Spy for Hire

by Cat Johnson

  SPY FOR HIRE

  For Hire

  New York Times & USA Today Bestseller

  CAT JOHNSON

  It was more than a one-night stand.

  Chelsea was there when I needed her. Now she’s in trouble and needs help and I'm just the man for the job.

  MI6 and their orders be damned. She's worth going rogue for.

  EXCERPT

  An expanse of bare skin, exposed by upswept blonde hair, and a dress cut obscenely low in the back grabbed my attention.

  Chelsea. I’d stared at her porcelain skin long enough that one night that I’d recognize her anywhere, even from behind.

  After closing the distance between us in a few long strides, I wrapped my hand around her arm.

  Leaning in, I whispered against her ear, “Funny seeing you here.”

  She startled and spun toward me, her eyes widening when she saw me. I also noticed the frown I got from the man she had been in conversation with.

  “Pardon, but would you mind if I steal your companion for a moment?” I’d asked it as a question, but I didn’t wait for an answer. As he drew his dark brows down over his eyes, I steered Chelsea away from the man and off to the side.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone low and intense.

  It was quite a question, considering it was coming from the woman who’d been missing for almost a week and now had a team of highly trained operators dedicated to finding her.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing, love.”

  The FOR HIRE Series

  a Hot SEALs series spin-off

  Billionaire for Hire (Brent)

  Hot Chick for Hire (Chelsea)

  Spy for Hire (Tristan)

  Prologue

  5 October 2013

  Manda Bay, Kenya

  “Tristan Fairchild?”

  Turning at the sound of my name, I saw a man wearing a United States Marines flight suit approaching me.

  I nodded in response. “I am, yes.”

  “Welcome to Camp Simba, sir.”

  “Glad to be here.” I truly was happy to finally be there after traveling for . . . how bloody long had it been?

  I’d lost count of the number of hours and time zones I’d been through since leaving London. But I would have gladly clawed my way from one continent to another to get here for this.

  “If y’all are ready, I can show you to the operations center,” he told me in a thick southern accent I’d only ever heard while in the States.

  “I’m more than ready. Is the team en route to the target?” I asked as we walked fast toward a building brightly lit against the night sky.

  “Yes, sir. They pushed out just after dark.”

  I couldn’t be surprised the Americans had arrived long before me. From what I understood, the SEAL team had already been at Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. From there, their journey to Kenya was far shorter than mine from London.

  It had taken me so long to get here, I was afraid I was going to be too late and that I’d miss the action.

  I walked faster as I followed my escort toward what looked to be a warehouse—large, metal and unmarked, located adjacent to an airstrip and not far from the port.

  On any other day, the forward operating location would provide no clues to indicate its true purpose. But not today.

  Today, it sported an Osprey and a cadre of uniformed troops moving beneath the glare of a multitude of electric lights—transport and support staff for the Tier One special operations unit brought in for this operation. The team that would, if successful, capture or kill the man who’d consumed most of my waking hours for the past year.

  The Marine opened and held the door for me. I walked through and was hit with a blast of cool air, a stark contrast to the stifling African heat outside.

  We moved farther into the building and shortly stepped into a large room buzzing with voices and electronics—the US Navy DEVGRU command post.

  The Marine turned to me. “Stay here. I’ll get the commander.”

  It took everything in me to remain by the door. I’d traveled too far and worked too hard not to find the action playing out on the monitors across the room irresistible.

  I tore my gaze away from the electronics and the men manning them, to track where my welcome party had gone.

  It wasn’t that far. He was just about a meter away on my right, approaching a man pouring a cup of coffee at a table along the wall.

  “Commander Milton,” he said.

  The commander turned to face the Marine. “Yes, Adams.”

  “Your Brit’s here, sir.”

  Your Brit. I lifted an eyebrow at what, apparently, was to be my designation among the Americans.

  It could be worse, I supposed. It was likely that, when I wasn’t around to hear it, the commander referred to me as something else altogether.

  The term pain in the arse came to mind.

  I couldn’t blame him if the SEAL commander did resent my presence. It wasn’t necessary that I be here. The twenty SEALs staging the raid didn’t need my help. Neither did the command directing them from this tactical operations center.

  But it was my source and my intel that finally pinpointed Barawa as the location of Abdulkadir Mohamed Abdulkadir, aka Ikrima. I’d be damned if I weren’t here for his capture.

  Lucky for me, being second generation SIS, I had some pull in the organization. Following in my father’s footsteps in the Secret Intelligence Service had its benefits at times. Headquarters approved the request and here I was. Finally.

  None of that mattered now. Here in this room, surrounded by state of the art communication and surveillance equipment and some of the most highly trained men in the United States military, I could feel the adrenaline surging into my bloodstream.

  I was riding a high of anticipation more powerful than any drug and if the commander didn’t like me being here, he could bugger off because I was past caring.

  Though as he strode forward, he seemed welcoming enough. He extended his arm and said, “Grant Milton.”

  I shook his hand. “Tristan Fairchild. Pleasure.”

  The officer, probably only a couple of years my senior, shook his head. “No, the pleasure is all mine. Meeting the man who tracked down Ikrima—that’s the highlight of my week. Believe me.”

  Watching this man’s team capture the notorious Al-Shebeeb leader would be the highlight of my whole bloody year.

  “Want coffee?” he asked, raising his own cup.

  “Thank you, no.” What I wanted was to have a gander at those monitors.

  “So, let me show you the set up.” Cup in hand, he moved to the other side of the room and I followed, eager to get closer. “We’ve got a camera connected to the Alpha team leader’s gear. You’ll be able to see the assault as it happens from his point of view.”

  On the monitor he’d indicated I could see the other men inside the boat and the rough water beyond. It was as if I was there. The image was vivid enough to nearly make me seasick as the surf tossed the small boat and the SEALs inside held tight.

  “We also have a camera on Striker.” Grant tipped his chin to indicate a second monitor, before turning to glance at me. “That’s the squad dog.”

  That explained why this image seemed different than the first as the dog swung his head to look from side-to-side, before moving in to give me an extreme close-up view of one SEAL’s face as the dog licked him.

  “Striker’s video feed is always interesting.” The commander grinned then took a sip of his coffee.

  My body was vibrating with the barely contained energy of anticipation without the added boost of caffeine, but the commander looked completely relaxed.

  “When will they move in on the house?” I asked.

  “Soon. You�
��re lucky you made it in time.”

  “I was afraid I wouldn’t,” I admitted.

  “We’ve had full dark for a few hours, but we were waiting on the high tide so we could get in closer.”

  Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the relief that I hadn’t missed everything, but for some reason his words struck me as funny and I laughed out loud.

  When the commander shot me a questioning glance I quoted, “Time and tide wait for no man.”

  Grant smiled again. “Yet we wait for both.”

  If tonight were a success, it would be well worth the wait to finally capture Abdulkadir and whatever intelligence was in the house with him—my pulse pounded just at the thought.

  A uniformed man at the console turned in his chair. “Commander, they’re in sight of the target.”

  “Ready?” the SEAL commander asked me.

  “When you are.” Shaking with adrenaline, I moved in closer as Grant sat and slipped on a headset.

  My job usually consisted of spy craft and subterfuge when I was in the field and I usually worked alone. It felt completely different to be involved with an operation of this size. To be standing next to the man who would give the order that would set twenty highly trained, heavily armed men in motion for a kill or capture raid.

  As much as I loved my job and even though I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else, I could see how this level of action could become addictive.

  “Bravo one, this is TOC. Move in and secure the beach.”

  “Copy that.” The sound of the reply, loud and clear, ramped up my anticipation.

  “Alpha one. Move in after Bravo team has secured the perimeter.”

  “Copy.”

  After that, things moved at lightning speed as the team in the first boat slipped silently onto the beach, emerging from the surf like ghosts as I watched through the ethereal glow of night vision.

  “TOC, this is Bravo one. Perimeter secure.”

  “Copy that, Bravo one. Alpha team, you’re clear to approach the target.”

  I could see the two-story building bobbing in and out of the frame on the monitor as the SEAL wearing the camera sprinted across the sand.

  If my intel was correct, and I was positive it was, Abdulkadir slept inside that beach house, unaware of the twenty men just two-hundred meters away.

  “Hold!” That single word had been uttered by the transmitted voice I’d come to recognize as belonging to Bravo one.

  The commander sat up straighter in his chair, leaning toward the monitors. Before he had a chance to question the speaker, all forward motion on Alpha one’s monitor halted.

  Our view changed dramatically as the SEAL wearing the camera dropped down onto the sand. I heard him say, “Bravo one, report. What do you see?”

  “Movement outside the house. I can’t get a clear view from my location.”

  “This is Bravo two. I got eyes on him. Single male, fighting age, came out of the front door. Looks like he’s fixin’ to have a smoke.” The answer came from a SEAL I hadn’t heard before.

  “Then he hasn’t spotted us?” Bravo one asked.

  “I don’t think—fuck! Yeah, he did. He just high-tailed it back inside.”

  The transmitted sound of automatic weapon fire resonated through the operations center. On the monitors I could see the glow of tracers arching through the air as the team took fire from the house.

  “Alpha one to TOC. Orders?”

  “How many tangos are on site?” Grant asked.

  “Unknown. At least two.”

  I could see that myself as the stream of incoming bullets seemed to originate from two locations—one from the upper level and the other from the ground floor.

  “Bravo team, covering fire. Alpha team, move in.”

  “Alpha team! Move in, move in, move in!” Alpha one repeated the order as he sprung up from the sand, jostling the view on the monitor I couldn’t look away from.

  Being able to see the action from both Alpha one and the dog’s view was enough to have my heart pounding and my breath quickening.

  “Bravo team, maintain a tight perimeter and watch for squirters.” The commander, also glued to the view on screen, blew out a breath and shook his head. “I’ll be damned if we let that bastard slip out the back.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  As one SEAL kicked in the front door, I leaned forward, waiting for my first live glimpse of Ikrima.

  What I got instead was the deafening sound of a firefight and the view of a narrow staircase as Striker bounded up the stairs, followed by another SEAL and then Alpha one.

  The sound of gunfire ceased as quickly as it had begun, then I heard a voice I didn’t recognize say, “First floor clear. One fighter neutralized.”

  I didn’t have time to fully process that the man I’d studied and chased for a year might be dead. I was engrossed by my first person view of the barrel of Alpha one’s gun raised as he pivoted into the doorway of a bedroom and came face to face with the occupants.

  “Down on the ground! Now! Show me your hands!”

  Even as I watched the fear on the faces of those in the room I heard the shouted order of another SEAL. “Get down! Down! Let me see your hands!”

  That pulled my focus to Striker’s monitor and the view of another bedroom and its occupants, cowering as the dog barked unrestrained.

  The noise. The shouted commands. The screams of women. The crying of children. The dog barking. The confusion. Through it all I held my breath and waited, though it nearly killed me not to know the identity of the man they’d killed.

  “TOC, the upstairs is full of women and children.”

  “Where’s the second shooter?” Grant asked.

  “There are no males over the age of five in here with me,” Alpha one answered.

  “None in the second bedroom either,” the other SEAL reported.

  “The rest of the second floor is clear,” a third man reported.

  “It could have been one of the women shooting at us,” Alpha one suggested.

  “Shit.” The commander’s displeasure was palpable. “Alpha two, get all the women and children into one room with the interpreter. Get them talking about who was in that house and why the hell they started shooting first. Alpha one, you, Striker and the rest of Alpha team, search the house. Clear and destroy any weapons and bring back all papers and electronics you find.”

  “Can I see the body?” I asked, finally finding a break in the orders to speak.

  The commander nodded. “Alpha one. Can we get a look at the downed fighter on the first floor?”

  “Copy that.”

  The scene on the monitor shifted. The view moved away from the members of Alpha team herding the women and children into one room, and to the staircase once again.

  My heart pounded as the fallen fighter’s slumped figure came into view.

  I couldn’t see his face until Alpha one grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him onto his back.

  He held up a cell phone and took a series of flash photos of the man’s face from different angles, but I didn’t need to see the pictures. I could see clearly enough from Alpha one’s camera feed.

  My stomach clenched at the realization. “That’s not Abdulkadir.”

  The commander shot me a sideways glance, then turned back to the console. “Alpha three, you and the dog find any other males hiding inside that damn house yet?”

  “No, sir. Striker’s been through both floors and nothing.”

  “Bravo one, there were no squirters?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. We maintained a tight perimeter. Nothing and no one could have gotten out of there without us seeing.”

  Grant leaned back and drew in a deep breath. He didn’t say it but he didn’t have to, because one thing was perfectly clear. Abdulkadir Mohamed Abdulkadir wasn’t there.

  My intel had been wrong.

  No. I’d been wrong. I couldn’t blame it on the
source or the intelligence. I’d compiled it. I’d interpreted it. This was on me and me alone.

  My first big cock up in what had been to date a pretty good career. I’d joined as the golden boy of MI6—the legacy. The son of a legend.

  Maybe it had gotten in my head, this notion that I could do no wrong. I’d clearly done something wrong this time.

  Bloody hell. My evidence had sent twenty men into a situation that could have cost them their lives—for nothing.

  My chest tightened. I leaned on the table and tried to breathe as it felt as if all the air had been sucked out of my lungs.

  The commander didn’t say a word to me. Whether that was because he was too busy wrapping up this pointless operation or because he’d written me off for my mistake, I didn’t know.

  Either way, I couldn’t face him. I turned and headed for the door. I needed air. I needed to phone headquarters and tell them I’d squandered time and money and all our reputations on a wild goose chase.

  What I really needed was a bloody drink.

  The team returned while I was brooding and waiting for my transportation home to be arranged. I’d hoped to be gone by the time they got back. For the second time since stepping foot in Kenya I was disappointed.

  They streamed out of the trucks that had driven them from the port. My only solace was that they were all walking. The one saving grace was there’d been no casualties.

  At least, none on our side.

  Both the Americans and the SIS were currently running the photos through facial recognition to find the identity of the unlucky soul who’d had the misfortune of going out for a smoke at the wrong time, and then took up arms and fired upon a tier one unit.

  At least his demise had been quick and hopefully painless. I had a feeling the demise of my career was going to be the opposite—long and painful.

  Twenty men from the famed SEAL Team 6, all in full kit, strode toward me.

  As they emerged from the dark and into the light, there was an other-worldly feel to them with their four-tube NVGs flipped up on top of their helmets, and the body armor encasing them like an exoskeleton.

  But as they neared and I heard them laughing and joking with one another as they broke off into groups of two or three, they regained their humanity. They were just men again . . . men who were probably ready to kill me for sending them into harm’s way.