by Zoe Dawson
Her feet kicked up dust as she tried to will away the awful sensation in her gut—a sensation comprised of regret and old shame as the sun started to sink and the first filtered grayness of twilight settled in. The cooing of doves was a soft evening call, and the wind was almost still. One of the results of living on the fringe of Jalalabad—the stillness, the lack of traffic, the closeness to the wilderness.
The coolness was invigorating, and she inhaled deeply, feeling the stretch in the back of her calves as she climbed a slight incline. Instead of heading back toward the compound, she headed away, pausing, trying to will away the sudden flight of butterflies in her stomach. She stared at the chain-link fence, the barbed wire topping it all around the base, her throat closing up on her.
The surprise of seeing Fast Lane in Somalia had shaken her right down to her boots. She had never expected to see him, their paths having diverged for a couple of years. She knew he was still a SEAL and the fact that they were both Special Forces members could throw them in the same area, but the same mission…twice in a row felt like cosmic intervention. She flew these guys into and out of danger as a matter of course.
It was only now that she let herself acknowledge there had been countless times when she had wondered where he was, what he was doing. All these years—and she was still coming to terms with the secret she kept and the mistakes that she had made.
She looked to the flight deck and her gut clenched for a totally different reason. There were two Black Hawks and four little birds. Yesterday, one of her sharp-eyed crewmembers had spotted a faulty fuel line in one of the Black Hawks. The one the SEALs would be occupying. It could have happened organically, but Solace was aware of who they were up against. She trusted no one, especially a base full of Afghans. Any one of them could be compromised.
Zasha Vasiliev wielded a lot of power and wealth. Even one hundred dollars in this poor country would be high temptation.
Zasha was a Tier 0 target—the military’s highest priority.
Solace had reported the incident to her superior officer. It was out of her hands.
She and her fellow pilots would fly the SEAL and Afghan joint forces to a remote place in Nuristan Province, where intelligence gathered by the CIA indicated Zasha Vasiliev and her cohorts, members of Muhammad Anger Said’s Al’Irada terrorist group, were synthesizing uranium into small dirty bombs that could be set off anywhere.
It was rumored that Zasha had hits out on Fast Lane and his team, along with CIA analyst Chrysanthe Steele and Darko Stjepanić‘s nephew, Aleksander Custovic.
Solace had this anxiety lodged in her chest that wouldn’t go away. It seemed familiar, but she chalked it up to being in a tense situation. She tried to rationalize that she didn’t have anxiety before missions, but this situation they were currently in was fraught with danger.
She was a combat helicopter pilot and used to operating with uncertainty and on the fly, often at very short notice.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. It was usually a sign that things weren’t exactly sitting right with her. She couldn’t figure out if her turmoil was about the mission or about Fast Lane.
Solace knew that valley, remembered the casualties there, remembered how green she’d been. She’d seen the terrain, the isolation, the snow, and the fortified position that the SEALs and Afghans were going to storm. Bombing runs had been ruled out because they suspected Zasha and Anger Said were present. The US wanted them alive for intel purposes and it had come from higher up.
The two teams were going to assault and secure the lab then take Zasha and Anger Said captive.
She stopped by the fence near the barracks. She could hear the team talking and laughing. Looking out at the dusty landscape, she sighed.
“Hey, stranger. Long time no see,” CIA Officer Rose Sinema said from her right.
Solace smiled broadly and reached out to hug the woman. “You look amazing after getting hit in the head and captured by a bunch of murdering bandits. That was some case of mistaken identity. How the heck are you?”
“Healed and ready to go after that bitch. She took down that base with her Bosnian mercenaries and fifty-nine service members and Somali military were killed in that raid. People I knew and worked with. Good people.”
“Like Will,” Solace said softly.
“Yeah, like Will.” Rose gripped the fence, her dark hair flying in the sudden wind. She looked toward those mountains, and her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not going to be easy. That’s the Shok Valley, part of the Hindu Kush, an offshoot of the Himalayas. It is isolated territory, just North of the Khyber Pass, and accessible only by foot or pack mule. It’s full of insurgent strongholds.” She stared for a few minutes, her face devoid of emotion. “A month after we pulled out, the Taliban was already back, taking over, governing. We never got a foothold there, and several times they handed us our asses.”
“I’ve been there before for medevac. It was an HLZ, and they never stopped shooting at us, even to pick up our wounded.”
“Not surprising. They hate us for invading their country. Do you know the Soviets never even went there? They deemed it too dangerous.”
“They’re a bunch of pansies.”
That made Rose bark out a laugh.
“We have superiority—in training, equipment, and air support. I have no doubt senior officials expect us to do the impossible.”
Rose nodded, then her mouth kicked up in a bitter smile. “Zasha picked a place to hide that double dared us to come after her. Angar Said must have some pull there for the Taliban to allow a woman in a leadership role, but Zasha isn’t like anyone else. She’s a cunning, cold-blooded killer with nine lives.” Her eyes darkened with conviction. “Her luck is going to run out, Solace. Eventually, we’ll get her.”
“At what cost?” Solace murmured.
“A cornered animal always fights dirty. She’s lost Darko and is even more unpredictable. I think that crime lord held the reins. Now she’s a loose cannon.” She stared for a few more minutes, then tossed her head and sighed. “Come on. Let’s go find alcohol. I know I could use some.”
They walked the length of the compound back into the Special Forces area where the guys had set up a makeshift bar. Pitbull was behind the slab of wood, and he deposited two bottles of beer on the crude counter.
“Thanks,” Rose said and grabbed them, handing one to Solace. Taking a sip of the cold brew, they went to the ring of chairs around a firepit and sat down. Juggernaut, or Jugs for short, came bounding over, exuberant about having some new company. He practically jumped up into Solace’s lap, but Mad Max was there and caught him by the collar and gave him a firm command to sit. The SEAL team’s dog handler was married to Dr. Renata Keegan, a surgeon, and Dodger was his brother-in-law as he was married to Anna, one of Max’s five sisters.
“He really likes you,” Mad Max said with a grin, settling into the chair next to hers.
“Apparently,” she said with a smile. Jugs tipped his head and looked at her with bright eyes, silently begging to be petted. She looked at Mad Max for permission, and he inclined his head. Burying her hand in his coat, she scratched him behind the ears.
Mad Max was watching her, and he shook his head as Jugs sagged against her legs. “The best spot to win him over.”
She laughed as she ruffled the dog’s fur. “I do have my way with males.” Giving the dog another pat, she turned her attention to Dodger and Dragon, who were conversing a few feet away. Dodger had a box and Dragon was pulling at it. Dragon had married Jo Moretti, a tat artist he’d met and fathered a child with, one he hadn’t known anything about. Ceri, their daughter, was a bona fide genius. She was going to become a ballet dancer. Jo was pregnant with their second child.
“What’s going on over there?” Rose asked.
Dodger turned and smiled. “Steaks. T-bones. Enough for all of us.”
“Where the hell did you get—never mind. I’m sure you know a guy,” Max said.
“
How did you guess?” Dodger said with a mischievous grin.
“Fire up the grill. We’ll get these puppies cooked,” Saint said. Their recent escapade in Somalia had been hard on Saint and his now fiancée, ATF Agent Aella Mikos. In fact, the bandits that had attacked Solace and Rose thought one of them had been the ATF agent. Aella had been kidnapped and held for ransom. The main mission in Somalia had been to rescue her.
“I think I can scrounge up some veggies and potatoes,” Hemingway said. He headed toward the mess. He was the youngest of the SEALs, married to NCIS Agent Shea, whom he met while in BUD/S. Her Marine brother Jason had married Carolina when he’d been sent to Paraguay after an earthquake. Jason and Carolina Palmer had just delivered a baby girl, Lourdes, into their family.
Dodger came over to her. “I heard you’re a great cook.” There was no mistaking the twinkle in his eye as he held the box out to her. He gave her a slow grin.
Solace stared at him for a split second then grinned back as she took the box. “Are you sure you trust me with your T-bones?”
“Sure. I got it from a good source,” he said, the twinkle intensifying.
Solace slanted an amused, if somewhat skeptical look at him. “I think you bear watching, Dodger. I have the distinct feeling I’ve just been had.”
“But in the most charming way.” Solace froze and took a hard breath, feeling suddenly cornered. There was no mistaking the undercurrent of sarcasm in Fast Lane’s voice, and sighing in resignation, she turned to face him. “Don’t get on Dodger’s case. I volunteered to cook. No big deal.”
He was standing a short distance behind her, a familiar set to his jaw. “Nice try covering his ass.”
She stared at him for a moment, a hint of irritation niggling her. “Don’t be difficult. I’m not keen on sitting around on my keister not contributing to the meal. I left my knitting at home.”
She thought she saw his mouth twitch, but his face remained expressionless.
“I could use a scarf,” Dodger piped up.
“And mittens, but make sure you connect them together by a string so he can weave them through his sleeves,” Pitbull said.
“You are a wanker,” Dodger said.
“Yeah, she doesn’t look the type who’s ready for the rocking chair churning out knitted garments,” Mad Max said, looking over at Fast Lane.
“I don’t know, Solace. Are you?”
Her irritation escalated. “You are a wanker.”
Dodger laughed and Fast Lane gave him the stink eye. His laugh ended abruptly.
“Sounds like insubordination to me,” Fast Lane said.
“Oh, really. What is so wrong about me cooking up some steaks?”
“You’re an overachiever. But seeing the way you operate, you’d probably insist on making a cake too.”
Dodger glanced at Fast Lane, then gave Solace a sly wink and said solemnly, “That would be good, right? Everyone loves cake.”
His subtle and unexpected alliance delighted Solace, and she grinned up at him. “I think it’s a great idea. You know a guy with the ingredients?”
Dodger chuckled and nodded, and Fast Lane riveted his full attention on him, as if he weren’t quite sure if Dodger was serious or not. But Dodger’s face was as innocent as a baby’s as he walked away.
Fast Lane turned to her. He scrutinized her intently, his contemplative tone tinged with an undercurrent of amusement as he said softly, “I don’t think I like Dodger being your partner in crime. With him, you could take over the world.”
Solace walked over to the grill and set the steaks down on the sidebar. Grinning, she said, “Maybe you are just suspicious by nature.”
His amusement grew. “Like hell. He isn’t named Artful Dodger for nothing.”
Her gaze connected with his, and Solace experienced a hard flutter as she fell victim to the laughter in his eyes. She had a sudden and nearly overpowering urge to reach out and touch him, but she drew a slow, measured breath and deliberately lifted the top of the grill. Her voice was only slightly uneven as she said, “I’m sure you’ll join us. Even the boss needs a break.”
He was watching her with an unsettling steadiness that made her knees go weak, and Solace made herself take another deep breath. He stared at her for a second longer, then the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled in a disarming smile. “Only if I get dibs on any cake that may or may not be available.”
“I can’t promise anything,” she said as he shouldered her out of the way and worked at getting the grill hot and ready for the steaks.
She wasn’t sure if he did this on purpose, trying to do things for her. Was it being a gentleman or was it a way to control her? She still couldn’t be sure of her ex-husband, but his ultimatum had been what had broken them up. Hadn’t it? Suddenly, she was unsure. Was it her attitude that had added to the mess? She had taken care of herself for a long time. Was there some underpinning resentment in her for men who tried to take care of her? It had always made her feel uncomfortable.
No. She didn’t accept that. She was independent by nature. She’d had to be with a nonexistent father and a drunk mother. She wouldn’t use them as excuses for her failings. Her marriage had broken up because of Fast Lane. End of story.
She wasn’t going to rehash. She promised herself that it was over with him. So, why was she reacting so strongly to him? Probably because he was beautiful, powerfully so, the nape of his neck beckoning her lips. He was so sensitive there, and his face was more rugged than it once had been, his body more starkly chiseled. Any woman would react.
She watched him work, his hands large, strong, and sure. He knew what to do with them.
She needed a breather, and she headed toward where Dodger had disappeared. Lo and behold, he had the ingredients for a cake. Feeling relieved to be out of Fast Lane’s presence, she whipped up the batter, poured it into pans, and slipped them into the oven. Luckily, they had the items for buttercream frosting with Dodger finding chocolate to add to the confection. The man was a gem.
When the cake was done and cooled, she frosted it, laughing as she slapped his hand more than once as he tried to grab a fingerful of frosting. Together, they headed back to the firepit.
“So, I heard a rumor that you were once married to our LT,” Dodger said, his tone cagey and subdued.
She could smell the aroma of sizzling meat on the grill and her mouth watered. Hemingway had come through and procured a salad and red potatoes that were roasting next to the steaks. It was a feast in the making.
“It seems like a lifetime ago. We had our differences. They overcame our love.”
“Did they?” he asked, looking at her as if he could see that her attraction to his boss hadn’t waned. “I believe that love conquers all.”
“That’s in the past.”
“Hindsight is always 20/20, love. Second chances are possible. Believe me. I know.” He took the cake out of her hands and set it on the bar, covering it with a big bowl to keep the sand and flies away from it.
The food was delicious, but after Dodger’s words, she couldn’t seem to relax.
“Great cake,” Professor said, heading to the SEALs clubhouse, most likely for darts or some cards. She didn’t know him. He hadn’t been on the op in Somalia until toward the end when his team had come to rescue Saint and Aella from a revengeful Warsame Omar, the son of warlord Axmed Omar who had held Aella hostage and was killed by her and Saint to regain her freedom.
“So, how does it feel to be back working with your ex?” Rose asked, handing her another bottle of beer.
“Just as awkward and uncomfortable as before,” she said, taking a gulp, realizing that it wasn’t true. She didn’t feel exactly awkward or uncomfortable around Fast Lane. It was more…cautious and rattled. But she didn’t want to own up to those emotions. “How about your love life?”
Rose gave her a mysterious smile. “I have been propositioned. Does that count?”
“Oh? Who would that be?”
“I don’t kiss and t
ell, Solace.”
“So, it’s top secret now?”
“Yes.”
“I have a security clearance.” Rose laughed softly. “You wheedled information out of me about my ex. Seems fair you should reciprocate.”
“We were in danger, and you were trying to get my mind off dying. Not so here.”
“That’s splitting hairs and you know it. We will be going into danger.”
“Okay.” Rose threw up her hands. “You win.” She leaned over and said, “He’s a Tier 1 operator.”
“From Somalia?”
“Yes. The delicious Kit Snow. If I hadn’t had a concussion…”
“I hear you. Tramp.”
Rose laughed again. “I’m going to bed. Hopefully, tomorrow we’ll have enough intel and the weather will permit us to get this mission done. I’d like to get our two terrorists off the global stage. Everyone in the intelligence and Special Forces world will sleep better at night.”
“Amen to that.”
She rose to follow, but Dodger snagged her for a game of chess. After she beat him within a small margin—the boy could play—she headed for the door. As soon as she stepped out, someone caught the door. She turned to find Fast Lane pulling on his jacket.
“I’m heading to the barracks too. I’ll walk with you.”
Experiencing the powerful tug of old memories, she steeled herself and nodded. Making a big thing about not walking with him would only draw attention to how she felt about him. Protesting would only make her seem weak.
A slight breeze stirred, and Solace pulled up the collar of her jacket, then stuffed her hands in her pockets, a heavy melancholy pulling at her. She had been fighting with it ever since Somalia…maybe longer. Something else she hadn’t wanted to admit. It seemed to be worse tonight.
It was as if every old regret, old guilt, old shame had risen up to plague her, their weight leaving her bleak inside. She desperately needed to be by herself, to let the loneliness and painful nostalgia run their course, and to allow herself time to think. She had this wrenching need for solitude—and for comfort. She wasn’t sure where she would find the latter.