“For the simple reason that you lose control. I don’t like losing control. Besides, the Navy has low tolerance for alcohol-related infractions, and I never wanted to jeopardize my time in not only the Navy, but the SEALs.”
“Is that the only reason?”
2-Stroke uncapped the water and drained the contents, then pulled out his notebook, turning it over in his hands. “No.” He released a hard breath. “My father was an ugly drunk.”
Dodger didn’t comment, just watched him spin that notebook. But 2-Stroke didn’t say anything else. They sat there for a few minutes, then he rose and said, “Sorry. It’s just personal.”
“Sorry for invading your privacy,” Dodger said, trying to be contrite.
2-Stroke smirked and shook his head. “No, you’re not, you nosy bastard.” He walked away.
Dodger finished off his beer, ate a bit, and turned in.
2-Stroke’s past came back to haunt him twice today.
It was the anniversary of the act that had liberated him from a nightmare. He knew he should have regrets about it. Everything had been documented and sealed up in a juvenile record, never to be seen by anyone’s eyes.
The only people who had seen what he’d done would never say a word. Yet the secret haunted him, not necessarily the act, although there was some anger and pain associated with it.
2-Stroke realized that his formative years, the ones he’d spent with his gentle and sweet mother, had set the foundations for the man and the SEAL he was now.
Violence had defined his life—he’d lived in a violent LA neighborhood where his father was part of a violent and aggressive biker gang, spewing hatred. He was even conceived in violence. It was no wonder he made it his living.
But he learned in BUD/S that SEALs weren’t about violence. They were about defending the weak and exacting justice. He’d been unable to save his younger brother Riley from his father’s anger, which only reinforced his need to protect others. He didn’t matter. Only the people behind his shield counted. Being a SEAL grounded him, gave him the brotherhood and a way to express everything he was.
A lot of kids in high school, ones who didn’t know his situation, thought it was cool that he had a father in the Black Hearts—racing motorcycles, riding wheelies, and just being badass with a bunch of hellraisers. They had no idea what kind of black heart the man had or how hard it was for 2-Stroke to fit into a motorcycle club. His strong dislike of bullies and sadists started young with many bloody lips and skinned knuckles, but also the determination to stand up to people to protect those weaker than him came second nature.
He’d toed the line after his act of deliverance to keep the peace and his home. But when he’d seen a documentary on SEALs, he became obsessed. This job would allow him to expend all the energy inside him, sat in perfect alignment with his attitudes and principles, and defined him as the man he wanted to be and the warrior that was buried inside him. After that, his only goal in life was to get to BUD/S.
Mission accomplished.
So, there were times when his past came back to haunt him. Sometimes in his nightmares, sometimes with a date on the calendar, and sometimes in a seriously beautiful and badass package.
Chrysanthe Steele. He’d known her growing up. She’d lived with her grandmother, Jessica Steele, or as she was known to the kids she helped, Granny Steele. She took in strays and street kids and nurtured them, put a roof over their heads, and gave them the stability to find their way in life. There was a side business that was illegal, but it put bread on the table and supported a houseful of children. He didn’t condone it or judge. But as far as he knew, Chry’s grandmother was now out of that business. She was currently raising money for a charity that helped at-risk youth.
He and Chry had been close friends, until they were something else in his mind. But with him planning to move away, join the Navy, and travel the world, he never let her know how he felt. In her mind, they were still just friends.
He climbed into his hammock and pulled out his sketchpad. He’d always been able to draw for as long as he could remember. The details and the way a subject came into focus soothed him when he got emotional. From memory, he started on a new portrait of Chry.
It was interesting that she’d shown up on the anniversary of the day he’d shot and killed his father.
When Dodger walked off the plane, he was still waking up. It was early morning in Central Europe. He thought about all his contacts in this country, having spent a bit of time here for his previous employer. The one he didn’t like to think about.
They got into black SUVs and were driven to a gorgeous, well-weathered art nouveau building in the heart of downtown, where the DEA had set up their offices. The SEALs would be sleeping in bunks on the fifth floor with the ladies in their own small living quarters on the fourth, each with their own bathroom.
There was a gym in the basement along with a communal shower for the men. After they all went for a group run to clear their heads and pump up their blood, Dodger unpacked his stuff into a locker at the end of his rack, then went to chow located on the second floor. After a quick bite, he headed to the SEALs’ ready room and command station on the third floor.
Kelly and Chry were talking together at the front of the room as he entered. He sat down at the table and overheard Pitbull say, “It sucks that we only got a few weeks with our families.”
Max nodded. “Renata is starting her first day at her dad’s practice. I wish I was there to support her.”
“That girl is a rock, man. She’ll do great.”
Dodger didn’t have anyone to miss. His thoughts drifted to Anna, but he pulled them back.
“Today, we’re going to be doing some recon,” Kelly said, interrupting his thoughts. “That’s all to begin with. Get the lay of the land, map out the route we want to take, and just get acclimated to the city.”
“Let’s do this in twos,” Chry said. “We’ll all have comms.”
It was getting on three o’clock when Dodger hooked up with 2-Stroke and they walked a city that Dodger already knew well. But he went along with it. It was good to be back. He had good memories here. The nightlife was especially lively.
Two hours passed and it was time for them to head back to base. But as they approached the safe house, 2-Stroke slowed.
“Hey, do you mind if I stop in here for a bit?” 2-Stroke asked, eyeing an art store.
Dodger shrugged. “No, go ahead. I think I’ll head back to HQ.”
“Okay,” 2-Stroke said.
Dodger turned off his comm and slipped it into his pocket.
When he looked up, he stopped dead.
He knew the confident leather-clad hooker marching her way down the street in two-inch black patent-leather thigh-high boots. The shiny black leather painted-on miniskirt was skin-tight in the back, revealing the bottom curve of a fishnet-clad arse he’d know anywhere.
“Anna?” he said and started after her.
2
Anna Keegan hooking in Prague. That sentence made no sense to him at all. Nor did the see-through black tank top revealing the red lace pushup bra and some amazing cleavage or the severely pulled back, dominatrix ponytail swinging across her exposed bra. He knew her as Mad Max’s smart, sexy, gainfully employed baby sister. Not this…this mind-boggling, well-put-together, upscale prostitute.