-up bimbo these sorts of guys haul back for their debauchery. There’s a spark to her.

  I push her from my mind though. I have to, there’s no other option. Civilian casualties are sometimes an unavoidable thing. I’ve seen that firsthand more often than I care to remember.

  It isn’t long before the group has all vanished into the posh hotel, their security detail trailing behind. They do a good job looking like part of the group, for what it’s worth, but there’s no way for them to match the drunken, drugged-up gait while doing their job effectively, so it’s easy to tell how many I have to deal with.

  Six armed guards. I was expecting eight, but it seems two remain with the vehicle.

  Now it’s my turn.

  There’s no rush. My movements are casual. The last thing I ever want to do is stand out on a mission like this, so while I have plenty of time, I don’t hurry. I make my way around back, down into the subterranean parking lot.

  I sight the two guards at the vehicle; one’s smoking, the other’s talking on a phone. They look casual too, but it’s a ruse. They’re alert and dangerous, like me. I stay far enough away that I never draw their eyes. My target is the door leading up.

  Through the stairwell, I make my way to an employee’s only hall. The key card lock is easy enough to bypass, and I just move on through. It winds through a laundry room, but nobody pays me any mind. The hotel is far too bustling for me to stand out, dressed in a black sweater and pants. I look like just another employee coming on or off the job before getting into uniform.

  I swipe an access card from some manager, too busy berating an employee to notice its loss. This is something I could’ve done earlier in preparation, but that would have ran the risk of it being noticed. And while I doubt it’d have affected the mission, you never know with people.

  But me? I know I’d have no issue getting what I need when I need it.

  A service elevator takes me up, the stolen key card granting me easy access to the penthouse suites on top.

  The doors open, and I walk along a narrow service hallway before peering out into the elite foyer. There, I see two more of the guards outside a door. Not that I needed to know that—it was easy to figure out which room they’d be staying at ahead of time.

  I grasp a cleaning cart and roll it out into the hall to one of the rooms. It’s unoccupied, and the two security men pay me little heed as I disappear inside. I suppose I look like a janitor in their eyes, harmless. Someone weak and easy to ignore, with my head and shoulders hunched, ID card dangling from my belt.

  It takes me a while to meander my way on up, but still I have ample time.

  I pull a knife from beneath my pant leg and slide it into my belt. I give the gun in my pocket a final check. It’s small, but it’ll do the job. The silencer from my other pocket screws on, and I slide my mask on down over my face. Then that’s it. No time like the present.

  But it’s not the door I go for. That’d leave two corpses in the hallway while I do the rest, and I’m a professional. Leaving dead bodies in plain sight is too risky, especially with the risk of those security cameras actually being monitored.

  I head to the window, sliding it open to go onto the posh balcony, and the ledge I’m counting on is right there to the left. The wind up here is cold, and I let it bite into me. Distract me from the ridiculously long plunge below. One unexpected gust, and I’m a splatter on the street. I don’t feel afraid, though. I never feel afraid.

  I can’t see the windows and balcony to the party's suite from here, I have to round the corner. But to get that far, I have about three dozen feet of clinging to the side of a skyscraper.

  The key is to not think about it. As in all things, I let myself run on practiced instinct. Skills and methods honed through repetition.

  The ledge holds as I creep my way along to that corner and peer around the edge.

  It’s all clear. And I carry on, winding about the corner of the building towards the first window. The curtains are shut still, thankfully, so that makes my job easier. Even assassins have to be grateful for small favors.

  But then the doors to the balcony open, about a dozen feet away. So much for luck.

  One of the security guards steps out, and I go still as a dead mouse. He looks around the cityscape and lingers a while, so my hand creeps down into my pocket, slowly—so slowly!—pulling the gun out, keeping it at the ready, aimed for him.

  Time stands still, quiet but for the wind. There’s about twenty stories between me and the ground. Long enough that if I fall, I’m going to have plenty of time to regret it. I focus my mind forward onto the man, let that cool calm grip my heart. My finger tenses on the trigger.

  Then I hear him mutter seemingly to himself.

  “Check in. All clear,” he says into a headpiece that’s all but invisible.

  Now I have about five minutes, max. Then the next check-in will occur, and the men in the car would realize something’s wrong, impeding my getaway.

  The guard meanders a while longer before turning, heading back in, and shutting the door.

  I lower my gun, slip it back into my pocket, and carry on, sidling along until I can climb up over the railing onto the balcony. I can peer in through the glass doors, into the hallway there. The suite beyond is massive, I know: I looked into it ahead of time. But the hallway is guarded by that lone security man.

  Slipping the knife from my belt, I ever so carefully open the door, which I earlier jammed so that it never quite lo
cks, though it appears to. The sounds of laughter and music from the partiers immediately fill my senses.

  With smooth, quick motions, I simultaneously wrap my gloved hand around the guard’s mouth and slide the blade into his back. I pierce his flesh right between his ribs, the long blade puncturing his heart then slicing through it and his lung.

  He’s dead, can barely even kick before it’s all over. I don’t take any time to revel in my victory. He’s just one on a long list of guys who I’ve snuffed out. He wasn’t even important enough for me to know his name.

  I drag his body back out onto the balcony, wiping the blade off onto his blazer before I slip back inside. Time is of the essence now, the clock is ticking. But I can’t hurry this, can’t do anything more than carry on at my precise killing pace. If I rush, something will get fucked up, so even as I silently keep count of the seconds as they tick by, I stay calm and practiced.

  Another guard walks into the hallway, rounding the corner, and I’m on him quick and smooth, hand over his mouth as my blade slices through his breast, ending his life. Ending lives is what I’m best at, and now I’m in my groove. It’s not really a rush so much as an energy, feeding off these bastards’ deaths.

  Two guards down, four more to go.

  I drag the body into the bathroom, stuffing him into the tub, pulling across the shower curtain. Before I can leave, one of the partygoers comes in. He’s tipsy, doesn’t notice me as I keep pressed to the wall behind a recess. He unzips, and I hear the sound of his pissing.

  His life is ended in the blink of an eye. Never even had time to make peace with whatever god he prays to, poor sap. Not like a prayer would do guys like this any good.

  Back in the hall, I head towards the private bedrooms. A guard waits outside two of them, and there’s no way I can approach him without him seeing me, so it’s time for the gun.