Alpha Bravo SEAL

by Carol Ericson

  “There was that woman’s husband who walked in on us. Go back to that.”

  “Where was it?”

  “I scribbled it down on this sticky note.” She plucked a pink note from the edge of the laptop screen and read the time aloud. “It’s at forty-three, thirty-two, fifty-one.”

  Slade’s hand froze above the keyboard. “What did you say?”

  She waved the note stuck to her finger. “Forty-three, thirty-two, fifty-one.”

  He snapped his fingers. “The note. Dahir’s note in the club. Where is it?”

  “By the telephone. Do you want it?”

  “Please.”

  She crossed the room to the kitchen and grabbed the note, still smudged with Dahir’s blood. When she glanced at the numbers, she squealed. “It’s a time stamp of the footage.”

  “Exactly. Read off those numbers.”

  As she bolted back to the sofa, she recited, “Fifteen, twenty-three, nineteen.”

  She parked herself next to Slade again as he dragged the indicator back to the fifteen-minute mark.

  Pointing at the screen, she said, “This is where we talked to that woman outside in that noisy area near the town of Badhadhe.”

  “Can you switch up the focus, away from her and more to the background?”

  “Of course, but we have to go outside of the film Lars created and to the individual footage. Pause this and get to the other files.”

  Slade followed her instructions and soon they were looking at the raw footage of that interview.

  Hunching in closer, Slade said, “Watch that road in the background. There’s a truck going through that gate. Another truck. Look at the men at the entrance.”

  Her gaze shifted to two men talking across the road from the interview. One looked directly into the camera and pointed. The other turned around.

  Slade froze the frame and jabbed his finger at one of the men. “Nicole, he’s a known terrorist. That gate and the road across the street from this woman’s home leads to a terrorist training camp. That’s what they didn’t want us to see. That’s why they ordered pirates to kidnap you and your crew—to kill you and destroy your film. But the pirates had their own ideas, and the film got away from the terrorist group running that camp—and now it’s in our hands.”

  She broke down then, covered her face with both hands and cried like a baby.

  * * *

  LATER THAT MORNING, Slade got the word that a drone strike had lain waste to the terrorist training ground on the outskirts of Badhadhe.

  When he got the news, Nicole poured two glasses of wine and brought one to Slade, standing at the window and gazing into the street below. “The homes near that training camp weren’t hit, were they? Those people we talked to...?”

  “Spared. The training camp was far inside that initial entry gate.” He clinked his glass with hers and said, “Vlad got the message loud and clear.”

  “The CIA is sure this Vlad guy is behind the training camp and the effort to find the footage?” And all the other death and destruction that followed.

  “I received a report from Ariel, along with the news of the drone strike. All of the operatives—Conrad, whose real name was William Brandt, the French sniper, the other Frenchman and Marcus Friedrich—can all be linked to Vlad.”

  “But you don’t know Vlad’s real name or even his nationality, do you?”

  “No, but he’s coming in hard. His terrorist cells are international, and we don’t know his endgame...yet. My team has sparred with Vlad before. We just nicknamed him Vlad because he favors a Russian sniper rifle.”

  “You’ve sparred with him before, and he seems to know all of you.”

  “He knows we were the ones who rescued your crew from the pirates.”

  “And then he tried to take each one of us down. Do you believe that was all about the film or all about you?”

  Slade swirled the wine in his glass. “Oh, he wanted that film, all right. Look what happened when we got our hands on it. But the fact that it was our rescue? He’s taking a certain pleasure in that.”

  Nicole shivered and took a gulp of wine. Hopefully this was over for Slade, but what about his teammates?

  She nudged his arm as he took a sip of his wine. “Too bad your friend Josh had to leave so quickly. He was pretty hot in that intense, mean-streets kinda way—obviously not a rich California boy.”

  “Definitely not.” He tugged on a strand of her hair. “I thought you were giving up on the adventurous sort.”

  She gazed at him over the rim of her wineglass. “Never.”

  The look in his blue eyes made her heart skip several beats, but she had other news to share. “Oh, I called the hospital where Pierre is staying. He’s out of the woods. He’s going to be okay.”

  “Thank God. And Livvy?”

  “Healing nicely and enjoying Chanel’s company.”

  “Good, because she’s going to have Chanel’s company for a while when you join your mother in Italy.”

  She set her wineglass down on the windowsill and grabbed the front of Slade’s shirt. “I thought you detested frivolous society girls with front-row seats at the fashion shows.”

  He placed his glass next to hers and rested his hands on her hips. “When that society girl is also a kick-ass filmmaker who can change the world, I can excuse a little haute couture.”

  He kissed her long and hard just to make his point. “And what about you? I thought you were ready to settle down with an accountant whose only risk was drinking a chardonnay with a steak.”

  “When that risk taker also happens to be saving the world, one life, one bullet at a time, I can grit my teeth and bear it.” She smoothed her hands over his face. “As long as he comes back to me.”

  “Where else would I go? I love you, Nicole Hastings. You’re in my blood and have been ever since I saw you on that pirate boat in the Gulf of Aden.”

  “I love you, too, rich boy.”

  “Does that mean you’ll wait for me? I have at least one more tour, maybe two.”

  “What else would a snooty society girl have to do?” She tugged on the hem of his T-shirt. “Now, follow me. We have two days together before you have to go back to saving the world.”

  He swept her up in his arms effortlessly and nuzzled her neck as he carried her up the stairs. “The world can wait.”

  * * * * *

  Look for more books in Carol Ericson’s

  gripping miniseries

  RED, WHITE AND BUILT

  later in 2017.

  You’ll find them wherever

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from FIREWOLF by Jenna Kernan.

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  Firewolf

  by Jenna Kernan

  Chapter One

  Dylan Tehauno would not have stopped for the woman if she had not been standing in the road. Her convertible was parked beside her, a black Audi of all things, impractical as her attire. It was impossible that she did not hear him crunching over the gravel road. Yet she continued to stare in the opposite direction, presenting him with a very tempting view of her backside and long bare legs.

  Killer curves, he thought, as dangerous as the switchbacks between him and his destination on the mountain’s ridgeline. Her pale skin had tanned to the color of wild honey. The Anglo woman wore no hat, and only a fool went out without one in the Arizona sun at midday in July. He let his gaze caress her curves again as she sidestepped and he glimpsed what he had not seen beyond that round rump. She was bent over a small tripod that had spindly black spider legs. Each leg was braced with a sandbag. On the pinnacle sat one of those little fist-sized mobile video cameras.

  Her convertible blocked the right lane and her camera sat on the left. There was just no way around her as the graded gravel road dropped off on each side to thick scrub brush and piñon pine. It was a long way from his reservation in Turquoise Canyon to Flagstaff, not in miles, but in everything else that mattered. There were some pines down here, piñon mostly, not the tall, majestic ponderosas. Up in the mountains they had water and an occasional cool breeze, even in July. The McDowell Mountains could not compare to the White Mountains in Dylan’s estimation. The air was so scalding here he felt as if he were fighting a wildfire. He rolled to a stop. The dust that had trailed him now swirled and settled on the shiny hood of his truck.

  He rolled down the window of his white F-150 pickup and leaned out.

  “Good morning,” he called.

  But instead of moving aside, she turned toward him and pressed both fists to her hips. The woman’s clothing was tight, hugging her torso like a second skin. Was that a tennis outfit? She looked as if she had just spilled out of some exclusive country club. The woman wore her hair swept back, a clip holding the soft waves from her face so they tumbled to her shoulders. It was blue, a bright cobalt hue. Mostly, but there were other hues mixed in including deep purple, violet and turquoise.

  It seemed the only protection she did use from the sun was the wide sunglasses that flashed gold at the edges. These she slipped halfway down her narrow nose as she regarded him at last with eyes the color of warm chocolate. She had lips tinted hot pink and her acrylic nails glowed a neon green that was usually reserved for construction attire. A sculpted brow arched in disapproval. Was there anything about her that was not artificial?

  Dylan resisted the urge to glance at her breasts again.

  “Mind moving your vehicle?” Dylan added a generous smile after his request. It was his experience that Anglo women were either wary of or curious about Apache men. This woman looked neither wary nor curious. She looked pissed.

  Had her car broken down?

  “You ruined my shot,” she said, motioning at her tiny camera.

  She was shooting in the direction he traveled, toward his destination, the house that broke the ridgeline and thus had caused so much controversy. Dylan had an appointment up there that could not be missed, one that marked a change in direction.

  “The dust!” she said, and dropped a cloth over her camera.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Dylan’s years in the Marines had taught him many things, including how to address an angry Anglo woman. “But I have to get by. I have a meeting.”

  “I can’t have you in the shot.”

  Was she refusing to move? Now Dylan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Are you unable to move that vehicle?” he asked.

  “Unwilling.”

  She raised her pointed chin and Dylan felt an unwelcome tingle of desire. Oh, no. Heck, no—and no way, too. This woman was high maintenance and from a world he did not even recognize.

  “You’ll have to wait.” Her mouth quirked as if she knew she was messing with him and was enjoying herself.

  “But I have an appointment,” he repeated.

  “I don’t give a fig.”

  “You can’t just block a public road.”

  “Well, I guess I just did.”

  Dylan suppressed the urge to ram her Audi off into the rough. That’s what his friend Ray Strong would do. Ray spent a lot of time cleaning up after his impulsiveness. Right now Dylan thought it might be worth it. He pictured the car sliding over the embankment and resisted the urge to smile.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

  He lowered his chin and bit down to keep himself from telling her exactly what she was. Instead, he shook his head.

  “I’m Meadow.”

  She gave only her first name, as if that was all that mattered. Not her family name or her tribe or clan. Just Meadow.

  He shrugged one shoulder.

  “Meadow Wrangler?”

  He shook his head indicating his inability to place the name.

  Her pretty little mouth dropped open.

  “You don’t know me?”

  “Should I?” he asked.

  “Only if you can read.”

  Charming, he thought.

  In a minute he was getting out of his truck and she wouldn’t like what happened next. He could move her and her camera without harming a blue hair on her obnoxious little head. Dylan gripped the door handle.

  “My father is Theron Wrangler.”

  Dylan’s hand fell from the handle and his eyes rounded.

  She folded her arms. “Ah. You’ve heard of him.”

  He sure had, but likely not for the reason she thought. Theron Wrangler was the name that Amber Kitcheyan had overheard the day before the Lilac Copper Mine massacre. It was the name of the man that FBI field agent Luke Forrest believed was a member of the eco-extremist group known as BEAR, Bringing Earth Apocalyptic Restoration. But what was Theron Wrangler’s profession?

  “I’m not surprised. He won an Oscar at twenty-five. I’m working for him now. Documentary film on the impact of urban sprawl and on the construction of private residences that are environmental and aesthetic monstrosities.” She motioned her head toward the mansion rising above the tree line on the ridge. “I’ve been here filming since construction. Timelapse. Sun up to sun down and today I finally have some clouds. Adds movement.”

  The wind was picking up, blowing grit and sand at them.

  “I still need to get around you,” said Dylan.

  “And have your rooster tail in the shot? No way. Why are you going up there? I thought your people were protesting the building of that thing.”

  She was referring to the private residence of Gerald W. Rustkin, the man who had founded one of the social media sites that self-destructed all messages from either side of any conversation. The man who allowed others to hide had put himself in the center of controversy when he had donated generously to the city of Flagstaff and afterward quietly received his variances to break the ridgeline with his personal residence.

  “My people?” asked Dylan.

  “You’re Native American, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but we don’t all think alike.”

  “But you’re all environmentally conscious.” she said, as if this was a given.

  “That would be thinking alike.”

  “You don’t want to prevent that thing from being built?”
She pointed at the unfinished mansion sprawling over the top of the ridge like a serpent.

  Dylan glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. You know you really should put on a hat.”

  She scoffed. “You think I’m worried about skin cancer? Nobody expects me to make thirty.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “Why not?” She looked healthy enough, but perhaps she was ill.

  “Why?” She laughed. “You really don’t know me?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s refreshing. I’m the screwup. The family’s black sheep. The party girl who forgot to wear her panties and broke the internet. I’m in the tabloids about every other week. Can’t believe they didn’t follow me out here. I thought you were one of them.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” She approached his truck. “Can’t remember the last time I did this.” She extended her hand. “I’m Meadow.”

  Dylan looked at her elegant hand. He considered rolling up his window because this woman represented all the trouble he tried to avoid.

  Instead, he took her hand gently between his fingers and thumb and gave it a little shake. But something happened. His smile became brittle and the gentle up-and-down motion of their arms ceased as he stared into bewitching amber-brown eyes. After an awkward pause he found his voice.

  “Nice to meet you, Meadow. I’m Dylan Tehauno.”

  Her voice now sounded breathy. “A pleasure.”

  Her eyes glittered with mischief. Now he needed to get by her for other reasons, because this was the sort of woman you put behind you as quickly as possible.

  She slipped her hand free and pressed her palm flat over her stomach. Were her insides jumping, like his?

  “What’s your business, Dylan?”

  “I’m a hotshot.”

  She shook her head. “What’s that, like a jet pilot?”

  “I fight wildfires. Forest fires. We fly all over the West—Idaho, Oregon, Colorado. Even east once to Tennessee. Man, is it green there.”

  “Really? So you jump out of airplanes with an ax. That kind of thing?”