Rescued by a Hot SEAL: Hot SEALs Read online

  RESCUED BY A HOT SEAL

  Hot SEALs

  by NY Times & USA Today Bestseller

  CAT JOHNSON

  He’s a SEAL. She’s the woman his team is sent to rescue.

  Navy commander Grant Milton was well prepared to fight Somali kidnappers to save American aid worker Jennifer Anderson. What he wasn’t ready to deal with were his feelings for her afterward.

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  Chapter 1

  To say the team had been excited when the training orders came through and they saw the location would be a gross understatement.

  Vegas.

  Even if Grant Milton’s SEAL team was in the Nevada desert for high altitude high opening night jump practice, Vegas was near.

  It hovered like a mirage on the horizon so close the men could see the beckoning glow of the neon during their jumps out of the C-130.

  Grant could feel their anticipation now as his team stood assembled in front of him after the conclusion of their final night of training. They vibrated with the barely contained excitement but still held fast, waiting for him to cut them loose for what remained of the night.

  Why wasn’t he more excited about that prospect himself?

  Now that the adrenaline had dissipated Grant felt nothing but tired. Not just physically, but more of a bone-deep weariness that seemed to start in his brain and take root in his heart.

  Four six-man teams made a total of twenty-four in the training group. It was entirely comprised of elite warriors from the Naval Special Warfare Development Group. Known as SEAL Team 6 to most people, including the media, it was usually just DEVGRU to those actually involved with the teams.

  They’d all come together for this surprise high altitude high opening parachute training that command had sprung on them with no notice.

  They’d completed the night’s HAHO exercises, but Grant’s unit was the only one yet to be dismissed.

  Was he torturing his men by dragging this out? Maybe. Exercising patience and self-denial would be good for them.

  And maybe he was a little jealous. While they’d all be hitting up the casinos, he’d most likely go back to the hotel. Watch an hour of shitty TV until he thought he might be able to fall to sleep and then stare at the ceiling in the dark until he actually did.

  “We fly out at zero-eight-hundred. Rally is thirty minutes before wheels up.” Every eye remained trained on him as his team waited. Grant drew in a breath and decided to end their torture.

  “Until then, you’re dismissed." There was a collective whoop as the team broke formation. "Don’t be late or we’re leaving without you and you'll have to find your own way back to Virginia.”

  He’d had to yell the last part at their retreating backs as they sprinted for the vehicles. His own fault for saying the magic word—dismissed—a tad too soon.

  “You’re not heading out on the town like them?”

  Grant turned at the question and saw Mike Groenning, the team commander from one of the other units they’d been training with. “I hadn’t planned on it. You?”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably drive in and grab dinner. I’ve got a hankering for a nice thick juicy steak.” Mike rubbed his flat stomach.

  The man was on the small side, but anyone who assumed that made him weak would get a surprise and quickly find out to the contrary.

  All that strength burned a lot of calories. From what Grant had observed Mike could put away food as well as any man twice his size.

  “That steak actually doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.” It was after midnight but the last thing Grant had eaten had been hours before the training had started.

  The team worked enough vampire hours Grant could eat any time of day or night. He used to be able to sleep at any time too, regardless of the hour, but lately that hadn’t been the case.

  Too much on his mind, he supposed. He felt fine when he was occupied during training or on an op. It was during the down time when the demon thoughts crept into his brain.

  “Come with me,” Mike said. When Grant hesitated, he added, “I’m not planning on being out until dawn, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  That had been a consideration. Grant’s late night partying had ended when he'd slipped that ring on Bethany’s finger.

  Had that really been four years ago?

  He stifled a sigh and nodded. “All right. I think I will come. Thanks.”

  It would be good for him to get out. Shoot the shit with a fellow team leader. Talk about everything, but really nothing at all.

  Tonight, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling would have to wait . . . at least for a few more hours.

  Chapter 2

  Jennifer Anderson knew from the time she was young the one thing she wanted to do was teach, so it wasn’t a surprise that was what she’d ended up doing for a career.

  What was a surprise, to her family and friends and the current guy she had just started dating, was her recent announcement. That after eight years of teaching elementary school in Ohio she was moving to the Horn of Africa to teach children in Somalia for a year.

  Reactions varied. Her family was supportive—at least to her face—her friends and coworkers were baffled, and her boyfriend, Brad, was kind of an ass about it.

  He told her she was nuts. That it was too dangerous. That in a country that destitute, she should expect violence against foreigners, in particular Americans who were perceived as rich and entitled by the rest of the world.

  That although the military and the private shipping companies had quelled the pirate attacks at sea, kidnappings on land still happened.

  Jen knew there were dangers and that there had been some attacks in the past, but the concept of actual modern day pirates had made her laugh. So had the concept that her investment broker boyfriend was familiar with anything that wasn't in a sports broadcast or in the stock market report.

  Foreign affairs weren't exactly in Brad's wheelhouse. Where the best happy hour could be found was more his speed.

  In hindsight, she should have listened to Brad. He’d acted like a jerk but it was out of concern for her safety. More than that, he’d been completely right. If she ever got out of here, she’d have to apologize.

  If she ever got out.

  How many days had it been since the group of men with AK-47s had stopped their vehicle? She’d lost count since the fever and delirium had set in.

  Not too much longer than a month, she supposed. She knew that because she’d had to endure the presence of her period without the benefit of any sanitary products, but only once.

  Though she’d lost so much weight from being starved, perhaps her body had shut down that part of her system to conserve energy.

  Good. In her weakened state she needed all the help she could get.

  Not the mention the complete lack of any sanitation facilities, which made every day she’d been there horrible.

  Jen tried to lick her cracked lips, but fever and lack of adequate water had long ago made her mouth chronically dry.

  She lifted her head, then using both arms tried to sit up. The resulting wave of dizziness from that effort, in addition to the headache that was her constant companion now, made her feel worse just when she thought that wasn't possible.

  Giving up, she flopped back to the hard ground. The mat beneath her and the filthy, scratchy blanket that covered her provided slim comfort.

  Comfort. She’d long forgotten what that felt like. What normal felt like . . .

  “We’re going to die here.” Adam’s voice, low and scratchy, came to her through the darkness.

  The soft Dutch accent
that she’d enjoyed listening to before they’d been taken didn’t soften the harsh reality of his words.

  As she lay staring at the stars that shone extra brightly in the moonless sky, she said, “I know.”

  At the beginning of their confinement she and Adam had made a pact. No negative talk. No negative thoughts either. The enemy within—the loss of the will to live—could be as deadly as the external dangers.

  Now, after a month of being treated worse than animals, keeping a sunny outlook was completely impossible, but even maintaining a modicum of hope when it was becoming so obvious there was none, seemed maniacal.

  If she hadn’t been so dehydrated, she would cry.

  Instead, she just shook—from the infection that racked her body, from the chill of the damp clothes stuck to her skin, from the hysteria she hovered just at the edge of.

  Her coworker smothered a curse. “I’m sorry, Jen. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s the truth.”

  Maybe speaking it aloud would bring death sooner.

  Jen considered that. Did she want to die?

  Her first thought when they’d been faced with the men who’d intercepted their car with AK-47s and shouted threats in a language she didn’t understand had been that at thirty-one she was too young to die.

  Adam was older. At least he’d had a chance at life. A career and then a retirement that allowed him to pursue charity work. A wife. Kids he’d seen graduate and marry. Grandchildren he could enjoy spoiling.

  Jen had none of that. If—when—she died she’d leave a mother and father and sister who would no doubt mourn for her, but not much else.

  She’d never get to transform the scribbles in her journal into that memoir she’d planned to write when she got home from this trip.

  But compared to the pain that every second brought to her now, she had to think yes. It was time to let go. She was done.

  Death would be preferable to life as it was now after over a month of this inhuman captivity—a month if their crude estimate was even close to accurate.

  Truth be told, she wasn’t sure of anything any more except for one thing—she’d rather die a quick death rather than be tortured, or slowly beheaded for the video value.

  Or, God forbid, be gang raped by these men.

  In the beginning, when she had been a prize to be preserved for a possible huge ransom payout, none of the two-dozen men dared touch her.

  But lately things had shifted. There had been glances from a couple that made her uncomfortable. The attention had recently escalated and become invasions of her personal space as one or another man would stand too close when they walked. Slept too close to her on the ground.

  If the hostage negotiations didn’t resolve quickly, she had no doubt the advances would go much further and there was nothing she or Adam could do to stop them, except maybe die trying.

  And she would, when it came to that, die fighting rather than go quietly.

  She realized she’d thought when, not if.

  So there is was then. The truth, finally. They were going to die here and she accepted that fact.

  It was a relief really to stop deceiving herself.

  There was no way the not for profit non-governmental organization running her school could pay the kind of insane ransom numbers the delusional and ill informed Somali kidnappers had been demanding.

  Neither could her parents.

  A couple of hundred thousand, maybe, but ten million US dollars? Never.

  Calmed by her resolve that she’d make sure she died quickly, even if she had to grab one of their knives and use it on herself, Jen stared up at the night sky disappointed there was no moon showing for her to gaze upon.

  She liked the moon. Liked to imagine she was up there, safely looking down on the Earth, far from where she was now.

  Jen held the beauty of that thought in her mind as she hovered between consciousness and delusion and hopefully soon would fall into the blissful release of sleep.

  Chapter 3

  Even after a successful training and a really kick-ass steak on the strip in Vegas, there was nothing like coming home.

  Things were strained between Grant and his wife—and his getting yanked away on no notice and missing their counseling session hadn’t helped—but he was still happy to be back.

  Grant had been too many places and done too many things to not appreciate the comforts of home when he was fortunate enough to get them.

  He’d make nice with Bethany, reschedule the appointment and hope to avoid another argument.

  A man could only fight about the same thing so many times. A woman, however, seemed to have no limit on the number of repeat battles covering the same ground.

  They had to have argued over the same topic a hundred times, maybe more in the few years since they’d been married.

  It all boiled down to one thing. She wanted him to get out of the Navy. He didn’t agree.

  He’d tried the compromise thing. He really had. He’d given up command of his team and spent over a year as a Green Team instructor during which, barring any night testing and training, he could come home to her every evening like a normal husband who worked a regular job.

  Bethany still hadn’t been happy.

  Not that it mattered because Grant had been absolutely miserable cooling his heels stateside while his men were under another commander’s leadership in the midst of the action.

  She didn’t want to be married to a military man and he wasn’t ready to be a civilian or take a backseat in a support role so they were at an impasse.

  His own fault, he supposed. Grant hadn’t thought to ask before the wedding if his wife-to-be was planning on doing a one-eighty after changing her name.

  He’d never considered that she’d try to completely change the life he lived. The life he loved.

  Tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, he realized he’d made it from the front door, down the hall, past the living area and all the way to the kitchen in the back of the house and had yet to see Bethany.

  Maybe she was out. He moved to the door that led to the garage and pulled it open. Her car was gone.

  Closing the door again, he tried to attribute his sense of relief to the mere fact he wasn’t in the mood for a fight after traveling across the country in a military transport. Her not being home gave him a short reprieve during which he could decompress. Maybe even have a cold beer.

  That thought had his mouth watering as he moved to the refrigerator.

  He had one hand on the door handle when the large manila envelope on the counter caught his eye. Frowning, he noticed it had his name written on it.

  Beer forgotten, he grabbed the envelope and slipped a finger beneath the flap. He slid out a stack of papers, but he didn’t need to read them all because the bold letters at the top were enough to tell him exactly what they were.

  Petition for Divorce.

  His heart felt constricted, like a vise was squeezing his chest. He stood staring at the papers for he didn’t know how long.

  He was in so much shock the next realization didn’t hit him right away. When it did, he strode into the living area. “Beau!”

  No sound of paws and nails came in response to his call. He yanked open the sliding door to the back yard. No overly energetic, slobbering beast was there to run to greet him.

  Grant turned back inside and strode to the bedroom. He flung open her closet and was greeted with nothing but a few empty wire hangers.

  He let out a curse to the empty room.

  She was gone and she’d even taken the damn dog.

  The anger welled up within him until it was a bubbling mass of molten hate. He needed to calm down before he did something he'd regret.

  His cell vibrated in his pocket just as he was contemplating how many beers might be in the fridge and how quickly he could get the alcohol into his body.

  Pulling it out he saw on the readout it was a one-hour recall from command.

 
; He was getting called back in, literally minutes after he’d walked through the door.

  That didn’t happen often but it happened. And from past experience Grant could surmise the quick turnaround meant there was some big action on the horizon.

  As it always did, his pulse raced at the prospect of a mission. The only difference with this op was he wouldn’t have to fight with Bethany about it . . . and he didn’t have to say goodbye to the dog.

  He channeled the energy of his anger into his mission prep.

  Anxious to get out away from the house and all its bad memories, Grant took barely a couple of minutes to shove clean T-shirts, socks and underwear into the bag he hadn’t had time to unpack after the training.

  On his way toward the door he reached for his keys on the kitchen counter and paused as the divorce papers caught his eye again.

  There was no way of knowing how long he’d be gone. Even so, he restrained himself from taking the papers with him. They were one reminder of his failing marriage that he didn’t need physically with him wherever he was going.

  The mere presence of the papers in his bag would only compound the distraction he already feared would continue to weigh on his mind.

  Distraction meant danger, or death, in his line of work.

  Besides, unlike his wayward wife the papers would still be there in his house when he got back.

  Grant walked into the meeting room for his briefing and was surprised to see not only Mike Groenning, his Vegas steak dinner companion, but also the other two team leaders from the HAHO training.

  He tipped his head to them in greeting and took the seat next to Mike. “Groenning, nice to see you again.”

  Snorting out a laugh, Mike said, “Yeah, you too. Long time no see.”

  “No shit. Any idea what this is about?” Grant asked.

  “Nothing direct from command but the talk is that we could be heading to the Horn of Africa to get that American aid worker who was kidnapped in Somalia two months ago.”

  Grant was aware of the situation. It had been all over the news since the woman had been taken. He also knew that the orders for a rescue this high profile would have to come directly down from the Oval Office.