Fast Lane (SEAL Team Alpha Book 16), Page 3

  For a couple of minutes, Fast Lane watched them tussle, then he growled, “Knock it off.”

  All the guys were laughing, including Pitbull and Dodger. He shoved Pitbull away and said, “Watch your back, dog boy. There might be a spider in your bed in the future.”

  “Who’s going to put it there…you?” Zach “Saint” Bartholomew said through bursts of laugher. “Scaredy pants Graham? I doubt it.”

  “You wanker,” Dodger said, then smirked. “Point taken.”

  Fast Lane rose. Mission accomplished. Now he was thinking about spiders and snakes instead of Solace.

  Lotus Flower Curio Shop, Bangkok, Thailand

  The message had come over an encrypted cell that was just for that purpose alone. They used her code name: Karasu, Japanese for Raven. No one knew who she was: male, female, light or dark, nationality, nothing. A ghost in the truest sense.

  Her instructors had loved her at the Farm, even more at the very secret, elite CIA Shadowguard Unit. Precise, no emotion ever showing on her face, or in her dark eyes. She was invisible when she had to be, used mad martial arts skills, and preferred knives and swords to heavy, clumsy weaponry.

  She was either an assassin or a savior…a double-edged sword depending on her orders. She protected as easily as she killed.

  And she was skilled at both.

  She entered the shop and allowed her eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting. Streams of sunlight through bleary windows cast shadows and showed the age of the place. Behind a scarred counter, wood shelves sat at skewed angles, bent and twisted like the old man at the register. At first glance, it was littered with junk, but as she took a step closer, she noticed the dust and cobwebs hid the true value of the pieces. It was a mystery how one person got all this stuff.

  There were two people in the shop, and she browsed as she kept her eyes on the old man. She was as honed as the blades she kept on her and as focused and patient as the owner’s tabby who was sitting at a mousehole near a sagging bookcase of aged books and manuscripts. She wouldn’t be surprised to find the Dead Sea Scrolls in among the clutter.

  She wasn’t looking to recover anything so ancient. No, what she was after was much more modern and much more dangerous.

  One of the patrons, a man, knocked a shelf and a pot wobbled, then plummeted to the floor. Before anyone could move, Karasu reached out and plucked it from the air. She winked at the man, who had an incredulous look on his face as she set it back.

  “You break it…you buy it.” She smiled.

  “I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. You have the reflexes of a cobra.”

  She bided her time until the man and the woman left after buying the pot he had almost broken into shards.

  The old man acted like she wasn’t even there, but Karasu understood he knew exactly where she was at every moment. If only he could be some kind of a challenge.

  Finally, he looked at her. “If you no buy, you leave.”

  She pushed away from the counter, her soft-soled shoes making no sound. “I’m buying, but I don’t see what I came for.”

  Suddenly, the old man lost about forty years. He pulled a handgun, but she easily disarmed him, rapidly breaking down the gun and flinging its parts into the air. He scowled and morphed again into…Bruce Lee. She learned at a very young age that men were stronger than women, but women were cunning, flexible, and smarter. They had to be. She’d had to be.

  She flipped backward and landed in a fighting stance. His lightning-quick moves hit nothing but air. She resisted going for her knives. A dead man told no tales.

  “Just give me what I want, and we’re done with this. No reason anyone has to get hurt.” But she didn’t really mean it. She wanted to see what the guy was made of. Maybe she would learn something, or as usual, she would just be disappointed.

  He didn’t answer, just lunged for her. Predictable. Too bad. With a move she likened to wind, she slid right out of his target area, something as fundamental as breathing. She learned it from training with Shaolin, the creators and masters of Kung Fu. Their core belief was nonviolence, yet their study was all about violence. So, dodging became a form of art she loved to manipulate.

  The look on his face made her want to laugh, but in his dark eyes there was only death. This was his way of testing her, to learn if she was a threat.

  He meant to kill her, which put her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t kill him. The assassin was shackled. For now.

  Make lemonade out of lemons.

  In a flurry of punches, he tested her speed, and she countered with Aikido, the art of using her opponent’s aggression and momentum to throw them away or render their attacks powerless. It was a complicated fighting style out of Japan. Touted as a peaceful technique, it was a deadly art of self-defense. Interestingly, the safety not only of the defender, but the attacker was just as important. She blocked every punch, then countered, landing several hard blows. With a throw, she sent him sliding across the floor.

  He was up and after her again. She moved around the counter, and they did a dance as he tried to get to her by feinting one way, then another. But she was too fast, too nimble. Finally, with an explosive leap, he jumped onto the counter and with a roundhouse, went for her head. Using her fluid water movement, she avoided a stunning blow, grabbed his ankle, and unbalanced him. He toppled off the counter. She heard a crack and his body jerked when his face smacked a planter on his way down. His face was bloody, and from the way his shoulder was slumping forward it looked like he had broken his collarbone, but he wouldn’t stop. She had to admit, he was persistent.

  Without a sound, not even a groan or grunt, he jumped up into a crouch and went to sweep her legs out from under her. She realized it only a split second before he made contact. She jumped, landing awkwardly, but with her superior balance, was barely affected.

  He came up with an expectation that she would be wobbly. Men, even well-trained ones who were in a shady business, still underestimated well-trained females—something else that was baked into the DNA. Good for her. Bad for him.

  When he’d almost landed a few of his fast-moving strikes, she’d likened her attacker to Bruce Lee, but she was mistaken. Bruce was a master of Wing Chun. Karasu reminded herself to stay focused and balanced. She had to quiet her mind. Wing Chun was all about balance.

  This guy was getting sloppy and losing his form. His attacks were no longer concise or direct. He moved in close for another flurry of hands and feet.

  So far, he hadn’t landed a blow.

  It was clear that it made him angry. Men were quick off the mark, aggression born in their DNA and their gender. Adrenaline pumped into him, fueled by what was becoming desperation. Everyone seemed to know when their opponent exceeded their skill.

  She fought him off with self-defensive moves that were as powerful as they were rote, a plethora of muscle memory moves that only made him angrier.

  Breathing hard, he surged forward, slamming her against the wall, using his elbow to neutralize her. She blocked, but there were no other blows. He turned and ran. She took three steps in pursuit, then grabbed a Go board with the marble figures on top, balanced them until she folded the board. As they slid down into the crease, she flung her hand and arm out and sent them sliding across the floor right under his feet.

  He threw his hands up to try to keep his balance, but the figurines danced beneath his feet until he hit one that made him dive forward and slide the remaining way to the door on his stomach. It opened, the bell tinkling.

  With a kick to his head, her partner effectively knocked him out.

  “You’re a fucking martial arts savant, Kara.”

  She narrowed her eyes and set her hands on her hips. “Shut up, Volk. You are so shortsighted. I’m an artist.” Volk, German for wolf, was broad-shouldered in his tight black clothes, the muscle narrowing down to a trim waist and slim hips and well-formed thighs. He was light on his feet and skilled, but he was still no match for her. He kept trying. She had to give him that.
She was resigned to the fact that no man was her match. How could she ever respect someone who couldn’t either best her or come close?

  “You sure are creative. That’s clear.”

  “Thanks for showing up.”

  “No problem,” he said with a wide smile. “Did he have the plans?”

  She huffed out a breath, giving her longtime partner an are-you-kidding-me look. With that same damn smile, he picked the guy up and started for the back room. She took care of the open door, setting the closed sign and pulling the shade.

  In a back room, Volk extracted the information he needed, something he excelled at. She wasn’t into torture; it was not her style. She used her phone and punched in a number, then said one word. “Sweep.”

  They slipped out the back alley, armed with the information they needed. The US would get back their weapon schematics and someone would pay for putting their country in jeopardy.

  That was her job.

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the address the shopkeeper had been persuaded to provide. Wasting no time, she propelled herself across the manicured grounds as fast as possible while staying in the shadows. Rapidly approaching the building, she used her speed as she jumped. Arms outstretched, Karasu sailed through the air like the raven she was named after and gripped the decorative ledge above the first-floor window. Instantly, she snapped down her muscles, forcing herself to stop and not plow through the glass. She drew up her legs to slow her rocking, then hung straight to catch her breath.

  The man who lived here was dangerous, doubly so since he had the plans for a weapon that had been stolen from the US. He planned to auction it off. Not on her watch.

  She had chosen the darkest section of the residence, the side that faced the forest and was protected from the city lights by the massive stone walls. With a chin up, she drew herself up for leverage, then swung her leg to catch the ledge to stand. The hooded catsuit made movement easy. She used the carvings around the windows for toeholds. The guards patrolled below her. Volk was watching and would intervene if he had to. He was such a dark shadow, and she only knew he was there because it was the spot she had just left.

  Intel better be right. She maneuvered to grasp the second-floor window and then slipped neatly inside. He was at the desk, his back to her. She slipped one of the knives free.

  He never saw her coming.

  Ten minutes later she was back on the ground. She and Volk met up with their contact, and the plans were on their way back.

  “We have another job for you,” the contact said.

  “Where?”

  “The States…Bethesda, Maryland.”

  Private Residence, Bethesda, Maryland

  Preacher couldn’t relax. He could feel the tension in the air. He had a sixth sense about stuff. Iceman called it his woo-woo senses, but his boss always heeded it. He walked out of the bedroom that had been assigned to him. Neo “2-Stroke” Teller and Chrysanthe Steele were also here. They were guarding Aleksandar Custovic, a seventeen-year-old boy who had helped 2-Stroke and Chry escape from their captivity by Darko Stjepanić, a powerful Balkans crime lord, and Zasha Vasiliev, also known as Kelly Sparks when the treasonous bitch worked as the team’s former CIA liaison. She had been trying to get to Fast Lane, but she had been outsmarted when he had traded places with 2-Stroke in the SUV that had been taking the team to the airport for transportation back to the states after completing a mission in Prague.

  The air seemed to get heavy, and he increased his steps. This place was like Fort Knox, a sprawling estate on several acres of land built of stone and wood owned by Elvidin Merlin, Alek’s cousin. It was beautiful, and after checking security, safe. Elvidin had spared no expense in keeping his favorite cousin safe from the madwoman who wanted him dead. He employed a lot of security to keep the boy safe. And 2-Stroke and Chry were here. He was just an extra precaution.

  Zasha Vasiliev had vowed she would kill Alek, 2-Stroke, and Chry. He was here to make sure they all survived while 2-Stroke’s team was out hunting the crazy bitch.

  He went to the front hall. Everything was quiet. No alarms, no problems. Out of the shadows, Chry stepped, 2-Stroke behind her.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. Something.”

  She took him at his word. The three of them quietly padded down the stairs. “We’ll check the back of the house and outside. Let us know if you need help.”

  He waved them away, watching and waiting.

  This house had a lot of rooms. Too many in his opinion. His house could fit into this enormous foyer. He stopped when he heard a sound. Displaced air made him turn, but something flashed across the darkness and embedded in the assassin’s neck. He had gotten too close to Preacher. But he was down thanks to another person in the room. Another flash and Preacher rolled away, pulling his weapon. Either this was another assassin who had mistakenly killed his own guy, or this deadly accurate, knife-wielding assassin was one of the good guys mistaking Preacher for a bad guy.

  He shot into the shadows where the flashes came from but apparently didn’t hit the assassin. Several more knives sliced the air, one almost giving him a close shave, and the other just missing his neck. He didn’t hesitate, just kept moving. He fired again, but again missed.

  Darkness flowed across the floor and materialized into a figure. He brought his weapon up, but the person was already moving, flipping and tumbling across the floor. Hitting him with a hard blow, he reeled back, his gun gone.

  The dark figure was already dismantling it.

  He hoped that Elvidin and Alek had already headed for the second-floor panic room. That had been Preacher’s instructions.

  Then the figure was moving again, straight at him. He fended off a flurry of blows, suddenly and shockingly on the defensive. Preacher didn’t like to be pushed back. His arms and feet moved as fast as his assailant’s. Then he caught the assassin with a blow to the chin.

  The black hood unraveled, a waterfall of dark hair spilling over one shoulder.

  It was a woman.

  She lifted her arm and wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. Looking down at the blood, she seemed…surprised. Then she returned her dark gaze to him. Was that satisfaction? Wasn’t he the one who had gotten in the blow?

  Her expression remained unchanged as he studied her, admiring her beauty, the lethal edge of it. She was sleek but feminine, her curves now decidedly womanly. Her eyes were almond-shaped and a deep, deep shade of blue…midnight.

  She smiled with a sheen of calculation in her eyes.

  He said, “You will not harm the boy or his cousin, not while I’m breathing.”

  She stiffened. “Boyce “Preacher” Carmichael, Navy SEAL Tier 1 operator, point man. CO Christopher “Iceman” Snow. Sorry about the knives. I didn’t recognize you in the dark,” she purred, her voice just as dark and sultry as the rest of her.

  “Who are you?” Preacher countered. How the hell did she get this information?

  She tipped her head, no smile, no inclination of her thoughts, yet a glitter of interest sparked in her eyes. “We’re here to protect the boy, a Navy SEAL, and his fiancée. The assassins who were sent by Zasha Vasiliev are dead.”

  “We?”

  “I’m Karasu. My partner—”

  “Volk,” a man said as Chry and 2-Stroke shoved him into the foyer.

  “A wolf and a raven,” Preacher mused.

  “Luna?” Chry asked, and the woman’s head whipped around.

  “Hello, Chry,” Karasu said.

  “How do you know her?” Preacher growled.

  Chry looked at Preacher and frowned. “We were together at the Farm.” Her attention returned back to the dark huntress. “But they said you washed out. I was shocked,” Chry said, stepping into the foyer.

  “I didn’t wash out,” Karasu said. “I’m part of an elite CIA team.”

  Chry turned back to look Volk over, then back to Karasu. She nodded. “Oh my God. You’re part of the S
hadowguard.”

  3

  Solace walked, watching the dust swirl in the distance, her focus on getting her feet to move. Dusk was starting to fall, secluding the landscape in cold shadows and silence. This base was as close to a ghost town as they could get. There was a cluster of dwellings, showers, mess, and command posts that had been delegated to the Americans. To them.

  Security was good, though. The Taliban had every intention of retaking Afghanistan, and with resignation, Solace felt that was inevitable. There would never be peace for these people.

  But to be honest, she wasn’t about peace. She was about war, trained for battle, trained to do what was necessary for her country.

  Towering mountains rose in the distance, topped with snowcapped peaks. It hadn’t rained here, but storm clouds were massing against the jagged summits, and the setting sun cast the dark, heavy cloud formations in auras of gold and purple.

  Once this base had been hundreds deep, full of activity and personnel, but for the US, the war on Afghanistan had moved from the battlefield to the politicians.

  It had been inevitable after Bin Laden had been found and justice had been served for his crimes against the US.

  But nothing had really changed, not here, not globally. If anything, SOARS and Special Forces would all be needed elsewhere. It didn’t change the fact that here and now there was a serious threat. It would need to be neutralized or the attacks from 9/11 would look mild compared to the plans of an evil madwoman with a heavy vendetta against her ex-husband…and now his whole team.

  Dry and cold, the solid, dismal cloud cover overhead had broken up, and now there were traces of clear sky amidst the dark, tumbling clouds. Skirting some animal dung, probably camel, Solace pulled her jacket around her and took a deep breath filled with grit and sand. Fast Lane…she liked that name instead of getting personal with him. Calling him by his first name always made her feel…vulnerable when she needed to feel strong, flexible, and grounded.