by Zoe Dawson
Dragon
SEAL Team Alpha
Zoe Dawson
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Glossary
About the Author
OTHER TITLES BY ZOE DAWSON
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my beta readers, reviewers and editor for helping with this book. As always, you guys are the best.
To fathers everywhere who stepped up.
Forget all the reasons it won’t work and believe the one reason it will.
Unknown
1
Rafael Núñez International Airport
Cartagena, Colombia
Dragon and his teammates moved off the C-130 right into a Colombian military chopper that would take them to the LZ where they were going to receive additional orders from someone on the ground there. They were here to recover a Marine and his family who had been kidnapped from San Diego. The Marine had been taken here in Colombia, and when word got to his wife, she’d foolishly tried to pay the ransom by meeting the rebels on her own. Now she and her daughter were also being held captive, and the rebel splinter group Fénix Unido, who’d filled the vacuum left by the disarmament of the FARC, were demanding a ransom from the United States for all of them.
As he settled into the helo, he rested his weapon beside him. Most of the guys were quiet, the heavy noise of the blades almost…soothing. It was getting on to midnight, and they’d been flying for hours, with a combat nap thrown in there. His thoughts were still in turmoil over the phone call he’d gotten from Josephine Moretti telling him about his mom’s minor heart issue. He’d never gotten a chance to really sift through the information his mom had been in and out of the hospital back in his hometown of New York City. Maybe it was because it had been so unexpected to hear Jo’s voice since their one-night stand six years ago. Hell, he wasn’t sure how close Jo and his mom were, even though his mom told him she was Jo’s neighbor several years ago. He wondered when Jo had moved into his mom’s building.
He and Jo hadn’t really shared much personal information during their time together. He was reluctant to get involved with someone so far away, but their chemistry had been not only irresistible, but magical.
He’d met her through his brother Asahi when Asahi had been required to get a tattoo for his induction into the Tanken-gumi gang. She’d inked the dragon on his body during that first visit right after BUD/S. They had hooked up on his next leave after Dragon had almost convinced his brother to get out of gang life before it killed him. During that second leave, Dragon had just finished up his sniper specialization before going to jump school and getting deployed to a permanent team when Asahi and he had been attacked. His brother had shielded Dragon, and Asahi had died on the street while Dragon held his brother. He’d gasped out the words I’m sorry, then he was gone. NCIS had gotten involved, and they’d brought the gang members responsible to justice. It was a standing order that Dragon was persona non grata in the city. He stayed away to protect his mom from repercussions.
Dragon left New York for good after Asahi’s funeral. That was six years ago, and other than his mom’s trips to California, he’d seen her very little and Jo not at all. But talking to her and hearing her concern for his mom roused something restless in him, something that had been stirring in him since Hollywood had saved his life during their op in Azerbaijan when they’d assaulted a terrorist camp hiding outdated Cold War, Russian made biological weapons and hosting two Americans involved in the purchase of a stolen warhead.
Jo’s call had come while he had been sitting in front of Justin “Speed” Myerson’s home working at getting up the courage to speak to his wife and daughters and deliver the Christmas presents that had been discovered back at Speed’s locker on base. Christmas presents he’d never given his family. He’d been killed a year ago while captured by Kirikhanistan rebels during a joint assault backed by the Kirikhanistan government to take them down. The gaily wrapped boxes were still in his car, the guilt dogging him like a wraith.
He was still mulling over why he’d driven away from Speed’s like a thief in the night, away from his wife and kids. Half the team had left after Speed’s death and there was a large gap between the four remaining members and the new guys. They hadn’t filled their final slot as guys rotated in and out. They might banter on the surface, but there was no depth to their relationships. He wasn’t sure if it was because no one was talking about Speed and that day he’d been captured.
All these thoughts tumbled around in his head until they touched down thirty minutes later. All of them except their LT, who was talking to the Colombian military were all standing around watching Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine interact with a woman who snagged him off the LZ.
Dragon waited for the next movement of the woman in front of Pitbull. Without his helmet, Pitbull’s dark hair gleamed in the sun, and his arms were folded over his chest as he scowled down into the woman’s face.
She raised her arm. No. She couldn’t possibly do it again. Not many men had the courage to face off against his teammate.
But she did.
She poked him in the chest again, delivering whatever she had to say by looking him square in the eyes, her strong chin lifted. The woman’s hair was silky black and as straight as a ruler. It was in a sleek ponytail, but the thick bangs made her look younger than her years, lending her a vibrant tomboy air. She had a pretty nose, delicate features, high cheekbones, and a wise face, her skin smooth and tan. Her body was compact and not as curvy as he liked his women—Jo in particular was all curves and soft skin. But this woman was solid, lean muscle, maybe a bit too lean, telling him she was also keeping ghosts and demons at bay. The driven light in her eyes was all the evidence he needed.
“How many pokes do you think she’s given him?” Zach “Saint” Bartholomew asked, his ocean blue eyes twinkling. His ash brown hair was short, the front a little longer and pushed up in the center. His soft Appalachian accent was noticeable in his surprise.
“Too many to count,” Maximillian “Mad Max” Keegan replied. He was a big, broad man, his shoulder-length dark hair pulled back and tamed in a ponytail.
“Look at him,” Neo “2-Stroke” Teller said with a smirk. A motorcycle enthusiast with bottomless green eyes. He could appropriate, fix and skillfully operate any kind of vehicle.
“Yeah,” Dragon replied. “He’s as unaffected as cement.”
“She might as well be poking a cinder block,” Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham said. He was a naturalized U.S. citizen who’d moved from the UK, and a former Royal Marine, an elite member of the Special Boat Service, the British equivalent of the SEALs.
“Who is she, anyway?” Max asked, calming Juggernaut, his tool of a dog who, like him, was unconventional. The MWD was reacting to the woman’s blatant aggression. There was a story there. They were, after all, Navy SEALs, and that garnered not only respect in the government community, but also some resentment at their take-charge attitude.
“Some legendary NCIS tracker,” Max said.
“She don’t look like no dog to me.” Saint grinned wide and waggled his eyebrows. “What do you say, Jugs?” He knelt down and wrestled with the Malinois, who mock growled
and barked.
The NCIS tracker babe turned their way, her deep chocolate almond-shaped eyes focusing on Jugs and Max. She frowned, and Dragon gasped as she grabbed Pit’s tac vest and held him in place. There was only one way Pit stays put. If he wanted to.
“Right, she’s first class tidy and cheeky,” Dodger agreed with a grin of his own. “But Pit’s taking her aggro with his usual aplomb.”
Max cuffed Dodger. “Stop talking Pride and Prejudice…aplomb for crissake.”
Dodger gave him a narrowed-eyed look and with a white-bread American accent said, “Nope, she’s a first-class babe and a smart-ass. But Pit’s taking her shit with his usual don’t-give-a-damn-attitude.”
Everyone laughed.
“Now you’re talking like a SEAL.”
“I don’t know,” 2-Stroke said. “I like aplomb.”
“You would, biker-boy, because leather jackets, shaggy hair, and bad-ass stubble is all about aplomb,” Max said, throwing a ball for Jugs to distract him from the NCIS agent laying down the law.
“Does she realize that Pitbull isn’t in charge?” Saint asked.
“Yeah, probably. Maybe she wants him to be in charge and likes poking his big, burly chest,” Dodger said.
“I’m sure he’d rather poke her instead,” Max growled.
Pitbull sauntered over to them, his big shoulders moving in cadence to his lean hips. When he got to them, they heard their LT—Lieutenant Ford “Fast Lane” Nixon—order through their comms, “We’re moving out.”
“And we’ve got our marching orders?” Max asked.
“Special Agent Makayla Littlestar was quite clear. She and her partner at the San Diego office caught the missing person case and traced the wife and daughter to Cartagena. Said we weren’t to go forging ahead or traipsing on her tracks. She didn’t need a bunch of heavy-footed SEALs making this op more difficult than it had to be. We have her back, that was all she was counting on.” Pitbull smirked as if he’d enjoyed every stoic moment he’d been harangued. “Oh, and Max,” he said, turning to the big man. “She wants you to keep your dog in line.”
Max stiffened. “Jug is the best trained animal in the service. He could sniff out the enemy. What is she talking about?” His eyes narrowed and he looked toward the slim, dark-haired agent.
Before he could move, Pitbull set his hand against Max’s chest. “Whoa there, son. There’s no use in giving her a piece of your mind. She’s the special agent in charge of this op. Even Fast Lane’s on the back burner. She’s not bad-mouthing Jugs. She’s happy for his help but keep him under control. She’s right. We’re the muscle.”
“Keep him under control? Control is his middle name. He can jump through a ring of fire, then tear someone to pieces. He’s as unflappable as they come. She’s not right about Jugs.”
“No, she doesn’t know us, buddy. She’s just trying to get this family back in one piece. We are too. So it’s cooperation time. This is her op. She put in the hours. A lot of them.”
Max made a grunting noise. “Dedicated, then?”
“You have no idea.” He pulled his weapon to the from his shoulder. “Let’s move out.”
They all fell into a line with Agent Littlestar in the lead. She moved at a fast step as Max and Juggernaut paced her. Jugs was alert and used to being point. The two of them were like one SEAL. He’d never seen anything like it, not even with Tank from Ruckus’s team. He had a great bond with both Echo, who had been retired after getting wounded in battle, and also his current dog, Bronte. But Max…it was as if he had a telepathic connection with Jugs. Like Echo and Bronte, Jugs was an MWD MPC, a military working dog and multi-purpose canine. He was trained in human detection as well as explosives and was a damn fine scout and patrol dog. Dragon agreed with Max, but Pitbull was going to bat for her, so out of respect for his teammate, he would bank his judgment.
To keep this operation quiet and stealthy, they were approaching the ramshackle apartment complex on the outskirts of Cartagena on foot instead of vehicles.
As they reached a choke point in the thick underbrush, the warning from Jugs was subtle, but every man on the line heeded the dog’s cue. They dropped without question, except Pitbull, who launched himself at Agent Littlestar and took her to the ground just before gunfire ripped across the path.
“Dragon,” Fast Lane said clearly through the mic as automatic weapons continued to discharge. “Take them out.”
He looked toward the foliage and the places where the Fénix Unido had decided to ambush them. There was no way to know who had compromised them or if they had even been sold out. There was only survival, and he held that in his hands.
His team, pinned down and vulnerable, was returning fire. That, of course, would be Dragon’s intent, but he let the sound of the firefight recede until there was nothing but silence in his head. On his stomach and low to the ground, he released the bipod stabilizer, and between one breath and the next, he took a bead on the underbrush and watched for movement, muzzle flashes. At any minuscule movement, he depressed the trigger, and the number of enemy rounds that smacked into the ground around the team lessened until barely anyone fired at them. The sound of thrashing and running feet broke through the night racket, and Max released Juggernaut. Like a bullet from a gun, the dog was a blur as he headed for the underbrush, kicking up dirt and debris, the SEALs following. They chased the fast-moving dog until they saw ahead that the Fénix Unido member had treed himself. Dragon smirked, aware of what Jugs was capable of, and exchanged a glance with Max, who chuckled.
“Not even the squirrels are safe,” Max said into their comms.
Without hesitation, Juggernaut jumped and used his momentum to run right up the trunk to where the rebel was crouched. He latched on to the man’s arm and bit down hard enough to dislodge the rifle he carried. It fell to the moon-dappled ground below with a rustling sound as it buried itself in jungle debris.
Jugs wrestled with the man, who was now screaming, trying to get the dog to unlatch from his arm.
“Jugs, disengage,” Max said as their weapons trained on the rebel. Jugs immediately released him but watched the rebel intently. When Max gestured for the rebel to climb down, he did, his face contorted with pain. When both the dog and rebel were on the ground, the rebel was pushed to his stomach and zip-tied. They would pick him up later.
Max did a quick inventory of Juggernaut to check for injuries. When there were none, they moved out again.
Cartagena was a beautiful, historic city, the ramparts constructed as a deterrent to pirates, with posh hotels, stylish restaurants, and newly renovated apartments with Manhattan prices. But outside the four hundred-year-old walls and away from the cobblestone and charm of the old city, people were destitute. Many of the poor lived in rundown buildings, and the old, dilapidated apartment building, ready for demolition, sat on the fringes of a slum.
Through his night vision goggles, Dragon detected movement, and Fast Lane gave him a nod as he set up his rifle and scope. It didn’t take him long to clear a path. With the perimeter guards neutralized, they moved forward. Agent Littlestar’s intel that the family they were hoping to rescue was in the building had been confirmed by command monitoring the situation.
“The hostages are being held in the back-corner apartment on the tenth floor. The building is crawling with tangos.”
“Copy that,” Fast Lane said.
They moved forward, Dragon watching for any FU members in the green of his goggles. They had trained for this, and everyone already knew what to do. They headed toward the opening to the interior. The glass doors that had once graced the building were long gone. Now a deep dark maw, beyond the scope of the goggles, loomed, the way barred by sawhorses and barbed wire. With wire cutters and brute force, they opened the entrance, each slipping through the now cleared barrier.
Dragon, Pitbull, Fast Lane, and Agent Littlestar peeled off from the main force entering the stairwell. They were going after the hostages. Mad Max, two Colombian police, and Jugs
headed downstairs. Dodger, 2-Stroke, and two more police followed them upstairs to clear the upper floors, while Saint and three more police fanned out and held the perimeter. They climbed at a brisk pace, the walls lined with graffiti and holes here and there exposing wires and pipes. Trash and debris were everywhere.
When they reached the tenth floor, Dragon, Pitbull, Agent Littlestar and Fast Lane went through the stairwell door, pausing at the entrance while the rest of the team headed upstairs to clear the other floors.
The sound of voices speaking in Spanish broke the relative silence. Except for the creaking of the old building, the rush of wind through the broken, open windows, and the random sound of a dog barking, everything was hushed.
Every muscle in his body was on alert, tensed, ready for whatever the hell they encountered.
This floor was even more trashed than the stairwell and the lobby had been. Most of the walls separating the abandoned apartments had been at least partially destroyed. Others had doors in them. The graffiti here was even worse. Plaster, dust, dirt and chunks of wall littered the floors.
“Let’s move. Dragon, take point, Pitbull the rear.”
Dragon moved out in front and started down the hall, the rest of them following close behind. As he moved toward the voices, his senses heightened. Giving the corner a quick look, he stepped out and took down the three men who had been talking. Without pausing, he pushed down the hall to the closed door with two more guards. They went down under his fire.