Fast Lane (SEAL Team Alpha Book 16)

by Zoe Dawson

  The back of her neck prickled, along with a sizzling along her nerve endings.

  She whirled, already knowing what she would find. Damn, was she reacting to the man’s aura? Preacher wasn’t far from her, and she had to wonder how long he might have been concealed in the shadows. He was very still and poised for violence. She knew because she recognized it in herself.

  The feeling that went through her was hard, too powerful, and it hit her all at once like a soft wave of recognition, that she could become hopelessly entangled with him.

  And why that should demoralize the crap out of her, she didn’t know.

  She watched him watching her across the quiet space of the courtyard and the seemingly deserted estate. They were alone, with nothing but the wind and rising moon between them as the night deepened with the danger.

  She didn’t know him. The truth was uppermost in her mind. But she knew what these sensations and impossible thoughts meant. Her past had marked her, tried to break her, but she had emerged in a harsh and bitter world by being tough, disciplined, closed, her heart encased in armor thick and impenetrable.

  But there was always something that could pierce steel, and it was soft and irresistible.

  “Something’s coming,” he said, but it wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

  She nodded. Of course, he already knew.

  “Volk?”

  “Hunting,” she responded.

  He nodded once. “Protect the boy and his cousin at all costs,” he said. “2-Stroke and Chry…”

  “I got it. Did you think I forgot my mission?” She tapped her temple. “Not so easily.” Her great memory was a boon and a curse. She would remember him for a long time.

  He stood in partial light, big, wide-shouldered, his face cast in shadows. His hands were by his sides, long and well-shaped, and there was something almost deceptively casual about his stance, about the way his fingers were relaxed against his palms. Something lethal and a little too careless, as though he had small regard for danger.

  She was staring and he stared back at her, her heart fluttering. The way he looked at her made her insides knot up. Something cool and hawklike settled in that gray gaze.

  She was playing with something way too volatile, even for her, like juggling nuclear bombs. She recognized lethal men. That skill had been a lifesaver in her previous life. He moved, grace and fluidity a part of his genetic makeup. Feeling as if her heart were going to come right through her chest, she watched him approach, her heartbeat stopping completely when he did.

  So close.

  Stern and unsmiling, he met her gaze with an unreadable expression, his burnished skin and black collar-length hair revealing his ancestry, his features chiseled by both heritage and hardship. He was a warrior through and through, surviving on his skills, training, and instinct. He had the strong stamp of the east in his face. And it was a face that gave nothing away, the hard line of his mouth a warning to anyone who dared to challenge him. Although he wasn’t a solitary man, he was part of a brotherhood that had survived some of the toughest wars and fights spanning decades of battle. He lived by a code, and God help any man who crossed him or those he held dear.

  He raised his hand, those long fingers no longer relaxed. With a light, gentle touch, he brushed her cheek. “In another time, another place…I wouldn’t hesitate. But I’m committed to sacrifice, abstention, cleansing. I need it more than breath.” The tenderness in his voice slayed her, had her reaching for something she could never have because true emotion was so absent from her life, her work. Karasu was devoid of temptation, but Luna hungered for it.

  He shifted his weight forward, suddenly invading her personal space, and she had to fight the red zone tension. She gulped down her instinctive fear and tilted her chin up to look him in the eye.

  Regret washed through her like a tidal wave. Ah, that was the resistance she’d felt in the gym area. He was healing, working on something within his own mind for his own peace. She couldn’t begrudge him that and could only admire his control. The only man who had ever bested her and she couldn’t touch him. Not the way she wanted. “Another time, another place,” she murmured. “Your loss,” she responded, breathless and hating it. Her nerves gave a warning tremor as control of the situation seemed to slip a little further out of her grasp. She had a chink in her armor. She hated losing that edge, even a shred of it. That would give him power, and she wanted control in her fist, to exploit her environment, the people in it.

  Him?

  Maybe.

  Maybe that was what all this was about.

  That strange sense of desire and anticipation crept along her nerves. If she leaned forward, he would kiss her. She could see the compulsion in his eyes and felt something wild and reckless and completely foreign to her raise up in answer, pushing her to close the distance, to take the chance. His eyes dared her, his mouth lured—masculine, sexy, lips slightly parted in invitation. What fear she felt was of herself, of this attraction that ruled her.

  Control. Panic rose inside her. She never lost control. Couldn’t lose control. She was no creature of base needs like the others.

  She had for a moment thought that she could…what…change…have what others had? She was a honed weapon wielded by a dark organization. She’d always known it. But she fought against reality. That was the bitch in her, demanding justice, demanding revenge, but all of it cost her dearly.

  She would pay the price.

  Such had her life become. The only life she knew: concealment, cover, making the kill, escape. There had been something before the trafficking, before she’d been ripped from her family, something softer, more emotionally complex. Without this man, she feared she might feel nothing at all. He was the touchstone, the path—and he was out of her reach.

  She had her mission, her skills to achieve her directive: kill and survive.

  There was nothing else.

  8

  Fast Lane gritted his teeth as Pitbull went down and didn’t move. He took a steadying breath, trying to quell the sick churning in his stomach and the fear for his teammate. In his NVGs, heat signatures dotted the house as if they had come out of nowhere. Fast Lane was battle-tested when it came to a firefight, but this was nothing like what he’d experienced in the past. After the initial shot that had downed his point man, the valley had erupted in an unrelenting wall of fire. He was gratified to see that Dragon wasted no time in targeting and eliminating the shooter who had shot his teammate.

  Bullets were skipping off the dirt inches from Pit’s body. There was no way Fast Lane could leave him out there. “Cease fire!” he screamed over the ear-deafening noise. “Max!” Fast Lane called into his comm.

  “On it!” Max responded. Without hesitation, Max sprinted out into the open, grabbed Pitbull’s vest, and dragged him twenty feet to the base of a small, uprooted tree near the edge of a cliff. All that protected them was the tree’s thick, dark trunk and several boulders.

  Fast Lane didn’t have to say anything, Saint was already moving. He heard over the comms, “He’s not breathing, but there’s a pulse.” That was Max, his voice hushed with concern.

  “Probably just knocked the wind out of him. Help me get his vest off.”

  Dragon heard the same conversation, and he was a second off on tagging the bastard who had put Pit down. Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine was one of the original team members who felt the pain and loss of Justin “Speed” Myerson.

  He’d gone through a lot when he’d discovered he was Speed’s eldest daughter’s biological dad. But his friend and brother hadn’t shirked his responsibility or ducked the hard choices and tough conversations he’d had to have with his ex-lover…Speed’s wife.

  He heard gasping and coughing through the comms. “Pit, you with us, brother?” Saint asked.

  Pitbull’s confused, compressed voice rasped, “Whaatt?”

  “You took a bullet to the chest, buddy. You’re supposed to dodge, fucktard,” Max said as if he were talking
to a four-year-old.

  There was strangled laughter, a strong “Fuck you,” then a soft exclamation of pain.

  Saint’s voice came over the comm. “Boss, he’s got a couple broken ribs. I think his lungs are okay, but that was one hell of an impact. I’ll wrap the ribs.”

  Even as that conversation washed over him with relief, Dragon was engaging the enemy who had suddenly appeared in the lab structure. He was concealed pretty well, but bullets peppered around him and the two commandos. As a sniper, he was used to being in the thick of it. Protection of his buddies was foremost in his mind.

  But at times like these when combat was a chaotic whirlwind around him, his focus was laser thin. All that mattered was the brotherhood, fulfilling their mission and getting out alive. He was part of that equation. He had his own beautiful family to go back to. Jo was pregnant with his second child, and he wanted to see and hold that baby, because he’d lost out on seeing Ceri born and holding his precious newborn daughter. He was determined that was an experience he wasn’t going to miss…unless fate had other ideas.

  But if fate did have plans for him, he was ready to give up his life for these men who surrounded him…his brothers.

  They had been so broken and fractured after Speed’s death, their trust tested, and to his horror and sadness, it wasn’t up to muster. Then three new teammates had come into the unit…Mad Max, 2-Stroke, and Saint, testing their bonds and their group dynamic.

  Then the blessing of Hemingway who had been the catalyst in pulling them into his orbit and making them understand what teamwork meant, his fresh, new-recruit outlook a boon to their relationships. Bit by bit they had fused again into a hard, precise fighting force as they embraced new members and reconnected with old.

  He kept his eyes peeled for that bitch, and if he got a bead on her, she was going down. Fuck alive. Dead would be better for everyone.

  Dodger hunkered down with the rest of them, his attention on battling the ceaseless gunfire that came from the structure. There were men inside and they weren’t insurgents. Not by a long shot. These were Zasha’s mercenaries, armed, dangerous, with the same weapons and experience as the team he was proud to serve on.

  He’d previously been with the SAS, but he’d resigned for an American woman he’d fallen for, and he’d become an American citizen for her. He’d wandered in a no-man’s-land once he’d discovered she had cheated on him with another man, until enlisting in the US Navy and becoming a SEAL. It saved his life.

  The situation was dire. He didn’t have to be a tactical genius to know they were in trouble, a kind of trouble none of them had seen since the day they’d lost Speed and Fast Lane and Pitbull had been captured.

  That had been some tough shit to deal with. Currently, they were returning fire against the hired guns in the structure, but Dodger’s neck kept prickling. He was worried about their flank.

  Then a frantic call came from TOC. “Be advised that you are compromised on your right flank. Enemy fighters moving up the mountain.”

  “Copy that,” Fast Lane acknowledged. “Dodger, take some commandos and neutralize that threat.”

  “Good copy,” Dodger responded, motioning to six of the commandos. HM broke away from Fast Lane, repeating the orders in a stream of Pashtu. Dodger admired the kid, as did all the team members, for his fast, accurate, and fearless guidance of the troops under Fast Lane’s control during a battle.

  Crouching and with bullets zipping by their heads, they broke away from the main battle and turned toward the path that they had traversed to reach this point. They moved away from the intense gunfire, back toward the way they had come, spreading out along the ridgeline. Dodger used his scope to assess the situation and saw a large number of enemy fighters working their way up.

  “Too many, LT,” he said into his comm. “We’ll need air support.”

  “Copy that,” Fast Lane said, relaying the message back to TOC.

  Dodger looked at HM next to him. “We’ll need to get down there to stop them. Air power is coming in for support, but we need to give them the coordinates.”

  HM nodded and spoke into the comm. The commandos all nodded at Dodger, acknowledging that they’d understood the task.

  Amid subzero temperatures, punishing mountaintop winds, and three feet of snow, they moved forward as a long line of men, HM giving orders. “Fire,” Dodger called out as he saw shadows in the trees.

  The commandos opened fire. One of the troops had an RPG launcher and he began to lob mortars down on the approaching force. Dodger moved behind him to get a better idea of what coordinates the air support would need to take care of this monumental problem.

  An RPG exploded well behind them. They all dove behind a low stone wall for cover, but within moments, the fire was so intense that they couldn’t safely discharge their weapons.

  “Stay behind cover,” Dodger ordered, popping up just far enough that only the top of his helmet, his eyes, and his rifle were exposed. He continued steadily returning fire, aiming specifically for the RPG operator. The man went down and the guy who tried to pick up the weapon fell beside him.

  The wall continued taking machine-gun fire, chipping at rock and sending up puffs of gray dust, but Dodger had gotten the information he needed. “TOC,” he said into his comm. “Coordinates for air support are...” He rattled off the longitude and latitude.

  Moments later, with the roar of engines and whir of rotors, the sound of little birds echoed in the valley, then bursts of light flashed in his NVGs as the helicopters flew in, raking the ground with a barrage from the fifty-caliber guns and delivering rockets into the thick of the fighters.

  This is where the 160th SOAR rocked—six guns never missed. Those AH-6 Little Birds, small but mighty with their pinpoint strafing runs, standard and laser-guided rockets, and Hellfires if they needed them, delivered accurate airpower against enemy forces in very challenging terrain.

  Dodger watched the field for any movement, but when there was none, he told HM for them to move back up the mountain to get back to the hot firefight still going on.

  The commando who had fired the RPG stood. Glancing over his shoulder, he gave Dodger a shit-eating grin. Dodger returned it, reaching out and gripping the guy’s shoulder and giving him a “well-done” shake. Suddenly, a round sounded off in the field and the commando’s face blanked.

  At the same time, Dodger felt a sharp pain in his abdomen—a sensation that sent shock waves through his entire system. It was excruciating, stole his breath, and his knees buckled as all strength went out of his muscles. He landed on his back, rocks beneath his butt and legs, his vest protecting most of his spine.

  Anna…babe….I’m so sorry.

  It was his only thought.

  His hands dropped to his lower belly, blood soaking into his gloves. His whole body reverberated from the shot, and he couldn’t move as he started to shiver uncontrollably.

  For a moment, HM didn’t realize what had happened. As soon as he looked down at Dodger with a confused, then horrified expression on his face, he dropped down as Dodger heard a returning shot, then nothing but gusts tearing across the jagged landscape.

  He looked up at a black velvet sky dotted with pinpricks of white light, his breathing rapid and shallow.

  HM screamed into the comms that there were two casualties. One KIA. Was he bleeding out? Saint would know, but he was up the mountain…too far away. Would there be enough time to get to him, treat him? The commando in front of him had taken the brunt of the round. It had gone through his body and into Dodger.

  He looked up at HM who was yelling at him, but there was only the one thought about his perfectly precious Anna. He saw her face above him. She tilted her head, her beauty hitting him hard, and an unbearable tenderness welled up in him with nothing but regret. Her laughter tumbled through him, lighting him from the inside. Her face faded from his view and his chest contracted fiercely with love, with loss. He could rely on Max to tell her how much he loved her. His wife’s famil
y whom he loved as much as his own would rally around her. His brother-in-law and -in-arms would never let him down. Anna would be in good hands.

  He wanted to tell her how beautiful this place was where he rested, blood soaking into the white snow. How gorgeous the mountains, sky, stars were at this moment as his death came rushing at him.

  I will always love you, Anna.

  Then there was nothing but silence as everything faded to the darkness that hovered then consumed him.

  Hemingway heard the frantic screaming from HM, except it was almost all in Pashto. He could only make out that HM was hurrying his commandos with every breath he took. Dodger…he’d been shot. He was down. A lot of blood. Fast Lane had ordered a stretcher to pick him up. The pain of his close friend in trouble made him want to run down that damn mountain, but he couldn’t. Dodger was as close to him as his sister, Paige, his brother-in-law, Ashe “Kid Chaos” Wilder. Close as any biological brother. He was the heart and soul of this team.

  Hemingway’s eyes burned and his gut clenched so hard he felt nauseous. It took every ounce of his will and focus to leave Dodger’s care and attention to their LT.

  Fast Lane would handle it, and Hemingway had to believe in his commander. He always did what was best for the team and every man whose life was in his hands.

  Hemingway fired round after round at the structure, not able to see anything but a mass of bodies inside and as people fell, more took their place. He had no idea if Zasha was there inside, he doubted the bitch would place herself in this kind of danger, the viper that she was would ambush them from afar where she remained safe.

  Hemingway heard Fast Lane call for air support, and shortly afterward an Apache chopper shot two missiles at the structure. Everything went quiet and the gunfire stopped.

  Hemingway noticed movement on the adjacent ridge. There was a lot of activity, and it was clear that men were getting into position to attack them. About fifty Afghans were shooting at them from about 150 feet from the west. So close that Hemingway could see their faces. Suddenly, small-arms fire traced through the night, showing pale green in his NVGs…PKM machine guns fired from men whose faces looked calm and collected, wearing the kind of expression that might otherwise be reserved for target practice.