Hollywood: SEAL Team Alpha Read online

  Hollywood

  SEAL Team Alpha

  Zoe Dawson

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  About the Author

  OTHER TITLES BY ZOE DAWSON

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my beta readers, reviewers and editor for helping with this book. As always, you guys are the best.

  To all the homeless vets who need to find their way home.

  It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.

  e.e. cummings

  1

  San Diego, California

  Willow Blackmoon often frequented bars. She knew almost every single one in San Diego. She called the bartenders by name, knew several of the regulars and their drinks.

  She knew them because she was often searching for a man.

  One particular man.

  When she walked into the All In Bar and Grille, she looked anxiously around. She was beginning to get very worried. She’d already been to all his haunts. But this was a SEAL hangout, and her dad always came back to them one way or another.

  Then every muscle in her body relaxed as he came out of the men’s room and slid back onto the stool in front of the bar. He looked right past her, and it was the same old thing. Out of sight, out of mind. She might be his daughter, but she was forgettable.

  She steeled herself and walked up to him as he brought the shot glass to his lips and threw back the amber liquid, his jaw clenching as the whiskey burned all the way down to his gut. He turned to look at her, and she could tell he wasn’t quite drunk enough to forget. She just wasn’t sure what—or better yet, who—he was trying to forget: his wife or his team.

  When he reached for the next shot, she set her hand against his wrist. His eyes narrowed, and she whispered. “Last call.”

  He grimaced as she removed her hand, the sound of her voice a painful rasp. “Ah, Willow. You have a way of ripping out my heart.”

  Little did he know. He did the same thing to her on a daily basis.

  “Come on, Dad. It’s time to get cleaned up, sleep in a bed. You promised.”

  He nodded, rising, unsteady on his feet. “Girl. Let me go,” he said, a growl with affection underlining his anger.

  Tears pressed on the backs of her eyes. She’d lost him so long ago, and even though he’d come back, he wasn’t really back.

  Willow slipped her shoulder under his arm as the bartender, Steve, shot her a look full of sympathy and an offer of help.

  “I’ve got him,” she said softly, and Steve nodded.

  She caught her dad and steadied him when he wobbled. Outside, she assisted him toward the passenger side of her SUV. He balked and backed up as if he’d seen a horrifying vision.

  “Dad, no,” she said firmly, gripping him tighter and pulling him toward the vehicle. Without letting go of him, she pulled open the door and said in the same tone of voice, “Get in.”

  He growled, but she shoved him inside and closed the door, hurrying to the other side. Inside the vehicle, the smell of him was more pronounced than it had been at the bar. He slept more on the streets than he did in the shelter. He probably hadn’t changed his clothes since the last time she’d forced him home—three weeks ago. It was their deal.

  Willow opened her window and started the engine. When he made no move to buckle himself in, she reached over and slid the belt over his chest and waist, snapping it in place with an irritated sigh. Sometimes he acted like a toddler.

  She drove home to the house where she’d been born, a beautiful Victorian with a wraparound porch, featuring gingerbread cutouts and spindle work. The roof, with fish-scale shingles on the sloping planes, included a coned tower, and below it several large rooms connected by a spiral staircase. Willow had whimsically named them, the Rose, the Rapunzel and the Éowyn. Three stories of fairy-tale beauty; three princesses, the top floor where she had her studio, sporting attic dormers and turrets. She loved every pane of stained glass, balcony, ornate stairways and detailed interior trim.

  It was her castle.

  She parked in the driveway and rushed around to the other side to open his door. But her dad didn’t move as he looked at the house, his eyes misting over and his face dropping. Of course, every time he came here, it reminded him of her mother.

  “Dad,” she said softly. “Come on.” She was on a short timeline. She had shifts out the wazoo, and she needed him to cooperate.

  “I want to go back.” The stubborn tilt to his chin reminded her of her own when she also dug in her heels. She didn’t have to wonder where she got it from.

  Willow set her hands on her hips. “No. You’re going in the house. You’re getting a hot shower and some clean clothes. You’re going to eat what I prepare, and you’re going to freaking like it. Now move!”

  He huffed out of the SUV and stomped unevenly to the house. She slammed the car door and locked it. Rushing toward the staircase, she took two at a time to beat him to the door. She just barely got it open before he stormed through and let the screen door slam in her face.

  “Dad!”

  He didn’t stop. Just plodded up the stairs. She went inside, reminding herself that she needed to water the flowers that grew in abundance all over the porch, steps and in and around her home, including the most gorgeous bougainvillea that had been growing for as long as she could remember.

  She followed him up the stairs and saw him standing outside the bathroom. She went into his room and got pajama bottoms and his well-worn, favorite T-shirt that had Navy on it in white letters. With the clothing in her arms, she walked back out to find him still in the hallway. She pushed open the bathroom door, put her hand in the middle of his back and guided him inside.

  His body was rigid and uncooperative.

  “Dad, I’ll strip you naked myself if you don’t get going.”

  He made a soft sound of disgust and shrugged out of the coat. She grabbed a garbage bag that she had set on the back of the toilet for just this occasion.

  “You are pushier than a damn drill sergeant.” He glared at her.

  “Are you trying to flatter me?”

  “When did you turn into such a shrew?”

  That stung, and she took a moment to keep the pain of his words from surfacing. She picked up the filthy, reeking coat and stuffed it inside, along with everything he shed, including his belt. She was good at it. “About the same time you decided to drink yourself to death.”

  He reared back as if he’d been struck, and she immediately wanted her words back.

  “Dad, I’m—”

  “Give me some privacy and some peace.” He huffed out another heated, angry breath.

  Sorry. She was so, so sorry. She wished nothing for him but peace. If only he could find it. She turned her back and stayed that way until she heard the shower curtain rustle. “Use soap, Dad.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Alice.”

  There was a wry cant to his words. She took a big breath and exhaled, trying to get rid of all the pain, regret and sorrow trapped in her chest. He’d been calling her Alice since she was a little girl. She figured it had to do with her dreamy ways as if she was always in Wonderland. He’d never said, and she’d never asked.
/>   After emptying the pockets, Willow took his clothes straight to the garbage bin, tossing the bag inside. Back in the house, she headed upstairs. Inside his bedroom, she grabbed up a razor, hair clippers and a comb. The shower shut off, and after a few moments, she went inside. The room was filled with a heated mist, and it wafted out along with the woodsy smell of his soap. She loved that scent.

  A towel around his lean waist, he sat on the commode as she combed out his hair, took off the excess length and buzzed the clippers over his scalp, removing the bulk of his salt-and-pepper hair.

  She ran water into the sink and foamed his face with shaving cream, shaving him carefully and closely. He looked more and more like her Navy SEAL dad, his piercing blue eyes bright in his grizzled face.

  “Get dressed, and I’ll make you something to eat.”

  “Yes, Sergeant—”

  “Dad.”

  “All right, kiddo.”

  She left, closing the door behind her. Down in the kitchen, she scrambled eggs, adding mozzarella and parmesan just like he loved it, fried bacon to a crisp and slightly burned the toast. She poured him a cup of coffee.

  Her dad appeared looking almost human, but the fatigue weighed on him. She knew he didn’t sleep well and slept even worse on the streets, too hypervigilant to rest properly, the nightmares catching up to him in the dark. She was also prepared for that. He sat at the round kitchen table after he pulled open the French doors. Cool air wafted in, and she shivered.

  Willow grabbed an old, clean, but ratty sweater from the back of his chair and held it while he slipped it on. She set his plate and cup down, along with silverware and a napkin.

  He looked at the food and dug in like he was starving.

  She ducked into the laundry room, grabbed a red hoodie and pulled it over her head. She squeezed her eyes closed to keep the tears at bay, took a breath and bucked up. Back in the kitchen, she cleaned up and then took up his empty plate, cup and dirty utensils.

  Her dad left the room without a word, but she followed him up the stairs. He walked into his room, refusing the master where he had slept with his wife, her mother, Joann. It was a cheerful room with a rocking chair near the stained wood frame of the window that overlooked the backyard. Colorful handwoven rugs covered the glossy hardwood floor, the patchwork quilt on the bed in red and blue matching and adding to the cozy feel.

  Willow walked to the bed, pulling down the covers, and he slipped beneath them. She handed him a glass of water and two pills. One was for the potential hangover, the other one was to help him sleep.

  “Sleep well, Dad,” she said, but he didn’t respond. He turned over, giving her his back.

  She left the room and went up to her studio, her ears pricked for any sounds of him trying to leave the house. She loved taking pictures and painting as much as her mom had loved painting. She’d been lost in it for hours, and it was what Willow remembered most about her mom—like her dad, she may have been home, but she was just as absent. Her mom had been a world-renowned landscape artist, and the income from the sales of her paintings had paid for the house free and clear. It would have easily paid for her dad’s rehab if he would only agree to go.

  After about an hour and a half, a horrifying shout broke the stillness. She jumped up from the photos she’d been fooling with and rushed down the steps to his room.

  He was sitting up in bed and screaming. When she shook his shoulders, he fought her.

  She kept yelling. “It’s me, Dad. Willow. It’s Willow. I love you. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Finally, he snapped out of it, and a soft sob caught in his throat. He sat there so stiff all she could do was wrap her arms around him.

  “I love you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

  “I know,” he whispered back, his voice laced with pain and regret.

  He lay back down. She waited until his breathing was normal, but instead of going back to her hobby, she settled into the rocker and pulled the soft wool throw over her. She rocked and watched her father sleep, her heart breaking just a little bit more.

  Her dad was still trapped in the war that had broken him. His whole team had been ambushed and killed. He’d never stopped blaming himself, and she feared that he would go to his grave with that terrible burden hanging over him.

  Tears welled up and slipped silently down her cheeks. Maybe she would have to accept that she had lost him. But had she really? Had she ever really had him with his long deployments and his absences that stretched into months on end?

  There had been a time when he’d been her hero. Her decorated, courageous warrior dad.

  But that was before he’d been ripped into pieces. Pieces he was still trying to find, assemble into a whole that he couldn’t seem to see anymore.

  Willow prayed it wasn’t too late, that he would find the one piece he never wanted to lose.

  Her.

  * * *

  Twenty thousand feet over Azerbaijan

  Jude “Hollywood” Lock adjusted his oxygen mask against his face. He was used to jumping out of all different types of aircraft, but flying in an advanced Super Hornet F/A-18F in a foreign country on a classified mission to hunt a terrorist was a new one for him. The “advanced” part of the jet included reduced radar signature, aiding in its ability to keep hidden in the sky. He was only one of the few people in all the world who knew what Rasim Jamal looked like. It had been suggested by the Pentagon that risking a Navy pilot and SEAL was a waste of resources and a drone could do the job, but the terrain of Azerbaijan prohibited the use of the limited flight unmanned aircraft.

  He was flying fast which kept him a moving target up here in the wild blue yonder and, when his feet were planted on terra firma, much harder to hit or hurt.

  Hollywood was using an advanced long-range camera to scan encampments thousands of feet below them. He studied the small screen as Lieutenant Ryan “Raptor” Johnson piloted the thirty-two-thousand-pound jet.

  “How goes it back there, froggie?” Johnson said over the radio. “Any luck?”

  “Nothing yet, flyboy,” Hollywood said with a smile. Then he caught something interesting below them. “Hey, Raptor, can you bring us around again? Get lower? I need a better look.”

  The plane immediately banked, leveled out, and banked again.

  “We’re coming up on the coordinates.” Hollywood studied the screen and took rapid pictures.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Yeah, and something else very interesting the brass isn’t going to like. There won’t be any kind of air strike at this guy.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know how there was talk of stashes of biological weapons that were supposed to be destroyed after the Cold War?”

  “Holy hell.”

  “Yeah, Jamal is camping on a shitload of canisters. It appears they’re already moving them offsite.” There were also two other men Hollywood recognized, and these guys were annoying as hell. The SEALs had been after them for months after they had purchased the last remaining warhead. They had dubbed them Bill and Ted from the movie. It was as if these guys had a sixth sense of when the SEALs and CIA were closing in on them. They often just vanished from wherever it was they were supposed to be. As if they had some kind of time machine—excellent adventures indeed. Hollywood believed it was nothing but dumb luck.

  Collectively, they had no idea what these Americans were doing all over the globe or what they were after. The warhead was still missing, and the rumors were all about an attack on U.S. soil. Now Homeland was getting involved and the NSA, but even with the extra resources, these two airheads were making them all look like idiots.

  “You got the intel?”

  “Yeah, I can send it through the system.”

  Hollywood reached for the instrument, but the plane rocked, and Johnson shouted over the radio, “Hold on.”

  Hollywood’s head slammed into the back of the seat, and Johnson pulled some major Gs as the plane slanted into a climb. That pretty mu
ch turned him from two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and sinew into the weight of a Mack truck.

  The pressure of the ascent held Hollywood immobile, and he had no idea what had happened. He just did the required G-induced loss of consciousness breathing as he’d been trained to do. G-LOC notwithstanding, he almost blacked out, definitely went gray there for a few moments. As the jet leveled out, Hollywood’s head cleared as blood circulation returned. A thump and a loud explosion sent a punch of adrenaline drop loading into his system.

  “Flock of birds,” Johnson shouted.

  Hollywood’s gut clenched hard as the aircraft rolled to the right. Then it went upside down, right side up, upside down again. The jet righted itself then started to climb again, slowing down. Hollywood didn’t know a whole hell of a lot about planes, but he knew this simple fact: a blown engine unbalanced the jet. At low airspeed, the plane would pitch over and start heading down. That was called a nosedive, and it wasn’t going to be good for either of them. He wrestled with a zipper on his flight suit, pulled out his cell and transferred the data from the stealth computer to his phone.

  There was an odd sensation, and then it was as if the plane was falling out from beneath him. He quickly tucked the phone into the zippered pocket and closed it up as Johnson yelled, “Bail out! Bail out! Bail out!”

  It was Hollywood’s cue to eject. He activated the auxiliary oxygen to give him enough air to breathe during the ejection.

  The first thing that went through his mind was position, position, position. It was imperative to be upright. The amount of force to send him out of the cockpit and the velocity of the wind were enough to rip his limbs from his body. Bad positioning could also break his back. He grabbed the handles on either side of the seat and pulled.