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  Copyright © 2016 by Anne Elizabeth

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Author’s Note

  Additional Resources

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  Being the man behind the Op was tougher than taking point.

  In two situation rooms—one in Coronado, California, and the other in Washington, DC—all eyes were glued to their screens, watching as U.S. Navy SEALs tracked their targets. The hostiles were Number Two and Number Three of a recently identified terrorist cell. Less than sixteen hours ago, the Team had captured the head of the cell, and no one needed the runners-up picking up the fight where their leader had left off.

  Christ! Navy SEAL Captain Bennett Oscar Sheraton, nicknamed Boss, tensed as the men on the screen moved. Holding a gun was better than sitting in a chair and watching the action unfold on a fucking monitor.

  Four SEALS, loaded down with weapons and packs, moved through the thick brush. As they penetrated deeper into the forest, the small helmet cams relayed images back to the brass who were avidly watching this mission unfold in real time. Two of the operators held high-power rifles and two held 9 mm SIG Sauers. Their camos were matted to their bodies, and in the intense jungle heat, their heavily toned muscles dripped perspiration.

  The faint rustle of branches moving in the breeze and the men’s breathing were the only sounds. Even the wildlife had gone silent and the SEALs communicated strictly by hand gestures. As they inched forward, lush foliage, sodden from a recent downpour, dripped water onto their heads and wet the barrels of their weapons.

  Snap!

  The action was almost too fast to see. A tripped booby trap, probably placed along the trail by the local drug lord, sprang from the underbrush.

  One of the SEALs was pinned, his body pierced like a frog to the body of a tree trunk by a sharpened stick. The tail of it was back-cut and stuffed with something foul-smelling.

  The range of facial expressions on the wounded SEAL’s face was intense, but he never uttered a word.

  Silently, one of his Teammates released the rope that held a thin stick in place and sliced the stick in half with his knife. He removed the protrusions and lowered the injured man to the ground while the other two stood on alert. Shots of morphine and antibiotics were administered into the upper thigh. Luckily, the stick had only pierced a small amount of muscle on the far side of the quad, missing vital arteries. Antiseptic was liberally poured and pressure bandages applied to both sides. The leg was braced with splints and wraps, and then the warrior was pulled onto his feet.

  The wounded SEAL tested his leg, grimaced, but found it sturdy enough. He nodded at his Teammates and moved into formation to take up the hunt again.

  Dark clouds above them threatened to dump yet another deluge on the already overly soaked region. A rising wind blew debris against their faces, dislodging hair from their sweat-soaked heads. The SEAL on point sniffed to the north and then gestured.

  The Team had the scent.

  In the distance, smoke from an unsecured campfire was visible. Good news for the SEALS; bad news for the sloppy terrorists.

  The warriors melted into the forest, spreading out in a fan pattern to encircle their quarry. Slowly and steadily, they moved. There would usually be more of them—at least six—but there hadn’t been time to replenish their ranks. Two of the Teammates had been wounded at a previous location and been medevacked out. From the desert region of Libya to the jungles of South America, this SEAL Team had been on the move tracking these terrorists for far too long to let go now. They would see the mission through to its conclusion.

  It wasn’t luck that had brought them to this place or onto their current path; rather, it was Sheraton’s leads. He was the man in charge of Intel at home, and he’d directed this Team to this moment in time. The men were good with that. They’d all worked with him before on other missions and knew he was solid when it came to his facts.

  The SEALs were prepared, moving as one, as silently as deer. They appeared from the foliage and stood at the edge of the clearing, watching as the two hostiles shared their last meal in front of the fire.

  With guns at the ready, the SEALs fired, and the targets were eliminated with multiple shots to their heads and hearts. It was over in a second: a burst of noise and then a hush.

  The forest was like that, a witness to the extremes of predatory violence and sudden harmony. Perhaps all life was like that, but Americans had grown used to subtle shades of gray.

  The SEALs took fingerprints, blood, and pictures to confirm identities, and then wrapped and hoisted the bodies to bring them back to civilization. These operators performed their tasks quickly and avoided the locals to reach the extraction point for a safe exit. The helo arrived and lifted the four SEALs with their packages into the air.

  The entire room in Coronado sighed with relief. The Team was on their way home. The main screen went dark as the small square in the lower right-hand corner enlarged.

  The Commander-in-Chief spoke quickly. “Well done.” The President was surrounded by his Chief of Staff, Secretary of State, Secretary of the Navy, and his entire war-room staff of advisers. It was an intimidating group. “I look forward to the full report.”

  The screen went black, and the lights sprang on in the secure room at Special Warfare Command in Coronado.

  Sheraton resisted the urge to rub his eyes against the glaring light. He had sat quietly during the Op. Bennett was the one who would have taken the heat if the Op had gone sideways.

  To his left was two-star Admiral Buck Worthington, the highest rank in the room and the Admiral in charge of Special Warfare Command in Coronado, and on the other side of him, the Commanding Officer of SEAL Team SEVEN, Captain Richard Chen. These SEAL operato
rs were his. Albeit in private, Chen would be acknowledging these warriors and their success would be listed on their permanent records. The public would be unaware of the men’s pain and sacrifices. The selfless warrior did not require an accolade; rather, survival and success were the greatest gifts of all.

  Bennett watched Admiral Worthington’s support staff move around the room, gathering papers and filing them. This Op had so many different components. It had been a difficult process, and he was sure of his facts, having spent the past two months wading through emails and an extensive communication trail at Cyber Command. He had translated and retranslated these and additional documents, following the entire cell until the Team eliminated the leader and now the two subordinate terrorists. Bennett had been certain they could nail this mission, and he was relieved to wrap it up.

  Seeing two SEALs wounded while capturing the leader and another hurt while acquiring the Number Two and Three guys had caused him physical pain. His brethren would be okay, but all of them had long recoveries ahead of them. He was responsible for that in the same way he was responsible for the ultimate securing of the mission. It was enough to give him an ulcer.

  Rotations in Intel were tricky. As a SEAL, he could be called upon to rotate into countless roles, and this one was not a favorite. He’d rather have put his own life in the line of fire than send others into action. In his mind, it would be a valiant death, if it were his—and the worst outcome, if he had caused someone else’s.

  “Sheraton, bravo zulu,” said Worthington as he stood and shook Bennett’s hand. The Admiral was eager to celebrate and always appreciated opportunities to score a win on the Spec Op’s success list.

  “Thank you, Admiral.” Bennett was pleased to be on the receiving end of a positive response.

  “I’m having a few souls to my place, if you’d like to attend.”

  This wasn’t an invitation. It was a request that bordered on an order. Bennett would be an idiot to turn it down. Honestly, though, he needed a breather and didn’t feel like celebrating. He started a new rotation as an instructor tomorrow, and he craved a night off. “Another time, Admiral?”

  “Yes, of course.” Worthington nodded at him, and the rest of the men in the room followed him out.

  The one exception to the mass exodus was the beaming Captain Chen, who crossed the room to Bennett and leaned on the table. “You’re an idiot, Bennett. You know that, right?”

  Bennett chuckled and then shrugged. “Yeah, I know, Richard. I just…need to catch my breath.” What else could he say? That he was going to lose his mind if he didn’t get a little R & R? The stress was searing his gut, and he needed a cold beer and to not think for a few hours. Being a SEAL could swallow you whole if you didn’t open the hatches and get some fresh air now and then. His mind and body needed time.

  “I get it. Really, I do. You’ve been eating, sleeping, and dreaming this mission for months as you put the puzzle together. I get it. Seriously, I’ve been there. But, if you want to advance to the prime assignments, you need to play the game. Spending a few hours getting to know the brass does that. Trust me. I’m saying this as a friend.” Chen stood and rubbed his hands together. “Now, game face on. I’m off to play my role.” At the door, he paused. “Whatever you’re up to tonight, Sheraton, make it count.”

  Bennett watched Chen leave, knowing in his gut that he’d made the right move personally, though professionally it probably would tank him. He wasn’t politically minded enough to sit around hand-hamming a situation to get a promotion. Either he would rise on the merit of his performance and dedication or not at all. Honestly, he trusted his gut above anything else and knew when to dial out to preserve his sanity. This was one of those times.

  He gathered his notes, shoved them in the shredder, hit the Power button, and then headed out of the room. He walked down to the Navy Exchange, or NEX, bought a six-pack of Longboard beer, and headed for the beach. He longed to strip the clothes from his body and feel the warm water on his skin and the sand between his toes. He’d been on the shelf too long; being out of combat was like an extremely slow death by paper cuts.

  He loosened his collar and popped a bottle cap, drawing the cold beer into his mouth and feeling it rush down his throat. He took a few more sips, watching the sunset as he stretched out on the sand and communed with the elements. “This is relaxation,” he murmured. Yes, this is exactly what I need to recharge my battery.

  Closing his eyes, he savored the fresh air. The sand tickled the back of his neck as his mind drifted.

  Buzz. Buzz. His phone vibrated.

  Bennett groaned and jerked awake. Damn, I fell asleep.

  He rubbed his hands over his face and then reached for his drink. The beer was warm. Yuck. He thrust it aside. Five-and-a-half bottles of discarded beer—what a sacrilege!

  Bennett sat up. He knew he couldn’t spend the whole night ignoring the world, as much as he wanted to. He was an operational SEAL and he was still on call. Sitting on the beach, staring at the sky like some teenage boy—he had to own up and end this mini break.

  Bennett rolled to his feet. When he checked his phone, his eyes widened.

  Crap! I missed a call from an Admiral. Damn it!

  Before he could return the message, his cell phone sprang to life again. He answered quickly and succinctly. No one dillydallied when Command was ringing through. “Sheraton.”

  “Been having a good night.” This was a statement of annoyance. SEALs were meant to be reachable 24-7 when they were on active duty. The only time they could take off was official leave time, and sometimes they could get away with what they affectionately called a UNO Dear—Unless Otherwise Directed, I’m going to go do X, Y, Z. But, they still had to be reachable. Admiral Ouster’s tone was tense, and his comment on the fact that Bennett should have answered his phone only emphasized that. What could he say? Subtext: it happened.

  “Yes, Admiral Ouster. What can I do for you?”

  “How long would it take you to meet me at my office?” The Admiral’s tone was curt.

  Huh, it has to be a priority, if I’m being tapped this late at night.

  Bennett was already moving in the direction of the Amphibious Base. He could hop the fence at a high-speed run and be there in less than ten minutes. “Less than fifteen.” It was better to be early than to keep brass waiting. Maybe it was the fact that Bennett had started his career as an enlisted man and made his way to officer that he stayed on his toes and responded with extra hustle.

  Being a captain was not a small thing in the Navy, but the duty could be somewhat limited, depending on what was available, especially for someone who was going to be up for a new rank in a few months. He hoped that whatever this phone call was about…it would be interesting and could change his current duty assignment.

  “See you then.” The phone went dead.

  Bennett pocketed his device and ran to the far fence. He climbed the barrier, dropped down on the other side, and ran as though he was taking fire. Passing the Coronado Cays, the Silver Strand State Beach, and the Obstacle Course attached to the Amphibious Base, he dashed across the street—from the ocean side to Bay Side—flashed his ID at the gate, and headed straight for Admiral Ouster’s office. No one stopped him. They knew him around here, and seeing him come in hot brought everyone to attention.

  He checked his watch as he neared the building at a full-out run. He was at his destination in under seven and a half minutes. Not bad. Not great. It would do. When he was a trainee, he could have made the run in five and a half.

  Was he getting old? Nah!

  The door to the building was ajar, and he closed it securely behind him and took the stairs three at a time. On the main floor, he stopped and showed his ID again. Guards were stationed in this spot 24-7. They studied it and him. Ouster wasn’t an ordinary Admiral. He ran special programs for Spec Ops in a way that even Spec War and the Special Opera
tions Command, or SOCOM, couldn’t touch. Ouster reported directly to the President and often tackled projects that brought all branches of the military together for missions. Some individuals called him the Pied Piper, because he could charm practically anybody in any situation.

  Taking long strides down the hallway, Bennett maintained his pace, but his curiosity was piqued. He had met Ouster several times before, in Officer’s Country at required-attendance officer events, but this was his first one-on-one. He knew it meant he was being called for a mission.

  At the door, Bennett knocked. The crisp sound echoed around him.

  “Enter,” barked a voice from the other side.

  Bennett let himself in and closed the door behind him. He stood at attention. Though SEALs didn’t normally stand on ceremony, this was an unusual circumstance. “Admiral.”

  “Captain Sheraton, at ease. Take a seat at the table.” Ouster gestured with his hand as he searched through a pile of folders. Locating the one he sought, he picked it up and joined Bennett at the large marble table. The chair, one of those old leather ones that had an indentation from overuse, protested as he sat. “The reason I called you over here was we recently had two failures on a priority project. We’re at a crucial juncture, one where errors are no longer an option; too much is at stake.” He handed Bennett a piece of paper and a thick manila folder. The label simply said “WS.” “I’d like you to drive out to this location, assess what’s going on, and move forward with the required work assignment.”

  Bennett accepted the piece of paper and the folder and scanned them. “I know this place, the Lester Facility.” His eyes widened as he read the notes inside the folder.

  “Space?” He hid his excitement. This assignment beat teaching or working on the new base and organizing vehicles or staff. Not only was traveling to space on his bucket list, it was one of the reasons he’d wanted to be a SEAL in the first place.

  It was no secret that part of SEAL training had requirements that crossed over into astronaut training. The Underwater Demolition Team men had been used to test a lot of the equipment and apparatus before those golden-boy astronauts used them. The UDT men had also met many of the capsules that splashed down in the ocean. Water was, of course, a Frogman/SEAL element.