Special Forces_Operation Alpha_Handling Haven_A Deimos/Trident Security/Delta Team Crossover

by Samantha Cole

  Frowning, Haven shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Frisco.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why not? Is there someone else?”

  “No, there’s no one else.” She should have lied and said there was, but it was too late now. God, what she wouldn’t give to be her old self again. She would’ve loved to see where the attraction she felt for him would lead. “I don’t go out much—it’s a bit of a hassle with the chair and all. Besides, you should be with someone who can keep up with you and do fun things. There’s not much fun I can have in a wheelchair.”

  Rotating the right wheel forward and the left wheel back, Haven spun around and then backed onto the platform, locking herself in. But before she could hit the control to raise it, Frisco put his right foot on the edge of the platform and his hands on the armrests of the chair on either side of her. When she glanced up in surprise, she found him glaring at her, bending down so they were face-to-face. And, damn, he was pissed. His voice dropped low, sending an unwanted chill down her spine. “Do you really think I’m so shallow that this chair bothers me? I’m attracted to you, Haven, not whether or not you’re standing on two feet. I can handle you being in a chair.”

  Anger boiled within her. She pushed on his arms, but they wouldn’t budge. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want you to have to handle anything. I’m not the woman I used to be, Frisco. I’ll never be her again.”

  “So what? I didn’t know that woman beyond the three or four minutes she was begging me to fucking leave her to die. I don’t want to know that woman. You, right here, right now, are the woman I’m attracted to. The one I’m asking out. The one I want to get to know better.”

  “I don’t need your pity, Frisco.”

  He huffed harshly and stood erect again. “Is that why you think I’m asking you out? Because I pity you? That’s rich. That’s fucking rich. Give me a little credit, will you? I’m not the type of guy who asks a woman out because I feel sorry for her. I ask her out because I’m attracted to her. Because I want to spend time with her, learning everything about her.

  “Sure, I’ve had one-night-stands—I’m a guy after all—but I’ve never led a woman to believe there was something more. Trust me, my interest in you extends beyond a one-night-stand and the last fucking thing I’d do is pity you.”

  He thrust a hand through his hair and scoffed. “Jesus. All this time I’ve been carrying around these guilty feelings I might’ve made your injury worse. At first I thought that’s why I couldn’t get you out of my head. But when I saw you today, I knew it wasn’t guilt that had me dreaming of you at night, it was this intense attraction I felt toward you. But whether or not I made the injury worse shouldn’t matter. Do you know why?” He didn’t pause to let her answer. “Because you’re still alive, and I think someone who works for one of the baddest agencies on the damn planet should be tough enough to get past any curveball life throws at them. The alternative would mean I’d never have the chance to see you again, and up until five minutes ago, that would’ve really sucked.

  “I hope you track down whoever’s got that nuke. If you need help with trying to figure it out, call me—I’m sure you can find my number—but don’t worry, I won’t ask you out again, because you’re not the kick-ass woman I thought you were. You’re still feeling sorry for yourself . . . and that . . . that’s what I pity.”

  Turning on his heel, he stormed over to his car, gave her one final furious glance, then shook his head and climbed into the driver’s seat. He floored the accelerator and, with a screech of tires, headed for the exit. Within seconds he was on the main street and out of sight. Haven’s heart clenched, as she tried to convince herself turning him down was for the best. But if that was the case, then why were unwelcome tears rolling down her cheeks?

  Eleven

  “A very! Where the hell is that thing with the doohickies?” Haven sorted through the stack of files sitting on her desk for the umpteenth time as she bellowed for her assistant. Avery Knapp had been a godsend these past months. The former CIA-turned-Deimos operative, who’d gotten her nursing degree after retiring from the agency fifteen years ago, had been the ideal person to help Haven recover from the shooting. The woman’s smooth skin and toned physique belied her age, making her appear far younger than her fifty-five years. In addition to being able to render care as needed, and doing most of the cooking and housecleaning, with her high-security clearance, the woman could also be fully trusted with all the classified information that filled Haven’s office. To give them both solitude when needed, a small guest house had been built for Avery in the backyard of the three-acre property that was surrounded by a high-tech security fence, complete with an electronic, retractable gate for the driveway. While both women were no longer field operatives, it didn’t mean someone from their past might not come gunning for them one day.

  The petite, platinum-haired woman strode into the room, opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet closest to the door, and pulled out a yellow folder before handing it to Haven. “That thing with said doohickies in it. You know, it’s a little ridiculous I understand your filing system better than you do.”

  Haven huffed as she rolled back over to the massive computer setup that covered an entire wall. “I would have found it eventually.”

  “Uh-huh. Want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?”

  Avery crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Whatever’s had your panties in a twist since you got home. You haven’t been this surly in months.”

  Ignoring the other woman—Haven had no desire to discuss what a bitch she’d been to Frisco with anyone—she flipped through the still photos from the night she’d been shot. Not that she didn’t have them memorized after studying them over and over again, hoping someone she’d missed all those other times would jump out at her.

  A minute or two passed before Avery sighed and pushed off the jamb. “Fine. Don’t talk to me about it. Dinner will be ready in an hour.”

  Haven was glad when she was finally alone again. Part of her felt like a heel for how she’d treated Frisco, while the other part of her was angry at him for putting her in that position. She didn’t need his pity or guilt or whatever it was. If he wanted to be friends, she could handle that, but anything beyond that wasn’t going to happen. Haven wasn’t even sure if she could have sex with a man anymore and enjoy it. The only way to find out was to do it, but she’d be mortified if things sucked. She’d rather continue to wonder instead of risking knowing for sure if she was less than a responsive woman. She’d always enjoyed sex, but now she doubted she could relax enough with a man for it to be pleasurable. Her mind would be filled with insecurities she hadn’t had since she was a teenager with her first boyfriend.

  The click, click, click of toenails tapping against the wooden floors in the hallway announced Haven was about to have another visitor—this one she could deal with. Avery’s golden retriever/border collie mix padded into the room. She plopped her furry butt next to the wheelchair and laid her head on Haven’s knee with a sigh.

  Unable to resist, Haven lifted her hand and stroked the dog’s thick, reddish coat. “Hey, Roxie-girl. Why can’t everyone be like you? Mum except for the occasional ‘woof’ to make me laugh.”

  As if she’d been cued, Roxie let out a soft woof, which brought a smile to Haven’s face. “See, that’s what I mean.”

  One thing she’d always wanted growing up was a dog—she loved them. But money had been tight for her mom, who’d raised her two daughters without help from anyone. Then, just after things had improved dramatically for them, when her mom had received a well-deserved promotion and raise after working for the same advertising company for years, it all fell apart at the hands of al Qaeda terrorists. What was supposed to have been a celebratory vacation in Madrid was cut short when ten explosions rocked the Cercanías commuter train system in the middle of rush hour. When the smoke had cleared, Haven had found herself in the hospital with a severe concus
sion and other non-life-threatening injuries. One hundred ninety-two people were killed, and over 2000 injured. It took four agonizing days for her to receive confirmation her mother and sister were among the dead. On day five, when she was being discharged, an American stranger had walked into her room and, once again, her life was changed forever.

  Her cell phone rang, shoving the thoughts about her family, the day she lost them, sex, and the hunky guy she was attracted to, but who now hated her, from her mind. Checking the screen, she was glad to see it was Kenny. She pushed the connect button and made sure her voice sounded cheerful. Her friend was dealing with his own guilty feelings and flashbacks to India—he didn’t need her to be a downer and add to them. “Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”

  “You’re only two years older than me, you know.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll always be like a kid brother to me, so I get to call you ‘kiddo.’ What’s up?” she repeated.

  The sound of typing came over the line. “I’m sending you some new intel and links. Looks like our mysterious Mr. Smith has decided to pop back up on the Dark Web and is interested in arranging a new meet with Preston Ward.”

  “What? Hang on.” Sitting up straighter in her chair, Haven put the cell phone on speaker, so she had her hands free. She signed into her secure email account and found the message had already been delivered. She opened it and downloaded the attachment, which was fifteen pages long. In the meantime, she clicked on the first link he’d supplied. Her eyes scanned the chat thread. “Holy shit! Does Gene know this?”

  “Just came from his office—he’s having a script made up for me to work with. I’ll probably start chatting with this bastard sometime tomorrow morning. As soon as I arrange to meet Mr. Smith, Carter and Jordyn will escort me. They’re on their way back from Africa and will be here tomorrow night.”

  “You think it’ll be that easy to set up a meeting?”

  “No, but you know better than I do terrorists don’t do things the way we expect them to, so Mr. McDaniel wants us ready to go at the drop of a hat.”

  Her chest felt tight at the reminder she was no longer a field operator. If it weren’t for the damn wheelchair she’d have been assigned to the mission as well. Her funk was returning, and she didn’t want Kenny to worry. “Let me dig into this stuff and see if I spot anything that might help.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “Hey, are you doing okay? I mean, really okay?”

  “Of course. I’m fine,” she responded with false cheer. “I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

  After disconnecting the call, Haven began stroking Roxie’s fur again as she sent the intel to her printer. Her window of opportunity for figuring out who she’d spotted at the wedding just before the explosion had just become smaller. Whoever it was, Haven had a bad feeling about him, which was getting worse each day.

  Lying on his back, at an incline, Frisco used his lower limbs and abdominal muscles to push the loaded leg press upward. He may not be able to do exercises for his arms, shoulders, and back at the moment, beyond stretching and range of motion, but there was still plenty he could do. The indoor gym was filled due to the inclement weather that’d blown in, dumping over four inches of rain in a few short hours. A bunch of Deltas were working out around Frisco, but as far as anyone else in the place knew, they were regular soldiers with normal jobs on the base. If you weren’t Delta, you didn’t get to know who was on the teams.

  It had three days since he’d had lunch with Haven, and he was still pissed. Did she really think he was so shallow he’d be turned off by her disability? For a few moments there, while he’d been holding her hand, talking about the teammates he’d lost, he’d gotten the impression she’d been showing a side of herself very few people had ever seen. It really sucked that the only woman he’d ever met, who had him thinking about things he’d easily done without—a wife, kids, a dog, and a house with a white picket fence—didn’t feel the same way.

  “Are you going to bend your knees again, or just hold the weight up for the rest of the damn day?” Fletch stood above Frisco, his brow raised in question.

  Turning the handles to lock the platform in place, Frisco lowered his legs, got to his feet, and wiped his sweat from the machine’s back pad. “Sorry. Spaced out for a moment.”

  “It wouldn’t have to do with a hot-looking brunette you ran into the other day, would it?” the other man asked as he took the spot Frisco had just vacated.

  He glared at his two teammates Trigger and Oz, who were doing bicep curls, with free weights a few feet away. “You two have big fucking mouths.”

  It had been a stupid thing to do, meet his buddies for drinks the other night when he was still seething—and heartbroken—over his blowup with Haven. He should have kept his own big mouth shut.

  Trigger dropped his heavy curl bar to the mat he was standing on, then shrugged, but didn’t offer an apology. These men were Frisco’s brothers, and they gave each other shit all the time. But they also covered everyone else’s six, on and off the battlefields. They’d all known he was still bothered by that night in India, but it was something he had to work out for himself. Each one of the Deltas had lost someone in combat. Since 9/11, it was hard to find someone in the military who hadn’t. Many of them also knew what it was like to have a teammate permanently disabled and/or disfigured by bombs, RPGs, bullets, or other forms of destruction, but each dealt with it in his or her own way. However, Frisco’s problem was he couldn’t get past the attraction he felt toward Haven, something he’d never experienced before with a teammate. While his current team was all men, he’d had women in his squads before going into Special Forces. Technically, Haven wasn’t their teammate, but they defended the same flag and constitution, bound together by love of, and loyalty to, their country. They’d been on the same mission to take down a terrorist hell bent on destroying the American way of life, therefore, for a brief period of time, she’d been one of them. And one thing the Deltas did better than anyone was take care of their own.

  Grabbing his towel, Frisco wiped his face, then guzzled half the water in his bottle. He was just about to head toward the treadmills when a bunch of cell phones chirped or buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced around and saw members from three different Delta teams check their devices. Shit, that’s not good. Frisco looked at the text on his phone.

  Mission alert. Briefing room #1. 1130 hours.

  Damn it. Frisco wasn’t medically cleared, yet, so he was probably going to have to sit this one out, but he still had to go to the meeting. They all hated to be left behind when missions rolled around, but it was even worse if someone got hurt or killed during it. That whole “what if” game came into play again. What if I’d gone on the mission? Would that have altered the universe enough to have made a difference? Or would that teammate still have gotten injured or lost his life?

  A few of the Deltas headed for the showers, while the others finished their last sets first. They had about forty-five minutes to clean up, grab lunch on the way, and hightail it to the briefing room on the other side of the base. Frisco decided to leave his run until later since he was usually on the treadmill for about an hour. Downing the last of the water, he tossed the empty bottle in the recycle bin on his way to the locker room, pushing thoughts of Haven from his mind. He had to get over her somehow.

  Three quarters of an hour later, the larger of two briefing rooms was filled. Deltas from three different teams sat in rows of chairs that faced the podium or stood in the aisles as they chatted. Thanks to a phone call from his mother, giving him an update on his dad’s latest stress test, Frisco had been one of the last people in and ended up taking a seat at the back of the room. After a mild heart attack last year, the elder Ingram had been doing what he could to keep his cholesterol and blood pressure within normal limits. He’d started eating healthier and exercising more, which had resulted in a twenty-pound weight loss. He’d also retired, after twenty-five yea
rs, from his stressful job as an air traffic controller at San Francisco International Airport, and had taken a position with the Oakland Aviation Museum in the East Bay Area, much to his family’s relief.

  “Attention!”

  Ghost’s barked command had everyone on their feet, arms at their sides, eyes straight ahead, facing the podium. From the doorway near the front of the room, their colonel walked in. “As you were. Let’s get started.”

  Almost as one, the men sat as the colonel stood behind the podium and looked out over those under his command. Seated to his right were the ranking officers of each team. He cleared his throat to make sure he had everyone’s attention, not that he needed to do so; everyone was already silent, waiting for him to speak. “All right—for once, as I’m sure Captain Bryson is happy to hear, the feds and military are sharing intel before the shit gets too deep. The elusive ‘Mr. Smith’ from that clusterfuck in Mumbai a few months ago has made an appearance on the Dark Web, looking to arrange a new meeting with the person he believes has the nuke codes. Apparently, he’s chosen Mexico, just over the Texas border, as the location for the deal to go down, and you’ll be backing up the agents from Deimos. We don’t have complete details as of yet. After India, he’s being even more cautious, not giving the time and location until the last minute. The only reason we have Mexico is he has no idea where the seller is coming from and how long it will take him to get there. I’ll let Agent Caldwell fill you in with what her agency knows. Agent Caldwell?”

  Frisco’s jaw dropped as he strained to see over everyone’s head. What were the chances there was more than one Agent Caldwell in Deimos? Unfortunately, because of her wheelchair, he was too far back and couldn’t see more than a flash of her brunette hair as she positioned herself in front of the elevated podium. But it’d been just enough for him to confirm it was Haven.