by Susan Stoker
Protecting Dakota
SEAL of Protection, Book 10
Susan Stoker
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Susan Stoker
No part of this work may be used, stored, reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher except for brief quotations for review purposes as permitted by law.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Edited by Kelli Collins and Missy Borucki
Cover Design by Chris Mackey, AURA Design Group
Manufactured in the United States
Contents
Blurb
A Note to the Reader
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Also by Susan Stoker
About the Author
Blurb
Dakota James’ life has become the stuff of nightmares. The leader of the Ansar al-Shari’a terrorist group has become obsessed with her, determined to take her as his wife. On the run, she’ll have to pin her hopes on the retired SEAL charged with finding and stopping Aziz Fourati before he can carry out plans to bomb more US airports.
Recently recruited to join a sleeper SEAL team tasked with fighting terrorism on US soil, Slade “Cutter” Cutsinger, with the help of some Special Forces friends, has located the one woman who can identify the deadly Ansar al-Shari’a leader. That was the easy part. Keeping her safe proves more difficult than anyone ever imagined.
When she and her new friend, Caroline, are kidnapped by the terrorist group, Dakota can only pray Cutter and the SEALs will reach them before they’re taken out of the country—and away from Cutter forever.
** Protecting Dakota is the 9th book in the SEAL of Protection series. It is also a part of the “Sleeper SEAL” connected series. Each book is a stand-alone, with no cliffhanger endings.
A Note to the Reader
This is a special book to me for a couple of reasons.
It was a collaboration born over several glasses of wine at an author convention. The twelve of us decided we wanted to write books that were linked together, but still connected to our own series’. I loved the conception of a former commander who was tasked to covertly take down homegrown terrorists. I also loved that the books could be read in any order. I hope you’ll check out the other books in the Sleeper SEAL series.
The other reason this book means a lot to me is because it’s the last official book in the original SEAL of Protection Series. Protecting Caroline was my first indie published book, and it’s only right that she kicks as much butt in this book as she did in her own.
BUT, this is not the end of the SEALs. You have been introduced to another team of SEALs in past books, but you’ll get to meet Gumby, Rocco, Ace, Bubba, Rex, and Phantom once again here. Their series, SEAL of Protection: Legacy will debut soon.
And just because Wolf and the gang will be transitioned from an active SEAL team to a training role, doesn’t mean that you won’t see them again and get to catch up with their families.
Thank you for your support of my SEALs. Here’s to many more missions, adventures, and love stories with the Legacy team!
Prologue
Retired Navy Commander Greg Lambert leaned forward to rake in the pile of chips his full house had netted him. Tonight, he would leave the weekly gathering not only with his pockets full, but his pride intact.
The scowls he earned from his poker buddies at his unusual good luck were an added bonus.
They’d become too accustomed to him coming up on the losing side of Five Card Stud. It was about time he taught them to never underestimate him.
Vice President Warren Angelo downed the rest of his bourbon and stubbed out his Cuban cigar. “Looks like Lady Luck is on your side tonight, Commander.”
After he neatly stacked his chips in a row at the rail in front of him, Greg glanced around at his friends. It occurred to him right then, this weekly meeting wasn’t so different from the joint sessions they used to have at the Pentagon during his last five years of service.
While the location was now the Secretary of State’s basement, the gatherings still included top-ranking military brass, politicians, and the director of the CIA, who had been staring at him strangely all night long.
“It’s about time the bitch smiled my way, don’t you think? She usually just cleans out my pockets and gives you my money,” Greg replied with a sharp laugh as his eyes roved over the spacious man cave with envy before they snagged on the wall clock.
It was well past midnight, their normal break-up time. He needed to get home, but what did he have to go home to? Four walls, and Karen’s mean-as-hell Chihuahua who hated him.
Greg stood, scooted back his chair, and stretched his shoulders. The rest of his poker buddies quickly left, except for Vice President Angelo, Benedict Hughes with the CIA, and their host tonight, Percy Long, the Secretary of State.
Greg took the last swig of his bourbon, then set the glass on the table. When he took a step to leave, they moved to block his way to the door. “Something on your minds, gentlemen?” he asked, their cold, sober stares making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, but one he was familiar with from his days as a Navy SEAL. That feeling usually didn’t portend anything good was about to go down, but neither did the looks on these men’s faces.
Warren cleared his throat and leaned against the mahogany bar with its leather trimmings. “There’s been a significant amount of chatter lately.” He glanced at Ben. “We’re concerned.”
Greg backed up a few steps, putting some distance between himself and the men. “Why are you telling me this? I’ve been out of the loop for a while now.” Greg was retired, and bored stiff, but not stiff enough to tackle all that was wrong in the United States at the moment or fight the politics involved in fixing things.
Ben let out a harsh breath then gulped down his glass of water. He set the empty glass down on the bar with a sigh and met Greg’s eyes. “We need your help, and we’re not going to beat around the bush,” he said, making Greg’s short hairs stand taller.
Greg put his hands in his pockets, rattling the change in his right pocket and his car keys in the left while he waited for the hammer. Nothing in Washington, D.C. was plain and simple anymore. Not that it ever had been.
“Spit it out, Ben,” he said, eyeballing the younger man. “I’m all ears.”
“Things have changed in the US. Terrorists are everywhere now,” he started, and Greg bit back a laugh at the understatement of the century.
He’d gotten out before the recent INCONUS attacks started, but he was still in service on 9/11 for the ultimate attack. The day that replace
d Pearl Harbor as the day that would go down in infamy.
“That’s not news, Ben,” Greg said, his frustration mounting in his tone. “What does that have to do with me, other than being a concerned citizen?”
“More cells are being identified every day,” Ben replied, his five o’clock shadow standing in stark contrast to his now paler face. “The chatter about imminent threats, big jihad events that are in the works, is getting louder every day.”
“You do understand that I’m no longer active service, right?” Greg shrugged. “I don’t see how I can be of much help there.”
“We want you to head a new division at the CIA,” Warren interjected. “Ghost Ops, a sleeper cell of SEALs to help us combat the terrorist sleeper cells in the US…and whatever the hell else might pop up later.”
Greg laughed. “And where do you think I’ll find these SEALs to sign up? Most are deployed over—”
“We want retired SEALs like yourself. We’ve spent millions training these men, and letting them sit idle stateside while we fight this losing battle alone is just a waste.” Ben huffed a breath. “I know they’d respect you when you ask them to join the contract team you’d be heading up. You’d have a much better chance of convincing them to help than we will.”
“Most of those guys are like me, worn out to the bone or injured when they finally give up the teams. Otherwise, they’d still be active. SEALs don’t just quit.” Unless their wives were taken by cancer and their kids were off at college, leaving them alone in a rambling house when they were supposed to be traveling together and enjoying life.
“What kind of threats are you talking about?” Greg asked, wondering why he was even entertaining such a stupid idea.
“There are many. More every day. Too many for us to fight alone,” Ben started, but Warren held up his palm.
“The president is taking a lot of heat. He has three and a half years left in his term, and taking out these threats was a campaign promise. He wants the cells identified and the terror threats eradicated quickly.”
These two, and the president, sat behind desks all day. They’d never been in a field op before, so they had no idea the planning and training that took place before a team ever made it to the field. Training a team of broken-down SEALs to work together would take double that time, because each knew better than the rest how things should be done, so there was no “quick” about it.
“That’s a tall order. I can’t possibly get a team of twelve men on the same page in under a year. Even if I can find them.” Why in the hell was he getting excited, then? “Most are probably out enjoying life on a beach somewhere.” Exactly where he would be with Karen if she hadn’t fucking died on him as soon as he’d retired four years ago.
“We don’t want a team, Greg,” Percy Long corrected, unfolding his arms as he stepped toward him. “This has to be done stealthily because we don’t want to panic the public. If word got out about the severity of the threats, people wouldn’t leave their homes. The press would pump it up until they created a frenzy. You know how that works.”
“So, let me get this straight. You want individual SEALs, sleeper guys who agree to be called up for special ops, to perform solo missions?” Greg asked, his eyebrows lifting. “That’s not usually how they work.”
“Unusual times call for unusual methods, Greg. They have the skills to get it done quickly and quietly,” Warren replied, and Greg couldn’t argue. That’s exactly the way SEALs operated—they did whatever it took to get the job done.
Ben approached him, placed his hand on his shoulder as if this was a tag-team effort, and Greg had no doubt that it was just that. “Every terrorist or wannabe terror organization has roots here now. Al Qaeda, the Muslim Brotherhood, Isis, or the Taliban—you name it. They’re not here looking for asylum. They’re actively recruiting followers and planning events to create a caliphate on our home turf. We can’t let that happen, Greg, or the United States will never be the same.”
“You’ll be a CIA contractor, and can name your price,” Warren inserted, and Greg’s eyes swung to him. “You’ll be on your own in the decision making. We need to have plausible deniability if anything goes wrong.”
“Of course,” Greg replied, shaking his head. If anything went south, they needed a fall guy, and that would be him in this scenario. Not much different from the dark ops his teams performed under his command when he was active duty.
God, why did this stupid idea suddenly sound so intriguing? Why did he think he might be able to make it work? And why in the hell did he suddenly think it was just what he needed to break out of the funk he’d been living in for four years?
“I can get you a list of potential hires, newly retired SEALs, and the president says anything else you need,” Warren continued quickly. “All we need is your commitment.”
The room went silent, and Greg looked deeply into each man’s eyes as he pondered a decision. What the hell did he have to lose? If he didn’t agree, he’d just die a slow, agonizing death in his recliner at home. At only forty-seven and still fit, that could be a lot of years spent in that chair.
“Get me the intel, the list, and the contract,” he said, and a surge of adrenaline made his knees weak.
He was back in the game.
Chapter 1
“Hey, Wolf, how’d it go?” Slade “Cutter” Cutsinger asked the SEAL as he entered the office on the Naval base.
“I’d tell ya, Cutter, but then I’d have to kill you,” Wolf joked as he smiled at Slade.
It was a long-running joke between the two men. Slade was a retired SEAL himself, now working as a contractor for the Navy. He worked directly under Patrick Hurt, Wolf’s commander. Slade probably knew more about the mission Wolf and his team had been on than Wolf did himself.
“The commander’s waiting in his office for a debrief,” Slade told the other man with a chin lift, indicating the door to his right. “All good at home? Caroline okay?”
“She’s good,” Wolf told him. “Thanks for asking. And I should’ve said something before now, but I appreciate you checking on her during that last mission. She’s used to them, as much as she can be used to her spouse leaving for who-knows-where for who-knows-how-long. She told me you helped make her and the others feel better about that mission. You know if you ever need anything, all you’ve got to do is ask.”
“I do know, and it’s appreciated,” Slade told him.
He hadn’t ever worked in the field with Wolf or the other guys on his team, but he respected the hell out of all of them. They were extremely successful on their missions, didn’t take absurd chances, and most importantly to Slade, all took care of their families. And by “take care,” Slade meant they realized how precious their women and children were and worked their asses off to make sure they knew it. They didn’t sleep around on them. If they were running late on a mission, Wolf always made sure Slade checked up on their families. And they had tracking devices on their women, just in case.
Slade wasn’t supposed to know about the trackers, but his friend, Tex, had let that little gem slip one night when they were shooting the shit on the phone. Slade had worked on a team with Tex before he’d been medically retired, and hadn’t ever found another man for whom he had more respect. When he’d found out about Tex marrying, and then adopting a child from Iraq, he’d been almost as proud for the man as Tex probably was himself.
They’d been talking on the phone one night and Tex had told him that his wife, Melody, had given birth to a little girl named Hope, then he’d told Slade that he’d be damned if any of their enemies got their hands on his baby. With his wife’s approval and encouragement, he’d had a bracelet made for his daughter to wear with a tiny tracking device. That’s when he’d let the cat out of the bag about the women who belonged to Wolf’s team also voluntarily wearing similar jewelry.
Slade had felt a little melancholy that he hadn’t ever found a woman he cared about enough to want to protect like that…and who would let him. His ex, Cynt
hia—not Cindy; God forbid someone call her Cindy—didn’t have much interest in anything he did and by the end of their four-year marriage, the feeling was definitely mutual.
All his life, he’d wanted to feel a special connection with a woman. For some reason, he had a feeling he’d just know when he met her. In his twenties, he hadn’t been too anxious to find her because he’d been young and eager to make a difference in the Navy. In his thirties, he was ready to settle down, even though he was neck deep working on the SEAL teams. And now, in his late forties, he felt way too old to try to start a serious relationship. He figured he’d lost his chance.
So now he was a confirmed bachelor who kept tabs on the families of the SEALs that worked for Commander Hurt instead.
Mentally shrugging, Slade tried to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him. He missed the action of being on a SEAL team, but he was definitely too old to do the work of the younger men anymore. He gladly left it to them.
The phone next to him rang, and Slade answered. “Cutsinger. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Slade Cutsinger. Is this he?”
Slade didn’t recognize the voice, but he definitely recognized the authority behind the words.
“Yes, Sir. I’m Cutsinger.”
“This is retired Navy Commander Greg Lambert. Is this line secure?”
Slade was taken aback. He didn’t remember ever working with a Greg Lambert, and he had a good memory. “No, Sir, it is not. If you need to talk to Commander Hurt, I recommend—”