Mad Max (SEAL Team Alpha Book 12), Page 2

  And as a “fuck you” they’d taken their HVT prisoner and confined the SEALs to this airbase.

  He glanced over at Atticus “Hemingway” Sinclair, who had the same look on his face that was on every one of his teammates’ faces. Fuck this shit. Let’s commandeer a chopper and go after Max and Jugs. NCIS Special Agent Shea Palmer, Hemingway’s fiancée—damn, he liked the sound of that—stood near him while Kelly Sparks, their CIA liaison, was on the phone to her boss.

  Concern tightened his chest, and he stepped in between the Paraguayan mouthpiece and Fast Lane and said, “Why don’t you take a breather, mate, and let my LT cool down? More arguing isn’t going to get us anywhere. We won’t be changing our minds.”

  “You have violated—”

  “We got you, pal,” Dodger said between gritted teeth, his own temper barely held in check. “But—”

  He was interrupted by Neo “2-Stroke” Teller grabbing the pencil neck by the shirt and pushing him against the wall. “You get that chopper approved, you asshole. We have a man and our K9 left in the field, and if we don’t get to them, they’re going to die!”

  Dodger and Saint pulled him off. “Neo, this isn’t helping.”

  The normally calm, squared-away SEAL got into Dodger’s face. “What do you want to do? Let Max and Jugs rot out there? We’ve got to get to them before the terrorists or drug runners. They fell! They fucking fell! They could be injured…or worse.”

  “Enough,” Fast Lane growled. “Take him for a walk, Dodger.”

  Dodger gave Pitbull a silent look to watch over everything. Pitbull nodded, and Dodger grabbed 2-Stroke by his tack vest and pulled him toward the door.

  He’d never seen him like this before. It was probably because losing a teammate was the worst damn feeling in the world. He hated the sound of that word. Lost. He remembered the sick feeling when Justin “Speed” Myerson had been taken by the Kirikhanistan rebels who murdered him in captivity. Dodger had that same damn feeling now, and the urgency was eating at them all to get out there to protect their injured teammates.

  They hadn’t lost Max or Jugs! They were going to find them. The oath to never leave a fallen comrade was a promise made to each other. If one of them were to fall, the brotherhood would do everything in their power to bring that fallen man or K9 home. It would be a mission that wouldn’t end until they found Max and Jugs.

  “You know how to fly a chopper, Dodger?”

  “Yeah, Neo. I know how to fly a chopper, but we aren’t stealing a chopper.” At least not right now. “DOD is pissed at us, too.” They had total mission failure. Muhammad Angar Said, leader of the up-and-coming terrorist group Al’Irada was with the Paraguayans. “Muhammad has a relationship with this government. They’re going to let him go, and Max and Jugs…we’ve got to find them.”

  “No offense, Dodger, but when Saint and I came to this team, Max was the only one who tried to help us fit in. We knew it was going to be tough, and it was. But the three of us stuck together.”

  “You make it sound like we haven’t bonded. That hurts my feelings, mate.”

  2-Stroke looked away toward the airfield, his expression tense. “I will admit that it’s been better lately. Dragon has always been great, and Pitbull came around.” He sighed and unclipped his helmet, removing it and holding it by the chin strap.

  The wind picked up, and in the distance, the haze over the capital city of Asunción rose like steam in a pressure cooker. It blew strongly across the runways, kicking up dirt and debris, ruffling the golden strands of 2-Stroke’s hair.

  “Hemingway is a great addition to the team, but I’m not going to sit around while Max and Jugs are out there, injured, fighting for their lives. I’d never be able to live with myself.” He turned to look at Dodger. “And if it were you, I’d feel the same way. We’re a team.”

  Dodger had to admit it. He cared about Max a lot. Not many people, including the men on his team when he was with the Special Boat Service, understood him. He had never felt a connection to teammates like this. It had been easy to give up the service to follow Hermione Tucker to New York, where she broke his heart. Hermione had nagged him all the time that they never saw each other enough. But when he got out, and they came to the States, and he became an American citizen for her, she told him she’d fallen in love with someone at her workplace.

  He had been set adrift, finding it difficult to fit into American civilian life, like a fish out of water. He took a job with this shady import/export business which was pretty close to mercenary work.

  When he found himself in a foreign country doing a job for money that could get innocent people killed, he’d up and walked away. Although that job had helped him to create a worldwide network of friends and acquaintances, he considered applying for MI5 or MI6, going back to London and being a spy. It seemed it was something he’d be good at.

  Enlisting in the SEALs he’d done on a whim, and it was the best decision he’d ever made.

  He and Max had been connecting ever since Rhonda’s wedding when he’d stepped off Max’s sister Anna. That feat of strength hadn’t been easy because Anna Keegan was a gorgeous, smart, sexy babe, but you didn’t hook up with a brother’s sister. Dodger didn’t think about a future with a special woman anymore, his lesson learned with Hermione, especially now that he was back in the service.

  Since he had no “intentions” toward Anna other than a tumble in bed, he had to take himself out of that equation. Max was his teammate, and teammates didn’t trifle with other teammates’ sisters. That was the line that had been drawn between them.

  Although the night he danced with her, that line seemed quite blurred.

  He shifted and said, “You trust Fast Lane, right?”

  2-Stroke made a “duh” face. “With my life.”

  There was no such thing as being too smart for your own good. The world needed men like Fast Lane and the rest of them to keep the balance from tipping in the wrong direction. They hadn’t been identified as the tip of the spear for nothing. If anyone could figure a way out of all of this, it would be Fast Lane.

  “Do you think he’s going to let this slide and leave Max and Jugs out there?”

  “No. He’s not. None of us will.” 2-Stroke rubbed at his face. They were all weary, going on no sleep. Made it easy to understand why tempers were flaring.

  “Well, then be ready to go…”

  His words trailed off as a woman snagged his attention. He stared at her, and 2-Stroke stared at him with a puzzled frown.

  “I’m ready to go now.”

  “Man, you need to chill out…”

  His eyes washed over the woman who moved with a sultry grace he recognized, and the realization of who she was made his body stiffen. Definitely not in the right places. Not for this beauty.

  “Anna?”

  A Nikon camera hung on a thick leather strap around her neck, the weight of it pressing her white T-shirt to her full breasts.

  “What? Chill out Anna? What does that—”

  Dodger grabbed 2-Stroke’s chin and turned him toward the runway. Anna Keegan was walking quickly, with purpose. Her jeans were tight and faded, her small waist accented by a slim leather belt. Gently flared hips met long, long legs. The jeans were tucked into a pair of slightly battered but obviously expensive black military-looking boots. Why was Max’s sister here in Paraguay?

  She stopped for a second and stared at him with gray eyes fringed by thick black lashes. The sun backlit her wild black mane like a shadowed veil that made her skin look so pale her mouth stood out like blood on snow. Her full lips tempted a man to trace them with the tip of his finger or the tip of his tongue.

  “Anna Keegan? What the hell is she doing here?”

  Dodger had no idea, but this couldn’t be good. He’d barely kept his hands off her through all the wedding festivities. Now she had shown up in Paraguay when her brother was lost in the jungle.

  That was one hell of a coincidence.

  2

  Rena
ta froze at the feel of the gun and the sound of his voice. He’d just confirmed that he was an American, which meant she had been right in her initial assessment. American military.

  “That’s no way to treat your rescuer,” Renata said tightly. “Neutralizing your dog was necessary, and I was careful not to hurt him, even though he was hellbent on ripping my arm off.”

  “Neutralized—”

  His clipped tone told her he was angry and worried about his K9, which was understandable. The dog was his partner, and they worked together. It was clear the animal was intelligent and had only stolen her backpack to feed the injured man.

  “Not to mention you enjoyed the rest of my fish dinner with a side of stolen artifact, and I believe I’m the injured party here.”

  “Injured—”

  “So, get that damn gun out of my side so I can see how bad the trouble is that you’re in.”

  “Permission to speak, ma’am?” he said, his tone low, insolent, and furious.

  She looked down at him, her muscles relaxing. Stunning, piercing blue eyes met hers as a shiver tingled through her, and she found her muscles locking up again. He looked dangerous, and a whole lot like a warrior. A man who thrived on risk and adventure. His too long, tousled black hair and the dark stubble shadowing his lean jaw only added to her immediate and knee-jerk assessment of him. A Navy SEAL maybe?

  She was inexplicably but undeniably attracted in a way she had never experienced before. As an independent, intelligent, and capable woman, it irked her that the instantaneous awareness coiled low and deep in her belly.

  “As soon as you remove the weapon,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m unarmed.”

  The pressure in her side eased and then was gone. He shifted, grunted from the pain and shoved the wicked looking firearm back into the leather holster low on his upper thigh. She noticed the holster was tied down like the old west’s gunfighters. Well, she supposed that’s exactly what he was. She didn’t wait for his permission—she pulled up his bloody shirts and saw that he’d done an adequate patch up job on the gunshot wound. For now, it was holding.

  “Is the bullet still inside?”

  “Yes,” he said, groaning as she pulled the layers back over the wound. Breathing hard, his skin glistening with sweat, he growled, “What did you do with him, and how the hell did you neutralize him?”

  “I captured him in a quickly constructed net I made from my climbing rope, then I snagged your muzzle and leash. He’s currently tied to a tree and very agitated, which probably isn’t good for him in any way, especially physically, since he’s injured. Can you calm him down?”

  “You what?” One firmly spoken command and the barking stopped. She glanced over her shoulder and the frantic K9 had sunk to the ground, as docile as a kitten.

  “Captured…net…tied.”

  He looked completely flabbergasted. His mouth had dropped open and drew her attention to those sculpted and sensuous lips.

  “I get it,” she said. “You’re Special Forces, and he’s a well-trained, very dangerous part of your team.”

  High color slashed across his cheekbones, and his lips flattened into a grim line. “You faced a lethal Malinois who would have ripped you to shreds if he’d gotten a hold of you.”

  “Yeah, I made that assessment already. I was lucky he wasn’t in fit condition.”

  She pulled her pack off to help with her mobility.

  “What happened here?”

  “We were being SPIES exfilled out of the area after a mission and somewhere below in the jungle, someone open fired on us.”

  “Spare me the military jargon. You were spying?”

  “No, not spying…SPIES. It’s an acronym for Special Patrol Insertion and Extraction System. When a helicopter can’t land because of the rough terrain, or we need rapid exfil…exfiltrate, meaning our asses are getting the hell out of the area, we use a rope with metal clips that attach to our vests and the chopper lifts us out. A lucky shot severed the rope and we fell.”

  “Oh, my God? How far?”

  “Far enough. We hit some trees on the way down.”

  “Okay, enough talking for now. I need to assess your injuries.”

  “All business, huh? What’s your name?”

  “It’s Dr. Renata Cavalcante. I don’t have a rank or serial number.”

  The corner of his mouth slipped up into a lazy grin, which was both potent and disarming. There wasn’t one inch of this guy that was either subdued or dull. He possessed an abundance of male confidence and sex appeal that, considering his predicament, should have been banked. Yet it was, again, disarming.

  “Are you asking my permission to touch me?” As he continued to smile at her, a flash of heat swept over her in a very unprofessional manner. As an MD, she’d never had to control her female reaction to any injured male patient, but she was struggling with this one.

  “Examine you,” she corrected, her voice breathless, and she cleared her throat. “Purely as a means to assess your physical condition and administer the appropriate treatment.”

  “You a real doc?” he asked. That smile went into full-on melt-her-panties mode. “It’s my lucky day.” Looking very pleased, he smiled again, and if she hadn’t been mush already, she would have been dissolved into goo.

  Oh, no, she thought, the pleasure would be all hers. She quashed that wayward thought.

  “Yes…and…um, no.”

  “Come again?”

  “I was an MD, then I went to school and got my Ph.D. in Anthropology.”

  “You went from handling live people to studying dead civilizations? What didn’t you like about doctoring?”

  “The blood, the life and death responsibility, the long hours.”

  “This isn’t giving me warm fuzzies for your commitment here.”

  “It’s a long story, and we don’t really have time for that now. There are some bad men in this area.”

  “No shit. I have the bullet in me to prove that. Bad men are ninety percent of my job, lady.”

  “What’s the other ten percent?”

  “Eating, sleeping, and having some semblance of personal time.”

  “Uncle Sam allows you some personal time? He must be going soft in his old age.” Yeah, sounded to her like he was a SEAL.

  This time he laughed, then clutched his side, his face contorted with pain.

  “You must have gotten an A in bedside manner. Have at it, Doc. Mi casa, su casa.”

  She laughed and then stifled it. Again, so not professional.

  She started with his head, feeling for any broken bones in his oh-so-handsome face or jaw, the pads of her fingers scraping over his beard stubble, sending more tingles into her already tingly body, coalescing in the tips of her breasts. She tried to curb her reaction, but it was purely sensory and beyond her control. Then her fingers slipped into all that dark, silky hair. She stopped when he made a soft noise, the lump pronounced.

  “How hard did you hit your head?”

  “Hard enough to clean my clock, but the helmet took most of the impact.”

  She nodded. “Possible concussion. Headache, blurriness, double vision, dizziness?”

  “Headache, dizziness, and confusion at first, but now I only have a headache.”

  She swiveled and pulled open her pack, taking out her small penlight. She clicked it on and with a flick of her wrist shone the light into each beautiful eye in quick succession. “Responsive. That’s good.” She tucked the light into her cleavage. His eyes flicked down there and back up, his thick brows hiking up.

  She ran her hands down his neck to the tops of his broad shoulders. “Clavicle okay.” His clavicle was more than okay. It was sculpted with tantalizing dips and shadows, his trapezius muscles, on either side of his strong neck, well-defined and thick. She palpated his neck and found nothing but bruising.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “Sure, but the question is, do I want to?” he asked, his expression reluctant.

  “I know it
hurts, but first things first. I don’t want to move you until I make sure I know your body completely.”

  “Is that so?” His voice was a sexy, teasing rumble. He had rule breaker written all over him, a lethal, drop-dead-gorgeous, card-carrying bad boy.

  “Um…I meant injuries, purely in a medical sort of way.” Was he somehow playing ninja mind tricks on her? She wasn’t the kind of woman…uh…doctor to have an ulterior motive when touching her patient, but he wasn’t her normal patient.

  “Oh, that’s disappointing, Doc, but you’re my rescuer. My body…ah…injuries are yours to handle any way you see fit.”

  “You can’t stay here. You need medical attention. I’d like to examine your wound and properly bandage it, stitch up your dog, and handle other injuries that I discover.”

  “Lady, I’m six-four and over two hundred pounds. How are you going to move me?”

  “So?” She shrugged. She never worried about the how until she had to. At this point, it was all about him and the medical exam. “It’s just a problem to be solved. Leave it to me. I’m the one that constructed a net to catch your tertiary weapon.”

  “Jugs isn’t my third weapon. He’s my first.”

  “Jugs?” She rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t name your dog after female mammary glands.”

  He chuckled, his eyes going right to her penlight, then he clutched his side again. “Dammit, woman, don’t make me laugh.”

  “Well, it’s a legitimate question, you being a pushy alpha male.”

  “I am a pushy alpha male and his name is Juggernaut, but I call him Jugs for short or Jughead when he’s being an a-hole.”

  “Juggernaut?” She swallowed hard. She’d held her own against a dog called Juggernaut. After the fact, she got nervous thinking if she had been just a fraction of a second too slow to trap the Malinois in her hastily constructed net…

  “He really could have hurt me,” she whispered.

  “Severely. You are very brave or very stupid, Doc.”