Fast Lane (SEAL Team Alpha Book 16)

by Zoe Dawson

  She turned to run, but he was so fast. With an arm around her waist, he yanked.

  Karasu threw her head back into his face, drove her elbow into his solar plexus, then slammed her fist into his groin. He grunted and buckled as she pulled her knife from the hidden sheath in her shorts and twisted, clipping him with her leg behind the knee. He dropped to the mats, and she was on him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms with her knees as she swept the knife under his throat.

  Gray eyes the color of fog stared at her.

  “This is an interesting position, assassin.”

  Karasu looked down. Her crotch was nearly in his face.

  “But I have a better one.”

  Before it registered, he bucked, knocking her knees off his arms as he lunged up. The force drove her down onto the mats with a breath-jarring smack, and Preacher landed snugly between her thighs.

  Then, the bastard smiled and said, “I like being on top.”

  It dissolved as Karasu put the point of her blade under his chin and said, “Maybe we can take turns.”

  His eyes flashed. “I’m not making any promises.”

  “Don’t bother. It’ll never happen.” Who was she fooling? She wanted this man from the moment she laid eyes on him, feeling such remorse for having to kill him. And now she was lying between his legs, availing her with every detail that was between his. Damn, he was so…warm—and there.

  “You planning on using that?” His gaze flicked to the knife.

  She let her arm drop. “You are very good,” she whispered.

  “You are too.” His eyes darkened. “Like quicksilver.”

  “Do you mind? You weigh a ton.”

  “I’m savoring my win.”

  She scoffed, shoved at his chest. It was like trying to move a tree. “There was no win. I had the knife.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  “Karasu!” Volk called from the doorway. “You finished fucking around?”

  She snapped her head toward him. He sounded pissed. She didn’t need any macho bullshit between these two alphas. He eased back and she rolled from under him, sheathing the knife out of sight. “Rematch?” she asked.

  “Any time,” he responded. Volk growled and she headed toward the door. They were going to have words. She didn’t belong to him. They were partners, and that’s all they would ever be.

  He rose from the floor, his dick as hard as concrete. 2-Stroke was watching him, his arms crossed over his chest. There were dancing lights in his eyes. “You two need to get a room,” he said.

  “Shut up, Teller!” Preacher knew the irony of the situation, and 2-Stroke was happy to gloat. He headed toward the door, brushing past 2-Stroke, his leader…former leader’s brother. Even after six months, Striker’s forced discharge from the SEALs still stuck in his craw.

  2-Stroke laughed softly. “Oh, that’s right. You have a little problem, don’t you?”

  “Shut the fuck up. It’s not a problem. It’s a choice,” he said. “Go get cleaned up. We’re doing a perimeter walk after I shower.”

  Preacher snatched up his t-shirt and strode from the room. This assignment was too important for him not to be all here for Alek, for 2-Stroke, the bastard, and Chry.

  Ever since Striker had been railroaded out of the Navy, Preacher had been having a spiritual and moral crisis. He loved the military. The discipline of it, the close ties, the shared purpose, but he felt betrayed by their inability to overlook Striker’s emotional reaction to his brother’s kidnapping. Striker had protected both him and Iceman.

  Preacher had been shot during that mission. Striker was the reason he was still alive. He had felt so helpless during the escape from Bosnia and guilty that he hadn’t been able to make a dent in the brass about getting rid of their leader.

  He had spiraled, drinking, sex, anything to try to assuage his underlying feelings regarding the whole incident. In the hospital, he had run into Ocean “Blue” Beckett from Ruckus’s team. He was studying to become a military doctor.

  He’d told Preacher in detail what had happened to him and how he’d overcome it. Bondage. That was interesting, but Preacher wasn’t sure how that could cure him. Preacher was sick…at heart…at the core. Blue suggested he turn to Zen to find his way. It had worked for Blue.

  Frustration bordering on anger churned in his gut, and he jerked open his bedroom door and headed straight for the bathroom. He wasn’t sure he even liked her. She was walking on the fringe of chaos, a guardian, an assassin, a woman of light and darkness.

  After stripping off his pants and underwear, he hoped this shower would put things back into perspective. But there were things he couldn’t ignore. Like the fact that he was fully aroused, that his pulse rate had nothing to do with his exertions, that his lungs were trying to get enough oxygen. He braced his arms on the tile surface and closed his eyes, letting the hot water pour over him, his pulse running thick and heavy. He tried like hell to shut down, but this was a spiritual journey, and going that route would only close him off to everything. He clenched his hands into fists to stop from touching himself.

  This was the path he chose and chose willingly.

  Temptation wasn’t really a test until it was difficult and, up to this point, refusing women had been easy. Seeing Karasu standing at the window, her sleek, naked body, riveted him. He could see her aura, a dark crimson red, so deep and pure it made him ache to think about it. He could see how primed she was for him, the taut tips of her nipples begging for his mouth, the way she leaned into the glass, the shadows playing with the soft texture of her skin, and all the tantalizing mountains and valleys of her.

  Preacher roughly adjusted the temperature setting, the shock of straight cold water doing little to ease the throbbing heaviness between his thighs. He didn’t want this. Damn it, he did not want this. Feeling as if the walls were closing in on him, he turned off the water, then dragged his hand down his face. This was getting him nowhere. There wasn’t enough cold water in the world to wash away what he was feeling.

  He wanted to fuck her, get that crimson aura all over him. Another surge of pure, hot sensation washed through him, engorging him even more, and he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the tiles, lust warring inside him.

  He was on a spiritual journey that was, for him, as tantamount as life and death. He was looking for truth, had to have it or he might as well eat his gun.

  Through communion, meditation, and purity, the eternal principles that governed the universe and his life within it would be revealed.

  That was why he took a vow of celibacy.

  That was why this was a fucking goatfuck.

  5

  Professor couldn’t spend one more moment cooped up in that small barracks room. After the barbecue and the delicious steaks that Dodger had procured from some unknown source, he had just hung outside with the guys from Hemingway’s team. There was something completely different about their energy. Before, when he’d been assigned to them, he’d felt the tension, and Hemingway had confessed to him that the team had been broken, shattered by a terrible incident that had left one of their members dead from torture at the hands of the enemy they were hunting.

  Several members had left, and new members had joined, namely Saint, Mad Max, 2-Stroke, and finally Hemingway.

  Adrian’s plight weighed heavily on him, and he was beginning to think he wasn’t the best replacement for 2-Stroke. He couldn’t seem to get it out of his head that Rock wasn’t going to be leading them into missions or battles going forward. They were going to get a new LT. He’d thought he’d had everything under control, and he had done a good job of putting everything into perspective, but he had a healthy dose of resentment for a man he’d never met, didn’t know his credentials or his leading style.

  Deploying had been a godsend. He simply did what he had to do. He didn’t think, didn’t let his thoughts stray. But there was just too much time to think here at this almost empty forward operating base.

/>   Waiting around for Rock to wake up was painful. Knowing that when his LT did wake up, he was going to be crushed, was even more painful. He’d lost his family and his team. He had to recover from his injuries and there was no definitive answer if he would ever operate again. His life had been irreparably changed in a heartbeat by a driver who was drunk.

  Professor had never been much of a drinker, and now, he was even less inclined. Dulling his grief with alcohol always seemed to be counterproductive. He wasn’t a Rhodes Scholar for nothing.

  So, he continued to face his demons cold-stone sober. He rose, and Hemingway and Dodger gave him a hard time, but he said he was going to bed. Sleep would at least stop these thoughts from overwhelming him.

  On his way to the barracks, he spied his temporary LT, Fast Lane standing a few feet apart from the SF helo pilot, who was apparently his ex-wife. She looked upset but it was impossible to tell from Fast Lane’s demeanor if he was the cause of it or consoling her. He had no idea what they were sparring about, but it wasn’t any of his business. He respected Fast Lane. That is all that mattered.

  Fast Lane’s ex-wife reminded him of Julia, and that was a road he really didn’t need to go down tonight. He had enough shit messing with his head.

  Inside the barracks, he sighed, stripped down to his shorts and t-shirt, and jumped into the upper bunk of the four-man room. It wasn’t the warmest shelter. Stuffing the lumpy pillow under his head, he stared at the stained ceiling, trying to wrestle with the hollow feeling that had dogged him ever since she’d done a one-eighty and joined the convent. He couldn’t understand why she had changed so much that summer before she’d committed herself to God.

  He remembered Julia as she’d been the night before he was to head to Oxford. He’d almost kissed her, standing in the moonlight beside the trellis on his family’s property, that awful stricken look in her eyes when she’d pulled away. She had left him in a rush, and he hadn’t seen her again until that fateful run-in he’d had with her in Nairobi.

  If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the day he’d found out she had pledged to be a nun. It was just after he’d decided to give up his scholarship and join the SEALs. His parents had been livid, nasty, and unsupportive. His mother had said she hadn’t been this disappointed since Julia had become a nun when she’d hoped for a daughter-in-law. It was as if he’d been slammed face-first into a concrete abutment. He had been bitter and resentful of her then, her decision out of the blue blindsiding him again.

  He reached for his tablet as his Skype sounded off. Waking the screen, he saw it was Zephirin “Gator” LaBauve, and his gut clenched. He answered. “What happened?”

  “Nothing’s changed. He’s still in a coma, my friend,” Gator said with that slight accent of his. “Thought I’d call to see how things were going, live vicariously through you.”

  “That won’t give you any satisfaction. As far as the war on terror, it’s over in Jalalabad—FOB Fenty is all but dismantled and deserted. It’s expected that it won’t be long before the Taliban takes over.”

  “Yeah, now they’re going to duke it out politically and diplomatically. We’ll see how well that goes. I do have some news.” Gator frowned and sighed.

  “What’s that?”

  “We have been assigned a new LT.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who?”

  “Lieutenant Elias ‘Joker’ Jackman.”

  “That admiral’s son?”

  “One and the same. He has an impressive record already, but I guess he’s got something to prove with his old man being one of the brass.”

  “He has something to prove all right.” There was a short silence, then Professor met Gator’s gaze on the screen, his voice husky when he answered. “He’s no Rock.”

  A host of emotions nailed Professor right in the chest, and he shifted against it. The words didn’t come that easily for a team of macho guys, but the feelings were there. God, were they there!

  Gator held his gaze for a moment, then straightened. He said gruffly, “No one is. No one can replace him. We all know that. So, this young guy is going to come into an already established, well-working team and…what?”

  “Fuck it up.”

  “You’re already predisposed to disliking him.”

  “We all are, Gator, and you know it. I’m just saying it. How do the other guys feel?”

  “Same as we do. Well, Bear is stoic as usual. It’s hard to know what he’s thinking on anything half the time.”

  The corner of Professor’s mouth lifted as he thought of his big, gentle teammate. “This guy better toe the line, or we’re going to make his time with us miserable.”

  “Pas de bétises. No joking.” Gator gave him a sly smile. “You take care wherever you’re going, mon ami.”

  “Copy that. Keep me posted on Rock if you hear anything.”

  “Will do.” He disconnected the call, and the screen went blank.

  Weariness rolled over him; he wasn’t sure what to sort out, how to feel. Ever since Rock’s accident, he’d felt numb, but he was left with an undefined feeling in his gut. A kind of soul-deep restlessness. What would calm it? He burrowed back down under the covers, his throat tightening, and he closed his eyes. It was going to be another long, empty night.

  “What have you done, Zasha?” The harsh voice on the other end of the line made goosebumps rise all over her body. Her deep throat CIA mole wasn’t prone to fear, let alone terror, and her contact sounded spooked.

  The vibration of her cell had woken her from a deep sleep in the mud hut deep in the Shok Valley. She looked over at Tarik Kopanja where he lay naked on top of the sheets. He was beautiful, his face almost sweet in sleep, like an angel. But he was far from it. He was Darko’s second in command, now her co-conspirator in all matters that had to do with world terror.

  Her heart ached for the loss of Darko, but she hardened herself against those memories, against her weakness. She had a job to do, and he was gone. By her own hand. The memory of shooting him was still fresh in her mind. It was as if she could still taste his blood in her mouth. Tarik helped her to forget about it with his six feet of raw power and roped muscle. She had to live with herself.

  And she would live with herself. She always did, no matter what she’d done—and she’d done things in the last two years that other people, so-called normal people, couldn’t even imagine, let alone carry out.

  She would have her revenge, no matter the cost.

  “Ford Nixon. His SEAL team. What are you doing?”

  Ford Nixon—now there was a name to give a girl nightmares, to make her fret.

  Nixon. Yeah, definitely a name to get a girl’s attention, and maybe make her break out in a sweat, a cold sweat, because Nixon was a survivor, a warrior, and as far as she was concerned, her Grim Reaper, her angel of death. He was gunning for her as much as she was gunning for him. “I’m getting justice.”

  “They are coming after you, Zasha.”

  “Let them come. I am ready for them.”

  “And the teenager? Really? Why him?”

  “He betrayed us.”

  “They have sent the Shadowguard to protect them. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “I don’t care. I want him dead along with Neo Teller and Chrysanthe Steele. My assassins failed their first attempt, but they will keep coming until the job is done.”

  “Or you are dead.”

  The shrug was in her voice. “Whatever comes first.”

  “They will guess after this that you have someone inside,” the mole hissed.

  “They probably already suspect, but we’re in this together. We made a pact.”

  “We did.”

  “Then you carry out your part, and I’ll carry out mine.”

  “Agreed. The SEALs are at FOB Fenty in Jalalabad. They will be massing for an assault on the building where they believe you are synthesizing the uranium. There are eight of them: Nixon, Shannon, Ballentine, Sinclair, Keegan, Graham, Bartholomew, the medic. You should ta
ke him out first. A new man from another team, Prescott, a sniper. A damn good one. Almost as good as Shannon. Be careful, Zasha.”

  Zasha laughed low and with relish. “I knew they would. They couldn’t help themselves, and after Somalia and the decimation of the Special Forces base, they are pulling out all the stops to get me. Let them come.”

  Her source disconnected the call.

  She turned to look at Tarik, then climbed on top of him for the mindless sex she needed. They were a tight fighting force, led by a ruthless, merciless bastard who would try to outflank her and overrun her forces. It was going to be a long night when they launched their mission…for them.

  Then things were going to get serious.

  “And we failed…miserably,” Solace whispered. “Both of us. We were young and I was inflexible and judgmental. I’m sorry for that. I am. I’m ashamed of how I acted.”

  Fast Lane was floored by her confession, and the rock he got in his stomach every time he thought about how hard it was to convey to her how much he missed her, still loved her, was heavier than hell. Truth be told, he thought there was no chance for them, no future. Had Solace opened a sliver of a door?

  He stopped walking and stood there for a long time. Now that it was possible to say something, now that he’d found her, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. All he did know was he wanted back in her life, and he didn’t give a damn what he had to do to make that happen.

  His insides a tangle of uncertainty, he met her gaze, one that mirrored his own. She was in the same state. This was a good sign. Right?

  He, at the very least, owed her an apology for the way he’d acted. His actions had set everything in motion.

  He went to her, stopped just shy of entering her personal space, a thousand feelings piling up in his chest. Guilt, self-doubt, fear, but—most of all—love.

  Feeling suddenly shaky inside, his chest filled up with all kinds of emotions he couldn’t even define. And suddenly his vision blurred. Damn, but he loved her.