Blue_SEAL Team Alpha, Page 3

  It was a dark memory, his reaction uncontrollable. He’d never allowed himself to be dependent or fragile; not even faced with that memory. He wouldn’t have survived if he had. But right then, he simply couldn’t stop the overwhelming slide of helplessness and the fear of it gripping him. He was out of his mind and that memory came out of him in a rush of words he hadn’t meant to say. He hadn’t meant to tell her.

  Natasha’s face changed. Her eyes went hooded and satisfied as she smiled. This woman had no personal honor, and the fact that she held his life in her hands pushed his deep-seated fear buttons of being trapped like that with no way to save himself. But there was nothing he could do to stop her even as he fought to contain his own fear, knowing it was mind over matter. His thoughts fractured when she straddled him…this lust not his own, his thoughts disjoined and confusing…the drugs. She’d injected him. She wanted him to respond knowing he couldn’t refuse, the lust they generated taking over. He responded, and it felt so good physically, unable to help himself. But there was nothing for him in this union but disgust even as she continued to torture him with pleasure, and as the knife, red with his blood flashed in the single overhead light, pain.

  She was looking for a black pit to drop him in.

  And she’d found it.

  One he’d dug himself.

  * * *

  After she left him, he curled into a body-hugging, sick ball, realizing that death by drowning would have been more humane than what she had just done to him. He tried to negotiate with her, bargain with her, anything he could do to stop her. With the drugs, she reduced him to begging.

  Her sadistic torture went on night after night. When she came for him again, his eyes dull, starving, his mouth parched, lips cracked, he rasped out, “Please. Can we talk about Myerson?”

  She said nothing until after she was done with him, and his revulsion for his participation sucked at his soul. “We talk now about this Myerson.” She stood next to her husband, the sick bastard, his arm around her.

  “He needs medical attention. The Geneva Convention rules—”

  “Pah!” She laughed softly. “I care nothing for your laws.” She walked back over to him and bent down close to his face. He avoided her mouth, but she grabbed his jaw and kissed him. He bit her, and she slapped him, a stinging blow across the face.

  She curled her fingers around his neck and squeezed. He choked as she bent down close to his ear. She presented a mock sorrowful look, her mouth turned down. “He died. Your fault. No cooperation. I give you one more day. If you cooperate, you live. If not…” She shrugged, a light of glee in her eyes, as empty as he was. She let him go and fresh air filled his lungs, his throat throbbing.

  Myerson was dead? Was she lying? Was this more torture? The door opened and there was Speed, suspended between those two goons. They grabbed his hair and his bruised and battered face came into view, a round hole in his forehead. Natasha laughed.

  Not sure if he was stuck in a horrible nightmare or reality, he cried out. Myerson hadn’t broken.

  Natasha only laughed with more glee.

  Something snapped in him and kept breaking like the cascade of a thousand cracks across an icy lake. He’d let his teammate down. He was a medic. It was his duty, his responsibility to take care of his unit. His chest heaved. In his drugged and weakened state, everything mixed up inside his head. His face contorted, the pain, the horror, the failure running through him until he couldn’t breathe.

  With a soft exhalation, flashbacks from his childhood overwhelmed him, and he curled tighter, his eyes closed hard against the memories that fought for room in his head. His parents had told him he must be mistaken. They’d swept everything away like the tide swept the beach. They’d discounted him when he’d told them what he saw. What Walters had done to Rory. But he knew what he’d seen, and the twisted, ugly feeling he’d managed to push away rolled over him in a continuous wave of disgust.

  Blood slid between his legs and over half-healed wounds. A soft gasp escaped him, his chest heaving with the fear and panic still shocking through him. Then another, until he was weeping uncontrollably with shame, unable to stop the memories that darted menacingly around him like ghouls.

  “I break you, SEAL,” she spat with scorn. She dug her knife in his hip, twisting it until he cried out in agony. “Easy as pie. You talk or you die. Playing is over.” With that she motioned the two goons out, and she and Boris left, the soft snick of the lock sealing his doom.

  He shouldn’t have let those things happen to him. He should have done something. He shouldn’t have been helpless and afraid. He was a goddamned Navy SEAL.

  With one spoken sentence, whispered in his ear like a perverse sweet nothing, that seriously fucked up psycho bitch had effectively destroyed him. It was all part of her plan.

  He reached down to make sure everything was still intact, his eyes closing in relief as the tears flowed, his fingers wet with his blood, with Myerson’s blood, failure a bitter taste on his tongue.

  He hadn’t only failed his team member, he’d failed the brotherhood.

  * * *

  Warehouse District Yur’yevo, Kirikhanistan Province, Russia

  After another frustrating week in which Scarecrow thought Wicked was going to lose it and go off the edge, they tracked down Petrov’s lead. The name panned out, and after more frustrating hold-ups, too much time passing, some underworld contacts, and some “persuasive measures,” Scarecrow discovered where Ivan the Terrible kept his merchandise. This was one badass dude, and it was going to take more than a beat down to get the information they needed. Mental manipulation was right up Scarecrow’s alley, and his first stop wasn’t the warehouse where Ivan did his business. It was to his sixteen-year-old daughter’s school. He wasn’t going to negotiate with the bastard. He was going to mindfuck him.

  It didn’t take long for him and his team to breach the warehouse and subdue Bure’s bullyboys. Scarecrow grabbed Bure’s chin and forced him to look at the picture of his daughter. “Take a long look at the way she is now. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, there won’t be a place you can hide her or enough men to protect her. When I do find her, I’ll put a bullet in her head.” He hoped to hell his bluff worked. He didn’t have it in him to hurt a young girl, so Scarecrow was hoping that the threat of it would be enough.

  The man spilled everything they needed to know.

  Hours later, Scarecrow crouched in the freezing cold transport helo, feeling the chopper’s metal hull pulsating against his back. The smell of jet fuel and the rush of frigid air acted like smelling salts, jarring his brain. As if he needed any added stimulation to stay alert. Sitting in their retractable pipe-and-webbing red nylon seats, two rows of fighters faced each other across the metal floor. The insistent, high-pitched whine of the Black Hawk’s turbines and whump, whump, whump of its twin rotors made conversation close to impossible, leaving the men largely alone in their thoughts. Sitting up toward the front of the chopper, near the door gunner, Scarecrow looked to his left, down the row to his team on his side of the helo. There were twelve of them, grim-faced and steely-eyed, all of them from SEAL Team Seven. Speed’s teammates and Blue’s. Their determination to find their missing brothers—Petty Officers Justin Myerson and Ocean Beckett—could be felt up and down the rows. Their point men and snipers, Kid Chaos for Alpha Team and Dragon for Bravo Team were already on the ground and were at this moment a forward force, relaying vital intel for the rescue, laying the groundwork for the assault team, providing kill/capture and overwatch protection. They were all ready to recover the men who belonged to them as determined as Scarecrow and his five teammates and the six members of SEAL Team Seven, Bravo squad. Bring them home dead or alive. Scarecrow was praying for the latter. Losing Blue just wasn’t going to happen.

  When they reached the drop zone, they moved like a well-oiled machine, silent, determined, and deadly. Everything throbbed in Scarecrow to hurry. They were running out of time. Blue was running out of time. H
e could feel it.

  2

  Splintered silvery pieces of awareness filtered through Blue’s consciousness, a blurry, detached sensation that he welcomed as his fists clenched in the thin fabric. The shivering never seemed to stop, and he pulled the ratty blanket up over his shoulders. He trembled in the darkest part of the night. Tomorrow he would die. There was no way he was betraying his country.

  He reached for what he believed in, reached for the teachings that had sustained him ever since he’d been twelve and had been dismissed when it mattered most. The ugliness of seeing his friend molested by someone they trusted came to him out of the darkness of his mind. He hadn’t thought about that in such a long time, but the incident had shaped him, and Natasha’s abuse had brought it all back like a bad dream.

  He’d had nightmares and regret about his actions and afterward had worried about the world being unsafe. He wasn’t an idiot. She had triggered all of the emotion he’d pushed away. Too painful to remember how he was treated. How his friend had been treated.

  It was there in the deepest, darkest well of his soul that he allowed his thoughts to turn to Elena. Not the last part of their being together when they were running for their lives. Not when she’d fallen after breaking away so he wouldn’t be compromised. The vision that came to him was him nestled against her, warm in her arms. The way she’d loved him, taken him into her body, the sweet sounds and her soft skin. He wasn’t sure he deserved to gain any comfort from the memories of the way she had nursed him back when he’d thought he understood himself. It had been easier when he’d forgotten everything. He didn’t even know if she had survived. Tears tracked down his face, wet and salty. His body ached from the agony in his shoulders to the stinging cuts on his inner thighs to the parts that made him a man. His throat and lungs burned. Bruises throbbed on his wrists and ankles, ribcage, and back.

  He knew what his duty was, and he knew he was a warrior first, a medic second. He knew that giving up sensitive information was treason. He couldn’t betray his country that way or his brothers. There was no way he would give up anything. He’d always been sure of himself, but she’d fucked him over and fucked him up, and not even meditation could make any sense out of what he had gone through.

  Then he heard two muffled pops, and adrenaline shot into his system. He knew that sound. Before he could rise, the door burst open and lights flashed into the room. He sat up and pulled into a ball into the corner of his bunk.

  “Blue? Blue!” Scarecrow said, his voice filled with joy as he rushed into the room and crouched down.

  Blue just stared at him, wondering if he’d gone over the deep end and was conjuring this up or dreaming. He looked to the other SEAL who was covering the door, his weapon poised for action. When he turned to look at him, Blue realized it was Wicked. Shame washed through him until his body was burning. He looked away before making eye contact. He didn’t want them to see him like this, cowering and weak. He would almost prefer to die than have them witness his inadequacy.

  Scarecrow looked back at Wicked, then to Blue. “Can you walk?” He reached for him, and when he touched Blue’s wrist, revulsion and sheer terror rushed through Blue. He jerked back. “Jesus, Wicked. He doesn’t have anything on. Fucking bastards.”

  Wicked’s usually impassive face twisted. “LT said we were supposed to stay at the back with Kid and Dragon. We’re going to get our asses chewed. But who gives a fuck.”

  “Damn straight. We took care of any threat back there, and I wasn’t going to sit on my straw-filled ass when in my gut, I knew he was here and alive.”

  Wicked looked at Blue and sighed. “It’ll be worth it. Where is Speed being held?” he said.

  Blue just stared at him, a terrible lethargy stealing over him. He was afraid to say anything and break the dream. He was feeling like he was receding, dissolving into nothing. His head hurt.

  Scarecrow’s hands brushed over him again, and Blue cried out when he touched a particularly deep bruise on his ribcage.

  “Sorry, man,” he murmured. “Christ, this thing is covered in blood.” His voice was heavy with disgust. “Are you hurt?”

  Blue closed his eyes and turned away. Hurt? The word seemed so benign, like a kid who skinned his knee. He’d been destroyed.

  When Blue didn’t answer, Scarecrow swore viciously under his breath. “We’re getting you out of here. Do you understand me?”

  Blue just stared at him feeling as if he was receding even more. “Dammit. Wicked. Go salvage him some pants from one of those sons of bitches we double tapped. His skin is like ice and he’s got to be freezing.” Scarecrow settled a comm over Blue’s ears.

  “Copy that,” Wicked growled.

  He disappeared from the door, and Scarecrow rose. He went to the frame and stood there protecting Blue, his stance aggressive, his face tight and angry. Scarecrow’s shoulders went rigid, and he triggered several rounds. He said softly into his comm, “LT. Package B secured. Tangos neutralized. Anyone comes for him, they’re toast.”

  “Goddammit, Crow. I told you—”

  “Yes, sir. I got that.”

  “How the fuck is he?”

  “He’s not good, LT. Hurry.”

  “We’re coming in. Speed?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Stay with the package. Can you follow that order?”

  “Yes, sir. I think that one works for me.”

  There was movement, and Wicked was back with a pair of pants, a shirt with a bullet hole in it, and a leather jacket. He came into the room and Blue kept himself still. Scarecrow took the garments, and Wicked took over the door. They looked strong and sure—like the badass warriors they were. Blue felt small in contrast. Scarecrow knelt down. “Can you get dressed, man?”

  Blue stared at him dully, his vision blurry, his mind shifting.

  “Blue?” Scarecrow turned to Wicked, his normally passive face filled with rage. “What the fuck’s wrong with him? What did they do to him?”

  “Fuck, Crow,” Wicked growled. “Just dress him.” Wicked’s shoulders tightened. “Fuckers are dead,” he said low and deep. He shifted, the expression on his face pinched in worry.

  “Copy that,” Scarecrow said as he reached for Blue’s ankle. “We need the Golovkins alive, as much as I hate to admit it. The warheads are the secondary target. Don’t forget that.” Wicked just grunted. When Scarecrow touched him, his hand was gloved, but warm and solid. Blue tried to fight the almost instantaneous reaction to kick out at him, but he couldn’t help himself. He knocked Scarecrow back and pulled into himself, swallowing hard.

  Scarecrow’s face softened, and he leaned forward, his voice lowered a notch. “I’m not here to hurt you. We’re here to bring you home. Trust me, Blue. You know me. You know Wicked.”

  Blue blinked rapidly, his mind and body shutting down. Between his cracked lips, he said plaintively, “I want to go home.” Maybe he wasn’t dreaming, maybe this was real.

  At Scarecrow’s second, more solid touch, he realized that this wasn’t a dream at all. This was real, and he was so thankful, but tortured at the same time. He straightened out Blue’s leg and fitted the pants on as efficiently as a drill sergeant yelled at his recruits. He leaned over and circled Blue’s waist and lifted him as if he were a child. Blue gripped Scarecrow’s shoulders—so solid, his muscles like iron, even as he death-gripped the blanket still around his hips and upper legs.

  Something shattered in Blue, the hazy dizziness receding. “Scarecrow?” he said, his voice a hoarse rattle. Humiliation was a new emotion for him. Having his teammates see him like this was the most awful feeling, and for a moment, he couldn’t make eye contact.

  “Welcome back, buddy. Yeah, it’s Crow and Wicked. We came for you, and we’re getting you the hell out of here.”

  As Scarecrow pulled up the other leg, Wicked said, “No luck on Speed. Occupied rooms, but Myerson wasn’t in any of them.” Scarecrow went to push the blanket off Blue and he froze, his gut churning. “No,” he shout
ed. He didn’t want them to see him…like this.

  “Blue, it’s okay. I’m getting you dressed. It’s all right.”

  Blue clutched the blanket tight to him, curling even more into a ball, the pants half on, knowing that when they saw what he’d let happen, they would look at him differently. He was shaking like a scared dog.

  “Man, get him dressed. We’re running out of time.”

  “Cool it, Wicked.” Scarecrow turned back to Blue. “Ocean,” he said. The sound of Blue’s first name was like a shock to his system. “We have to get you dressed, man. Easy peasy, right?”

  Blue stared at his teammate and friend. Normally, he was the one who was soothing scared and injured warriors. He wasn’t sure he knew how to handle being one. He desperately wanted to get out of here. Resigned, he relaxed his hold, and Scarecrow pulled the blanket away.

  Scarecrow’s face transformed into grim understanding, then went tight with anger. He froze, then stepped back swearing viciously. Wicked glanced over and his lips tightened. “Fucking bastards.”

  “Natasha.” Scarecrow said her name like it was a curse. “Sadistic bitch.”

  His green eyes snapped to Blue. “Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to get you out of here,” he said fiercely.

  A shudder coursed through Blue, and he exhaled softly. He grabbed Scarecrow by the back of the neck, his hold like a vice, needing to feel him as a solid foundation from which to come back. Scarecrow’s arms came around him in a rough, desperate embrace. “You’re going to be okay, Beckett. We’ve got your back.”

  Scarecrow let Blue go and very carefully pulled up the pants and gently zipped and fastened. But no matter how careful he was, Blue cried out from the pain. Then Scarecrow pulled the T-shirt over his head, slipping his arms into the sleeves of the jacket, the fading heat from a dead man’s cooling body did nothing to warm him. Zipping it up, he snugged up the collar.