Badass - The Complete Series: A Billionaire Military Romance

by Leslie Johnson

  Damn.

  “Ghost 4. Target is hot. Pistol. C4. Timer.”

  Jackson turns away, runs a hand through his hair, takes two steps before turning back to target. “Hands free. Going in.”

  Sweat drops into my eye, but I don’t blink it away, refusing to take my eyes off of the big man. He totters sideways and scowls when Jackson bumps into him.

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six seconds later, he staggers and holds out a hand to balance himself against a wall. Jackson ‘helps’ him to the ground, slipping off the pack as they go.

  Once again showcasing his acting skills, Jackson’s lips move as he calls for help—a tourist being a good Samaritan. Moments later, he turns and casually walks away. The last I see him, he’s stashing the backpack into a bomb fragmentation suppression bag he’d had tucked into the satchel thrown across his shoulder.

  I move my sight back to the man on the ground who is no longer breathing, then I check his perimeter, searching for an accomplice. I scan for more black clothing—these guys can be very predictable. Then scan again based on facial expression and level of stress.

  I don’t call ‘clear’ until I’ve scanned a third time. By then, the local police and an ambulance have arrived and are attempting to resuscitate the victim.

  They won’t.

  Jackson and his sliver of untraceable poison assure that the death certificate will read myocardial infarction. Bastard deserved a harder death. My only regret is that now we can’t persuade him to tell us who his accomplices are. But the risk was too great. The threat to too many lives imminent. We’ll have to settle for one asshole down right now.

  “Ghost 4 to Ghost 1.” Jackson’s voice crackles in my ear again. “Package delivered.”

  “Copy, Ghost 4.”

  Half an hour later, another crackle in my ear. Secret service has moving targets on two suspects fleeing the scene. When Jackson lifted the backpack, he lifted the terrorist’s cell phone as well. He’d passed them both off to bomb control and the phone led the service to zero in on the accomplices.

  One dead. Two in custody.

  Score three for the good guys.

  The CIA will be brought in to see how the president’s visit was leaked. This little episode is far from over. But we did our job. The Feds will have to do theirs.

  I continue scanning for the next two hours, tucked on the roof of a hotel a quarter mile away. I check security points, confirming they are still manned. I scan faces of families. Women. Children. People alone and traveling in groups.

  It’s fiery hot, but I don’t lose focus. I can’t lose focus.

  Or patience.

  Or tolerance.

  No matter the discomfort, we have a job to do. So I lie on the baking hot concrete and embrace the suck.

  “Iron Horse moving in ten.” The voice isn’t my team. It’s secret service lead, Mitchell.

  The president loves baseball and is a huge Lou “Iron Horse” Gehrig fan, earning him the code name in honor of the legend.

  “Copy that. Ghost 1 in position.”

  “Ghost 2 in position.”

  I listen as each man confirms. Five minutes later, we go through the same process. Then again at one minute.

  Then, “Iron Horse going down.”

  It’s pucker time and I train down on the exit of the building, then scan the vehicles up and down the street.

  Because this visit isn’t publicly known, standard protocol is aborted.

  “10.”

  “9.”

  The countdown continues, then I see them. Out of the building and into a car. They’re away from the curb and down the street within seconds. Two cars follow and I scan for others.

  “Break.”

  I’m off the concrete and taking apart my gun, shoving it piece by piece into a small satchel. I pull off my gear and stuff it into a shopping bag and pull out a … fuck … god-awful Hawaiian looking shirt. Somebody is fucking with me.

  Within moments, I’m no longer a soldier … I’m a tourist with very bad taste.

  Less than an hour later, the president is in the air and we’re heading back to the hotel to get ready for the evening, each of us coming from various parts of the city.

  My eight-man team is a tier-one counter-terrorist unit whose mission is to kill or capture high value assholes who want to do bad things to good people. We break up terrorist cells and conduct hostage rescues; perform highly coordinated assaults on heavily armed targets. Bottom line is, we do whatever we’re told to do. We also serve as additional protection of high-ranking officials and, like today, provide an extra layer of protection to the secret service for the president when the environment is iffy.

  Like here in Dubai. This was a secret visit. The world thinks the president was conducting a helicopter tour of an island that was nearly swept away by a tsunami. In reality, he did that yesterday. Today, he met with one of the richest men in the world. Not my business to know why.

  To the world, we’re under the control of the Joint Special Operation Command, but my paycheck says my employer is Allied Construction and Restoration. The identity in my wallet says I’m Sean Thompson. I’ll be Sean Thompson tomorrow. I’m not sure who I’ll be next. Or where.

  “You know, we’re never going to get laid in this getup,” I say to Darren, looking down at the tourist clothes I’d been provided for this mission. I’m wearing khaki shorts and the damn flowered shirt that nearly makes my eyes burn with its bright colors.

  Darren leads Bravo squad, but they wanted him along with me in Alpha squad as an extra set of eyes on the street. He’s fluent in Arabic and Farsi, thanks to the Defense Language Institute Foreign Language Center.

  “Correction. You’re not going to get laid looking like an asshole in that shirt. I already know I’m not.” He grins. “But I will tomorrow.”

  I pretend to give him hell, but I expect nothing else from my best friend. He’s got Julie at home and three kids now, two boys and a girl. He’s one of the very few special ops guys who gets married and stays married. I’ve never, not once, seen him do anything but look at another woman.

  “Just don’t knock her up again,” I taunt him and then look at my watch. “We’ve got a few hours until dinner reservations. Let’s hit a couple stores. I can get out of this damn shirt and I want to buy my god kids some presents.”

  Because tomorrow, we’re all flying home.

  For me, I’m spending a few weeks at my family’s Malibu estate. I’ve only been back there twice in the past ten years. There’s nothing for me there. Just a family I’ve alienated myself from and memories I don’t care to remember.

  If my family wants to see me, they can fly to me. They can stay at the cabin I bought five years ago in Colorado. Or even at my place near Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, where my fellow Delta operators and I call home base.

  My entire family all flew in to the cabin for a few days several years ago, and I’d ended up in a huge fight with my dad and brother. They both wanted me to quit the Army and join the Duffy legacy.

  “You’ve served your time,” my dad had said. He didn’t understand that it has become more than that to me. That I’ve found something I was good at. Hell, I excelled at. I wasn’t ready to give it up. This is my life.

  Since then, only my youngest older sister comes to stay with me each time I’m on leave. My grandparents visit me fairly often too. After I got in trouble that terrible night, Camille became the family rebel. As she laughingly told me once, “I wasn’t ready to get hauled off to the Army, but I was done with being told how I was going to live my life.”

  She’s a photographer now, and to my father’s horror, a lesbian. Actually, she’s bisexual. I wish like hell I’d been there when she told good ‘ole dad how she liked to swing both ways.

  I’m happy for her. She travels the world taking stunning photos of nature. She even nabbed a National Geographic photo of the week not long ago. S
he writes me a letter every week. Real letters that I can hold in my hands. It might take them a few weeks to catch up to me, but I always read every word of her adventures and pour through the photos she includes.

  Thank God she’ll be there when I go back to Malibu tomorrow. They’ll all be there.

  For Gran.

  I’m going back at the urgent request of my dad. He called me last week to tell me my grandmother is dying. Cancer everywhere. The tumors are inoperable, growing fast, and there’s nothing anyone can do. Radiation won’t help. Nothing will help. She has only a few weeks to live. Maybe less. Hard weeks, and he said she’s going down fast.

  I’m pulled from those dark thoughts when three hard knocks rap on the door. Then it bursts open and Operators Kyle Seaver and Blake Howard are in the room. Seaver stops, points and rolls his head back and laughs. Then he starts doing a little hula dance while Howard plays an invisible guitar.

  I know. I know. I look stupid in this shirt. I’ve got to get a new one.

  “We’re hitting some stores, getting real clothes. You all coming?”

  “You buying, rich boy?” Howard says as he plops on the bed.

  I glare at him. “Thought this was my birthday. You should be buying.”

  He laughs. Howls. “Okay, let’s find a local Walmart and I’ll hook you up.”

  Blake Howard is one of the finest men I’ve ever known. He’s the new guy, a corporal that only served six-months in the Rangers before he was fast-tracked to Delta after single handedly saving ten men’s lives in combat. He sends the majority of his check home to his parents and stashes the rest away for retirement. He’s frugal as hell and doesn’t give a shit who knows it.

  “I’m doubting Walmart has my measurements.” I look at his huge muscles. “Or yours. Let’s get out of here and find good clubbing clothes. I want to get laid tonight. And, yes, I’m paying. Can’t have my wingmen looking like shit.”

  I think back to the days when I always paid for everything. I do it now too, but not for the same reason. I’m not buying loyalty—I’ve already got that. I’m not buying friendship—I’ve already got that.

  I buy because I can.

  The guys stopped arguing a few years ago when I explained that I could blow ten thousand dollars a day and not run out of money for nearly three hundred years. I told them that it wasn’t me paying; it was actually my grandfather and his dad before him. I’d earned not one cent of my inheritance. The money was just handed to me on a silver platter.

  I told them my great-granddad would be pleased to know his hard-earned money was being used to buy a few extras for fellow soldiers. Great-granddad died when I was in high school, would have been over a hundred years old now had he lived. He was a soldier. A commander on D-day. Yes, he would be happy to know I made life a little nicer for a few good men.

  Damn good men.

  Seaver grabs the remote and turns on the TV to begin flipping through the channels. I do a pit sniff, wince and head to the shower.

  Grabbing a black t-shirt from my bag, I say, “Call the others and let’s head out in thirty.”

  After checking with the hotel concierge, we head to a store they say will be able to fit every man on my team. I look over at Sebastian “Hulk” Seelen who hovers over my six-three frame by three inches and is twice as wide. Yeah, good luck with that. Then, I look at Mike Jackson, the smallest of the bunch, but the meanest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. At five-eight, many a man has underestimated him, for about thirty seconds. Then they’re either dead or wishing they were.

  Eyes grow big as we step into the shop and I take the lead by handing over my—uh, Sean’s—AmEx and letting the manager know our evening plans. Within an hour, we’re different men walking out and climbing into the Hummer stretch I rented for the evening.

  I found some damn fine Givenchy jeans that I paired with a t-shirt and jacket. Black belt and shoes, and I’m a new man. It’s fun as hell to do this for the guys, to watch them walk into the store bitching about shopping and then turning into girls as they try on several different things.

  Except Hulk.

  Hulk goes to the big-man section. Finds what he wants, puts it on and he’s done. We got lucky. The owner of the store also owns a shoe store on the next block. He sent an employee in search of size sixteen shoes and they had them. Several styles of them. I’ve never seen the big man looking so good.

  While the guys finished up, I strolled to an electronic store I saw on the way in and bought three iPad Mini’s for Darren’s kids. Sure, the youngest is only two, but kids nowadays have electronic gadgets in both hands. Besides, they’ll pack easy for the flight home and I don’t want to see the kids again without something from Uncle Duff.

  With another hour until our reservations at The Palace, I instruct the driver to take us to the ocean. The sun is about to set and I want to snap a few shots to give my sis. I might not have her talent, but I can point and shoot. And this view is impressive.

  Then I remember another ocean. Another sunset. Another night.

  That night.

  The night that haunts me still.

  Mattie.

  Watching her dance. Taking her hand. Leading her to my tent.

  Sinking inside her over and over again.

  Her smell.

  Her taste.

  I still can feel the softness of her skin.

  Pulling off my shoes, I roll my new jeans up to my knees and walk down the sand until my feet are in the ocean. The water’s warm as it curls around my toes and up to my ankles.

  “You okay?”

  It’s Darren. Shoes off. Feet in the water too.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve got to get her out of your head.”

  Damn. How did he know?

  “I will.”

  “Think you’ll run into her while you’re home?”

  My toes curl into the sand at the thought.

  “Hope not.”

  I’ve not seen her since I closed the laptop lid that night six years ago. I refused all her calls. Refused all her letters. Wouldn’t allow anyone to mention her name.

  I tried like hell to forget her. Forget everything about her. But the girl was deep. Way deep inside my skin. I’d dig her out with a knife if I could.

  I want to hate her, but I can’t. Guess the ‘first love’ ties are too strong. I’ve decided to be happy for her. She’s married with two kids. If that’s the life she wants, so be it.

  “We need to get you and the kids back up to the cabin soon. Maybe we can get a few days. Let them play in the snow. The kids loved it last year.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, they still talk about it. Not much of the white stuff in Florida.”

  “Then choose a week and we’ll make it happen. If what Dad says is true, Gran will be gone by the end of September and I’ll head to the cabin after her funeral.”

  “Sorry to hear about that. I know you love her.”

  “Yeah. She’s my favorite grandparent for sure. Seems like all the good ones get struck down first.”

  A large shadow steps up beside me. “Pardon me for interrupting this intimate moment, Sarge,” Howard says. “But we’re hungry as hell. I think Stone and Hulk are about to eat sand.”

  I clap Howard on the shoulder. “Won’t be the first time. But let’s go. We’ll hit the bar. They can scarf down some peanuts until our table’s ready.”

  I chose Asado at The Palace for dinner for one reason—meat. The Argentinean Grill serves premium cuts on an open grill located in the center of the huge serving floor. Casual enough for what we‘re wearing, but classy enough to feel like humans again for a while. We hit the bar hard, the steaks harder, eating until we nearly moo’d. Then we’re off to the club, ushered straight in and … I look around.

  Notice all the eyes looking back. Gorgeous eyes. Skimpy dresses. Long, flowing hair.

  Yeah.

  I’m going to get lucky tonight.

  Chapter 3 – Grace

  The shower is running as I step i
nto the house and I frown at the trail of clothes strewn on the stairs leading up to the second floor.

  I pick up the t-shirt, the shorts, one sock and then the other before finding the boxers in the bedroom.

  Grrrrrr. I growl with every cell in my body.

  By the time I bend to pick up the sweaty, nasty things, I’m pissed. I’m even more pissed when I get a glimpse of the skid marks. Can’t the ever lovin’ man even wipe his ass right?

  I walk into the bathroom, yank open the shower door and throw them at him as hard as I can.

  “What the—?”

  Rob has the audacity to look surprised, emotionally injured even. I don’t give him the chance to say another word. I slam the door closed and stomp from the room, pretending I don’t hear the word, “Bitch.”

  By the time I’m in the kitchen and pouring a glass of grape juice—the closest thing to wine I’m allowed right now—I’m feeling more than a little guilty and ashamed of myself. I’m an adult. I’m a professional. I should do better than that.

  Should.

  But dammit. So should he.

  Rob and I have been together for three years and married for nearly two. He isn’t my first love; that distinction belongs to Heath Jeffers, my high school sweetheart. But Heath and I broke up my freshman year of college when a ‘long distance relationship’ proved to be too much for him. Yeah, that hour-long drive was a doozy.

  Then I’d met Rob my sophomore year and fell madly and crazy in love. He was in pre-med and had big plans for his future. I’d been enthralled with him and could just see us opening a practice together. Doctor and nurse living happily ever after.

  Then … four months after our wedding, he declared that med school was going to take too long, cost too much, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. He dropped out without even discussing it with me first. Then he had his dad co-sign on a bass boat and declared himself to be a professional fisherman.

  “It’ll be great,” he said.

  “I’ll get endorsements,” he said.

  We’ll be “rolling in the money” and he’d be “living his dream,” he said. “And surely you don’t want to get between a man and his dream, do you sweetheart?”