Eyes On

by Zoë Normandie

  EYES ON

  A Novella

  Zoë Normandie

  Copyright © 2019 by Zoë Normandie

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Odette, thank you for encouraging me to write and putting me down the path to realize my dreams. Without you, there wouldn’t be this.

  Colonel Dickie, thank you for sharing your post-deployment decompression experience with me. And thank you for your service.

  John, thank you for helping me get as authentic as possible with this series. Without you, there would be no AC-130 Spectre gunship supporting our boys, and these books would still be unnamed.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Reviews

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Several Months Earlier

  A tall, well-groomed man with dark-brown hair and stylish, black-rimmed glasses stood in front of a handwoven silk rug on the side of a dusty road. The whipping wind of the sub-Saharan desert cut around his body, and if it weren’t for his kaffiyeh wrapped around his face, the sand would be entrenched in his mouth and nose. But he’d spent enough time in the Sahel to know how to dress for the environment. And the kaffiyeh helped disguise the fact that he was a foreigner, something that tended to stand out in the backcountry.

  “You are late,” the Bamako native growled at him in Arabic while pretending to investigate the quality of the silk rug beside him. His once-white tunic had turned a shade of brown, matching the tiredness of the small trading post.

  “I was detained,” the American replied coolly in matching dialect. “Tell me what you have for me.” He wasted no time on niceties, since they’d been meeting for some time. They knew the drill. Neither man looked at the other. An onlooker would see only strangers shopping from a rug cart. Both knew that it was essential to remain covert. They could be killed for their business arrangement. The rebel leadership did not take well to locals talking to foreigners in that capacity.

  The man continued to rattle off his anger at a fast clip. Anyone inexpert at Arabic would have been quickly lost.

  “You Americans… How can you live with yourself? This one soldier, he killed my nephew—as a prisoner.”

  “How do you know this?” the American replied, deeply interested. Lately, the accusations had become more jarring.

  The Arabic man seemed to choose his words wisely, knowing the gravity of what he said. “I saw it. I saw him slit his throat. I should have stopped them… but I had my daughter.” His voice grew more hateful with each word. “This soldier, he runs rampant, like he is saving us all from the rebels, but I tell you… it is not like this. He is making it worse.” He shook as he spat the words and pointed straight at the American’s chest, breaking their established code of conduct. “Make them stop. Make them stop. Inshallah, I take my gun and…”

  “Enough.” The American was as cool as ever, not willing to betray his emotion. “Is it still the same one?”

  “Yes, yes. The one who leads them is the killer. Pure evil.”

  The American adjusted his glasses, wiping off some of the sand that had blown into his face. He used the moment to reflect on what he’d learned. He’d been cultivating sources in the region for some time, and they complained endlessly about the Americans. According to them, the SEALs didn’t understand what the Sahel was all about. The local cultures. The rebels. The historic conflict. Their presence was fucking everything up. It wasn’t anything that the American hadn’t heard before. It was the same story in Iraq.

  But this time, the complaints had become too specific. There were too many matching details. Something wasn’t right. Something was going on in Mali. The intelligence drew a clear picture: a SEAL was up to no good… and he was bringing down an otherwise solid squadron of operators.

  1

  US Navy Special Warfare Operator Mason Ajax dug his heels deeper into the blisteringly hot white sand as the burn rose into his ankles.

  The sun was high and hot, midday on the beach on the paradise island of Dhidhoofinolhu in the Maldives, a breathtaking collection of tropical islands in the Indian Ocean. The clear aqua-blue water and cloudless sky were unblemished except for the occasional bird dipping in and out of sight.

  Mason was on a spontaneous post-tour decompression trip before heading back home to Virginia. He wanted—needed—to feel something again.

  He’d been numb for too long.

  He’d never admit it out loud, but deep down he knew that the decompression was as much about self-medicating as it was about rest. Boss’s orders.

  And no one took orders more seriously than Mason.

  Mason’s boss, Senior Chief Liam Blackshot, had recognized the growing weariness and battle fatigue in Mason’s eyes. In an unprecedented move, he’d demanded Mason take a week off before reporting back for duty. It was Mason’s first vacation since he’d enlisted.

  But ocean waves lapping against the sand weren’t enough to calm the storm inside his chest.

  Mason shook his head, beads of sweat trickling through his golden-brownish hair.

  Life in DEVGRU was harder than he’d expected. But he never complained. He hadn’t worked through selection, and trial after trial, just to complain. He’d made it into Development Group. The hardest, most badass team in the SEALs.

  What did he expect? He wasn’t a fucking pussy, he reminded himself.

  Mason rubbed his tanned hands over his face, wiping away the sweat. He’d been sitting too long in the blazing heat. Rows of tiki umbrellas behind him shaded tourists from the scorching Indian Ocean sun, and, behind those, a beautifully crafted wooden deck overlooked the beach. But Mason couldn’t be bothered to be sun safe. He wanted to feel the burn.

  No matter how relaxed he ordered his body to be, he couldn’t shake the tension wrapped around his bones. Even sitting in the hot white sand, staring out over the endless blue horizon punctuated by the silhouettes of neighboring islands, Mason’s chest tightened. Sometimes it was so cold that it was hard to breathe.

  He was just sick of seeing blood on his hands at the end of every day. That’s all it was. Battle fatigue. Shell shock. Exhaustion. He didn’t see the end of every day until three days later. He was sick of forgetting his own goddamn birthday because he was entrenched in a mission.

  Mason shook his head, wondering who he was trying to convince. Justifications danced around the core of the issue, but he knew there was a lot more to the story.

  He didn’t know who he was anymore. What he was fighting for. See enough bad shit, and you’ll forget yourself, he’d been warned.

  An exotic white bird danced through the sky and swooped down to skim the top of the transparent water. Mason watched intently, trying to immerse himself in the moment. Today was different. It was a vacation day. He wasn’t in the field. He wasn’t on an operation. He wasn’t a SEAL. He was just a guy on a beach, drinking a cocktail and working on his tan.

  Damn right.

  Today, he was going to celebrate. When he’d checked into the hotel, he’d been reminded th
at it was, in fact, his birthday.

  “Happy birthday, sir!” The gorgeous, dark-skinned receptionist had beamed when she’d scanned his passport that morning. “We would like to upgrade you to a private villa, complimentary, to help make your day extra special.”

  “Hell, it’s my lucky day.” Mason had attempted to match her cheeriness, but his gruff voice gave him away. He’d been in the Sahel for god knows how long and then traveled thirty hours to get there. It showed.

  He stared out at the lush paradise before him. Cascading waterfalls crashed into manicured ponds. The sound of gushing streams filled the space.

  He was going to enjoy this, he told himself. How couldn’t he? He hadn’t seen more water than a puddle of piss in months. The scent of salty water breezed through the open-air foyer, soothing his travel-weary bones.

  A distant dance beat emanated from the beach, tempting guests to join the party. Grabbing an orange cocktail adorned with melons off a tray on the reception desk, he wondered if any premiere DJs would be cutting.

  The receptionist shuffled some documents together and magnetized his key, handing it to him with a luscious, exotic smile. Her glossy pink lips stood out on her darkly tanned face. Mason did not miss the mischief in her eyes.

  “Enjoy your stay,” she said, tucking a loose strand of black hair behind her ear. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve your stay… or if there’s anything you need at all.”

  Mason recognized the insinuation. He wondered if her excellent customer service was a little more than required. He leaned over the counter and palmed his key. She tucked her head down, her eyelashes fluttered, and her lips parted.

  He was aware of his effect on women. Tall and muscular, with bronzed skin and hair, he’d been called the All-American before. And there’d been a time when he wasn’t shy to reciprocate. He had enjoyed a lot of female… friends. But things were different now. The roster was nonexistent.

  He wasn’t clean and shiny anymore. He was gritty, with caked-on dirt and sand from the backcountry of the Sahel that might never come off. Women said they loved the rustic look, but they didn’t when it went too far. Which it damn well had. He hadn’t shaved, he hadn’t showered. Inside, he felt as disheveled as he looked.

  So Mason offered the receptionist nothing more than a polite smile. “Thanks,” he replied, his voice catching in his throat. It felt forced.

  Sure, he appreciated the upgrade—but he barely knew how to talk to humans outside camp. Outside the military. He wasn’t sure when or how he’d changed, but he knew why. It wasn’t hard to figure out. And he was glad he had a break before heading back home. He needed some time away from the guys—away from the SEALs.

  The resort staff had shown him to a villa fit for Beyoncé. At the end of a long boardwalk of exclusive huts, perched over the water on wooden beams, the straw-and-raw-wood exterior gave off a lush wooden scent as it baked under the scorching sun.

  Inside, Mason’s villa was balls-to-the-wall gorgeous. Marble upon granite upon opulence. Even the fucking shower looked fit for a king… and some friends. His younger self would have loved that. His younger self would have prepped for an all-nighter. If he wanted to make that happen, he had a feeling friends wouldn’t be hard to find. The front-desk staff practically advertised the service.

  But he just wanted to crash. The fluffy white bed called to him.

  Forcing himself to stay awake, Mason found the mini bar in his room and threw back a couple of shots of whisky. He flipped through the information book and saw advertisements for the spa, fitness club, bars, beach club, and five-star restaurants.

  He toyed with the idea of revisiting his younger self again. He thought about what friends he could meet at the beach club and bring back to the villa with him. There was enough room for many to join.

  He wanted to make his birthday extra special, because it was the first time he’d celebrated since his ex had left years before. She’d always insisted on cakes and presents. God, she cared for him. Even when he couldn’t reciprocate. She was always there, always home when he got back.

  But she’d left. She’d gotten fed up with the military-girlfriend thing and shacked up with some accountant in Chicago.

  Good riddance.

  He meant it. She deserved better than a boyfriend who was always away, and who was just as absent when he got home. Nah, it was best for everyone involved if he just enjoyed the company of friends in celebratory times like this. He waited for his cock to harden at the thought of a multi-friend shower.

  Chicks getting wet and hanging off him. Naked. Skin to skin.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  He sat down on the edge of his bed, with its high-end white sheets, and looked down at his pants. He didn’t feel anything. Not even in his groin. Not even at the thought of three naked women all over him.

  He finally admitted to himself what he’d known all along: he’d changed for good. He wasn’t a young man anymore. And he wasn’t boyfriend material either.

  But the reality of what he had become was harder to grasp. Harder to accept. What had he become? A sailor? A machine? A workaholic?

  The word coward danced briefly through his mind before he stuffed it away. He wasn’t a coward. He was just following orders: shut up and stay quiet. Don’t talk about what you do, what you’ve done. What you’ve seen.

  A shudder ran up his back, and Mason threw the hotel brochure on the floor. He didn’t fucking care. About anything.

  Back-to-back-to-back tours. Hard operation after hard operation. There was nothing left inside him except drills and orders and obedience. All he wanted to do was pass out on the bed and sleep all day. Pretend Mali had never happened.

  Mason looked out over the never-ending horizon. He could get lost in that. The view was breathtaking. Divers in the distance searched for wildlife in underwater corals. He could hear soft laughter from nearby. Even children. People were out there, enjoying life. Having fun.

  The type of fun he should be having. The type of fun a normal person would have on their birthday.

  Fuck it.

  Even if he didn’t have it, he needed to fake it.

  He slammed back another whisky shot, wishing someone would make him a coffee. Unzipping his black duffel bag, he whipped on the beach shorts he’d bought at the airport and pushed his way out the door to the beach club.

  He could sleep in the sand.

  And that’s how he’d ended up sitting at the edge of the Indian Ocean on a scorching hot day, digging his heels into molten white sand that was killing off at least a few layers of skin. If it weren’t for the years’ worth of built-up calluses on his operator’s feet, he’d probably have been burnt. But he could damn near walk on fire without problems.

  A DJ was spinning dance tracks nearby, giving the beach club a fun, social feel. The music settled into his bones, and he felt something lift. He had this connection with music. It was like an animal instinct to him. He loved electronic music, and had been an avid festival goer before the Navy got the better of him.

  Mason grabbed a bottle of coconut lotion beside him. He didn’t give a fuck if it was sunscreen or not. His skin was as dark as it could get from months of baking in Mali. He could barely discern his full left sleeve and creeping chest tattoos from the darkness of his skin. His tan looked almost comical juxtaposed with his wavy, golden-brown hair.

  The dark tan served him well when he had to blend with the locals in Timbuktu, but he had to keep his hair covered constantly, or else the rebels could see him from a mile away.

  As he slathered on the lotion, he inhaled the sweet coconut scent. Heaven. Nothing like aromatherapy to bring you back to the present.

  He promised himself never to think about Mali again. At least not on his birthday.

  No. Fucking. More.

  He squeezed the bottle again and again until half the product came out. His skin was dry from lack of care in the Sahel and soaked it all up, covering his wide expan
se of muscle.

  SEAL selection got him into intense shape. Working in DEVRGU got him into killer shape—like, assassin shape.

  The staff and other hotel patrons milled about in the background. A broad rectangular infinity pool sat to his left, up from the beach. A beautiful Indian woman dipped in and out of the blue pool water, gold jewelry dripping from her neck and wrists. She looked over at him and smiled.

  It was a wicked, “come join me” smile.

  She seemed friendly, he thought, knowing full well what she was up to. Her husband wasn’t far off, so Mason quickly averted his eyes. He didn’t want a lick of trouble on his only vacation. The thought of socializing began to feel daunting, and he wondered if he was subconsciously avoiding it.

  Birds overhead sang a sweet song, and it brought him back to the moment. Music was his great equalizer. Nature soothed him. The local fauna framed the beach and the pool, creating a tropical prism. Everything felt so goddamn exotic.

  The singing birds moved into the lush trees framing the beach. Waves crashed soothingly against the sand. Dance music continued to play, mingling with the distant laughter of men and women.

  He breathed in coconut and salt and ocean. And booze.

  He could hear loud talking nearby that threatened to burst into his private bubble.

  He needed more booze.

  He almost laughed. His dad, a carpenter, would have gotten a kick out of seeing him here. Mason looked like someone had stained him and glossed him, like a table being refinished. If only it were really possible to be refinished, he thought.