1
Ready Room, NAB Coronado, San Diego, California
Goatfuck was the operative word as Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham took his seat alongside his teammates. Max “Mad Max” Keegan had just returned from leave and everyone was buzzing about the big man getting engaged to Dr. Renata Cavalcante, the woman who had saved his and their K9 Juggernaut’s lives during the aforementioned goatfuck.
That was the good news.
The bad news?
Their Lieutenant Ford “Fast Lane” Nixon, on the other hand, was dealing with a lot of fallout from the brass about letting terrorist Muhammad Angar Said escape. Fast Lane had told them in the past that he was the one who took the heat, so his guys didn’t have to. But, bollocks, it was still a cock-up. They were all in this together as far as he was concerned.
It didn’t help that there were several factors that contributed to the hastily contrived plan that had broken up their team and sent them in different directions to rescue their missing teammate and stop the Paraguayan government from releasing Angar Said. They’d only accomplished one of those things.
Now here they were, assembled in the ready room, waiting for either an ass-chewing or a mission to right the previous goatfuck into a win.
Dodger was expecting it may be a bit of both. The brass had to take their LT’s strong record into account. Fast Lane had led them through many successful missions. The only other blot on his record was when the team had been ambushed at the hands of the Kirikhanistan Rebels, who’d captured Fast Lane, Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine, and their deceased member Justin “Speed” Myerson.
“So, did you get down on one knee?” Pitbull asked, and Max smiled softly. The change in his teammate from the hotheaded, anger-first guy was miraculous. Mad Max just might have to find a new moniker. Of course, he was still a bit crazy, so maybe the name still fit.
“Bollocks to that. Max probably hit her over the head, dragged her into a cave by her hair, and said, ‘You marry Max.’ I’m sure there were several grunts and growls in there somewhere,” Dodger said.
The table erupted into laughter and Max narrowed his eyes at Dodger. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t so reformed.
Dodger grinned.
“It beats what you do, Dodger,” Max said.
“Slip out the back door?” Ryuu “Dragon” Shannon offered.
“I heard he once climbed out a window,” Pitbull said.
“You’re only in trouble if you get caught,” Dodger said, working at not letting his teammates’ opinions of his love life affect him. They had no idea what he’d been through, so the wankers could have their fun. Dodger would dodge that, too. It was also clear that Max was still unwilling to let Dodger anywhere near Anna. Not that Dodger was dwelling on that. He wasn’t. Just because he thought about her every waking moment didn’t mean he was caught up on her. He was just wondering what he’d missed out on. Max was smart to be vigilant. Dodger would do to Anna what he did to every woman he met. Sex, then escape. He often kept his conquests to Frog Hogs. All they were after was sex with a SEAL. It made for a mutually good time without any explanations or follow-up conversations where he had to hurt the woman’s feelings.
When he looked down the length of the table, everyone was fully engaged, even Fast Lane.
But his teammate Neo “2-Stroke” Teller was completely checked out like he was lost to his thoughts. He had a small notebook in his hands, and he was absorbed in it.
Dodger had seen glimpses of the notebook before. It was nondescript and could be something he was writing in. Maybe he kept a journal and that helped him during ops. Unknown to the guys and something Dodger kept to himself was that 2-Stroke was sensitive. He was a badass warrior, there was no doubt about it, but he was wise in a way that set him apart from the other teammates and made him seem older than his almost twenty-three years.
When the door opened, the laughing and ribbing ceased. 2-Stroke looked up abruptly and caught Dodger staring at him. He closed the notebook and set it on the table. Then he looked toward the door, and his face went white. It took a lot for a SEAL to react in shock. But that was shock Dodger saw on 2-Stroke’s face.
Two women entered. One Dodger knew—blonde, coldly beautiful Kelly Sparks, their CIA liaison, who’d been with the team for about six months—but the other was a stranger, a gorgeous, ethereal woman with waist-length pale gray hair and striking otherworldly amber eyes almost like those of a werewolf. She was a tall pale-skin stunner in a brilliantly toned compact body, dressed in a simple black T-shirt with the words “Woman Up” across the front and simple black pants tucked into a pair of stylized military boots. Definitely not an analyst. This woman was a field agent.
They were followed by the big brass. Kelly and the unknown woman moved to the front of the room, and the big brass took a seat in the chairs against the wall.
Dodger glanced at 2-Stroke, and he and the woman locked eyes. Recognition flared in the woman’s, but just barely. She was a cheeky customer.
Dodger was more than intrigued. 2-Stroke was a private guy, and not many on the team knew a whole lot about him. He never talked about his family, ever, not even in passing. He also never talked about his childhood, other than the fact that he entered BUD/S right out of high school at eighteen.
“Hello, guys,” Kelly said with a tight smile. They weren’t the only ones looking like they had a bad morning. “This is DEA Agent Chrysanthe Steele.” Kelly pronounced the agent’s first name as Cree-san-thee. She picked up the clicker on the table and pulled up a slide of a city.
“This is Prague, capital and largest city in the Czech Republic. It’s a popular tourist destination, a cultural center, and the seat of the government. But this perfect postcard capital is also very popular with Balkan organized crime groups, namely Darko Stjepanić.” She pronounced it as Stepponitch and put up a picture of a darkly attractive, well-dressed man. “He’s the boss of the Stjepanić crime family. He’s established several companies in Prague, a favorite logistics hub for drug smuggling. They also participate in murder-for-hire, gambling, and money laundering.” She turned to look at her colleague. “Chry?”
“Besides the narcotics business, the groups use Czech territory for setting up companies,” Chry said. Her voice was as gorgeous as she was, smooth and melodious. “The crime groups, including Stjepanić, use the Czech Republic as a logistical base because their members can easily obtain residence by establishing a company. That company can be dormant for many years without the threat of any penalty, so it often serves as a smokescreen for actual activities or as an inconspicuous address for delivery. There’s a nice language similarity, and these groups prefer the country’s central location, which offers quality air and highway connections to the Balkans as well as the European Union.” She paused and clicked up another slide with a burned-out car on a residential street.
“The DEA has targeted this group for smuggling millions of doses of the club drug Ecstasy from Europe to the United States, namely LA. Working with the Czech police to bring the whole thing down, we stumbled across something of significance to the CIA.”
Kelly nodded and Chry continued, “This scorched hulk of metal was the vehicle of a Prague government liquidator, Jan Bakker. He was murdered with a car bomb. Because we had this particular company on our radar, we realized that Stjepanić was our number one suspect. We were able to get an undercover agent into his organization. He overheard a conversation between Stjepanić and Muhammad Angar Said’s agent about a heroin shipment. Not uncommon because a multi-million-dollar drug shipment goes through the Czech Republic into Germany just about every week. It appears that your number one HVT terrorist is in business with Stjepanić. Not only that, but the person who is handling the finances for Stjepanić is also handling them for Angar Said.”