Pitbull (SEAL Team Alpha Book 10)

  Pitbull

  SEAL Team Alpha

  Zoe Dawson

  Pitbull

  Copyright © 2019 by Karen Alarie

  Cover Art © Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  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, especially Lisa Fournier for her excellent help. As always, you guys are the best.

  To the Brotherhood for all the sacrifices you make and all that you do. Hoo-yah!

  Determination, energy, and courage appear spontaneously when we care deeply about something. We take risks that are unimaginable in any other context.

  Margaret J. Wheatley

  1

  NCIS Office of Special Operations, San Diego, California

  NCIS Special Agent Makayla “Mak” Littlestar’s senses were tingling. It always started when she began tracking and didn’t abate until she was finished with the end game. Before NCIS, Mak had served with the Shadow Wolves, a Native American unit of trackers with law enforcement power granted to them by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. She’d been part of a team of Native Americans tracking lawbreakers on the Tohono O’odham Nation territory that ran along the Mexico–United States border in the state of Arizona.

  Mak and her two coworkers stared at the photos as they discussed the case over the phone with two agents from the NCIS Camp Pendleton Field Office. The Camp Pendleton agents had initially caught the case. She studied the photo of Corporal Michael Jackson, noting the pool of blood congealing around his supine form. He had been one of the men assigned to an arms warehouse located on the Marine Corps Base at Camp Pendleton, the 1st Marine Logistics Group.

  “Shot at close range,” Special Agent Chris Vargas said in a crouch by her desk. Chris, a former Navy fighter pilot, had joined NCIS after leaving the Navy under stressful circumstances, something he rarely talked about. All Mak knew was that it had been six years ago, and he had lost everything. But he’d collected the pieces of his life and started again. His plight resonated with her. She’d had a very stressful past, but she wasn’t quite sure she’d gathered the pieces or started fresh.

  Chris picked up a photo of one of the techs balancing a nine mil with the edge of a pen hooked into the trigger guard. “Murder weapon?”

  “Would the killer leave it behind?” Special Agent Kai Talbot asked. A redhead, her Hawaiian heritage present in her features, she always brought a keen perspective on every case and was a triple threat—brains, beauty, and deadly skills. She was the third agent assigned to this office, and the three of them worked in tandem under Operations Manager Rebecca Lawrence with several tech geeks who acted as their overwatch.

  “Bold,” Mak said, not really surprised at the acts of people who thought they were above the law. She said into the phone’s speaker, “They cleaned out the warehouse, and either Jackson was in on it or collateral damage.”

  Chris rose and stood by, waiting for NCIS Special Agent Austin Beck to answer, glancing over at the cool and relaxed Kai behind her desk.

  “We bagged the pistol belonging to Jackson, and this is the interesting part. Math ID’d the guy who had his fingerprints not only all over the weapon, but the warehouse as well. Didn’t even try to cover up anything. So, yeah, bold SOB,” Austin said.

  Math, AKA Justin Mathias, was the resident forensics genius and worked out of the NCIS office at Pendleton along with Austin.

  “I’m sending your widescreen a file. Pop it open. We have a lot to talk about,” Austin responded.

  When the file loaded, she grabbed the remote and clicked on it. A Navy record filled the screen, and Chris shifted to take in the suspect. “Who’s this guy?”

  “Home-grown terrorist,” Austin said from the speaker. “We’re bumping this up to your office for further investigation. Sean Leary is a scary dude. He was born in Oklahoma City. He served in the Marines for five years as a cold z sniper and has only honed his skills since he was honorably discharged as a sergeant with an array of medals.”

  Cold z was a term used amongst shooters for a cold zero. One shot, one kill. Mak scrolled down the file and saw a notation. “He washed out of MARSOC?” she asked.

  “Yeah. After talking to his parents, who still live in Oklahoma City, he was bitter about not cutting it in special ops. His mom is worried he’s depressed,” Austin said.

  “A depressed, skilled Marine sniper out there killing Marine Corps warehouse workers and stealing government property. Yeah, that’s a mix of ugly,” Chris said. “We need to find this guy.”

  “Have you heard of the New World Order?” Austin asked.

  Mak sat up straight, all her senses reeling. Was Leary part of the group? She and their office had their eye on the Order. She had never heard Sean Leary’s name.

  “Yes, we’ve kept our tabs on them. We weren’t aware Leary was part of their organization. There’s chatter that they’ve been busy with bank robberies in the past six months. Big hauls, but the FBI hasn’t been able to nail down anything concrete,” Mak replied.

  “What’s their beef?” Special Agent Derrick Gunn, Austin’s coworker, asked. The Pendleton Office also included another agent, Marcus Jordan, who was away on assignment. Their boss, John Pickler, had once been an agent here in Special Operations.

  “They don’t like our foreign policy. They especially dislike all the sacrifices we make for oil, especially with the Saudis who they believe had a big role in 9/11.”

  “Well, that answers that question,” Derrick muttered.

  “Leary’s dad was on Flight 175 that sliced into the south tower of the World Trade Center,” Austin said, his voice grim.

  “But you said you talked to his parents,” Mak said, her gut reacting to the news. That tragic day, even after all these years, was still painful for people who had witnessed it. She had grown up on the Navajo reservation, and she’d only been ten when it had happened, mostly sheltered by her mom and dad. She had never been able to understand her intuition, but it was always spot on. She’d gotten that dreaded feeling she couldn’t shake the day before and had terrible nightmares that were filled with twisted metal, fire, black smoke, and death. The next day, the feeling got even worse, and she had to go to the school nurse to lie down, unable to concentrate. She was half asleep when the first plane hit the north tower. She remembered crying out, the nurse immediately soothing her. Later, the impact on her tribe culminated in many of the younger men enlisting. Her older brother, Grant, had gone to Afghanistan, fought and died there. These men,
these NWO, defiled the memory and the sacrifice of the many who hadn’t made it home.

  “Oh, sorry. Leary has a stepfather, but they don’t see eye to eye,” Derrick said.

  “I see,” Chris said. “Leary is part of the NWO?”

  “That’s what we dug up,” Austin confirmed. “That is some heavy-duty firepower they stole, including Stinger missiles. We have no doubt they have every intention of using those weapons. This group has been making some noise.”

  “Thank you, guys, for getting this to us. We’ll take it from here,” Mak said.

  “You bet. Please let us know if there’s anything else we can help with,” Austin said.

  The line clicked closed, and Mak turned toward Chris.

  “With this evidence, we can get an arrest warrant.” Something was going down, something big. She could feel it.

  It was the same feeling she’d had when that Marine and his family had been kidnapped and held hostage in Colombia, where she’d met Petty Officer Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine and his excellent team. Handsome as hell, tempting in ways that she hadn’t been tempted in years. The kind of charm that bowled a woman over, but Mak had thought she was immune to almost any kind of charm. Pitbull was different…even when she’d been arguing with him, trying to circumvent all that muscled alpha aggression.

  For all the time that had passed, he hadn’t been far from her thoughts, and she didn’t like that. It told her that maybe her heart hadn’t been permanently closed down.

  “I’ll get on the warrant. You fill in the boss,” Chris said.

  Mak came back to reality and the pressing matter at hand. She nodded and went upstairs to her boss’s office. All the way she couldn’t help thinking there were so many monsters in their midst. It was like a hydra. Cut off one head and three more sprouted. Mass murder monsters had struck in secrecy and killed so many people on September eleventh. She didn’t want that kind of blood on her hands. Her boss’s assistant nodded that she could go in when Mak told her it was urgent. She pushed open the door, and Operations Manager Rebecca Lawrence looked up from her computer. She frowned, her dark brows scrunching, her shoulders tightening.

  “What’s going on with that sixth sense of yours?” She indicated one of the chairs in front of her desk.

  The hair on the back of Mak’s neck prickled, a shiver running down her spine. Her father would have told her it was her innate sense for danger warning her something was coming her way.

  “Nothing good.” Mak sat down in the chair and crossed her legs. “We have NWO on our radar, but they haven’t been a priority. I think that needs to change.”

  “Agreed. I want you, Vargas, and Talbot on this. I’ve called in Paige Wilder to help as well. Let me know if you need more manpower.”

  “We have enough for an arrest warrant for Leary. Chris is working on the warrant now.”

  “BOLO?”

  “I can get that started as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Get Leary locked down, and the more intel we can get from him, the better. Let’s find out what this organization has planned. I’ll inform the director.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mak said as she rose, an urgency filling her. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Ready Room, Naval Base Coronado, Coronado, California

  Errol “Pitbull” Ballentine leaned back in his chair and looked around at his fellow teammates. He didn’t have to take the temperature in the room. Something was up and it was tense as hell. Their commanding officer, Ford “Fast Lane” Nixon, only wore that kind of face when something was about to go down. Being part of the elite SEAL community and veteran door kickers, all of them were ready for anything.

  The only easy day was yesterday.

  Hoo-yah!

  This was the side of his life that was organized, cut-and-dry—professional. It was business as usual whether it was getting downrange and tagging and bagging tangos or gathering intelligence to ruin some bad guy’s day.

  Bad guys were Pitbull’s chew toys.

  But he’d blurred the line and fucked his professional life by mixing it with his personal life, creating a tangled-up mess.

  He’d fathered a child with a teammate’s wife. Although when he’d been intimate with her, she’d been separated from her abusive husband, his former best friend, Justin “Speed” Myerson.

  Pitbull was seven-year-old Samantha Myerson’s dad, and if her mother, Helen Myerson, soon to be Mrs. Mark Martin in a few weeks’ time, had her way, she would cut him out of Sam’s life completely. She’d already indicated as much, and his mid-western values instilled by his farming parents warred against giving up the connection to his own flesh and blood. He hadn’t expected to be a father, but everything in him made him want to be her father.

  Adversity was nothing but an obstacle to go around. Helen had been married to a SEAL, but she didn’t know what kind of man he was.

  She was going to find out.

  Maybe the hard way.

  “Listen up,” Fast Lane growled, breaking into Pitbull’s thoughts. “We’re being spun up to take down an occupation of an oil drill.”

  “Saudi Arabia?” Pitbull asked.

  “No, just off the coast.”

  “Of California?” Pitbull met Ryuu “Dragon” Shannon’s eyes. This was unprecedented. “What’s going on?”

  “New World Order has seized the SouthWest Oil Deepwater drilling rig Moonbeam Horizon.”

  “Sounds like a boy band,” Maximillian “Mad Max” Keegan said, throwing a ball to Juggernaut, their K-9 powerhouse, a two-year-old Malinois. He ran for it and got it before it made its final bounce.

  Fast Lane’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t think of them as entertainers. They’re extremely well-trained domestic terrorists who have the combined skill to pull off taking over a highly secured target.”

  “Hostages,” Saint said, leaning his elbows on the table. Zach Bartholomew lived up to his nickname as he was their excellent corpsman.

  It wasn’t a question. If they were going in, there were people in the line of fire.

  “One hundred and twenty, including a half a dozen state engineers. The rig is being renovated.”

  Mad Max whistled softly. “Looks like they want to make a statement.”

  “Wasn’t security tight?” Neo “2-Stroke” Teller asked in his husky textured voice.

  “Yes, but the NWO got a man inside and they hijacked the helicopter that takes shift workers back and forth to the rig. The dead are mostly Sierra Security personnel. They were killed outright,” Fast Lane replied.

  “What do they want?” asked Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham.

  “Manifesto read and published and money,” Fast Lane said. “A lot of them are associated with 9/11 and insist that the Saudis were involved. Their fundamental basis for their group activities is on retribution, but it boils down to revenge on innocents.”

  “And if they don’t get what they want?” Pitbull asked.

  “They start dumping oil into the Pacific,” 2-Stroke responded.

  “And killing hostages,” Dodger added. “Great. Egotistical maniacs want to trash talk the American way, then engage in some capitalist greed.”

  “We’re going to tune them up the American way,” Max said with a fierce grin.

  “Hoo-yah,” several of his teammates said.

  There wasn’t an American on the planet who didn’t remember 9/11, who didn’t know exactly where they had been when the twin towers fell. He was home sick that day, and he remembered the terrible images from the television as his parents, who ran a dairy farm in Wisconsin, showed their anguish at the loss of life. When his brothers got home, they all huddled together as planes were grounded and the country mourned more than two thousand deaths. It was then they had made a pact to make a difference in defense of the U.S. and decided to go into military service.

  “They’ve given us twenty-four hours,” Fast Lane said. “No need for a HALO jump in friendly waters. The Pacific, unfortunately, isn’t cooperating as the weath
er forecast for the next two days is stormy, but we can’t wait until the storm blows over.”

  “We’ll want to check the undercarriage for explosives,” Pitbull said, his focus now one hundred and ten percent centered on the mission.

  Fast Lane nodded. “Got EOD guys on that. You’re all going to be sub inserted. Any questions?”

  When no one spoke, Fast Lane nodded to their FBI liaison, who pulled up the schematics for the rig and started to talk.

  “As mentioned, Moonbeam is owned by SouthWest Oil and has been producing from that site for two decades. It’s located about five miles from shore and produces thousands of barrels of crude oil per day, along with natural gas. Because of geological seepage near the rig, it’s a volatile area, and if the terrorists set off any type of explosion, the ocean could burn for a long time. The rig is twelve stories high and the size of two football fields. I’ll have to leave it up to you the best place to assault, but there’s a boat landing here.” He pointed to the platform illustration up on their widescreen. “Be advised there are resident sea lions and cormorants, and they’re pretty noisy during the day and more subdued at night. They’re used to the all-hours activity of the rig, including the helipad, so your sudden presence shouldn’t spook them.”

  He advanced the slides until the screen displayed a timeline.

  “New World Order is suspected of many bank robberies and several hate-crime murders. Their leader, Ryan Easton, is still at large, having eluded capture to date.” His jaw went firm and his mouth grim. “We suspect he’s on the oil rig directing the other members of NWO. We feel he is desperate to get his message across before we close in on him. His profiling suggests that he is suicidal and plans on going down with the ship. Regardless of our cooperation, we think he’s going to kill the hostages and blow the wells anyway.”