SEAL Forever (8 page)

“You know how I like to hide in plain view,” said Declan. There had been nothing extraordinary about the car they'd lifted. Instead, he'd purposefully chosen one that would most likely run well, but looked like a POS, with its peeling paint and dented fenders. Contrary to what most folks knew, in this part of the world, having any car was like owning a Bentley, and those who were so privileged kept them running in top shape. This was his fourth Op to this place, and he knew the streets pretty well. He could even tell what the temperature would be within a few degrees.

“My friend, the wallflower,” said Leaper.

Pulling the car into a small parking lot, Declan waited at the designated rendezvous for the rest of the Team to join them. He knew he was pretty laid-back for a Master Chief. He hadn't gotten this far by cracking the whip; instead, he gave his Teammates room to be themselves. Ranks didn't matter much in the Teams, especially on mission. Everyone had his own specialty. The only time they really toed the rank line was when they wore formal uniforms.

Sunlight heated the car's windows and interior. It'd be reaching a hundred soon. In the meantime, Declan watched the mirrors. He had two different routes in case someone spotted them and they needed to drive around again, though it was doubtful. He preferred having several contingency plans, just in case.

Leaper pulled a granola bar from his pocket. “Well, it's not a beer, but it'll have to do.”

Declan scratched his nose. The dust was pretty fierce in this part of the world. He was blessed to not have any allergies. His first swim buddy, Larry Tars, had rolled out of the SEALs after four years because his nose leaked like a faucet. It was hard to be on an Op for ten days and be sucking down phlegm because you couldn't blow your nose and risk making too much noise. As a matter of fact, they hadn't been far from here. “There's a place, somewhat of a bar, around the corner. No stout, but there's a decent ale.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” added Tyler, briefly checking the ammo in his 9 mm. He was young, had only been in the Teams two years, and you could still see the shiny newness on him. “Damn, I'm hungry too. Leaper, toss me one of those.”

“Eat your own,” replied Leaper, taking a big bite. “Yum!” He was a character to be sure, and the best guy Dec knew to have at his back. There was no doubting his ability, with the amount of action he'd seen.

“Pussy,” said Sobbit, pulling a bar from his shirt and handing it to Tyler.

“Dickless,” said Leaper, opening his mouth wide.

“What a symphony,” mumbled Tyler as he stuffed half the bar into his mouth, chewed for ten seconds, and swallowed. “All we need is a trumpet and trombone. Wait, we have Leaper… He can be the resident baboon.”

“Bassoon, ladies. The word you're looking for is
bassoon
.” Declan chipped into the snark pot.

“Gesundheit,” blessed Leaper.

Declan smiled. This was a good time to banter. Best part was, he adored these guys and could go to hell and back with them without a second thought. He wouldn't have it any other way, and neither would the rest of the Team. Being in battle bonded them. They could anticipate each other's moves and comments, and half the time a single glance said it all. Declan believed this was what family was like, except that he was closer to his Teammates.

The Teams were a tightly bonded group of brothers. Miller coordinated everything; as Intel Officer he was one of them, and he understood how all their personalities worked together best.

In the other car, Miller was driving. Dec was pretty sure that with more officers on board, things were pretty quiet and rather tense in that vehicle. There was a lot of brass and rank on this mission, because it had been a volunteer Op. It was good to get away from desk work and coordinating crap. Besides, they'd all backed each other at different times, and this Op needed a certain kind of extra decisiveness.

If he'd had his way, he would have filled the Op with enlisted personnel. Something about working your way up the ranks gave experience that school couldn't.

In this mission, Hayes and he tied for the paternal role. Hayes had no funny bone, but he was a dead shot in the trenches and he settled all disputes.

Declan liked to think he was an asset too, as he could anticipate stuff well. SEALs, regardless of rank, tended to all have opportunities to lead at times, unlike other branches of the military.

“I see them,” said Declan, spying the car he'd known would come. He supposed he was more like the partygoer uncle who often had to pull people's heads out of the toilet or their ass out of the fire. If he'd gone to college, he'd be an officer—a cake eater—and pretty far up the food chain, but that wasn't who he was. Declan Swifton was an enlisted man through and through who pretty much wanted to stay enlisted. He had no interest in going to the dark side. As Master Chief, this rank let him be himself.

A reader. A warrior. A philosopher. An athlete. A sailor and a SEAL. There's a philosophy that says if you visualize what you want, you get it. In his mind's eye, he'd seen just this moment and prepared for its result.

“The locals?” asked Tyler.

“Nope. Our brethren.” Declan smiled. The driving had been textbook. Squeaky clean! Ah, how he loved a good “carpool.”

Looking out the corner of the window, Declan managed to stay hidden as he scoped out the street below. They'd holed up in an abandoned house, and he was on the top floor, attempting to take in the neighborhood and gain an understanding of its rhythm. He didn't like the fact that this contact had been a no-show. That didn't bode well for their mission.

The whole Team still used Frogman Swepston's Rule of Three. When three aspects went sour, the Op was over. So far, Declan was uneasy. It had been hell to find this place, and if this rendezvous went bad too, they'd be using the Rule of Three to ditch the Op and get out of this place. A fourth problem was one too many, and Syria was not a country that any of them wanted to be caught in, dead or alive.

Screw the denial capabilities of the United States government. The hostiles that could potentially capture the SEALs would torture them and/or kill them on the spot. The environment here was more than volatile. Even the innocents—women and children—hid from the hotbed of the political scene, and if the United Nations truly knew how bad it was, they would be singing a different tune and changing their strategy in helping these folks.

His eyes caught movement across the street. A little girl was sitting in the window. Her mother pulled her away quickly, admonishing her—no doubt for the risky behavior of being visible in the window.
It's a sad day when kids cannot even take a breath of fresh air without worry of being shot or worse.

So far, their hideaway appeared safe. He gestured to Leaper, who headed down the stairs. Gathered Intel would be relayed, and hopefully his swim buddy would come back with news of the contact's arrival.

He put his attention back on the street and the buildings around them, scanning for trouble. He caught sight of a man who was moving quickly through the street, then paused.

Declan could see blood on him. “Damn,” he swore softly.

Miller stepped up next to him and looked through his own scope. “I'll let them know.” He headed downstairs.

Standing on the top floor alone, Declan knew the situation couldn't be good, not with two operatives out of the game. The first contact was dead, and now the second…well…he had clearly been shot and was most likely dying in this particular hellhole. Did that mean the Intel was sound or that it had holes too?

A noise to his left had Declan sneaking a quick glance. It was Leaper, who gestured with his head for Declan to go downstairs. The men exchanged places and Declan headed down to the second floor.

The informant was sprawled out on his back, his blood-soaked shirt in tatters as Declan's Teammates tried to stanch the bleeding.

“No. I…won't…survive. Take…the information. Make my death quick. And…go.” The informant struggled to get the words out. He pushed a piece of paper into Miller's hand, and before they could deny the wish to take his life, he died.

The two Teammates who had been working on the informant made swift work of cleaning up the man, carrying his body down to the first floor, and staging him just inside the battered front door as if he had been shot in the street, stumbled into the abandoned house, and died. That was common enough here.

Miller and Declan pored over the map. They looked at each other.

“No way,” said Miller.

Declan shook his head. “Could this Op get any more fucked? The headquarters is in one of four mountain ranges: Jabel ar Ruwaq, Jabal Abu Rujmayn, Jabal Bishri, or Jabal al-Druze. Given the time constraints, we've got to find out which one is the most viable. We can't lose any more American lives.” Several eyes connected with Declan's.

“There's always some kind of immediate threat. We shouldn't act out of fear,” said Miller. “Even though the informant died, we've got the info. Let's hop and see what Command wants to do with it. I could go either way on the Rule of Three. We've hit too many roadblocks to make me want to go any further, so we'll bounce the decision up the chain.” Miller spun his finger in a circle. The men gathered their gear.

Declan nodded his head in agreement. He wanted to get out of here. His gut was twisting, and that meant they were in a bad position and it was time to move quickly. “I'll get Leaper.” He took the steps two at a time. At the landing, he signaled to his swim buddy as he pulled his pack on and grabbed Leaper's. They'd stashed a car out back.

Now they needed to find out what Command wanted to do next. They'd have to find another place to go where they could set up the radio. Staying safe in Syria, with all of the violence, was easier said than done.

* * *

It had been a week since Declan left. Maura missed him. That was a big negative on her emotional scale, but on the positive side, her shoulder continued to feel better and get stronger every day. She'd continue to do light rehab but decided to hold off on the extra arm work until she fully healed.

If only that pleasant feeling of getting better carried through to this moment. Standing at the entrance of the gym, she couldn't believe her eyes. Froggy Squats was in ruins. Equipment was on its side and the insides were spray-painted. Mats were torn, their insides spilling out.

She wanted to cry at the sight of it. But that emotional release was not going to get this place cleaned up.

“Wow. That's a shame,” said Bosco, one of the regulars. “This is third time the gym's been hit by the same gang. I came in early too, to get a workout in before my meeting.”

“I didn't know that gangs were a problem here. They're not going to win,” she said, going into her office, dumping her bag on the desk, and coming back out. “I'm going to put this place back into shape, and we're going to change our relationship with these gangs.”

“Good luck on changing them. I'll help you clean up the gym and put it right,” said Bosco.

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a nod.

The two of them were joined by several more staffers and members, and together they righted the equipment, carried out the mats, and gave the spray paint a coat of primer. Maura was exhausted, but the gym looked better by the time they were done.

“I got my workout today,” said Bosco as a parting comment.

“Hey, I appreciate the help, Bosco,” she said, wondering how long it would be before she could head home and take a long, hot bath with a large glass of chilled white wine.

“Uh, could you do me a favor?” Bosco hemmed and hawed, looking embarrassed.

She put her hand on his arm. “What is it? What can I do to help you?”

He looked at her with large, doe-like brown eyes. “Be my date tonight? I'd really appreciate it. I have this thing to go to…and…”

She sighed. “I'm sort of seeing someone…” Not that she had clarified it with Declan, but she did feel loyal to him.

“We could go as friends, you know. Colleagues, or stuff like that.” Bosco had a whiny tone in his voice.

She could see how important it was to him. After everything he'd done, she couldn't deny him. “Fine. Turn left at the last road before Main Street/Beach Street dead ends. I live in the last apartment complex on the beach, the second-to-last apartment on the second floor. Apartment 2B.”

He dipped his head like he was going to kiss her. “I'll be there at seven. Thanks, Maura.”

She pointed a finger at him. “As friends. Just remember.”

“Sure.” Bosco walked out the door in a hurry.

Maybe he was worried she'd change her mind. In truth, she probably should. But she owed him, and this seemed like a small favor in return. Besides, she trusted herself. Nothing was going to happen, and everything would probably turn out just right.

* * *

What had possessed her to agree to the date tonight? After a whole day of cleaning the gym? Her shoulder was throbbing and all she wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine. She sighed. A promise was a promise.

Getting ready was making her nuts. She was on her third coat of mascara, and over half of it was on her cheeks and eyebrows. Dating had never been high on her list of favorite events.

“I look like a clown on a binge.” She sighed and threw the applicator and its small supply tube into the bathroom trash can. It landed with a thunk and all she could think was
Good riddance!

It wasn't that she was nervous. The fact was that she'd rather be with Declan right now.

Picking up a wet washcloth, she scrubbed her face until the black smears were gone. Then she looked in the mirror, shrugged, and put on her sheer lip balm with the hint of pink. Why change how she looked? Her regular makeup routine was perfectly fine.

Standing back from the reflection, she surveyed her cotton print dress with the tiny white-and-yellow daisies and her matching white flats. The outfit screamed “friends” for sure.

Brushing out her hair, she tried to pile it on her head with several bobby pins, which sprang out in all directions, looking like lost kittens waving for help. Unraveling that mess, she tried one hair clip. The static from all the hair wrangling made her feel like an electroshock patient.

Wishing she could do more with her hair, but frustrated beyond belief, she grabbed one of her bulky sun hats and plopped it onto her head. Good enough. She was not a woman who primped. She thought about reinforcing her sore shoulder by going back to wearing the sling for the night, but discarded the idea. She'd be fine.

Maura picked up her small purse with her wallet, keys, and cell phone and hurried to the front door. Outside waiting was a man most women would call an excellent specimen of the human body, though he was certainly
not
her type. “Hi there. Sorry I took so long.”

“Yeah, you look good enough. Unless you want to show more skin.”

She balked. “No. I'm good.”

“Okay,” he said as he grabbed her right arm and practically hauled her out of her doorway, slamming the apartment door behind of her. The sound stood her on her toes.

Walking to the staircase, he was partially lifting her off of the ground with each step. She felt as if she were a lopsided trolley car.

Fearing for her own safety, she said, “Hold on a minute.” She untangled herself from his grasp, returned to her front door, and locked it before returning to Bosco. “I'd rather walk down in front of you.”

“Why?” He looked baffled. Did other women like to be pawed like this?

She smiled patiently up at him, though he was losing brownie points with each and every Neanderthal move. “Uh, why? Well, you can, uh, watch the swooshing of my dress. It'll be fun.”
Oh yeah, like that comment didn't play into the situation. You're not helping yourself, Maura.

He frowned. “What's a swooshing? Where on the dress do I look?”

Her mouth was open as she stared at him.
Seriously, man! Have I totally chosen a meathead? Please someone come down and help me with this date. I'm in over my head.

She closed her mouth and didn't answer him. But she did manage to walk down the stairs unaided. That was a small victory. “So tell me about this party.”

“It's an engagement party for my fraternity brother.”

“Where did you go to college?”

“MIT. We have meetings out here. A bunch of us landed on this coast.” He straightened the lapel of his shirt and resettled his shoulders in his jacket.

Holy smokes! Talk about jumping to conclusions. This guy is probably a bona fide genius.
She swallowed her shock. “What did you study?”

“Molecular physics. Lately I spend a lot of time in an experimental lab, and the gym.” He flexed his muscles. “Hey, my biceps like ya, and my delts are digging ya.”

She smiled at him and knew it fell flat. Ugh! Smart or not, Bosco was definitely not a match for her. This was going to be a long, long, long night.

Maura climbed into the largest pickup truck she'd ever seen, trying not to flash her underwear to the entire world, and then closed the door. Buckling herself in, she looked longingly at her apartment front door. What she wouldn't give to be staying home, baking brownies or painting her nails or watching a movie.

* * *

“Drink, drink, drink!” shouted the men in various state of preppy uni-dress. Khaki pants, white or pin-striped shirts, and blue or red ties with a navy-blue blazer appeared to be the fraternity uniform, or perhaps that's what preppy guys wore on semiformal occasions. But as much as she wanted to say they looked nice, their behavior was not the best she'd ever witnessed.

“Suck it down, you pussy!” shouted Bosco at the groom-to-be, who'd already downed four shots and two beers.

Maura checked her cell phone.
Yep, we've only been here forty-five minutes, and I'm ready to bang my head against the wall.
She'd politely rejected several drinks, going for the hors d'oeuvres table first. After the cleanup and the long day, she was starved.

The energy bar she'd eaten for lunch had long since disappeared from her system. Loading her plate with vegetables and dip and grabbing an unsweetened ice tea from the bar, she found a somewhat quiet corner and sat down. It wasn't long before a woman joined her, a petite redhead with very dark skin and brown eyes. Maura swallowed the morsels in her mouth hastily and extended her hand. “Hi, I'm Maura.”

“Mimsey Blakely,” said the woman briskly. “You can call me Minnie or Mims.” Ironing wrinkles out of her beige linen dress with her fingers, she asked abruptly, “Are you sleeping with Bosco Russo?”

Maura choked on her own shock. “What? No!”

“Okay,” said Minnie, uninterested in her now. “I guess we can talk longer then. Just so you know, he is mine. I'm going to marry him someday.”

Maura had no idea what to say in return. This tiny woman was blunt.

“I used to date him,” she sniffed. Minnie took a tissue from her purse. “And I still love him.”

Was she really crying? Good heavens!
Maura leaned in close. “I'm seeing someone. I'm not interested in Bosco in any way. This is…a favor, so he didn't have to come here alone.” She hated ratting him out, but the woman seemed to need the reassurance.