The Identity: The Black Unit Series: Book One

by Lund, S.

  The Identity

  The Black Unit Series: Book One

  S. Lund

  THE IDENTITY

  THE BLACK UNIT SERIES: BOOK ONE

  Copyright 2020 S. Lund

  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. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  His target was staying at a motel in Davis Cove, Maine.

  A popular resort for fishing and boating in the summer, it was largely vacant in November except for the locals and the few fishermen who still ventured out for the restaurant trade along the coast.

  He’d arrived earlier in the day, scoped the layout of the town, and found a cheap motel where he’d hole up and prepare. He’d set up later that night and pick off the target when he returned from the bar. During the storm, there would be no one out to check on the man. By the time they found the man’s body, Brandon would be long gone, his weapon dismantled and discarded along the route.

  It was a straightforward hit, but he’d never taken out a civilian before. Not that he felt much moral revulsion about killing civilians, but it was his first. He was curious more than anything, wondering why the man deserved his special treatment—a bullet to the center of mass and one in the head to finish him off.

  What had he done?

  His assignment didn't tell him why, so Brandon was left to wonder. It had to be something big enough to warrant an assassination by a member of the Unit. The Black Unit, as it was lovingly called, was intended to pick off the highest-value targets that were threats to the national security of the United States of America, whether external or internal. Brandon had been a sniper during his service as a Navy SEAL and had a good number of kills under his belt, but they had clearly been bad guys—terrorists or their funders over in Afghanistan. Operating in the US of A was something new and different. The existence of the Black Unit was known to only a dozen people, including the six members. It was the blackest of black units. So why Brandon had been sent to kill this particular target was a curiosity.

  Technically, the assets, as they were called, weren't supposed to question why. Assets didn't do the thinking. They were the doers—the ones who carried out the mission, not the ones who decided what the mission involved.

  The target must have been pretty damn important in the militia's hierarchy to use one of the Black Unit's assets to take him out.

  Brandon had his file memorized—his face, his name, his past, his current location.

  Whatever his target’s other crimes may have been, Brandon figured treason was one. That would be why he’d been sent.

  Brandon’s mission: Study the target, assess his weaknesses and vulnerabilities, find the opportunity, then take it. Cover his tracks, leave the area, dispose of any evidence, and then blend back into his normal routine far from the scene of the crime. Brandon’s handler would contact him once they had another job that required his special talents.

  That was the plan.

  Then she walked into the bar and blew that plan all to shit.

  Although they’d never met, Brandon had seen pictures of her and heard stories from her brother, Theo. A fellow member of the Unit, Theo and Brandon were brothers in arms. Theo had practically raised Anna after their mother died when Theo was fourteen and Anna was eight.

  Anna McLean, twenty-eight, PhD student at John Jay College in Manhattan. Studying neuroscience. Daughter of Phil McLean, former Assistant Director of Clandestine Operations, CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence, who had died a few weeks earlier from a heart attack—or at least, what appeared to be a heart attack. Theo McLean, former Special Ops, was on a mission to infiltrate the leadership of an anti-government militia in North Carolina. Officials suspected he was also dead, taken out a few weeks earlier by another member of the militia whose cover had been blown.

  As luck would have it—or Fate —she walked into the only restaurant in Davis Cove around seven o'clock when Brandon was having supper. She went to the bar and took a seat, waiting to be served. His pulse rate increased at the coincidence of her showing up where he was, but after a few deep breaths, Brandon calmed down and watched her.

  She appeared to know the owners of the bar and spoke with the bartender in a friendly manner. One of the cocktail waitresses went to her and gave her a hug. Clearly she'd spent time in Davis Cove. It made sense. Her file indicated that her father was born in the town and she and Theo had spent many summers there while growing up.

  Theo had often spoken of his kid sister and Brandon had always wanted to meet her, but the occasion had never arisen. She was pretty, with long reddish-brown hair, fair skin, and seemed well-built, her curves visible under clothing that didn't give much away. No makeup, so she was naturally pretty. She had a nice smile as well, with dimples that gave her an innocent look.

  If Brandon had met her in another life, he would have tried to pick her up, maybe even asked her on a date depending on the scenario. She was smart, attractive, and came from a solid middle-class family, but she was Theo's kid sister—and as such, she was off limits. Other than that little detail, she ticked off all his boxes. It was a shame they hadn't met in a different life where Brandon was a civilian so he could ask her out, but this was the only life he was going to have.

  Brandon should have finished his food and left without a word to her, because he was on a mission that didn't include meeting beautiful women and seducing them — especially not the sister of his brother-in-arms.

  He should have, but he didn't.

  He wanted to talk to her, to see if she was as smart and honest as Theo always made her out to be. So, when the opportunity came to step in and defend her against the drunken advances of a fat oaf who couldn't take no for an answer, Brandon took it.

  That was his first mistake of the mission. Even as he was doing it, he knew it was a slip-up—but in for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went.

  You're going to fuck up, fuck up big.

  Chapter Two

  Anna McLean shivered and turned up the heat as she drove down the secondary highway that bordered the Maine coast.

  A nor'easter was brewing just off the coast of Davis Cove. The surf was already stronger than normal as the low-pressure system intensified. Reports about the coming storm had been plastered all over the news almost 24/7. The strongest storm in over a decade, it was making its way inland and would strike the area within hours. Given the temperature drop that was forecast, freezing rain followed by heavy snow would be on the agenda for the weekend. If the storm was anything like ones they had in the past, the area would lose power and cellular coverage until it died out.

  Already, the first drops of rain had fallen on her car's windshield while she made her way
to Mike's Bar and Grill in downtown Davis Cove. Not that there was much of a town, up or down, but Mike's Bar and Grill was the main attraction. Anna’s dad grew up in Davis Cove, and she’d spent many a summer vacation on its shores with her brother Theo, watching seabirds fly and going out on the boat her grandfather had used when he’d worked as a fisherman. Now, in early November, she’d come out to spend some time decompressing after a busy first part of the semester. Mid-term exams were over, and she needed to get away from the bustle of Manhattan.

  To be truthful, she just plain missed her father, and staying at the cabin was a way to reconnect with his memory.

  Even for a Friday night, Mike's was busy. The dozen tables were filled with locals, and a lineup of men sat alone or in pairs on stools at the bar, eating a meal before the serious business of hard drinking began.

  Anna found a spot at the end of the bar, next to the staff entrance to the kitchen, and waited to be served. She didn't see Mike, the owner and her dad's best friend, but his daughter Rosalie came over.

  "Oh, Anna. It's you," she said and wiped her brow. "Dad said you'd be coming to town this weekend, but we thought you'd cancel because of the storm."

  "Not on your life," Anna replied, glancing over the menu she offered. "I need this week off."

  "I'll bet you do," she said and then her face went soft. "Sorry about your dad."

  "Thanks." Anna gave her a forced smile, not really feeling it, but she didn't want to make her feel any worse. Her father had died a month earlier. Other than Mike, she hadn't seen anyone from Davis Cove at the funeral in Virginia.

  "Dad's out back unloading a shipment," Rosalie said, pointing to the rear of the bar. "He'll be glad to see you."

  "It's good to be back," Anna replied and glanced around. "This is like my second home."

  Rosalie smiled and took her order. Within fifteen minutes, she had a homemade cheeseburger and hand-cut fries in front of her and was almost finished with her first beer of the night.

  Mike showed up a few minutes later, his face brightening when he saw her.

  "There you are," he said and came around to where she was sitting for a hug. He was a big bear of a man with a shaved head and a goatee. He and her father had been in the service together as young men, and they’d had a bond that nothing could break, not even the years spent apart after her dad moved to Virginia to work for the CIA while Mike stayed in Davis Cove to tend his little business empire.

  He pulled away and his gaze moved over her. "You look tired. It's good you came out for a break."

  "I needed the solitude, to tell you the truth. Manhattan is so crowded and noisy. I love it out here. Peace and quiet."

  Mike nodded and went behind the bar, slipping on his apron. While he unloaded a box of beer, they caught up on the latest news, then talk turned to what was foremost on everyone's mind.

  The storm.

  "You sure you want to stay out in the cabin?" he asked, his voice wary. "If the snow's as heavy as they're saying, the road'll be blocked for days."

  "I'm sure," she said, and finished her beer. "In fact, I can't wait. Like I said, I need time alone."

  "Make sure to pick up some spare batteries." He frowned as he wiped a glass from the dishwasher behind the bar. "The power will be the first thing to go out. Then cellular service."

  "I need to disconnect from my digital life." Anna held up her empty beer bottle. "I'll make sure there are extra batteries just in case."

  "You should. Looks like this storm’ll hang around for a while," he continued, as if he didn't think she was taking it seriously. "Best you pick up some spare water, too."

  "Yes, Uncle Mike," she said in a little-girl voice, grinning.

  He put on a mean face but then broke into a smile and placed a fresh beer on the bar top.

  "I'm only looking out for you. Your father would want me to."

  "I know. I'll make sure I have a full tank of gas, too."

  "What kind of car you driving?"

  "It's a rental. Honda Civic."

  "What? You brought a piece of tin like that on the roads here? You'll get stuck if you try to drive after it snows."

  "They didn’t have anything else available. I'll be fine," Anna said.

  "You should have a Jeep like your dad did."

  Then he grimaced. Of course, having a Jeep hadn't helped her dad.

  “I'll be fine, Uncle Mike," she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "Seriously. I'll stay in the cabin until the storm passes and the roads are cleared."

  "Good," he said and squeezed her hand in return. "I'll be worrying about you out there."

  "You knew Dad," she replied and took a sip of her beer. "The last time I checked his cellar, there were enough supplies for a nuclear winter."

  Mike laughed and dried another glass from the dishwasher. "He was always planning for the worst." Mike put the glass he was polishing onto the shelf behind him. He turned around and the smile faded from his lips. "I miss him."

  "I do, too," she said. "Every single day."

  Anna exhaled as a wave of melancholy set in at the thought of her father's recent death. It had only been a month and she was still hurting from the suddenness. His death had been a shock. He’d been in a desk job and was no longer operational or involved in anything dangerous. They all thought he'd be safe. There were no longer any guns involved in his day-to-day work, so he'd be able to live out the last years until his retirement from the CIA with no threat.

  Or so they thought.

  The threat had come not from without, but within. He’d died from a cardiac arrest while driving up the coast to the cabin, his car swerving off the road and falling thirty feet down the side of a cliff. The coroner said he was dead before the Jeep struck the rocks below.

  Anna was back in Davis Cove for some time off from classes at John Jay College in Manhattan, where she was studying forensic psychology in the hopes of joining the CIA as a civilian scientist.

  While Mike served a guest, Anna finished her burger and took her beer to a table against the wall. She had a couple of hours before the storm hit and it would only take her about twenty minutes to get to the cabin in the woods by Long Lake where her father kept his hideaway.

  She opened the local paper and read the latest news, but it didn't hold her interest and she ended up reading the same headline several times. Instead, she took out her cell and checked her messages, expecting to hear from Trina, her best friend and fellow student in the PhD program.

  Someone put on the jukebox and a couple of people got up on the tiny square of floor space in the bar that was set aside for dancing. Anna watched them for a moment and then opened the message thread on her cell. Before she could read Trina's latest, she felt someone staring at her and glanced up. One of the local men loomed over her, a beer in his hand, a leer in his eye.

  "Hey, sweetheart, wanna dance?"

  She didn't recognize him, but that wasn't unusual. She’d only spent summers in Davis Cove visiting her father before he died. While she knew a lot of the locals, she didn't know everyone. There were a lot of transients who passed through, looking for work on the ships or staying in the cabins around Long Lake.

  "No thanks," she said. "Busy reading."

  She held up the newspaper, using it as an excuse to avoid dancing with him. Whoever he was, he was about two decades older than her with a considerable—and hairy—beer belly that poked out from underneath his too-short sweater.

  He didn't take the hint. He remained standing beside her table, smiling like he saw her as a challenge, his eyes moving over her appreciatively.

  "Care for some company? You seem sad sitting here all by your lonesome."

  He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  Did she look like a hooker waiting for a john? Anna glanced down at herself. She was wearing a thick cable-knit sweater over a turtleneck that hid pretty much every womanly curve she possessed, worn jeans with holes in the knees, and work boots. Her red hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. No
makeup.

  No one could have mistaken her for a hooker, so this man was either drunk or an asshole. Or both, most likely.

  "Excuse me, but no thanks. I'm really busy reading," she said. She held up the newspaper and pointed to an article on the hostage negotiations that had taken place earlier that day in Detroit. "Criminology student."

  He leaned closer, clearly drunk from the way his body swayed, his red eyes and the stink of beer coming from his breath. So—drunk and an asshole who couldn't get the message.

  "Aww, don't turn me down. Give a man a break. The storm's coming and I could use some company."

  "Seriously," she said and backed her chair away, growing impatient with his persistence. "I'm quite happy to be by myself."

  "I've been out on a boat for a week and need some company. I just got paid." He reached into his pocket and clumsily pulled out a wad of bills, flashing it in front of her eyes. "There's more where that came from and I have a room down at the Creek Motel."

  "I'm not that kind of lady," she said and glanced over at the bar, hoping to catch Mike's eye so he'd get the message and come over, shoo the guy away. "Look somewhere else for paid company."

  Mike was in back again, no doubt getting something from the kitchen, so Anna was on her own with her drunken suitor.

  "You don't have to be so shy," the man said, and leaned down so that his elbows were on the table in front of Anna, his face only a few inches from hers. "I won't bite."

  "But I will," came a voice.

  Before Anna could respond, a man wearing a dark overcoat pulled the drunk up and away by the scruff of his neck. "Leave the lady alone."