SEALed With A Kiss: Heroes With Heart

by Low, Gennita

  Remy’s gut clenched tighter with each change in condition.

  Streetlights were fewer and farther between and fences that had once kept out the riffraff had been cut, bent or torn down around different facilities.

  “Find a place to hide your vehicle,” Swede called out. “You’re approximately four blocks over from the last known location. We’ll move in by foot from here.”

  Remy pointed to an alley between two rundown buildings. “There.”

  While Tuck pulled into the space, far enough back the shadows would help to hide their vehicle, Remy applied black camouflage paint to his face, neck and the back of his hands.

  As soon as Tuck shifted into Park, they leaped out, opened the rear hatch of the SUV and hauled out the weapons they might need to storm a secure compound. Tuck had a vest loaded with CS grenades, rifle magazines and handgun clips. He strapped the vest to his body and threw a jacket over it.

  “I’m not going to ask where you got the grenades.”

  He tossed two more to Remy. “Good, because it’s a secret.”

  “And if you told me…”

  “I’d have to kill you.” Tuck grinned as he slapped on some camouflage paint. “Or share my source. And I’m not very good at sharing.”

  Remy strapped a knife scabbard to his forearm and pulled his sleeve down over it. He grabbed an HK 40 semi-automatic pistol and shoved a silencer in his pocket.

  “Hey, Gator, need these?” Irish stood at the end of the alley with a rifle in one hand and four loaded magazines tucked into the pockets of the tactical plate carrier vest he’d slipped over the long-sleeved black T-shirt and dark slacks he’d worn to the strip club. He’d blackened his face with camouflage paint and wore his Kevlar helmet equipped with night vision goggles, the goggles pushed up. In his other hand, he carried Remy’s helmet and vest.

  Remy pulled off the sweat jacket he’d worn to the club and strapped on the vest over his black shirt. Once he had on his helmet, he tucked his HK 40 handgun in the leg holster on his thigh, hooked the CS grenades into his vest and closed the back of the SUV. “Let’s go.”

  They’d already taken too much time, and had yet to locate Mitchell in the concrete jungle.

  Big Bird, Fish, Nacho and Dustman met them at the end of the alley.

  Now that they were ready, an intense calm and focus settled over Remy, his training and experience kicking in. This was what they did—covert combat operations. The team had gone door to door, searching for and extracting key personnel from hostile situations all across the Middle East.

  Searching the warehouse district on the coast of Virginia would be a piece of cake.

  Swede held out his smart phone and pointed at a position on the street map displayed. “Her last location was here.” Expanding the display to the satellite image, he pointed to a long warehouse building flanked by other warehouses on three sides and a huge open area filled with Conex cargo shipping containers stacked two, three and four deep. Beyond that was the shipyard and the shipping channel.

  Mitchell’s tracking device had gone dark on the Conex storage yard side of the warehouse.

  “These are two-story warehouses. We should anticipate a sniper at the top of this building and possibly this one.” He pointed at each location. “There could also be one positioned on the storage containers.”

  Remy tapped his best sniper. “Big Bird, find your way to the top of that building, neutralize any threat and take over that position.”

  “Got it.”

  “We’ll concentrate our efforts on searching the warehouse,” Remy said. “Dustman and Irish take the north side. Swede, Tuck, Fish, Sanchez and I will find our way in through the front. Observe first for traffic going in and out. Wait for my signal to move in. Something to consider, we’re not in the Middle East. Use deadly force only if necessary.”

  They moved through the streets, hugging the shadows of the buildings. Intermittent moonlight and streetlights lit their paths. When the occasional vehicle passed, coming from or going to the warehouse, they hovered in the shadows and waited until it drove out of sight.

  Dustman and Irish broke off and circled the warehouse from behind, taking the north end.

  Remy and his team worked their way around the south side. They neared the front corner of their target building, and Remy held up his hand to halt their forward progression. All five SEALs dropped to a crouch.

  From point position, Remy shifted his night vision goggles in place and eased around the corner.

  “See any movement?” Tuck asked.

  “Nothing, yet,” Remy observed.

  “Vehicle approaching six o’clock, lights out,” Tuck warned.

  Remy shrank into the shadows of the building.

  The men flattened themselves against the wall as the vehicle drove past, headlights off.

  Remy peered around the corner through his NVGs. The sedan slowed, turned and waited in front of the warehouse. The heat signatures of two men separated from the building. From the position of their arms, they were bearing rifles. One spoke to the driver, stepped back and an overhead door rolled up. The vehicle drove through and the door closed behind it.

  “Two guards on duty at the entrance,” Remy spoke softly into his mic. He expanded his view to include the stacks of storage containers in the yard across from the warehouse. Movement caught his attention at the top of one of the boxes and a green heat signature popped up. “Sniper position on the box directly across from the door.”

  “I’ll take him.” Sanchez detached himself from the team and slipped down the front of the adjacent building.

  Remy waited. He picked up Sanchez’s heat signature as he crossed the open space and slipped between the storage containers.

  “One sniper on the north corner of the building,” Big Bird reported.

  “Can you get to him without entering?” Remy asked.

  “With a little help. There’s an access ladder to the AC units ten feet off the ground.” A moment later, he said, “Going up.”

  The clanking sound of metal drew Remy’s attention back to the entrance of the warehouse. Once again, the overhead door opened and a vehicle drove out. As it neared Remy’s position, the driver lit a cigarette and glanced around.

  “Swede?” Remy prompted.

  “She’s not in the car.”

  Remy let the vehicle pass and waited for his men to move into position.

  A figure appeared on the back side of the Conex, crouching low, moving up behind the sniper’s position. A brief struggle ended quickly.

  “Conex sniper neutralized. Alive, but he’ll have a heck of a headache in the morning.”

  Patience was as critical to a successful mission as weapons training. Remy was short on the patience. The longer it took to get his men inside the place, the bigger the chance of something bad happening to Mitchell.

  “Dustman and Irish in position,” Dustman reported.

  A few precious minutes later, another voice chimed in, “Big Bird in position.”

  “Sanchez, can you provide a little distraction?” Remy asked.

  “I can do that.”

  A muffled poomf sounded and a tear gas grenade landed at the feet of the two guards. A puff of gas surrounded them. Within seconds, they threw down their weapons and ran north, away from the cloud of gas, crying out as they went, leaving the entrance to the warehouse unguarded.

  “Let’s move.” Remy took point and ran toward the cloud of smoke already dissipating.

  Dustman and Irish took down the guards, quickly secured them with zip-ties and duct tape and then rolled them into the shadows.

  Remy edged up to the large overhead door to the warehouse. The sting of tear gas lingered, making his eyes water and his lungs burn, but not bad enough to stop him. Beside the big door was a smaller metal locked door. While his men pressed themselves against the side of the building, Remy drew his HK-40 from its holster, attached the suppressor and pointed it at the locking mechanism.

  “Wait.” Dus
tman arrived at his side and held up a ring of keys. “Found them on one of the guards, along with the remote control for the overhead door and a radio.” He quickly selected one of the keys, slid it into the lock and turned.

  “To keep suspicion down, Dustman will take the guards’ position.” Remy stood to the side of the door, the others fanned out to the either side.

  With the tip of his suppressor, Remy edged open the door. No one jumped out, or shot at them. A positive. He didn’t have time to think, instead he ducked through the door, eased into the shadows and sneaked up on a small room where a guard lounged back in an office chair, sipping coffee from a mug, his gaze turned toward the screen in front of him. Several security camera views were depicted on the monitor in tiny boxes, changing every ten seconds.

  The guard frowned and lifted his radio. “Just got back with coffee, how’s it going out front?”

  Remy eased around to the side of the office door.

  “Uh, good,” Dustman said, his voice deeper than usual, crackling over the guard’s radio speaker. “Nothing goin’ on out here.”

  “The camera got cloudy there for a minute. We might need to clean it. Want me to open the overhead for you to grab a ladder?”

  “Is it clear now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why bother?”

  The guard’s brow furrowed deeper and his feet dropped to the floor. “You’re not getting sick on me, are you? Your voice sounds different.”

  Remy lunged for the man, grabbed him from behind and yanked him out of the office and into the bay area.

  “What the hell?”

  Tuck slapped duct tape over the guard’s mouth while Remy secured his arms behind him with a zip-tie and then applied the same to his legs to keep him from going anywhere. He shoved the secured man into a nearby closet.

  “Got a vehicle coming in,” Dustin spoke through the headset. “What do you want me to do?”

  Remy held his breath.

  “Number of occupants?” the guard demanded.

  “Two. They appear to be businessmen in nice suits. Classy Cadillac.”

  “Let them in.”

  “Will do.”

  The team stood back in the shadows while the overhead door rose, a vehicle pulled in, similar to the earlier one with its lights out. The driver drove down a ramp into the concrete bowels of the warehouse.

  After it passed, Remy motioned his team forward. Moving with efficient speed, they followed the brake lights of the Cadillac down into a basement parking area. Several other vehicles were parked beneath, none of them sporting license plates.

  Remy’s first thoughts were that this might be a chop shop, but he didn’t hear any machinery humming and no sparks flew from cutting torches or welders.

  The driver got out of his car, pulled up his jacket collar around his face, but not before Remy saw his dark hair, dark skin and Middle Eastern appearance. He opened the vehicle’s back door and another man climbed out. This one was equally dark, his hair a glossy black, his face dark and heavy brows hovered over brown-black eyes.

  The two men approached a door at the end of the parking lot and knocked. Another guard stepped out, carrying a handgun, another tucked into a holster strapped to his body. He spoke with them briefly and then opened the door wider allowing them to enter.

  A woman stood inside the door, dressed in a sheer negligee, her breasts clearly visible through the fabric.

  Remy’s heart dipped to his belly. Holy shit. This place was some high-dollar prostitution den. And Hatch had Mitchell inside.

  Chapter Eight

  ‡

  Rocco had slid a black bag over Mitchell’s head and left her to lie on the floor of the limousine, completely immobile as they drove through the streets. She concentrated on the engine noises and strained to pick up any other sounds like trains, road noise, or anything that would give her a clue as to where they were taking her. When the vehicle stopped, she heard what sounded like a garage door rolling up, only it took longer and was louder than a garage door. When the sound stopped, the limousine pulled forward. The engine’s noise seemed to echo as if they were in a cave or a concrete building.

  When they finally stopped and the driver turned off the engine, someone dragged her to the door of the limo and lifted her up in his arms. He smelled of cigars, like Rocco. The bastard.

  A door opened, Rocco stepped through, and the door closed behind them.

  Already, Mitchell could feel tingling in her fingers and toes. With effort, she could move them a little, but the rest of her muscles remained unresponsive.

  “Put her with the others,” Candi’s voice commanded.

  Rocco shoved her into the arms of a more muscular man with beefy fingers and body odor. He carried her down a long hallway, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the walls.

  A door opened to the sound of frightened gasps. Sobs and moans filled the air. A body slammed against her and the man holding her.

  “Let me out of here. What you’re doing is illegal and immoral. You won’t get away with it.”

  Mitchell’s heart leaped. The voice could be none other than Kelli O’Neal, sassy as ever. She wanted to call out to her, to let her know that she was there to save her. Ha. Like that was going to happen when she couldn’t save herself. And if she let on that she knew Kelli, her action could be bad for both of them. Their captors might actually dig deeper and discover Mitchell wasn’t CC Hart after all.

  Mitchell was dropped onto a thin mattress.

  A scuffle ensued beside her, and soon another body dropped down next to her.

  “Asshole,” Kelli said, her voice shaking. “I’ll get out of here. And when I do, I’m taking down your sorry ass.”

  “Obviously, the drugs have worn off.” The man snorted. “I’ll be back to fix that.”

  “Like hell you will.” Kelli’s feet scrambled against the concrete.

  A grunt was followed by the loud clap of a hand slapping someone. Again, a body dropped down next to Mitchell and she cringed.

  Her fingers twitched and she could move her lips, pushing air past her vocal cords. “Kelli,” she whispered. “Stay down.”

  The door slammed and the sobs continued.

  “Bastard.” Kelli moved beside her and yanked the hood off Mitchell’s head.

  The only light in the room was from a dim yellowing bulb hanging from a dangling socket.

  “How did you know my name?” Kelli pushed Mitchell’s hair from her face and stared down at her. “Oh, dear God.” She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her eyes tearing. “Mitch,” she cried, her voice barely a whisper. “What have you done?”

  She blinked her eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I came…to rescue…you.”

  Kelli hugged her, burying her face in the side of her neck.

  Tears dampened Mitchell’s skin. Thank God she’d followed her instincts or she wouldn’t have found her friend.

  Kelli raised her head. One eye was black and blue and her gorgeous, blond hair was matted and hanging lank around her shoulders. Blood oozed from her broken lip, but she was smiling. “Where’s the cavalry?”

  Mitch almost cried herself. She didn’t know if there was a cavalry or if anyone would be able to follow her tracking device. By the concrete wall on one side and the cool, damp air, she’d guess they were in some kind of basement or warehouse. If there was too much concrete surrounding them, the tracker wouldn’t work. There would be no cavalry to come to their rescue because they wouldn’t know where to look.

  “They gave you a drug that temporarily paralyzes you. Depending on how much was in the shot, it can last anywhere between thirty minutes and two hours.”

  “I can feel my fingers and toes.”

  “Good, it’s already wearing off. You should be able to move within the next thirty minutes.”

  “Can’t wait that long.” She tried to shake her head but it didn’t move.

  “Trust me, you might have plenty of time to wait. I’ve been h
ere seven days. I’m not sure how long the rest of these women have been here, but some of them are in bad shape.” She pushed a stand of hair behind one ear. “I need to get them out of here.”

  “Turn my head, please.”

  Kelli cupped her cheeks and gently turned her head.

  The small room was packed with women. Most of them were young, dirty and their clothes were torn.

  Mitchell’s heart wrenched.

  “There are nineteen of us. You make twenty,” Kelli said, softly.

  “Why?”

  “There were four more, but they were dragged out of here. I haven’t seen them come back. Seems they’re collecting us for something.”

  “Prostitution?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been forced to perform yet and they kept us all pretty well drugged and out of it. I managed to keep from getting a full dose of whatever they’ve been giving us. Must be in the bottled water and food.” She nodded toward a stack of empty bottles in the corner. “I stopped drinking it last night and I quit eating yesterday. This is the first time I’ve felt mentally alert.”

  “I have to get up.”

  “You won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “Have to…get…you out.” Mitchell closed her eyes and focused on her fingers, willing them to wake up and make a fist. All she got out of her efforts were small twitches.

  “If I were you, every time they come in, play like you’re out of it.” Kelli waved a hand toward the room. “They keep most of us drugged through our food and water. The drug makes us thirsty enough to down the water. If you’re not malleable, they come in with a syringe full of the stuff. I’ve been hit at least once a day. I’m betting the man who dropped you off is on his way back right now with something.”

  “Damn.” Mitchell tried again to move her hand and managed to curl her fingers. Not quite a fist, but it was a start.

  Mitchell glanced around at the women, lying on the floor, curled into the fetal position or with their arms wrapped around their legs, rocking, crying, moaning. They were like zombies, their eyes bloodshot, their skin pale and tinged gray. What man would want women who were so lethargic and sickly?