Twisted (41 page)

Her heart beat wildly in her chest, because she
did
remember. It had come back to her days after he’d left. It had twisted her up inside, made her a basket case. It was no wonder he’d run away.

“You said, ‘I love you. Don’t leave me. I love you. Don’t leave me.’ ” He gazed down at her intently. “You said it over and over.”

Her cheeks warmed and she looked down. He touched his hand to her face and gently tilted it up.

“Do you remember?”

She nodded.

His eyes were dark and serious. “If you feel that way, then I’m here, Allison. I’m not leaving.”

She gazed up at him.

“I love you.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek, and she realized she was crying. He leaned his head down and kissed her. It was a sweet kiss. A romantic kiss. The kind she wanted to have many more of with him.

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

He smiled. “So it wasn’t just the drugs talking?”

“Maybe a little.” She laughed through her tears. “But the words were from my heart.”

Turn the page for a sneak peek of

BURNED

the next heart-stopping Tracers novel from

Laura Griffin

Coming soon from Pocket Star Books

Indian Ocean
East of Mombasa, Kenya
0300 hours

The Black Hawk flew well below the radar and Lieutenant Gage Brewer sensed more than saw the water below. Light cloud cover, no moon. Perfect conditions for an op like this, which was exactly what made him itchy. Gage and his teammates had trained long and hard to expect the unexpected, and there wasn’t a SEAL among them who trusted an operation that got off to a perfect start.

“Going black,” came the voice in Gage’s headset. At his CO’s order, the helicopter went dark except for the faint red glow of the control panel.

A ripple of movement as the eight men of Alpha Squad triple-checked gear and prepped for battle. Gage reviewed the mission. Tonight’s landing zone was the size of a driveway—just small enough to make things interesting. He visualized the layout of the vessel they planned to fast-rope onto in a matter of minutes. The
Eclipse
was a handcrafted yacht, custom built in Maine
specifically for this voyage—which had gone horribly wrong when Somali pirates seized the boat. Less than three hours after capturing the yacht, the pirates had used a satellite phone to call in an eight-figure ransom demand.

Gage pictured the captain, a man he was tasked with rescuing: fifty-two-year-old Brad Mason of Sunnyvale, California. The billionaire software mogul fancied himself an adventurer. According to the intel Gage’s team had received, Mason was some kind of computer genius, who had made billions with his software company before taking a year off to sail around the globe with his family.

Gage didn’t doubt that a man who’d made a freaking billion dollars off something he’d invented was smart. But his genius didn’t extend to tactical matters, apparently, because the guy had put up a Facebook page that included weekly updates about his journey and details of his route, making him a prime target for the brazen and surprisingly high-tech pirates who roamed the seas just north of here. Not so smart, in Gage’s humble opinion. But dumb-ass moves aside, the guy was an American citizen under attack on the high seas, and the SEALs had been ordered to get him out of harm’s way.

Along with his daughter.

Gage pictured Avery Mason, seventeen, who’d taken a year off from high school to go along on the expedition. A copy of her varsity soccer photo had been passed around the briefing room a few hours ago. Avery was a blue-eyed, freckle-faced brunette, and one look at her had set the entire SEAL team’s mood to extra grim.

Conspicuously absent from the rescue list was forty-eight-year-old Catherine Mason, who had been shot
and thrown overboard yesterday, after the pirates’ first deadline passed without a ransom drop. Mason’s extended family had been allotted twenty-four more hours—of which three remained—to come up with the ransom, or else Avery would die.

No one doubted the pirates would make good on their threat. That was the bad news. The good news was, the seven Somalis on the yacht were lightly armed—only a half dozen AKs and some handguns among them, according to the intel the SEALs had received.

The helicopter swooped lower. Sweat trickled beneath Gage’s flak jacket as he contemplated the battle plan. The sweat was from heat, not fear. After eight years in the teams, there wasn’t much that rattled him anymore. Years of dodging bullets and IEDs and operating behind enemy lines had taught Gage to be cool under pressure, to take what life threw at him—be it bombs or bullets. And whatever shit came down, he and his team would deal with it, get the mission done, and get out, because failure was not an option.

Not usually.

A vision of Kelsey flashed through his mind, and Gage wondered where she was tonight. He shouldn’t think about her now. But even as he commanded himself to focus, he was wishing for one more moment to tell her . . . what? There was nothing left to say. And yet before every single op, he felt a burning need to talk to her.

“Two minutes.”

His CO’s voice snapped him back to the task at hand. Joe Quinn sounded calm, resolute—the way he always did before an operation. There was a determination
about him that steeled his team, no matter what the risks in front of them. Just the tone of his voice reminded them of the SEAL creed, which went with them everywhere.

If knocked down, I will get back up, every time. I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength to protect my teammates and accomplish our mission. I am never out of the fight.

On the horizon, the faint flicker of the target vessel. The helo dipped lower. As they neared it, the boat was just a lone white speck in the darkness. The pirates had switched off almost all the lights and kept belowdecks so as not to make themselves easy targets. Even the pirates on the mother vessel—a dilapidated shrimping boat being used as a communications headquarters—had kept a low profile. The Somalis had learned their lesson, apparently, when SEAL snipers had taken some of their comrades out a few years back.

“It’s go time.”

Quinn’s words sent a jolt of adrenaline through him. Gage ditched his headset, stood up. Beside him, Derek Vaughn did the same. As the two largest men of Alpha Squad, Gage and the Texan would be working in tandem to get the hostages off the yacht and onto an inflatable boat that would take them to the destroyer that had been lurking nearby since the early hours of the crisis.

“Aces, man,” Derek said over the din, his usual way of wishing Gage luck. Behind him, Mike Dietz slapped him on the back, while Gage traded insults with Luke Jones—another routine. SEALs were a superstitious bunch.

And that was it. They’d trained. They’d practiced. They were ready.

The door opened and the noise increased, making it difficult to communicate except by hand signal. The first man kicked the rope out. One by one, the commandos disappeared into the night. The pilot struggled not to suddenly gain altitude each time a three-hundred-pound load of man plus gear came off the rope. Gage waited for his cue, gripping the thick nylon in his gloved hands. Quinn signaled
go
. Gabe jumped out and slid down so fast that his gloves smoked.

The boat came alive with lights. Flashes of muzzle fire as one of the pirates hosed down the squad. Derek took out the shooter just as a bullet zinged past Gage’s ear.

“Go, go, go!”

Gage’s boots hit the deck. He sprinted for the hatch and slid down the ladder, planting a brutal kick in the face of a man at the base. The man went down like a stone, but he looked unarmed, and Gage swiftly zipcuffed him as Derek leaped over them and kicked open the forward cabin.

“Cabin one clear!” Derek shouted.

Weapon raised, Gage kicked open one of the aft cabins. Pitch dark. He switched on the light attached to his helmet. On the bottom bunk was a bloodied man whose face was a nearly unrecognizable pulp. Looked like Brad Mason had been beaten with the butt of a machine gun.

“Hostage one secured,” Gage said into his radio, as Mike—the team corpsman—quickly moved to check his pulse. Despite the thunder of boots and the
rat-tat-tat
of gunfire up on deck, the hostage hadn’t moved.

“Alive,” Mike announced, but Gage was already
kicking open the second aft cabin. He aimed his M-4 into the dimly lit space.

Empty bunk.

A low moan, and Gage turned his attention to a lump in the corner. Someone was curled in a fetal position. Gage crouched beside her and used his free hand to lift her face. Avery Mason’s blue eyes drifted shut and her head lolled back.

“Hostage two secured,” Gage reported. Her hair was matted with blood. He noted the blood on her shorts and thighs.

“Sitrep on the hostages,” Quinn demanded over the radio.

“Alive, but injured. Girl’s got a gash on her head and I think she’s been drugged. Scratch the boat evac. We need the helo back here.”

“Yo, Brewer, up and out.”

He glanced up to see Derek in the doorway with Mason slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Gage scooped up the girl and positioned her limp body over his left shoulder. He moved for the ladder just as a man burst out from one of the cabinets.

Pop!

Pain tore through Gage’s shoulder as he squeezed the trigger. The man dropped. Luke lunged around the corner and put a bullet in his chest, just to be sure.

Gage managed to hang on to his gun as he grabbed the rail with his free hand and hoisted himself up the ladder. On deck he did a quick head count. Three pirates dead, four cuffed—plus one casualty below.

Cursing their crappy intel, Gage eased Avery Mason
onto the deck beside Mike, who was briskly bandaging her father’s leg injury.

“Knife?” Gage asked, looking at the nasty wound.

“We need that helo.” Mike glanced up at him. “Shit, you’re hit.”

Gage looked at the patch of blood that was rapidly expanding on his right shoulder. Derek yelled something at him, but it was drowned out by the
whump-whump
of the approaching chopper. The rescue basket dangled from the hole.

Suddenly the helo lurched right, then left, doing evasive maneuvers. Gage swung around to face the shrimp boat, which was a dim shadow on the now-gray horizon.

“A fucking stinger!” Derek shouted.

Gage’s pulse spiked as a trail of fire arced up from the distant boat. All eyes turned skyward as the pilot shot off tracers to fool the heat-seeking missile, but it was too late. The tail rotar exploded. The helo tipped sideways and cartwheeled into the water with a giant splash.

“Joe!”
Gage dropped his gun and ripped off his flak jacket. His teammates frantically did the same. Water rained down as Gage sprinted across the deck and dove off the boat.

The ocean hit him with an icy slap.

The Philippines
Twenty-four hours later

Kelsey Quinn kneeled on the ground, tapping the sifting screen until the dirt disappeared and the tiny plastic object came into view.

“What is it?” Aaron asked over her shoulder.

Kelsey glanced up at her field assistant, who towered over the four Filipinos clustered around him.

“Tagapayapa,”
a woman muttered in Tagalog.

“What?” Aaron looked at her with puzzlement.

“Pacifier.” Kelsey pulled an evidence bag from one of the pockets of her cargo pants and labeled it with a permanent marker. She dropped the pacifier inside and darted a concerned glance at the Filipino anthropologist whose face held a mix of sorrow and resignation.

The woman held out a slender brown hand. “May I?”

Kelsey gave her the bag and watched as she squared her petite shoulders and trekked across the campsite to the intake tent, where this latest bit of evidence would be labeled properly and entered into the computer. Kelsey sighed. As a forensic anthropologist, she had traveled the world unearthing tragedy, and it amazed her how the people who had seen the most suffering always seemed to have the capacity to deal with more.

Kelsey got to her feet and dusted off her kneepads. Her legs and shoulders ached from being on screen duty all morning.

“Ready for a break?” Aaron asked.

“Think I’ll wait till noon.” She checked her watch and realized her mental clock was about two hours behind.

“You’re doing it again, doc.” Aaron passed her his water bottle and watched reproachfully as she took a gulp.

“Can’t be helped.” Kelsey handed the bottle back and repositioned her San Diego Padres cap on her head. “We’ve only got five days left. There’s no way we’ll finish
the second gravesite in that amount of time. What’d you hear about those klieg lights?”