by Amy Jarecki
“Expected that.”
“Beanstalk has acquired your signal and is honing in.”
“Roger and out.”
Taking her hand, he again slipped the regulator to her mouth, listening for bullets. Though he heard nothing, he wasn’t ready to take a chance and break the surface. With the way this mission had gone, Logan wouldn’t put it past Khalil to employ a sniper on his yacht. They swam like hell. Using the compass on his watch, he steered “her grace” in the direction of the Washington while he relied on the crew in the recon boat to detect the microchip in his watch. When he was confident they were out of range and would be undetectable in the Mediterranean’s swells, he arched his back, pulling her for the surface. As his head broke through, an orange ring splashed in front of his face right on cue.
He grabbed the duchess by the back of her skimpy dress and moved the ring against her ribs so she’d latch on.
She jerked away from his grasp. “Would you stop manhandling me, you ape?”
Nothing like a drop-dead gorgeous woman to make him want to kill something. Logan gritted his teeth and carried on with the mission, making sure the crew safely hauled the woman into the inflatable. As soon as she was in, he launched himself over the side. “Go, go, go!”
The motor revved to the sound of distant machine gun fire.
The duchess ducked.
“We’re out of range, princess,” Logan said, giving her thigh a slap.
“My name is Olivia, and I am well aware of that, cowboy.”
He slid against the rubber wall and smirked, catching the eye roll of one of his teammates. Logan never minded being called a cowboy. He’d grown up in Montana—Big Sky country. What soured his stomach was this MI6 debutante made wranglers sound distasteful. If only he could take just one of the European princesses he’d worked with to the ranch he’d inherited from his parents, they’d change their minds—unless they were too citified. He looked at his watch. “Detonation in eleven, ten, nine…” everyone watched as he counted to zero.
Nothing happened.
“God damn—,” just as the curse spewed from Olivia’s lips, the charge blew. Blinding white light flashed through the sky followed by an earsplitting boom while waves rocked the inflatable and pushed it further on its path toward the ship.
Logan turned his head away from the others and let a long breath slip through his lips. No one on earth would have been able to save his ass if he’d blown an MI6 mission because of a dud.
***
Watching Khalil’s yacht blow sky high was bittersweet. Where on the other hand, Olivia felt like a prisoner of war who had been freed after two years of hell behind enemy lines. She’d have to deal with her demons later because, right now, she was livid. In her book, being gutted trumped PTSD. In one blinding explosion, everything was gone. It wasn’t like writing a five-hundred-page book and losing all the words. This mission had sucked her under, chewed her up and had just spat her out. Worse, she’d lost her fucking self. She’d compromised every single one of her values for this job. Why? Because she thought she could do something to put an end to terrorism.
The commander sitting beside her like he was on a pleasure cruise just added new meaning to the words “poof you’re gone”. Fortunately, it took about twenty minutes for the craft to reach the ship, giving Olivia time to ratchet up her ire. She would have her say.
Once aboard ship, she cuffed the cowboy on the shoulder. “Commander Rodgers, did you say?”
He’d taken off his black hood, making his dark hair spike. Those intense teal-blue eyes slanted her way. Then his tongue slipped to the corner of his mouth while his gaze snapped down and back up to her face. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Take me to the captain.”
He gestured aft with an exaggerated bow, blocking his eyes with one hand as if shading them from a bright light. “This way, milady.”
She snorted. The light was dim at best.
A sailor handed her a towel. “For you, ma’am.”
Olivia glanced downward and nearly died. She’d been so irate she hadn’t even realized she was freezing—and wearing a negligee. No wonder Rodgers was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Her nipples jutted through the white silk like a pair of homing beacons. She tugged the towel around her shoulders and raised her chin. “There wouldn’t be a spare jacket?”
Logan pointed. “Give her your shirt, sailor.”
“Sir?”
Rodgers glanced to his wetsuit, spreading his palms. “You heard me. I’ll see it’s returned.”
“Aye, sir.”
This time, the commander looked her straight in the eye without a flinch. “I’ll ensure you get a change of clothes ASAP, ma’am.” Jesus, those eyes could be disarming.
“Thanks.” Once Olivia had the oversized, blue-digital camo buttoned, she tied the towel around her waist. “Lead on.” Disarming eyes or not, the officer was about to hear exactly what she thought of his misshapen rescue.
By the time they arrived at the navigation room on the bridge, she was ready to explode. Pushing past Rodgers, she glared at the captain—the man with the gold leafs on his collars. “I’ll have you know I spent two years infiltrating the Jamal Abdullah Khalil operation, and you just lost our only chance to nail Fahd al-Umari.”
The man looked up from the illuminated navigation table, all color draining from his face. Even in the darkened CIC, lit by red overhead lights and computer monitors, he looked paler than a seasick landlubber. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Fahd al-Umari. At oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, the evilest terrorist in the world would have climbed aboard the yacht you just blew to hell.” Olivia leaned in and met the captain’s indignant stare. “What, pray tell, is your ship doing out here?”
“This was my mission.” Commander Rodgers moved beside her and crossed his arms over his wetsuit. “Our intelligence gave us the directive to strike.”
“Oh yeah? Who in God’s name was that? I’m going to do everything in my power to see that moron never makes another misinformed, dickhead decision in his life.” She pointed to the captain’s sternum. “I want your ass, the commander’s ass, and every American ass responsible for this debacle. Go back to Hawaii and cruise the goddamned Pacific.”
She turned full circle, making eye contact with every stunned face in the CIC. They all knew they’d screwed up and screwed up big.
The captain looked confused as if he didn’t realize she had just handed him his balls on a platter. “But Khalil is…was on our ten most wanted list.”
She jammed her fists into her hips. “Khalil was our best conduit to ISIS.”
“We lost Fahd al-Umari? Christ.” Rodgers closed his eyes and shoved the heel of his hand into his forehead. Maybe the cowboy actually understood how much hot water they were in.
“Yes, you did.” Olivia threw up her hands. “Someone get MI6 on the line. I need to break the news.”
Chapter Three
Two months later
After the debacle in the Gulf of Oman, Logan and his team were sent stateside for retraining. So much for following orders. Repetitive and constant training was part of a SEAL’s MO, but the reason for the transfer to San Diego bit like Olivia’s ass-whipping.
Today, he’d been summoned to the admiral’s office with no explanation as to why. He suspected it was for another debriefing. That about summed up his life these days, running a gazillion drills he’d already mastered ten-or-so years ago, or sitting in a conference room being asked questions by suits from Washington until his head was ready to explode.
After checking in with the admiral’s secretary, Logan was directed to the east conference room—the same place most of the debriefings had been once he’d reached stateside. He chose a seat placing him at the center of the table with his back to the wall, facing the door. Yeah, he was a little predictable that way, but the Navy had taught Logan always to seek the best ground advantage.
He didn’t wait long until the door opened. He sprang to h
is feet and saluted.
“At ease,” said the admiral, moving to the head of the table with a folder tucked under his arm.
A suit with gray hair and broad shoulders followed and sat directly across from Logan. He didn’t recognize the man. No surprise there. Suits came and went all the time.
The admiral rubbed his palms together. His eyes shifted sideways. “Well, there’s nothing to do but to get straight to the point.”
Logan’s gut squeezed. Yeah, he knew. A gut squeeze had never been a good sign. He looked between the two men, wondering why the admiral hadn’t introduced the suit.
The admiral scratched his head. “Honestly, this whole thing has me baffled, but there’re times when even an admiral is given no choice but to follow orders.”
“Sir?” The sickly feeling in Logan’s gut fanned out across his skin.
“I have bad news…” The admiral looked to the other man and twisted his mouth. “And I suspect Mr. Lindgren here has good news, but I guess I’m not important enough to be in the know.”
Logan first shot a wary look to Lindgren, then regarded the senior officer with a pinch to his brow. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
The admiral pushed the folder across the table. “This here’s your honorable discharge from the Navy.”
Perspiration sprang across Logan’s forehead and dampened his pits. His skin went clammy. His head spun like he’d been hit with a hammer. He must have heard wrong.
“Excuse me?” he asked, reaching for the folder and trying not to shake.
“You heard me, Commander.”
“Is this because of the Khalil incident?” Logan’s gut squeezed until his throat practically closed.
The admiral stood. “I’ll leave that to Mr. Lindgren to explain.” He opened the door, then turned. “And Rodgers…don’t try to kill the man before you’ve heard what he has to say. That’s what the President told me, anyway.”
The President?
Logan needed a damned drink of water—no, he needed something stronger, like an entire gallon of tequila. Christ. He’d just lost his job? Whatever happened to loyalty? He’d bled for his country. Daily, he’d put his life on the line for goddamned Uncle Sam and, with one botched mission, he was history? What the hell was he going to do? He flipped open the file and stared at a page of numbers, but his head was spinning too fast to make sense of anything.
The man across the table cleared his throat. “Sorry to hit you between the eyes like that. I told the admiral I’d introduce myself.”
Logan stared at the bastard like the man had two heads. Was he even speaking English? Though he understood him, this man had some kind of heavy, Nordic accent.
“I’m Anders Lindgren and I report directly to Oliver Stoltenberg.”
“Stoltenberg?” Logan did a quick file search through his mind. “You mean the Secretary General of NATO?”
“Ja, one and the same.” Lindgren adjusted his tie. “We’ve been watching you.”
“NATO’s watching me? What? Are you offering me a job?” He smirked. “’Cause I’m suddenly in need of one.”
“Ja, that’s why I’m here.” The man’s expression was as stoic as a robot.
Logan slapped his palm on top of his discharge papers. “Soooo…does this have anything to do with getting me fired?”
Lindgren’s bullet-gray eyes didn’t blink. “I have a great many things to tell you, Commander, but first I need your commitment to the job.”
It didn’t slip Logan’s notice that Lindgren had addressed him with his former rank. “Whoa. This is a bit like putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? How can I commit to something I know nothing about?”
The man’s craggy face continued to be devoid of emotion—unreadable. “Can you pledge your life to stopping international terrorists?” He rolled his Rs, too.
Logan stared back with his own sober frown. “I’ve already done that.”
“Can you leave your family behind and go for long periods without communicating with them?”
He had no family, and something told Logan that Mr. Lindgren already knew it—and a host of other deeply personal details, including his past litany of defunct girlfriends. “Yes.” At the moment, he didn’t even have a girlfriend since the last one decided she couldn’t handle his long stints at sea.
“I need a specialist in military tactics for the most covert operation in the world.”
That piqued his interest. “Which one?”
Lindgren stared. “You’ve never heard of it.”
“Try me.”
“Not without your commitment.” The NATO exec pointed to the folder. “There’s an envelope in the back. Take it out and read.”
Logan swallowed the lump in his throat, removed the envelope and ran his thumb under the seal. He pulled out a letter signed by the President. Jesus...
Dear Commander Rodgers,
Please forgive me for my brash tactics, but your country no longer needs you. At least not as much as the world does. I encourage you to listen to Mr. Lindgren. This is a new path that only a select few will follow. This assignment will come with a substantial financial gain. In addition to a sizeable salary from NATO, after the completion of a successful first year, a sum of $100,000 will be deposited into your bank account tax free. Thereafter, your bonuses will be based on the success of your missions. Should you deny, I regret to inform you that you are out of a job.
Never forget the SEAL motto: The only easy day was yesterday.
I trust you’ll make the right decision.
At the bottom was the scrawling signature of the President of the United States of America
Taking his time, Logan reread the letter, his skin hot like he had a second-degree burn. Of course they weren’t making it easy. He had to perform to get a bonus. And if he didn’t dive in with the sharks, his life savings would last about three months.
Shit.
His hands were tied.
He looked Lindgren in the eye. “You have my attention, sir. I’m ready to commit. You said you need a specialist?”
One corner of the man’s mouth cracked the hint of a smile. “Of military tactics, ja.”
“And the name of this organization?”
Lindgren crossed his arms. “ICE, International Clandestine Enterprise.”
“ICE? I thought that was the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”
“Perhaps in the United States. But not to us.”
Logan’s mind clicked with so many questions, he spat out the first one that came to his lips. “So, where is headquarters?”
“Iceland.” Lindgren still wasn’t letting much out of the bag.
“You’re serious? Why Iceland?” Jeez, he’d need a parka.
“It’s out of the way. Close to Europe. Has a small population...” The man shrugged. “Easy access to Russia if things start heating up there.”
“I assume this job will entail field work?”
“Ja.” Anders Lindgren actually smiled. “You will maintain the rank of commander, and will report to Garth Moore—retired Marine colonel, turned spy a decade ago. He’ll oversee your training with another of our new recruits, our espionage specialist.”
Logan rocked back in his chair. “And who might that be?”
“Olivia Hamilton—I believe you’ve met her.”
Chapter Four
Olivia sat in the flight simulator, perfecting lesson one. Landing. If she couldn’t land a plane, she had no business flying.
She’d been an ICE operative for a week. And a week was plenty. Any time spent in Iceland was time not spent ridding the world of bad guys.
After the cock-up in the Gulf of Oman, she’d returned to London, taken a few weeks off, then went straight back to MI6. That’s when her handler told her she needed a change of pace.
Olivia disagreed. She’d amassed so much intel, she’d wanted right back in the fight.
But when she was given a letter of ultimatum from the Prime Minister with the pro
mise she’d still be hunting terrorists, Olivia had no recourse but to take the leap. She rather liked the new boundaries with no political rubbish to wade through.
Now, all she had to do was to convince her new CO to cut with the training codswallop and send her back to the Gulf. The flight simulator might be fun, but she was wasting valuable time.
The onboard computer interrupted her thoughts. “Touchdown in five, four, three, two, one…” The simulator jolted as Olivia used a whole-foot push to engage the wheel brakes, then she engaged the speed brakes on the wings and the thrust reversers. Everything was realistic, right down to the sensation of a plane slowing before it jerked to a halt.
Garth Moore, the CO, an American ex-Marine popped his head inside. “Don’t you respond to your texts, Hamilton?”
She glanced at the ICE issue computer on her wrist. There were five unread messages. “Sorry.”
He offered her his hand. “We got him.”
She let him pull her out onto the platform. “Who?”
“Logan Rodgers.”
Olivia’s stomach somersaulted while energy zipped up her spine. Averting her gaze, she started down the steps to cover the sudden surge of heat flooding to her cheeks. At the bottom, she gave her head a shake. She’d convinced herself she didn’t care if Rodgers came aboard or not. A spy couldn’t allow herself to care. “When?” she asked.
“He’s on a flight now. Will be here in the morning.”
“Brilliant. I’m sure he’ll make a great addition to ICE. You said you needed a military guy—a Ranger or a SEAL. I’m sure Rodgers will be suitable.”
“He will. I want to fast track him—and you.”
Olivia stopped and moved her hands to her hips. “Wait a moment. I’m already trained. You can put me in the field to-freaking-day.”
“Not yet, Commander. You haven’t been through my training.” Garth had gray hair and a moustache, and Olivia figured he was late fifties, early sixties.
“Old school?” She snorted—older guys always thought they were superior.
“ICE School, and don’t forget it. I’ll bet you didn’t get flight training at MI6.”