Building Ties (Military Romantic Suspense) (SEAL Team Heartbreakers Book 4) (2 page)

“Better than okay.” Saraphina’s large, expressive eyes sparkled in her beautiful, café au lait face. “At first people came in because they were curious about the break-in. Now they’re coming in because they like our muffins and lunch specials. So I guess there’s an up side to every situation. Is that handsome hunk you’re engaged to home yet?”

“No. Not yet.” She hadn’t heard from Brett in almost a week. Was he okay? All she wanted was to know he was alive and well. Worry over his well being warred with the pressure the wedding represented.

“He’s cutting it close, isn’t he? Isn’t the wedding in just a few weeks?”

“Yes. He’ll make it.” She hoped. But there was never a guarantee. SEALs’ lives revolved around deployments and training rotations. After eighteen months of being engaged to a SEAL, she was going into this marriage with her eyes wide open, but it would be hard to take if Brett missed the wedding. “Brett’s never let me down,” she said, as much for her benefit as Saraphina’s.

Saraphina smiled. “Then you’re doing the right thing. Not many of us can say that about our guys. It’s good to see you.”

“You too.”

After paying the tab, Tess left the café. She shoved the worry about Brett’s continued deployment aside, and thought about her meeting with Mary while she walked to catch a trolley to the parking structure. She got into her car, locked the doors, and spent ten minutes writing detailed notes of the interview while the conversation remained fresh in her mind. Then she called to check in at the office and let them know her next stops. She wove through the downtown San Diego area, hit the I-5, and headed south for an interview in National City.

Her concern for Mary’s safety slipped to the back of her mind, to be replaced by another worry; yesterday’s offer from the Washington Post. Her call with the managing editor had lasted more than an hour.

They wanted her. She hadn’t even applied. The offer had come out of the blue because, the editor said, they’d read her coverage of the hostage situation at SEAL Captain Jackson’s house the year before. Her article about Senator Rob Welch and his connection to some shady political maneuvering related to a SEAL team deployment might have had a little to do with it, too.

Had her father also had something to do with it? She’d tried to call him right after her conversation with the editor, but Ian was out of the country and his number was out of the service area. Not an unusual occurrence. But she needed to talk to him about the offer.

She couldn’t take the job, of course. Brett was based in San Diego, and Washington was on the other side of the country. But the idea that the
Washington Post wanted her
… Every time she thought about it, her heart rate shot into the stratosphere and she couldn’t catch her breath. It was flattering, exciting, and terrifying all at once.

What did she have to be terrified about? She wasn’t going to accept. She was getting married in three weeks. And Brett’s permanent duty station was here. She had to stay with him. To be associated with a major publication like the Washington Post—it was her dream job. And it would once and for all prove to her father she was a serious journalist.

She loved Brett. She’d known all along she would have to make some sacrifices because of his work. She could freelance for any number of publications. She could cover national news from anywhere in the country and maintain her home base here with Brett. She was young. There would be other opportunities.

But what if there weren’t? She pressed a hand against her throat, where a knot tightened. What if she never got to cover a major story because of this decision? There was no guarantee she would even if she took the D.C. job. The thought eased her panic, and she could finally settle down enough to plan the next interview on her schedule.

Three hours later she was headed back to the office. She turned her phone back on and the instantaneous beep alerted her to a voice mail. She glanced at the screen and opened the message when she saw Mary Stubben’s number.

“I think someone followed me when I left the café,” Mary whispered. “Or it could just be my imagination. But I’m afraid. I’ve sent you the information you needed. It includes background checks on the employees as well. I’ve deleted every email I’ve sent you from the server, just in case. I found something else, too. I’ll get it to you as soon as possible.” Then Mary gasped. “Talk to you later.”

Tess pulled over quickly and keyed in Mary’s number, letting the phone ring for more than a minute. No one picked up. Her earlier fears resurfaced with a vengeance, and she keyed in Mary’s name, and found her home address. Tess started the car and merged into traffic, fighting the urge to break the speed limit. An image of Mary shredding the napkins, her hands trembling, rose up to torment her. She needed to check on her right now. If something had happened to Mary, she’d never forgive herself.

‡

T
he more you
sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.
The saying was at the forefront of Brett Weaver’s mind as he crept down the hall behind Petty Officer Martin Swan. Swan reached the door, swung around the narrow entrance into the room, and fired. Brett double-timed in behind him and covered his quadrant of the interior space. Spotting a paper target representing one of the cartel members in the midst of photos of the hostages, he fired. Three more SEALs rushed in, and for a millisecond the sound of discharging automatic weapons was deafening.

“Clear!” Swan yelled.

“Clear,” Brett echoed, as did the other team members.

Brett breathed in the familiar smell of spent gunpowder, wood and rubber lingering inside the structure they called the glass house. He eyed, with satisfaction, the image he’d double-tapped between the eyes. One bad guy down in the midst of several innocents. Now if only the actual op went as smoothly tomorrow.

He was certain they’d done everything they could to make sure it did. They’d used cheap plywood to convert the interior of the block building into a rough replica of the house they would breach tomorrow. Old tires lined the walls to absorb sound and spent rounds, a major difference from the real deal. But the place provided a stage to practice their maneuvers.

The lives of six American hostages depended on the timing and skill of his team. Their mission was to save and free the hostages, some of whom had been held in captivity for over a year. They’d take out every guard if necessary, but hoped to capture at least one to gather some intelligence about the Sinaloa Cartel.

As their time in Nicaragua wound down, and this last mission rushed at them with the lumbering weight of a tank, Brett was eager for it to be over. In fact, if they could load up now and go, it wouldn’t be too soon for him.

He hated the last weeks of deployment. They were always dominated by the anticipation of seeing family and home. Something else he tried not to acknowledge. The anxiety that some bad guy’s bullet might find him and steal his future.

His promise to Tess intensified those feelings. Even though he knew something could happen to fuck it up, he’d sworn he’d get home in one piece and in time to say “I do” on April tenth. He damn well meant to do both if humanly possible.

At Senior Chief Ryan Engle’s whistle, Brett fell in behind Swan again. The squad straggled out of the building to join Engle, ‘Book’ Ashe—their communications expert—and Lieutenant Sam Harding, their CO, in a nearby patch of shade.

“Final briefing in five.” Engle said and disappeared inside the plywood structure to check their targets.

Now practice was over, the men, still pumped on adrenaline, traded trash talk about how well they’d done. Brett only half listened, instead studying his new teammates while they walked to the abandoned hangar they’d made their headquarters.

Petty Officer Clyde ‘Squirrel’ Rosenberg was a cutup and prankster during down time, but he was all business when they went into action.

Seaman Frank Denotti, the team medic, knew his stuff. During the last mission, one of the Nicaraguan soldiers they sometimes worked with had taken a ricochet to the calf. Denotti had popped it out, patched him up, shot him full of antibiotics, and the guy had recovered without a doctor. Good thing, since they’d been out of touch with civilization for a week. As an endnote to this deployment, of which there would be many, it read pretty well.

Seaman Josh “Arrow” Aaron had an arm like a major league pitcher and could lob a grenade with just as much accuracy. Brett would take his pitching skills over any grenade launcher. More important, Arrow served as Brett’s spotter when his sniper skills were needed.

Petty officer Martin Swan was as sharp an operator as Brett had ever worked with. He could do anything on a computer and was also fearless in battle.

Seaman Elijah ‘Book’ Ashe could fix a COM system with bailing wire and Band-Aids. He kept them connected to their intel guys and extraction crews no matter how much lead flew over his head.

Lieutenant Sam ‘Hardass’ Harding reminded Brett a lot of Hawk, his brother-in-law and past squad leader. The Lieutenant could be a hardass, which was why they were doing drills they’d done thousands of times before. No one on the team second-guessed their CO. Not with six American civilian lives and their own at stake.

Though he missed the men he’d lived and fought with in Iraq, Brett was as confident of these guys’ skills as he’d been with his old team. This squad had been sent here because of their ability to be flexible and their special training. Everyone had taken turns in the glass house, done the drills, and familiarized themselves with the hostages through pictures.

They were ready.

Some of his tension drained away. Soon he’d be winging his way home to Tess soon.

The team trooped to the back of the hangar where a battered table and chairs waited for them. Brett dropped his gear in its assigned place against the wall, checked the safety on his rifle, and found a place at the table with the rest.

Five minutes later Senior Chief Engle joined them. The guy looked wiry and thin, but in a firefight, Brett would take him as a backup over any other guy on his team. The guy had balls the size of boulders and smarts to back it up. That’s why he was in charge of reconnaissance for this op.

“New intel, guys,” Senior Chief called the briefing to order.

“So far it looks like at least four of the hostages are ambulatory. The other two may be incapacitated in some way. We won’t know until you get in there. Thermal readings show both groups are being confined in the back west corner of the structure.” Engle pointed to a schematic on the wall of the church where the hostages were being held indicating the room.

“Surveillance reports ten targets with automatic weapons. And we’ve seen at least two Mk5 machine guns. These guys are as well-armed as any army, because they operate like one.”

“For the most part, the tangos stay under cover inside the building while two two-man teams walk the perimeter. Cutter, even though you’ve practiced with the fire team, your sniper skills are even more important this time. You’ll take out those guards before the breach.”

“Roger that, Senior Chief,” Brett said.

“Since you’ll be outside the building, you’ll also be in charge of maintaining contact with the extraction team. One Apache and one Chinook will be en route as soon as the team breaches the building. There may be more bad guys living in the village, so once gunfire starts they’ll be on you like ticks on a coon hound.”

“Understood, Senior Chief. Arrow and I can handle things until the extraction team gets there.”

“Good. By the time you have the targets down and the hostages under your wings, the birds will be there to extract you.”

“Hooyah, Senior Chief!” the men bellowed.

“Two women arrive with food for the group every day at zero five hundred, but they don’t stay. When the women are out of range of the action, we’ll hit the targets as soon as they settle in to eat.” Engle looked around the group. “Any questions?”

When no one spoke, Senior Chief nodded. “You have your assignments. We move out at twenty-four hundred.” Engle turned to Lieutenant Harding. “Anything else, Lieutenant?”

Harding stood. “Thanks, Senior Chief. I’ve got news. Even if this op goes as planned—”

That got a chuckle from several of the men. Things rarely did.

Harding flashed a brief smile. “It will be at least two more weeks before we head home. There’s been some additional intel on these guys. If we have the opportunity to break the back of this organization, we will take it.”

Brett stifled a groan. Two more weeks! That left him only six days leeway before the rehearsal dinner.

There’d be no guarantee he’d make it home even then. Ops like this always took longer than planned. Why had he put Tess through the aggravation of planning a wedding when he knew damn well this shit might happen?

If she had to cancel her big day, there wouldn’t be a wedding. Not a formal one, at least. That was only if he could persuade her to marry him after the disappointment wore off.

He’d warned her shit like this happened, but hearing it and experiencing it were two different things.