Hollywood: SEAL Team Alpha Read online

  The canopy blew out, and immediately a hurricane of sound and wind roared and pulsed like a locomotive, whipping him in every direction. He was about to be thrust into the atmosphere with at least twenty Gs pushing and pulling at his body. The rocket attached to his seat fired, and the force of being drop-kicked shocked through his body, crushing him into the seat, trying to pull his head away and down to his lap, his chinstrap cutting into his skin.

  In that moment it felt as if time stood still, what he knew as a condition called temporal distortion, a state where the mind slows down time. Below him, he saw between his feet, the surreal and dreamlike view of the aircraft, the dark paint making it a shadow against the backdrop of the earth, its wings flat even against the sheen from the moon.

  Hollywood was jerked upright, the dreamlike state ending abruptly and violently when the parachute opened, taking his breath away.

  In the distance, the stealth aircraft gave up the ghost as it exploded into an orange, red and yellow fireball. He looked for Johnson’s parachute against the inky sky, just making it out as they slowly descended into the broken and barren landscape—deep into enemy territory.

  * * *

  Ryuu “Dragon” Shannon’s muscles tensed as he pushed up the last few inches in the bench press that on the final rep was making his muscles shake. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, focusing on Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine, his teammate above him, his big hands hovering over the bar.

  Pitbull was as broad-shouldered as Dragon, strong as an ox and as stubborn, his hair as dark, his eyes the color of almond husks. “Come on, pussy, you can do it.”

  Dragon cracked a smile, messing up a perfectly good grimace as he found that well of tenacity in him. He met Pitbull’s eyes and saw what he suspected was in his own. The dark determination to never give up. They were brothers in a legendary brotherhood that had been built from the ground up. A vow to fight a constant battle against evil, a battle to protect their nation from anything that would threaten it. Pitbull was like him—all SEALs had the same traits: a resilience to adversity, a desire to exceed limits, no matter what, and their relentless search for an edge.

  With a drawn-out grunt, he pushed hard, and Pitbull guided the bar onto the support.

  Dragon tensed his stomach muscles and rose on the bench. A woman who had walked into the gym stopped and just stared at him, the appreciation in her eyes making him grin. She blinked a couple of times, and the man next to her nudged her hard. She turned to look at him as he frowned at Dragon, who just shrugged.

  The man grabbed the woman by the arm and hustled her out of the area, but she gave him a soft smile and a longing glance as she disappeared.

  “Are you causing divorces, man?” Pitbull said.

  Dragon held up his hands, innocence plastered on his face. “I didn’t do a thing.”

  Pitbull laughed and threw a towel at Dragon, who grabbed it, and together they sat against the wall. Sweat slid off him in rivulets, soaking into his sleeveless T-shirt. The minute he relaxed, his mind went to his team. Down a member for a while now, men had come in and gone out, including Pitbull’s identical brothers, Robin and Flynn. It was obvious the big SEAL’s mom had a sense of humor when she named her boys.

  “You miss your brothers?” Dragon asked.

  Pitbull had just downed a whole bottle of water, and he nodded, leaning his head back. “Yeah, but my parents sleep better at night knowing we’re not all in the same squad.”

  “That’s something.” Dragon took a swig of his own water, something heavy on his mind. The team hadn’t been the same since Justin “Speed” Myerson had been killed after being captured by the Kirikhanistan rebels. “You ever think about him?”

  Pitbull stiffened then relaxed. “You know I do.”

  “I dream about…his kids. Telling them over and over again their dad was dead. The looks on their faces make me feel—”

  “Guilty?”

  Dragon nodded, swallowing hard. “It fractured us. You know that, right?”

  Pitbull sighed and nodded.

  “We can’t seem to get it back together.”

  “It’s the new guys. Just a learning curve. We’ll gel.”

  “We’ve run off more SEALs than we’ve kept.”

  “Okay, Debbie Downer, I’m telling you when the right guys show up, we’ll solidify.”

  “Shannon!”

  Dragon rose in one fluid movement, Pitbull climbing to his feet next to him. That was the bark of his LT, Ford “Fast Lane” Nixon, and from the sound of his voice, something was turning into a massive goat fuck. Thank God. Action. Doubts crowded up on him when things were quiet, and it led him to voice his concerns to Pitbull, who stoically responded but still silently supported him.

  He spied him at the entrance across the gym, and Dragon started over, Pitbull trailing behind. When Dragon reached his commanding officer, he said, “Aye, sir?”

  “Grab your gear, wheels up in fifteen minutes.” Fast Lane gave Pitbull a look. He never had to say dismissed.

  “Good luck, man,” Pitbull said. “Stay safe.” He exited the gym.

  “We’ll walk and talk,” Fast Lane said as Dragon followed him out of the gym. If Dragon and Pitbull were built, his LT was a freaking tank. He filled out his tan teams’ shirt with huge, broad shoulders that tapered down to a lean, trim waist, tree trunks for thighs and cannonballs in his calves and biceps. He had the bodybuilding physique without all the training. He was what most of them called “gifted.”

  He had dark, close-cropped hair, a closely trimmed beard and clipped mustache. His eyes were a steely blue, full of enough experience to keep them all well trained, enough toughness to keep them on their toes and enough skill to keep them just this side of intimidated. “Ruckus needs you in Turkey.”

  They entered the team room and Dragon went immediately to his rack. Opening the cage door, he started to strip off his gym clothes. He could only have hoped for a shower. He donned his combat shirt and pants as their specialist walked into the room to pack the rest of his gear. Dragon sat down to pull on his boots.

  Fast Lane nodded to their specialist, and she started to do her job. His LT leaned against the frame of the cage. “Kid shipped home to be with his wife, complications with her pregnancy. You’re up to replace him.”

  “Copy that.” Damn, he hoped Paige was all right. He had a soft spot for all the guys on the team. Even though he hadn’t worked much with Ashe “Kid Chaos” Wilder, the man had impressed the hell out of Dragon on the few ops they shared.

  “There’s more.”

  Dragon laced up his boot, but his head came up at the tone of his boss’s voice.

  “Hollywood and his pilot were lost somewhere over Azerbaijan. He has vital intel regarding a sought-after terrorist. You’ll be briefed when you land.”

  “Rescue mission to Azerbaijan?”

  “Yes, black, covert and classified.”

  “Aye, sir.” Dragon finished off his second boot and stood, grabbing his tac vest. He shrugged into it.

  Fast Lane stepped into Dragon’s personal space, and he said low, a growl in his voice. “I don’t want you worrying about the team or Myerson. We will be tight again once we find the guys that are meant to be on this squad.”

  Dragon’s lips parted, his eyes going wide in surprise.

  “How did you know about—”

  “I have mom-like powers. I know when you’re drinking out of the milk carton,” he said. “Shit happens, and we deal. I know what Myerson went through.”

  His LT sure did. He’d been captured, as well as Pitbull. They were both dealing with more than just Myerson’s death. Dragon wanted to say he was sorry, but the words froze in his throat.

  “Platitudes don’t get the job done. That’s what we’re about, sailor. Are you going to get the job done?”

  “Hoo-yah!” Dragon shouted, his will squeezing down into a strong, enthusiastic and unbreakable knot.

  “Stay safe and get them out of there alive. I’m counting o
n you. They are too.”

  Fast Lane’s parting words filled Dragon with that determination he’d had at the gym. He recognized it for what it was, something that SEALs had in spades.

  It was all about the brotherhood, and he’d rather die than let any of them down.

  2

  Somewhere on the ground in Azerbaijan

  Hollywood pushed to his hands and knees, the parachute tugging at his harness each time the wind picked up and blew across the hilly terrain. He could see the smudge of purple mountains in the distance, along with the lights of a hazy city, and it would only take a moment for him to pinpoint where they had landed in the country. But first he had to locate Lieutenant Johnson.

  He pushed up to his feet, giving himself a moment to get his balance back after the ejection and parachute drop. Other than his shoulders hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, he was ship shape. He pushed up the visor and unhooked the oxygen mask from the helmet. The chinstrap was wet, and he realized his chin was bleeding sluggishly, already closing up and nothing for him to worry about. He pulled off the helmet. In a motion that was nothing but muscle memory, he released the parachute but kept on the harness. It was the twin to his tactical vest and held everything he needed for survival.

  The sidearm under his armpit wasn’t going to be very effective if a truckload of terrorists found him. They would have seen the explosion, and he was certain they would send out all the troops to investigate. But that would take time. Once they found the downed stealth fighter jet, they would be looking for the pilots.

  Their best bet was to hunker down and wait for rescue. He had no doubt they would come for him and Johnson.

  His instincts hammered at him to bury the chute. But instead he rolled it up and deposited it and the helmet under a tree. Once he found the jet’s pilot, he would bury both chutes.

  He reached into one of his vest pockets and pulled out the compass then moved in a circle, noting where he’d seen the lieutenant’s chute. It had been against the mountain range. That would put him toward the west. He started walking, scanning not only for Johnson but for hostiles or civilians. They couldn’t be detected by anyone.

  It wasn’t long before he saw a billowing chute and the still form of a body. He broke into a jog and knelt next to Johnson. He pressed against his carotid and breathed a sigh when he felt a strong, steady pulse.

  Hollywood unhooked the oxygen mask and released the chinstrap, careful with Johnson’s head. Johnson groaned. Another good sign.

  “I’m awake,” Johnson croaked.

  When Johnson went to rise, Hollywood said, “Take a moment, flyboy. Anything broken?”

  Johnson paused, taking stock of his body. He moved his legs and arms without any problem. “Other than a few scrapes and bruises, I think I’m okay.” He rose into a sitting position and stared off into the distance. “Damn, I hate losing a plane. Flock of birds came out of nowhere.” Then as if he remembered why they had been flying over Azerbaijan, he said, “Tell me you got that data downloaded and sent.”

  “Nope,” Hollywood said, patting his vest and his cell beneath in that secure pocket of his suit. “But I saved it to my cell phone.”

  “Good job. Any signal out here?”

  Hollywood unzipped and pulled out the phone. He turned it on and lifted it, looking hopefully at the bars, but there was no movement to show him he had active service. “We’re out of luck.”

  “We could walk toward the lights to see if we can pick up a tower.”

  “With all due respect, sir. Hell no. They’re going to be looking for us. Best if we find a place to hide. My team will be coming for us. The data is only as safe as we are.”

  “Copy that.”

  Hollywood helped him up, and Johnson gathered up his chute and helmet, walking back to where Hollywood had stashed his gear. Together they buried the evidence that they were ever here.

  “It’s going to be light soon. We better find a place to lay low,” Hollywood said.

  “Do you know where we are?” Johnson asked.

  “Those mountains in the distance are the Lesser Caucasus, which puts us smack in the center of the country. That city is Ganja, second largest.”

  Johnson nodded, and they took off, climbing up into the tree line. It wasn’t long before they found a rock formation that offered an excellent depression in the ground where they both could fit somewhat comfortably and was near a source of water. Hollywood grabbed up armfuls of leaves, and they buried themselves inside.

  Not a moment too soon. The sound of a powerful helo buzzed in the distance, the blades getting louder as it roared over where they were concealed. Then the sound of the threat faded away.

  After power bars and water, they both fell asleep.

  Hollywood jerked awake to the sounds of men speaking Azerbaijani. He crawled quietly to the edge of their hiding spot and peered through the heavy foliage. Troops dressed in military uniforms and carrying submachine guns searched the area, weaving through the trees.

  It wouldn’t be long before they got to where he and Johnson were. He thought about burying his cell phone but would only do that as a last resort.

  “They’re getting closer,” Johnson whispered from behind him, sidearm in his hand. “You ever been captured?”

  Hollywood grinned and turned to look at him. “Several times. They always came for me, and they’re coming now.” He scanned the area but couldn’t detect anything. “They could already be here.”

  “I’m not used to that kind of faith,” Johnson said. “If I get shot down, I have to survive and hope they’ll come after me.”

  Hollywood turned to look at him. “I guarantee you, Johnson. You get caught behind enemy lines again, I’ll come for you myself. Have faith in that.”

  “HUA,” Johnson said.

  “Hoo-yah,” Hollywood responded.

  His shoulders tense, he returned his attention to the terrorists who started to move away. Then one overachiever looked up the slope and broke away from the rest of the group, who headed back to the transports.

  One man, Hollywood could take care of, but he was hoping the guy just went back to his buddies. If he went missing, they would be back out here looking for him. Hollywood didn’t want to stray too far from the crash site. Tactical Operations would have already calculated wind and position of the jet before it winked out. Rescue would be looking in this area for sure.

  Hollywood’s hopes were dashed as the guy kept coming. He watched the ground as he moved along, making a beeline right to them. The guy got stars for initiative, but he wasn’t going to survive the encounter.

  He stopped and crouched down. Hollywood swore under his breath, and the tension in his body went on full alert.

  “What do you want to do?” Johnson asked.

  “Wait it out.”

  Johnson chuckled low. “No legendary ninja skills?”

  “No.” He moved his tac knife out of its sheath and turned to Johnson. “I’ve got them. Just have to make sure to strike so he doesn’t use that rifle. It’ll be all over. Patience, grasshopper.”

  “The next time I get stuck behind enemy lines, can you be my co-pilot?”

  Hollywood chuckled then went dead serious as the guy peered right at their makeshift cover. “Shit’s getting real,” he said and inched back. At the back of the hideaway, he lifted the brush and said, “Stay put.” He pulled the phone out of his flight suit pocket. “They probably have no clue there are two of us. If this goes south, don’t try to be a hero. Bury this if they find you. Otherwise, my team will be here.”

  “Hollywood—”

  “No need to thank me.” Hollywood set the knife between his teeth and crawled out. Staying on the far side of the rock, he picked up a stick. With a mighty heave, he threw it as far from him as he could. It hit the brush to the left.

  Peering around the rock, he saw he’d caught the guy’s attention, and predictably, the man headed in that direction. The terrorists’ vehicles fired up, and so did the lone gunman. His head whi
pped around, and he opened his mouth to shout. But he’d made the mistake of turning his back to Hollywood.

  He made no sound as he died.

  Hollywood buried him as the sun went down. It was an unmarked and shallow grave. He said a few words.

  Johnson said, “You are something else. You kill a guy then offer up prayer for him.”

  “It wasn’t personal,” Hollywood said. “He would have compromised our mission. It was either him or us, and we’re both on the same page about that.”

  “We are.” Johnson nodded. “I’m grateful. I’ve never killed anyone in hand-to-hand combat. My battlefield is the sky. It’s as impersonal as it gets.”

  Hollywood covered the fresh earth with a ton of leaves. It was the best he could do at this point. They would be back after they did roll call and this guy didn’t show up. He just hoped he and Johnson were long gone by then.

  * * *

  When Willow opened her eyes, her dad’s bed was empty and made, and the clothes he’d been wearing were neatly folded at the end. The ones she’d laid out for him, along with a new green coat, were gone. A lump formed in her throat. It had been their bargain. One night every three weeks.

  She looked at her watch, noting that her shift started in two hours. Breakfast was hectic at the restaurant where she worked as a server. She pushed the throw off and rose. Clenching her fists, her frustration stuck in her chest where it had been ever since he’d retired from the SEALs. She’d thought she’d have him back, finally. She’d thought they could have a normal father/daughter relationship.

  Willow covered her face and sobbed softly for a few minutes, her skin hot, her eyes stinging, knowing that she couldn’t go on like this. She had to do something. Anything that would help in some way, even if it was small. She’d try contacting Veteran Affairs again. Maybe they could get him into therapy, get him off the streets so that every moment of every day she wouldn’t have to worry about him being out there alone and hurting. So she could build a relationship with him that was close, one that she wanted desperately.