Strong Silent SEAL (SEALs of Coronado Book 2) (4 page)

He looked around, careful to stay low to the ground. This part of the Poway industrial district was relatively quiet on the weekend, which was good. Seeing him roll out of a moving vehicle might encourage people to call the cops.

Taking the gun from his waistband, he watched as Felicia slowed the SUV even more then turned down a side street two blocks up the road. He figured out which warehouse she was heading for then sprinted for the one adjacent to it. He wanted to get to some cover fast, find his guys, then move on the warehouse. If his instincts were right, the men holding Felicia’s sister would kill both of them the moment they confirmed she had what they wanted.

He made it to the far side of the building adjacent to the warehouse where Felicia stopped then waited.

She got out of the vehicle slowly, taking her time to reach in and get the black box. Good. She was giving him time to get into position.

As Logan darted across the space between the two warehouses, he thought he might have to do this raid on his own since he’d yet to find his guys, or even hear from them. But, when he edged around the side of the warehouse, he found Nash and Dalton coming toward him with Glocks in hand.

“Shit, it took you long enough to get here,” Nash said. “We thought we’d have to go in and get the girl on our own.”

“Stef still okay?” Logan asked as he led his men around the back of the warehouse.

“So far, but those guys are getting antsy in there,” Dalton said in that Southern drawl of his. “One of them left about ten minutes ago, so we’re down to four.”

Logan nodded. He didn’t like the idea one of them had gotten away, but it made for better odds for everyone involved.

He glanced over his shoulder at Nash and Dalton. “What’s with the shorts and T-shirts. Some kind of SoCal tactical outfit?”

Nash shrugged. A couple of years younger than Logan, he was the Team’s resident medic. “You caught us at the beach, and we figured we didn’t have time to go home and change.”

“Okay, but if you were at the beach, where did the hardware come from?” Logan darted another quick look behind him. “Don’t tell me you two have started carrying weapons around in your vehicles?”

Dalton snorted. “No, but after all the crap that went down with Nesbitt a couple of months ago, would you blame us?”

Logan couldn’t argue with that logic. Nesbitt had been a crooked city councilman Chasen had gotten into a scuffle with. The whole thing had ended with Logan sneaking onto Nesbitt’s property with Chasen, Nash, and Dalton and conducting a little armed reconnaissance. To say things had gotten a bit messy was putting it mildly.

“Chasen brought them with him. They’re fully registered and legal,” Nash said. “Let’s hope we don’t have to shoot anyone, or he’s never going to get them back.”

Hopefully, no one would get shot today. “Where’s Chasen now?”

“Around back,” Dalton whispered. “He wanted to stay close to the door in case things escalated in there.”

Chasen stood with his back to the warehouse, his gun down at his side but at the ready. Unlike Nash and Dalton, he mustn’t have been at the beach because he wore jeans and a T-shirt. Two years older than Logan, he’d been his swim buddy in BUD/s.

“We don’t have a lot of time to waste on fancy planning,” Chasen said, the East Coast accent he’d come into BUD/s with all but gone. “Your girl won’t give them the box unless they release her sister, and they won’t release her until she gives up the box.”

Shit
.

“Then we won’t waste time,” Logan said. “Chasen, you and Nash take the left. Dalton and I will take the right. Try to bring in these guys alive, if you can, but don’t hesitate to shoot if you have to.”

Giving them a nod, Logan led the way to the back door. Once there, he lifted a hand, silently counting down with his fingers.

Four…three…two…one.

When he got to one, he kicked in the back door as hard as he could. It flew back and slammed into the wall as he and the other guys darted inside. A huge garage door was at the far end and offices lined the right wall.

Felicia stood in the center of the warehouse opposite a big guy with wild hair, the box clutched in her hands. Three other men stood off to the side, guns casually down at their sides. Logan didn’t see Stefanie at all.

At their entrance, Felicia and the men spun around to face them, guns automatically coming up.

“Drop the guns,” Logan ordered.

The three armed men hesitated, as if unsure whether to comply or not. The guy with the unkempt hair wasn’t so slow to action. Pulling a gun from behind his back, he strode toward one of the side offices.

Stefanie
.

Logan aimed the Sig Sauer, intending to put the guy down before he moved another step, when Felicia suddenly darted after the man. Cursing, Logan pulled up, forced to forego the shot or risk hitting her.

He charged forward, hoping to get a better angle on the man—or just fucking tackle him if he had to. But when he got close, the guy spun around and caught Felicia’s arm, shoving her in Logan’s direction.

Logan sidestepped her, but it didn’t matter. The man slid to a halt beside Stefanie. She was tied to a metal chair, dark eyes so similar to Felicia’s filled with terror.

Smiling at Logan, the guy with the wild hair and the eyes to match put the gun to Stefanie’s head. He had to know if he pulled the trigger he’d die, too. He simply didn’t seem to care—as long as he could take Felicia’s sister with him.

“No!” Felicia screamed.

Logan snapped his pistol up in a rapid fire drill he’d practiced hundreds—maybe thousands—of times. He didn’t set his feet; he didn’t square his shoulders. Hell, he didn’t even aim. He merely let the barrel instinctively follow his eyes and pulled the trigger.

The hole in the psycho’s forehead was amazingly small, but experience told Logan the one coming out the back was much bigger. Blood painted the back wall of the little office then the man fell, gun slipping from his lifeless fingers.

Even though Logan didn’t hear any other shooting, he still spun around, wanting to make sure his Teammates were okay. Chasen, Nash, and Dalton were each trussing up a bad guy with his own shoestrings.

Felicia brushed past him, running into the office to throw her arms around her sister, crying like crazy as she tore at the grey tape holding the girl to the chair.

Logan walked into the office and placed the 9mm on the desk. Looking at the two sisters embrace, he liked to think this screwed-up day was finally over with, but he knew it was only getting started.

Chapter Three

T
HE POLICE TOOK the three surviving kidnappers away first then put up crime tape across the doors of the office where the dead sailor had been as well as the one where Logan had shot the guy with the shaggy hair. Then the cops started asking questions—lots of questions.

Felicia thought she’d done fairly well answering them, and Stef held up like a trouper. She’d started thinking maybe she and her sister would make it home by dinner. She didn’t feel like eating anything after the day she’d had, but it would be nice to have a little time to herself to decompress from everything. Then the men and women in suits showed up, and the questioning took on a whole different tone.

They flashed a lot of badges and ID’s in her face, most of which she forgot within moments. But she recognized the acronyms—FBI, CIA, NSA, DHS, even NCIS. She’d been so sure Hollywood had fabricated the last organization purely for TV. Apparently not.

It wasn’t until they began asking her and Stef the same questions over and over that Felicia realized they thought she and her sister were involved in this.

Do you know why they grabbed you and your sister in particular? Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t you tell the guards at the gate they were holding your sister hostage? Did you know what was in the black box? Have you ever met LPO Dunn before? Did you have a prior relationship with any of the men who allegedly held you and your sister hostage? Have you ever met the dead sailor in the warehouse? Who decided to call in the other Navy personnel instead of the police?

After two solid hours of being interrogated, Felicia felt like she might lose it. She wasn’t sure if it meant smacking someone or breaking down into tears, but just when it seemed she couldn’t handle one more asinine question, she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders. She looked up to find Logan there.

“I think that’s enough questions,” he said.

Most of the federal agents, especially the ones from the FBI and DHS took offense to him interfering, but when Logan mentioned Russia and Syria, the conversation came to a screeching halt. That probably had something to do with the CIA and NSA announcing this case had wandered into classified areas out of the purview of the other parties involved. Five minutes later, the CIA herded her, Stefanie, and Logan outside to a black SUV and drove them straight back to NAB Coronado.

When they got to the building with a sign out front saying Force Protection, the CIA agents led them to a conference room where they got her, Stef, and Logan coffee and offered them something to eat. The questioning continued, but unlike before, no one seemed to be accusing her or her sister of doing anything illegal. Probably because Logan was sitting right beside Felicia with a look on his handsome face that said he’d punch the next person who dared to piss him off. Felicia couldn’t put into words how good it was having him there. He’d already saved her sister’s life, and now he’d saved Felicia’s sanity.

A little while later, an artist showed up with a computerized sketchpad and came up with a 3D image d eerily close to the scary guy who’d threatened to kill her and Stef. While most of the agents disappeared to start working on identifying Buzz Cut—who’d taken off before Felicia had gotten back to the warehouse—a few of them stayed behind to talk to see if Stef overheard anything while she’d been held captive that would clue them in to where Buzz Cut might be or who he worked for.

Felicia wanted to stay and support her sister, but after thirty more minutes of seemingly endless questions, the adrenaline she’d been running on since morning finally ran out.

In between questions, she gave Stef’s hand a squeeze. “I’m going to stretch my legs. I’ll be right back.”

The hallway was empty, but in the room across from her the CIA agents were looking at video footage on a TV monitor. She couldn’t hear everything they said, but she picked up a few words. Mostly it was stuff about Syria and the fighting going on over there, and meetings between the CIA and the Navy. If Felicia were the curious type, she would have been tempted to eavesdrop. As it was, none of it made a bit of sense to her. Even if it had, she was too tired to care.

“You holding up okay?” Logan asked from behind her.

She turned, giving him a small smile. “Yeah, thanks to you. Speaking of which, I never did get a chance to thank you.”

His mouth edged up. “I’m pretty sure anyone would have done the same thing given the chance.”

Felicia seriously doubted that but didn’t bother to point it out. Something told her Logan was too humble for that. “Well, thanks, regardless. I owe you more than I can ever repay, not only for what you did for me, but for Stef, too. The man you shot would have killed her.”

Logan frowned. “I’m sorry he got as close as he did. I hoped to stop him before he got anywhere near her.”

“You stopped him when it mattered. That’s all I care about,” she said. “You aren’t going to get into any trouble for shooting him, are you?”

Logan shook his head. “I don’t think so. No one has brought it up, and I’m not going to worry about it until they do.”

She’d worry for him. In her opinion, Logan hadn’t done anything wrong, but that didn’t mean the authorities—or the Navy—would feel the same way. “What about your friends?”

“As far as the police are concerned, they happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

Felicia had a handful of good friends, but if she sent them a quick text saying she needed them to come to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere armed with weapons, she doubted she’d get many replies. Logan’s buddies were as incredible as he was. Not as good looking, maybe—at least, in her opinion—but definitely brave and loyal as hell.

Before she could say anything, one of the CIA agents—Jonathan Olson—came out of the room across the hall, a tablet computer in his hand. He held it up in front of Felicia. “Is this the guy who ran the show?”

She looked down at the picture of the man. It was a photo from a traffic cam, but even with the reflection off the windshield, she recognized Buzz Cut. She’d never forget his face.

“It’s him,” she said. I can’t believe you found him already.”

Olson snorted. “We found him all right. This picture was taken at the San Ysidro border crossing into Mexico two hours ago. He’s probably sixty miles on the other side of Tijuana by now.” His mouth tightened. “Which may actually be the best possible outcome, as far as you’re concerned, Petty Officer Dunn.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

Olson pointed to the tablet. “I mean this guy—Illarion Volkov—is one nasty SOB. He served in both Russian Special Forces and their Foreign Intel Service, but they considered him so out of control they not only tossed him out of the military and covert intelligence communities, but out of Russia, too. There are a lot of rumors swirling around as to why, but apparently he showed a willingness to kill a whole lot of people in his efforts to accomplish his missions. Since being exiled, he’s been working as a mercenary for anyone who will hire him, which includes Russia, as strange as that is.”

“He sounds like the kind of man the CIA would have wanted to get their hands on,” Logan said.

“We do,” Olson agreed. “But considering you killed his brother, it’s probably a good thing he took off.”

Felicia’s stomach clenched. “You don’t think he’ll come back, do you?”

The mere thought of him coming after her and Stef—or Logan—made her feel like she might pass out.