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S.E.A.L. Mine (A Sons of War Standalone Novel)
S.E.A.L. Mine (A Sons of War Standalone Novel)
S.E.A.L. Mine (A Sons of War Standalone Novel)
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S.E.A.L. Mine (A Sons of War Standalone Novel)

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Riley Holland is good at one thing: war. When a severe injury sidelines him, he counts down the days until he’s healed and can return to duty. One phone call changes everything. The daughter he didn’t know existed has been orphaned after the death of her mother, leaving Riley her legal guardian and sole parent. Riley welcomes the break from rehab and travels to the girl’s hometown to retrieve her.

The task seems easy enough, until he meets Tonya, the little girl’s aunt. When she discovers a complete stranger wants to take away the child she’s helped raise for the past eight years, she’s furious – and desperate.

After witnessing their bond, Riley can’t bring himself to separate aunt and niece. His idea to keep everyone happy: a fake marriage. Tonya and Haley stay together, and he has a built-in babysitter for when he’s deployed.

But what happens when the fake marriage starts to feel ... real?

LanguageEnglish
PublisherLizzy Ford
Release dateMay 20, 2018
ISBN9781623783624
S.E.A.L. Mine (A Sons of War Standalone Novel)
Author

Lizzy Ford

I breathe stories. I dream them. If it were possible, I'd eat them, too. (I'm pretty sure they'd taste like cotton candy.) I can't escape them - they're everywhere! Which is why I write! I was born to bring the crazy worlds and people in my mind to life, and I love sharing them with as many people as I can.I'm also the bestselling, award winning, internationally acclaimed author of over sixty ... eighty ... ninety titles and counting. I write speculative fiction in multiple subgenres of romance and fantasy, contemporary fiction, books for both teens and adults, and just about anything else I feel like writing. If I can imagine it, I can write it!I live in the desert of southern Arizona with two dogs and two cats!My books can be found in every major ereader library, to include: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Kobo, Sony and Smashwords.

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    S.E.A.L. Mine (A Sons of War Standalone Novel) - Lizzy Ford

    1

    Riley

    Another babysitting mission. I gather my weapons and place them in their respective sheathes and holders. A SEAL with more training than God, I always carry extras of everything. Ammo, knives, side arms. It’s better to be prepared and never use the weapons than caught off guard. There are no second chances in combat.

    You’re not paid to think, my commanding officer, a U.S. Marine, reminds me dryly. I’ve worked for Captain Matthis for three years during my rotations into the sandbox. Before that, we worked together off and on in other overseas missions. I trust him with my life. Our joint team consists of special operations members from all four services. Most days, we get along. Every once in a while, someone takes a swipe at one of the others, and we end the disagreements with wrestling or boxing matches.

    He normally only assigns me shit missions like this when he’s worried.

    What didn’t you include in the safety briefing? I ask, glancing at him. Finished with my weapons, I pick up my flack vest from where it rests on top of the pelican box at the end of my cot.

    The calmest man I’ve ever met, even in a firefight, Sawyer Matthis never seems concerned about anything outwardly, which is why he’s usually the one dealing with the press, dignitaries, and visitors who venture this far north to the border of Kurdish territory.

    Insurgent activity is creeping back into our area of operation, he reports. I’m sending you and Schneider, along with the normal contingent.

    They’re close, I assess.

    One village over. These convoys aren’t exactly discreet.

    Especially not with the photo ops.

    No stopping, Matthis says firmly. To the village and back. No more than twenty minutes in the village.

    Permission to smash someone’s camera if they don’t listen to me.

    Denied. That was a twenty thousand dollar camera.

    I warned him.

    Harper’s still pissed at you, he says, unable to help his smile. Be nice to the media this time. They think the war is over, and no one is trying to kill us. Let them believe that so we can get back to doing our jobs.

    Roger. I finish prepping my gear.

    Matthis offers his hand. We shake.

    Riley, come back, he adds quietly.

    Always do, whether or not you want me to, I reply, grinning. Neither of us says what we’re thinking. We’ve lost more men in the past two years than any other single unit, and we’re a tiny group. Can’t wait to get back out to the field.

    Next week. He steps aside, and I grab a baseball cap and tug it on. I slide on non-military issue sunglasses.

    Kevlar! Matthis calls after me.

    I lift the helmet in my other hand. No one aside from Matthis tells me what to do out here. I’m a taller than anyone else and a foot wider. People generally don’t mess with me. For the press visits, I have to pretend to be a team player, not because I give a shit, but because I don’t want Captain Harper – our liaison from headquarters – grounding me again.

    I exit the trailers serving as barracks and walk through the operating base – OB – located outside a major village. In an effort not to interfere with the local populace or place them in danger, we moved our operations out of the villages to the fringes, close enough to react if needed and far enough not to freak people out.

    Ian Schneider, the Air Force spec ops guy, is waiting for me at the rear of a standard convoy consisting of four vehicles: two for visitors with escort vehicles on either end.

    This, ladies and gents, is our only desert SEAL! announces the press officer when I emerge from the trailer area. You might call him a beached SEAL.

    I lift my helmet in greeting.

    The press members with him laugh. They always do.

    That was never funny, Schneider says as I join him. Ever.

    It was kinda funny the first four hundred times, I reply with a smile.

    Schneider rolls his eyes. Let’s get through this shit.

    Dressed differently, sporting non-standard issue sunglasses, ball caps, and weaponry and communications devices designated specifically for us, we definitely stick out, more so because we tend to keep to ourselves. The soldiers know when we accompany the routine convoys, something is up. They don’t need to be told to be on guard.

    Matthis brief you? I ask.

    Yeah.

    Only one knife again?

    Schneider shakes his head. I’m a knife aficionado.

    I hand him one of my spares. You know I love you when I give you a knife, I tease.

    I always wanted a SEAL’s love.

    Just sayin’.

    He accepts the knife. Our tight knit team has been through hell more than once. We share that rare level of unquestionable trust.

    Holland, Schneider.

    I glance at the press officer approaching, accompanied by four civilians in khaki uniforms. We not so affectionately refer to him as the propaganda officer, because it’s his job to gloss over the gritty truth and show our visitors what they want to see.

    Schneider walks away. He’s the worst about entertaining civilians. I’m bored enough here at the operating base not to mind a change of faces.

    Riley Holland, our SEAL, the press officer – P.O. – says, ignoring Schneider’s normal hissy fit. Assigned as part of a special joint task force meant to track and respond to insurgent threats. He introduces the people with him.

    I shake hands, as expected, my attention drawn to a polished blonde woman who looks like a news anchor.

    Always a pleasure, I say and wink at her.

    Aside from charming visitors, Holland will be accompanying us on our jaunt. The P.O. is giving me the look that says Matthis didn’t bother telling him I’d been assigned to the convoy.

    I feel safer already, the news anchor says. She looks me up and down discreetly.

    It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. The rules in AOR are no fucking. Not everyone follows them, but I have thus far. I’m due for leave and intend to fix that ASAP.

    Until then … I’m stuck escorting civilians who somehow think it’s cool to place all our lives in danger for the sake of the perfect photo op and a fluff piece about how well things are going over here. But … it beats sitting around playing cards.

    You must miss water, says the cameraman.

    I do, I agree. Every damn day. This place is close to hell for a SEAL.

    They smile in return.

    We exchange a few more questions and answers. The press officer likes me best of all our team members, because I’m patient enough to interact with strangers. I’m an extrovert by nature, unlike most of my team, and I don’t mind the often-ignorant questions people ask. They’re curious, and they don’t know better. I’m happy to enlighten them.

    Can we do a photo? the news anchor asks at one point.

    No, the P.O. replies. We don’t photograph our special forces members for security reasons. He steers them away from me, rattling off facts and statistics about the area.

    My entertaining job is done. I join Schneider in the rear vehicle. The doors are open. It’s over a hundred degrees already, but I’m used to sweating all day, every day. I drop into the seat in the back.

    Hate that shit, Schneider mutters. How can talking to those pretentious dicks not bother you?

    I shrug. I think they’re idiots for wasting our time, but I don’t mind talking to them. Maybe I can teach them a thing or two about what we’re doing and walk away from here with a fucking clue.

    Good luck with that.

    The beefiest on the team, I’m also the most laid back. I’ll never be like Matthis – who is ice no matter what the situation – but I’m definitely calmer than the others, especially Schneider, who blows up every few days because he can’t stand it here. While anxious to leave for the field and real work, I’ve accepted where I am for now and try to make the best of it.

    I hope you smash someone’s camera again, he grumbles. That was the only redeeming moment about our last mission.

    I snort. The incident was blown out of proportion by the cameraman whose property I destroyed. I saved his life when I threw him and his camera to prevent him from stepping on a mine. Somehow, that didn’t help my case when his company threatened to sue for destruction of property. I never asked how Matthis resolved it, because I don’t care. I was doing my job, and I saved a life.

    Soldiers and visitors climb into their assigned vehicles. The press officer and his driver get into ours. Schneider and I close our doors.

    You need to take a lesson or two from Holland about visitors, the P.O. says to Schneider.

    I’m not paid to dance around with my dick out in front of the press. That’s your job, Schneider replies acidly.

    Just once? the frazzled P.O. demands, twisting to glare at him. Can you say hello, just once?

    Schneider ignores him.

    I never thought I’d say this, but why can’t you be more like Holland?

    I smile and gaze out the window. The P.O. likes me, as much as anyone likes a SEAL, which is usually not much. It’s a hell of a lot more than he cares for Schneider.

    Schneider’s glaring at him.

    The frazzled P.O. sighs. After being assigned to our OB, he quickly learned we don’t give a shit whether or not he outranks us. We ignore him when he tries to order us around. But, when he asks, we generally try to accommodate his requests. Except Schneider, who doesn’t play well with anyone but our team members.

    The radio squawks, and the press officer faces forward again, pissed off. Our driver checks in, and the convoy inches forward.

    Schneider and I simultaneously pull out our weapons of choice, always prepared for the worst. We carry our own comms, too, which Matthis acquired from the CIA guys we occasionally work with in theatre. They always have the good shit.

    Comms check, Matthis says into my earpiece.

    Check, I state.

    Check, Schneider says.

    If you feel anything, and I mean anything, is out of place, drag those fuckers back if you have to, Matthis directs us.

    Gladly, Schneider says. He’s eyeballing the oblivious P.O.

    Kevlar, Holland.

    Grinning, I pull on my helmet.

    The convoy rolls out of the OB on the dirt road leading directly west. The pace is brisk, the ride bumpy, and the windows down for air circulation. The thirty-minute ride goes fast. Schneider and I keep our attentions on the world outside the vehicle.

    We reach the village and proceed to its center. Immediately, the solders assigned to the convoy exit and take up protective positions around the vehicles.

    I hop out of the vehicle and walk around to the rear. Schneider is my mirror, and we pause in sync, observing our surroundings. There’s a science to protecting people and an art. The science side can tell you where to look for snipers, ambushes, and potential explosive devise. Nothing can replace the art side, which consists of instincts honed by excessive training and experience in dangerous situations. You reach a point where you feel before you know, and you learn to trust that instinct, even when you don’t see anything to alarm you. At the end of the day, those feelings are why I’m still alive.

    Schneider has tensed and shifts, his instincts as honed as mine. We don’t need to communicate out loud to know what the other is feeling.

    Villagers linger inside the buildings. No kids roam the streets, and the market at the center of the village is closed.

    Matthis, I say quietly. I don’t have to tell him, either.

    Bring ‘em back, Matthis orders.

    Schneider and I exchange a look. He flips the safety off his weapon and shifts closer to the vehicle.

    I trot away from him and toward the P.O., who is smiling and entertaining the visitors. I signal him.

    He ignores me.

    Irritated, I approach. Sir, a minute, I say politely.

    When I show him an ounce of respect his rank should command, he pays attention. He peels off from the group. What?

    We need to go.

    Command promised me twenty –

    We need to leave, I say more slowly. Now.

    At my tone, he glances from me to the group to the village. Unhappy, he nonetheless plasters a smile on his features and approaches the media members. He makes up some excuse I don’t bother listening to. He’s not stupid enough to tell them we’re in trouble.

    My focus returns to the village. This is a kill box. We have the lower ground and are surrounded by buildings. The past few months, we’ve grown accustomed to driving into the nearby villages to conduct liaison and visit the markets. Maybe we’ve gotten lazy, or maybe our intel reports have been inaccurate again. Either way, we shouldn’t be here right now.

    I’m sending a team, Matthis says. Best case, you have a big, happy escort home. Estimated time of arrival: fifteen minutes.

    Roger.

    The P.O. has herded three of the media members into the car. The fourth, another fucking photographer, has wandered outside the perimeter the soldiers have established. He’s already half a block away from us.

    I signal Schneider to alert him as to where I’m headed and jog after the photographer. My eyes roam the village around us. The hairs on the back of my neck are on end. Whatever my instincts pick up, it’s bad. I don’t want to hang around long enough to find out how bad.

    Hey, we’re leaving, I say to the photographer.

    Just one –

    This is why I hate civilians.

    Now. I grab the back of his flak vest and push him towards the convoy. Technically, I’m not supposed to lay hands on a civilian, but safety trumps doing what’s politically correct.

    Startled, he regards me intently as he walks in the direction of the lead vehicle. Aren’t you the one who –

    The hole appears in the middle of his forehead a millisecond before the report of a weapon sounds.

    I snatch his body before it hits the ground and sprint to the nearest building. I duck down beneath a window and turn my attention to the photographer.

    Gunfire rains down on the street and convoy and pelts the concrete blocks around the window. I grimly press my fingers to the photographer’s throat. His heartbeat is slowing to a stop. His gaze is glassy and eyes are open. There’s no saving this one. I lower him to the ground and whip the weapon off my back, prepared to return fire once I figure out where the enemy is.

    Schneider, report, I say calmly.

    I slide under the window and peek out, armed and ready to fight. The gunfire comes from the upper floor of the buildings on either side of the street. Blood splashes the dirt around the lead vehicle, but there’s no body in sight, which is a good thing.

    Got two of the media and the P.O. One more trapped at the vehicles, he says.

    Photographer KIA, I say.

    We exchange information about our positions. He’s across the street, near the rear of the convoy, sheltering in a closed down convenience store.

    Assessing the direction of the gunfire, I spot the blonde news anchor and a soldier hunkered down behind one vehicle door. The concrete a foot from my head explodes into dust.

    I duck down. Can’t aim for shit, I say. Better to face an entire village full of insurgents who can’t hit the broad side of a barn than roll over an improvised explosive device.

    I noticed, Schneider remarks tersely.

    ETA nine minutes, Matthis says via our comms, icy calm as always.

    We got this, I reply. Right, Schneider?

    Always, Schneider replies. Go. I gotcha.

    I string my weapon across my back. Adrenaline races through my body. Three, two, one. I countdown. I bolt out of the building.

    Schneider and another soldier lay cover fire. I zigzag down the road.

    Cover, Schneider orders.

    I dart into a building when the bullets get too close. Schneider is the sharpest shooter on the squad; his sixth sense for weapons is borderline savant. If he told me to jump into the middle of a gunfight, I’d do it, knowing he has everything planned down to how many bullets each of the fighters has. He has an uncanny knack for predicting what the insurgents will do next.

    Go! he barks.

    I dart away from the building. True to form, nothing hits me, and Schneider and the soldier manage to take out two of the insurgents who expose themselves in an attempt to improve their shots at me.

    I all but tackle the blonde, who’s freaking out and edging out past the protective door of the vehicle, and force her back to the safe area. Whirling, I slap the back of the teenage soldier whose eyes are huge but who manages to remain calm and focused.

    Wait, Schneider tells me.

    Take her. I address the soldier. On my go! I whip my weapon off my back and begin firing back at the insurgents.

    The soldier nods and creeps closer to the blonde.

    Send ‘em, Schneider says.

    Go! I tell the soldier.

    The kid grabs the blonde and bolts across the street.

    I remain where I am. I have a better angle to spot and return fire at the insurgents lining the upper floors of the sides of the street. They’re staggered, which is both good and bad. It makes them harder to hit, but there’s no sort of coordination or strategy to their attack. If my team were staggered in a similar formation, everyone in the convoy would’ve been dead within a few seconds of opening fire.

    Our attackers are untrained, which is a different kind of danger. It makes them less predictable, more likely to make mistakes that end up in another one of us ending up injured or dead.

    Go, Schneider says.

    I dart away and to the store where they’re holed up. I dive to the floor and scramble up, not about to stay exposed for longer than I have to.

    Four and four, I tell him and the three soldiers with him.

    The P.O. is doing his best to calm the media members while looking over his shoulder at us wildly.

    Where’s Tom? the news anchor asks, shaking from head to food.

    Schneider and I don’t answer. It’s not the right time. Sweating, we exchange another of our silent communications. I lift my chin.

    You two, with me, he says and motions to two soldiers.

    I replace him at the window, pop up for a look, then drop down and prep my weapons.

    When I’m ready, I nod once. He darts into the street as the soldier beside me and I stand and open fire.

    Schneider and the soldiers with him run to the building across the street. Schneider smashes the door open.

    Four minutes, Matthis says.

    We’ll be done by then, Schneider says with a grunt.

    This drill is easy. We pick off the shooters, one by one.

    Stay here. Keep firing, I tell the soldier beside me. I race to the back of the building, find the stairs and climb to the second floor. Smashing open a window with the butt of my weapon, I take aim at the asshole in the building across from us, breathe deeply, and squeeze off a round.

    He drops.

    I shift to see the second one and take him down before moving on to the third.

    One minute, Matthis says.

    Holland! Schneider shouts.

    A movement in my peripheral. I spot the insurgent armed with a rocket launcher in the street too late. He fires and then drops, taken out by one of Schneider’s bullets. But the rocket is already headed towards me.

    Incoming! I shout. I dive away from the window, praying the people on the floor below me know to take cover.

    The next seconds are the longest of my life. An explosion rattles the windows. Fire rips through my clothing and shreds my skin. Sharp pain pierces my body in too many points for me to know what hurts. I suck in a breath – and

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