The Identity: The Black Unit Series: Book One

by Lund, S.

  Anna’s knight in shining armor shoved the drunk away hard enough that he stumbled and almost fell, but he managed to keep his beer upright.

  "All right, all right," the drunk said, adjusting his shirt, which had come askew. "Can't blame a man for trying."

  "Yes, I can," the man in the dark coat said. "You should learn to read a lady's signals. This one isn't interested, so back off."

  "Okay, okay," the drunk said and he did back off, holding up his beer in one hand and tipping his cap. "Message received."

  The drunk went back to his group of friends, who luckily were drunk enough themselves that they didn't want to get into a fight with Anna’s rescuer. Although he was built, he wouldn't have been able to take on three other guys at once.

  "Thank you," Anna said and stood up, pushing her chair back. "He probably would have backed off soon enough, but I appreciate the nudge you gave him." She extended her hand for a shake.

  "No problem," the man said with a nod, his blue eyes amused as he took Anna’s hand. "Always try to help ladies when drunks can't get the hint."

  He tipped his head and sat back down at his own table, where he had a beer and a plate of food. The stranger was tall, well-built, wearing jeans and a black cloth coat. His dark hair was on the longish side, falling below his collar, and he had a closely trimmed beard, giving him a ruggedly handsome look. Something about him said former military or law enforcement. Anna had a knack for detecting them, given her background.

  There weren't too many strangers in Davis Cove, Maine. Most people were locals who either grew up here or came for the fishing. It wasn't a place people just wandered into, so Anna wondered who he was. Handsome and strong—she could imagine him in a uniform, but not in a business suit.

  Who was he?

  Mike came back into the bar and continued his work, stocking shelves and filling drink orders. One of the waitresses must have told him about the scuffle because he went over to the guys sitting at the table. Anna couldn't hear what he said over the music, but Mike scolded them and then he went to her rescuer. They shook hands after speaking for a moment. Finally, Mike came over to where Anna sat and stood there, his hands on his hips.

  "Sorry I missed all the excitement. I hear you were rescued from Johnny's advances. Apologies for him. He's harmless but comes from a long line of drunks."

  "I'm fine," she said and waved him off. "Remember, I live in Manhattan. I’ve fended off a few drunks in my time." She gave him a smile.

  He pointed to her beer. "Do you need another?"

  She shook her head. "I better not. Gotta drive out to the cabin."

  "Just so long as you get there before the worst of the storm hits later tonight."

  "I will, Uncle Mike," she said with mock petulance. "You should know that my father raised a very responsible daughter."

  "That he did—but still, if you need anything, give me a call. You could always stay in town at the motel. That way, you wouldn't be so isolated."

  "And be with Johnny and his crew? No thanks."

  "Okay, but I feel responsible for you, so don't hesitate to call. You could always stay with us in the back bedroom."

  "Thanks, but I'll be fine."

  He nodded with obvious reluctance, then wiped his hands on his apron and went back behind the bar. Mike was like an uncle to Anna and she couldn't blame him for being concerned about her welfare. He no doubt felt even more responsibility because of her father's death. Aside from her brother, who was somewhere in SoCal—probably on Skid Row due to PTSD and a drug problem—Mike was the only family she had left now.

  Rosalie came over and placed a fresh beer on her table.

  "I didn't order that," Anna said, frowning.

  "Brandon over there paid for it," Rosalie said, and raised her eyebrows. "He also invited you to come and sit with him, be sociable if you’d like."

  Anna glanced over at her rescuer—Brandon—and wondered whether she should join him.

  He seemed nice enough, but was she going from the frying pan into the fire?

  Chapter Three

  While Brandon was pondering the cruelty of life, a drunk made his way over to the pretty young woman’s table. He listened for a while to their talk. He had intended to finish his meal and leave without looking at her again, but the oaf kept pushing and pushing, inviting her to his hotel room, not getting the hint no matter what she said.

  Finally, the pig leaned down, his face only a few inches from hers. "You don't have to be so shy. I won't bite."

  That was Brandon’s cue. It pissed him off to see the man be such a scumbag to her and his sense of chivalry was insulted. He had to act.

  Brandon stood up, wiped off his mouth with a napkin and went over. "But I will."

  He grabbed the drunk by the collar of his jacket and dragged him up and away from her table. "Leave the lady alone."

  Then Brandon shoved him away from the table, watching as he stumbled and then caught himself before falling. Miraculously, he didn't spill a drop of his beer.

  "All right, all right. Can't blame a guy for trying."

  "Yes, I can. You should learn to read a lady's signals. This one isn't interested, so back off."

  Brandon gave the drunk the steeliest of his steely frowns and the man held up his hands, his beer held firmly.

  "Okay, okay. Message received." He left and went back to his own table.

  "Thank you," Anna said and stood up. "He probably would have backed off soon enough, but I appreciate the nudge you gave him." She held out her hand, expecting Brandon to shake hers.

  He knew he shouldn't have done it. When members of the Black Unit were on a mission, they stayed focused. If a team member lost focus, they fucked up and things went south. Brandon shouldn't have touched her. Touching her made her more real, and made his mind go to all those places that were too much of a distraction, given the mission. Being with a woman during a mission muddied your motivation and made it harder to focus on the hit.

  When Brandon took her hand, he knew he’d really gone off the rails—but for some reason, he couldn't stop himself. There was something about her that drew him closer despite everything he knew about the proper way to conduct a mission—especially one that involved a hit.

  "No problem. Always try to help ladies when drunks can't get the hint."

  Brandon sat back down at his own table, fully intending to leave it at that. She sat down as well, and he figured he had escaped lightly. But then the owner of the bar, a big man wearing a white apron and looking like a wrestler working a second job between shows, came over and extended his hand.

  "Thanks for standing up for Anna," he said. Brandon stood and shook, not wanting to appear rude.

  "No problem. I see something going down, I step in."

  "Good man. Let me buy your food and drink for the night as a thank-you. She's an old family friend and just lost her dad, so I appreciate you being here and being a standup guy."

  "Don't mention it."

  He left and went over to her table to speak with her.

  Of course, this was just more entanglement that would throw the mission off the rails. The bar owner would remember Brandon clearly, due to having shaken hands and spoken with him. It was another mistake. It was another link that would give the police something to latch onto when they went looking for the killer of his intended target.

  Why the fuck am I screwing up this mission so badly?

  He’d have to shave his head, grow a goatee, and either bulk up or slim down to alter his appearance enough to pass unnoticed in case anyone came looking for him. Changing identities was what Brandon did best. He’d done it enough that it became second nature. Still, he berated himself mentally for fucking this mission up because he was attracted to a woman he met by happenstance.

  The owner and Anna spoke for a while. Brandon tried to shut off his emotions and focus on finishing his meal. He would shove down the rest of his food and leave without another glance in her direction.

  But something
stopped Brandon from being the professional he usually was. There was something about Anna that threw his training and even his programming right out the window.

  The waitress came over and asked what she could get him—on the house.

  "Thanks for protecting her," the waitress said. "My father wants to buy you another drink. What will you have?"

  "Another one of these. And please, send her another of whatever she's drinking."

  "I will. Should I say who it's from?"

  "Yes," he said and smiled, figuring he might as well go all out, now that everyone had seen his act of chivalry. "Tell her it's from Brandon. Tell her to come by for a visit if she wants to be sociable."

  The waitress smiled and left. Soon enough, she brought Brandon a fresh beer and then took another one to Anna.

  When the waitress put the beer down on the table, Anna waved it off but then when informed who it was from, she glanced over in his direction. Brandon could see curiosity in her eyes—maybe even some attraction.

  She came over.

  Brandon knew then that they were both making big mistakes that seemed little at the time, but which would propel them on the wrong course, like two freight trains coming at each other full steam on the same track.

  Nothing but a disaster could ensue.

  For some damn reason, Brandon couldn't stop himself. She didn't seem to be able to either.

  The waitress carried her beer over to Brandon’s table and so he stood up and extended his hand. "I didn't introduce myself the first time. I'm Brandon," he said while they shook. "Brandon O'Neil to be precise."

  She smiled, her dimples showing. "Anna McLean."

  Brandon pulled out her chair.

  "Thanks," she said and sat down beside him.

  "Don't mention it. It's nice to have some company on a Friday night in a strange town. Thanks for joining me."

  "Speaking of strange towns," she said and watched him. "Why are you here in little old Davis Cove, Maine?"

  He gave her the cover story he’d cooked up before arriving in case anyone was curious enough to ask. "Scouting out fishing camps for some buddies back home in Virginia who like to do a bit of ice fishing in the winter. I heard there's great fishing up on Long Lake."

  They spoke for a while, giving each other sketchy details about themselves. He already knew everything public there was to know about her—at least, the things that people told complete strangers.

  When she asked what he did for a living, Brandon gave one of his fallback identities as a private investigator. It gave Brandon a good excuse to be in any town asking questions.

  "PI?" she said, her interest apparently piqued. "I've never met a Private Investigator before. What's your background?"

  "Military. When I left the service, it was a natural progression."

  Then Brandon gave her a bit of his actual story, which was another mistake, but he was never going to see her again anyway, so he figured it didn't really matter.

  "Navy. Joint Special Operations Command."

  "DEVGRU?" she asked, her eyes wide.

  "Technically, civilians aren't supposed to know about DEVGRU," he said, amused.

  They spoke for a while about themselves, with Brandon concocting as much of a story as he could, infusing the truth with fabrications in case anyone connected his presence in town to the hit. He needed to sink back into invisibility, so he didn't want to give away too much of the truth. But he found himself wanting to be truthful with her.

  It was crazy. He was on a mission to take out a former member of her father's unit in the CIA's clandestine division in a few hours. He shouldn't even be speaking with her, let alone telling her about himself.

  His true self.

  Over the sound system, "Rock Around the Clock" came on. Brandon was unable to resist it—his mother had taught him to dance the jitterbug years earlier to that song. Hearing it made him want to dance.

  Moth to the flame, Brandon held out his hand.

  "Care to dance? I love the jitterbug."

  She laughed. "My jitterbug is extremely rusty."

  "Live dangerously," he said, and they went to the dance floor, the irony of his words not lost on him.

  "I haven't done it since high school."

  "No worries. I'm an expert. Just let me take control and you'll remember soon enough."

  They started dancing and after the first few awkward moments when they got into position and got into the rhythm of the song, they were a good match.

  "You're really good at this."

  Brandon smiled. "My mother taught me. She was a dance instructor and used me to practice her lessons. A ballerina for the Czech National Ballet before she immigrated to the US and taught ballet in, of all places, Fredericksburg, Virginia."

  Damn. He just couldn't shut the fuck up. For whatever reason, Brandon felt like she belonged in his arms, dancing with him, like they’d danced hundreds of times before. Brandon hated that he was deceiving her, but he couldn’t tell her that he knew her brother. That would give far too much away and if she was questioned by police when the body was found, she'd mention meeting him.

  The next song was a slow waltz, "The End of the World" by Skeeter Davis.

  Brandon should have ended it there and then, but he didn't. "I hope this song isn't some kind of warning about the storm," he said, smiling down at her.

  "Nah," she replied. "We get these storms every year, several times a year. Most people know what to do and are ready. My father was a prepper at heart and has quite the cellar—filled with supplies for the worst-case scenario."

  They danced together, her body warm and soft against his and he exhaled, wishing that he wasn't on a mission and was instead in town for the weekend actually scoping out fishing and camping lodges. A sense of melancholy filled Brandon about her and the life he was leading. If he hadn't been on a mission, Brandon would have liked to spend more time with her.

  They could be lovers. For some reason, their bodies felt like they fit together.

  Brandon asked her about her brother, wanting to hear what she would say about him—if anything.

  "Theo's currently in Southern California, homeless and addicted to heroin, the last time I heard from him."

  Brandon frowned. That wasn't what he’d read. What he’d read put Theo in North Carolina in deep cover with the anti-government militia led by ex-SEAL George Denton. Denton was the real target of the Black Unit, but he was kept well-protected and they never had an opportunity to take him out.

  "That's too bad," Brandon said. The sadness in her voice was visceral. "A lot of vets struggle to find their way, most of them suffering from some kind of PTSD. I'm lucky I had something to fall back on when I left the service. I had a small inheritance from an uncle and was able to use that to start my PI business."

  "You are lucky. My brother seemed to lose his way once he got out of the service. I spent the week my father died trying to find him in LA so he could come back for the funeral, but he must have left."

  Brandon didn't say anything, and the music stopped. He let go of her and after an awkward moment, they left the dance floor.

  He had to leave. He had to get out of there, or she had to leave, because all his instincts about how to manage a mission had just gone out the window along with his sense. He didn't want to say goodbye, but it felt like if he pushed just a bit, they could leave together. They could go to her place and spend the night in each other's arms.

  That couldn’t happen.

  "Sorry to be a downer," she said and picked up her bag. "I think I'll head home. I should get settled in before the storm hits. If this one's like the last few, I'll be snowed in for a few days until the snow melts or the plows come through."

  "I understand." Brandon helped her with her jacket, glad that at least she had some common sense, since his all seemed to go out the window once their bodies touched. "I'll walk you to your car just to be on the safe side. Never know what drunks might be lurking outside."

  She smiled, and th
en went to the bar to say goodbye to the owner. Brandon heard them speaking while he slipped on his jacket. He would be the last person to see her in public. Everyone at that bar would know he had spoken with her, left with her.

  Maybe he’d have to postpone the mission, report back to his handler that he couldn't take the hit after all. It happened sometimes—a Unit member had to assess whether they could safely take the hit. Sometimes, they couldn't.

  She went to the bar and spoke to the owner before they left.

  "You take care, Anna," the manager said. "If you need anything—and I mean anything—you call. I'll come out to the cabin."

  "Thanks, Mike. I'll be fine."

  Brandon walked her out to the parking lot where her rental was parked. She turned to Brandon and smiled, and he thought he saw regret in her eyes that they had to say goodbye. He felt it as well.

  "Thanks for dancing with me," he said and held out his hand. She took it, and he intended only to shake but then, for some reason, he kissed her.

  Once more, all that training flew right out the window. He cupped her face with a hand and kissed her, and she didn't stop him.

  "Good night," he said, wishing he lived a different life, a stab of regret in his gut that he didn't.

  "Good night," she replied and got into the car. "Thanks once again for the knight-in-shining-armor routine."

  "My specialty," he said, smiling to try to hide his sadness. "You can give me a call any time." Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. It wasn't his real address—just a safe house he used when necessary. The mail and phone were forwarded to his real number and location so he could monitor contacts he’d made.

  Part of Brandon was hoping she'd call, and that they could get together again. If so, he’d confess that he knew her brother and ask for forgiveness for deceiving her. He’d explain that he had been on a covert mission and couldn’t identify himself because of the classified nature of his presence in town.

  Then, thankfully, she drove off and he was left alone.

  He went to his vehicle and got inside, resigned to his fate, trying to get back into the right mindset for the mission. On the seat beside him was his sniper rifle and everything he’d need to carry it out.