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  SEALED AT MIDNIGHT

  The Hot SEALs Series

  By Cat Johnson

  As a combat hardened Navy SEAL, Thom Grande has fought terrorism around the globe, but he can’t fight is his ex-wife. Or her lawyer. Or the alimony payments. Just when he thinks his life can’t get any worse, bad luck smacks him up side the head—literally. Now, he’s got a traumatic brain injury and can’t remember his own name. The good news? He can’t remember his ex or the woes she’s causing him either.

  Virginia Starr has the worst luck ever with men. But maybe her luck is changing because one hell of a hot man just showed up at her door in the middle of the night. One problem—he can’t remember anything, including who he is. The more Ginny sees, the more she realizes, that might not matter all that much.

  EXCERPT

  “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  “Most of it. I remember my SUV skidding off the road, but I have no recollection of actually crashing or anything else until you found me outside.”

  “Wow. That’s crazy.”

  Not really, but he probably had more experience with traumatic brain injury than she had.

  “I remember some other things too.”

  “Really? Tell me.”

  “I have two kids. Jason and Juliette.” He watched her react to that.

  Her surprise was apparent before she hid it. “Two kids. That’s great.”

  “Mmm, hmm. I’m divorced from their mother.”

  “Oh.” That one syllable seemed ripe with so much. “Do you, uh, have a girlfriend you need to call?”

  He might be rusty and a little bruised around the edges from the divorce, but he knew when a woman was fishing for information and Ginny was.

  “Nope. No girlfriend.”

  “Oh. Okay. I just wanted to check. You know, didn’t want anyone to worry.”

  He smiled. “Thank you for worrying about me.”

  “Sure. Anytime. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” She bit her lip as she raised big brown eyes to look at him.

  That did nothing to help the situation in his boxer shorts. The way he was positioned, so close, touching her, there was no way she’d missed feeling it.

  He swallowed. “Yeah. Definitely feeling better.”

  “Good.” Her eyes narrowed as her gaze dropped to his lips for the briefest of moments.

  His SEAL training had taught him to read people. Informants. Terrorists. He could detect lies and threats, but that skill transferred beyond the counterterrorism world.

  If he wasn’t completely off base, Ginny wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  “Ginny?”

  “Yeah?”

  He couldn’t seem to get the words out at first. He lifted one hand to cup her face, running a thumb across her bottom lip as he leaned in. “Tell me if I’m out of line here.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “You’re not out of line.”

  Table of Contents

  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

  The Hot SEALs Series

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  About Cat Johnson

  Book List

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  The din inside the Black Hawk made normal speech impossible. That was perfect, in Thom Grande’s opinion.

  In the midst of the deafening noise, he could finally find some peace and quiet. His teammates couldn’t ask him how he was doing. He couldn’t be tempted to complain to the guys about how shitty things actually were . . .

  And things were shitty, make no mistake about that.

  Never in his life had he ever believed that he’d be where he was now. No, he wasn’t talking about the fact he was inside a UH-60 packed with SEALs on the way to a mission.

  That he’d always known he’d do. From the moment he was old enough to know what a Navy SEAL was Thom knew he wanted to be one.

  It wasn’t where he was at that moment, or in his career, that baffled him. It was the rest of his life that was fucked up.

  A complete and utter mess.

  Never did he imagine that at twenty-eight years old he’d be divorced and thanks to that divorce, impoverished, alone and lonely. Sleeping in the bachelor barracks for lack of anywhere else to live now that his wife had his house and most of his money. Not to mention control of where and when he could see his two kids.

  Glancing across the crowded space, Thom saw Brody Cassidy sound asleep.

  Unlike his buddy, and a lot of the other guys who found the noise and vibration of the helicopter soothing, the ride didn’t lull Thom to sleep. He wished it would.

  Then again, he didn’t sleep well in his own bed either so he shouldn’t be surprised he’d be awake now.

  The Black Hawk dipped, rocking him where he sat. It was no worse than the turbulence you’d experience in a fixed wing aircraft, but in this bird it happened a lot more often, caused by the normal lifting and dropping from the blades.

  The other difference was, unlike in a commercial aircraft, there was no seatbelt to secure Thom during flight. In fact, there were no seats at all.

  The seats had been removed to accommodate the personnel and equipment for the mission. Guys were stretched out all over the deck of the bird, asleep. Those who couldn’t sleep, like Thom, got numb asses from sitting on the hard surface.

  On a longer flight, he would have taken a sleeping pill. This flight was too short to risk taking anything that would make him groggy, so he remained awake and dealt with it.

  Physical discomfort was part of the job. He was used to that after all the years he’d been in the military.

  The sore ass and lack of sleep would be well worth it if the team achieved their goal on this mission. That goal being the capture of the hooded ISIS executioner responsible for the unconscionable beheading of three American and two British hostages.

  Thom willingly and knowingly put himself in harm’s way when he’d chosen to enlist in the Navy at eighteen. And then again when he tried out for the SEALs.

  These men who ISIS, also known as ISIL, had ordered to be savagely killed hadn’t. They were journalists and aid workers only in Syria to help people. They weren’t the enemy. They weren’t there as fighters. That made the killings even more heinous.

  Countless hours had gone into discovering the identity of the killer, Jihadi John. The nickname had been given to the executioner by the British press, and had been adopted by the coalition military who vowed to find him.

  FBI experts and computer programs searched through massive amounts of data, taking what little information they had from the videos and looking for a match in databases of known Jihadists.

  The details they had to work with were limited but telling. His voice, bearing a distinct British accent. His eyes, visible above the mask. His height and build, even the pattern of veins on the back of his hands . . .

  Given all that, as of September the experts were finally convinced they knew his identity. More importantly, they believed they’d located him.

  But Thom was well aware that intelligence had been wrong before. The failed mission to save the hostages before the first beheading was one of those times. When Special Forces arrived at the location where the hostages were supposed to be, they weren’t there.

  On the other hand, intel had in past been dead on, as in the case of the successful raid that took out al-Qaeda leader Osama Bin Laden in his compound in Abbottabad.

  Th
om could only hope the intelligence for this mission was accurate. That Jihadi John was right where the experts said he’d be.

  Under cover of darkness, the helicopter would set down outside of the city just long enough for the team to unload. They’d patrol to the compound, locate, and then gain access to the building where the target was believed to be hiding.

  Infiltrating would be easy. It was the exfil that would be tricky. They’d have to be quick. There was no hiding a Blackhawk in that environment. The pilot and crew would have to come back for them at the specified time, hoping the team would be at the set point with the target in hand.

  The goal was to get in and out with the least amount of conflict and notice. The many coalition airstrikes against ISIS to date only angered the group and spurred backlash.

  Airstrikes in this case were a weak offense. Too imprecise. The results too uncertain. Unproven. Even the experts couldn’t confirm or deny if the leaders targeted had been taken out by the strikes.

  This, what the counterterrorist-focused SEAL teams trained within the Naval Special Warfare Development Group could accomplish silently and precisely, was what it would take. It was the best way to achieve their goal and obtain their target with complete and absolute certainty.

  If possible, they were supposed to bring him back alive to face trial for his crimes.

  Of course, deadly force was sanctioned should the target pose a threat. Thom could only hope the man pulled a gun, that the bastard would give him a reason to put a bullet in his head.

  The kill, should it go down that way, would need to be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. DNA samples would be retrieved. Photographs taken. Reports filed.

  Though he had to think shooting was too good for the masked coward who’d forced five families to see their sons on their knees, hands bound, beheaded on video. All while the friends and families of the other hostages watched and waited, wondering if and when their loved one would be next.

  They could take Jihadi John dead or alive. Thom didn’t care either way. Just as he didn’t care if it was him or one of his teammates who pulled the trigger or put on the zip cuffs. It didn’t matter who or how, as long as they got the bastard who’d become the poster child for the Islamic State terrorist’s militant recruitment.

  Brody rolled over on the bedroll he’d carried with him. Thom shook his head at the man. Brody was a champion sleeper. Anytime. Anywhere.

  Over the years, Thom had watched Brody fall asleep sitting up and also lying across a row of folding chairs. He could sleep in the meeting room or in a Black Hawk. In an airport or in the bed of a moving truck. It didn’t matter.

  Thom glanced Brody’s way, jealous of the peace his friend found in sleep. Peace Thom hadn’t had in what felt like forever.

  In reality, it was close to two years now since his wife had handed him those divorce papers completely out of the blue. It was a parting shot with no warning on the eve of his return from a six-month deployment.

  The memory had the pulse pounding in his head.

  He needed to get over it. Rid himself of this anger that ate at him day and night, and doubly on payday.

  His concentration was much better focused on his job. She’d gotten his kids, his house, and his money—even his damn dog—but his career was the one thing she couldn’t touch unless he let her by allowing his bitterness to affect his performance.

  The rest of the twelve-man unit assembled specifically for this mission might be sleeping, but at least Thom wasn’t the only one awake in the bird. The crew—the pilot, co-pilot, crew chief and gunner—had to be awake and alert. That was some consolation, at least.

  He ran over the plan again in his head, just as they’d gone over it as a group at least a dozen times during prep.

  As he mentally reviewed the steps they’d rehearsed, he flexed his stiff fingers. Anticipation of the mission had him not realizing how cold it was in the bird until his fingers went numb, even inside his gloves.

  Winter in Iraq sucked. Well, anytime in Iraq sucked but the frigid weather in November presented extra challenges. Even with the hatches closed, the cold permeated the frame. There was a heating system onboard, but it was like blowing into a hurricane. Useless.

  One more reason Thom was jealous of those sleeping—they were blissfully ignorant of the cold.

  He felt the bird dip but this time it didn’t rise again. He moved his glove out of the way and glanced at the watch on his wrist.

  They must be nearing their destination—a compound on the outskirts of the city of Mosul.

  The city had become an Islamic State stronghold in June. The citizens lived in fear under the harsh rule and intolerance of the Jihadists. They survived without the basic necessities of electricity and water.

  Much as with the Bin Laden raid, the team was inserting into a residential area under cover of darkness. They’d use stealth for as long as possible, and speed after that.

  They’d pinpointed the building where Jihadi John was supposed to be. They could see it, as well as what surrounded it, thanks to satellite photos, but they didn’t know much more.

  The interior layout was still a mystery, as was where exactly John might be within the building and who was with him.

  CIA observers had tracked any comings and goings for as long as they dared delay the mission, but the exact number inside was still unknown.

  Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. All those months of searching, watching, planning, and now it was almost show time.

  Stretching out one leg, Thom nudged Brody with one booted foot. Brody popped upright, awake and alert, as if he hadn’t just been sound asleep. Probably snoring too, though Thom wouldn’t have been able to hear it over the noise if he had been.

  Brody’s only visible concession to the fact he’d just been woken from a sound sleep was when he rubbed one hand over his eyes before he glanced at his own watch.

  They were close to their destination. Thom could feel it. The level of contained energy in the Black Hawk heightened as the guys awoke, one by one, and began to shift inside the bird.

  The adrenaline and anticipation for the mission would be more than enough to clear any drowsiness from the men. If it didn’t, when they opened the hatch the bracing cold would slap them all in the face. That would clear all their heads.

  Not long now and they’d know if the intel was correct. If they’d made the biggest capture since Bin Laden. Damned if that thought didn’t have Thom sitting forward, waiting for the crewman to pop that hatch.

  Thom was nearest to the door. Last in the bird meant he’d be first out, taking point, just how he liked it. Brody would be directly behind him, as they’d rehearsed.

  He wouldn’t want anyone else at his six. Rocky and Boomer were good operatives, but even after the four months since they'd joined the team, Thom was still getting used to them. And the new guy was so new Thom mostly called him the new guy.

  Every man on this mission was highly trained and experienced, but Brody was more than a teammate.

  There was something to be said for history and familiarity. For knowing each other’s thoughts and next move without a word being spoken.

  Brody was a friend and the only remaining member of Thom’s original team now that Jon and Zane had left the military to open their own company, and Grant had become an instructor.

  They must have been nearing the landing zone. Thom felt the pilot bringing the bird down, closer to the ground where he’d set down and the team would exit.

  His anticipation grew as he felt the drop in altitude. The vibration of the fuselage was matched by the vibration inside him as the crewman moved toward the hatch to open it.

  Thom inched closer, more than ready to get this mission going. He twisted to glance at Brody behind him, giving him a nod. Brody mirrored the gesture and dipped his head in return.

  Ready to move when the time came, Thom turned back just as a deafening blast rocked the bird.

  Things seemed to move in slow motion as the hatch ble
w inward, twisting and flipping through the air. Reflex had Thom throwing his hands up in front of his face.

  His last thought—that they must have taken a hit—was cut short by a sickening thud, a crack that sounded like bones snapping, and then blinding pain before everything went black.

  CHAPTER 2

  Virginia Starr picked up her cell phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. The only thing looking at the phone did was confirm to her that she had no missed calls or texts. That her date, Brad, was even later picking her up than he’d been the last time she’d glanced at the cell.

  With a sigh, she headed back to the bathroom to check her makeup. As long as she had the extra time, she might as well make good use of it.

  Given she’d spent what felt like hours choosing the perfect outfit—something that was sexy but also practical for an icy November night in Stamford, Connecticut—she’d hate for the look to be ruined by lipstick on her teeth or mascara smudged beneath her eyes.

  She headed down the hallway of her apartment and had just reached the bathroom doorway when the cell phone she’d left on the table in the living room buzzed.

  Of course. That was how her luck was running lately. She pivoted on one high-heeled boot and ran for the living room. When she reached the phone she saw it hadn’t been worth running for. It was only a text message, but it was from Mr. Tardy himself.

  Ginny. So sorry. Can’t make tonight. Rain check?

  Getting stood up by text message?

  Brad really thought he could get away with that?

  “Oh no. So not gonna happen.” She said it aloud even if there was no one to hear her.

  After hitting the button to call him back, she clenched her teeth as she listened to the ringing in her ear.

  Brad answered, “Ginny, hey.”

  “Hi. So what’s going on?”