Hunted (2 page)

And in her twisted little mind, he’d done exactly that. He’d allowed her to push him until he self-destructed, effing up his life. She knew as well as he did that a conviction would mean his career was over.

How the fuck he hadn’t seen the sickness inside her until it was too late, he’d never know. The signs of her mental illness were there all along if he’d been paying attention. Tuck had seen it, had warned him early on, but he’d refused to listen, too blinded by lust and what he’d thought was love to see the reality right there in front of him. He owed Tuck a thank you and an apology for that. “I went and sat on the front step and waited for the cops to come get me,” he finished, a wave of exhaustion hitting him.

It had taken Eve all of three seconds to dial 911. He’d cooperated fully with the officers. The cops had taken one look at the marks on him and taken her into custody too, but by then she’d been hysterical, screaming that he’d beaten her, showing them marks he knew damn well he hadn’t put on her. It had hit him then just how much she hated him. She was willing to mark up her own body and get arrested in order to ensure his destruction.

Standing with a cop in front of his apartment building, she’d watched them take him away, a smug smile on her face as they cuffed him and stuffed him into the back of a squad car. Basking in the knowledge that she’d just manipulated him into destroying his life.

Clay had never hated anyone as much as he did her in that moment. The knowledge shook him as much as the charges now laid against him.

Domestic abuse.

Assault.

He mentally cringed. Didn’t matter what had led up to it or what Eve had lied about or done to him, at the end of the day, that’s what he was facing. Christ, had he really sunk to this level? The thought shook him to the core. He felt like he didn’t even know himself anymore.

And now he had to face whatever consequences his actions brought.

Up front, Tuck made a frustrated sound and shook his head. “We both know what you’ve gone through, man. Evers too,” he said, referring to another of their teammates. “I know it looks bad now, but the truth will come out in court and whatever bullshit story she’s giving won’t hold up. Hell, we’ll all testify about what’s been going on and the kind of man you are, every last one of us. You’re not a fucking wife beater, Bauer. We’ve got your back.”

One side of Clay’s mouth twitched in a sad smile. “Thanks.” He turned his head to stare back out the window, that sick, hollow sensation continuing to burn a hole in his gut. Didn’t matter how many people were willing to stand up and testify on his behalf. He was terrified that the judge would take one look at him, read the word SEAL in his records, and believe every fucking lie Eve gave in her statement.

If that happened, barring some kind of miracle, life as he knew it was over.

Present Day

“Hit it.”

At the stern of the Zodiac, Clay cranked the throttle and opened up the outboard engine. The boat’s rigid rubber bow lifted as the craft picked up speed, skimming over the crests of the low swells.

He grunted as they slammed down into a slight trough, the impact jarring enough to make him grit his teeth as that all too familiar ache shot down his spine and into the back of his right leg. Not as bad as it had been at the start of his recovery from spinal surgery three months ago, but enough to remind him he wasn’t a hundred percent yet and would probably never be again.

Sweat beaded his face and body. In this humidity he was goddamn sweltering inside his BDUs and body armor, but after all the training and punishment his time in the Navy had put him through plus this latest injury, the physical discomfort barely registered on his torment scale. Focused on getting his team in position as fast as possible, he pushed the lingering pain in his lower back aside and locked in for this joint training op.

Damn, if felt good to be back in action again. He’d been sidelined since the surgery, and at the start of his rehab he’d been afraid he’d never make it back to operational condition. It was September, the day had been still and hot and the cool breeze as they skimmed across the waters of the Gulf felt good against his face. A few scattered clouds above them slid across the quarter moon, obscuring it, but there was enough light for them to be able to work without NVGs.

Seated directly ahead of him in the boat, Tuck and Evers scanned port and starboard respectively for any threats. Schroder, the team medic, was at the bow, ducked low against the wind, gripping the rope tight to steady himself each time the bow thudded on the crest of a swell. The other three members of their seven-man assault team followed in another Zodiac, M4s slung across their backs.

One-point-seven klicks ahead in the dark water, their unsuspecting target awaited them. A DEA FAST team was approaching from the opposite side. Clay and his team would take the vessel; the DEA boys would take the crew.

A few hundred meters away from the vessel, Tuck gave the signal for him to cut the engine. Clay throttled back to minimize the noise and the bow came to rest on the water’s surface, the sound of the motor quiet as they neared the target. The small cruiser sat still in the water, only a single light visible in the cabin, behind the bridge.

“One sentry on duty,” Tuck confirmed in a murmur via his earpiece as he gazed through the binos. Looked like the rest of the crew—five more drug runners with ties to a terror group in Central America, according to the intel—had all hit their racks and nobody was expecting company.

Just the way Clay and the others liked it.

“Blade two, this is Blade-one actual,” the DEA FAST Team leader said through their earpieces. Other DEA members were stationed even farther back and the HRT’s tactical helicopter unit was on standby back at Keesler Air Force Base. “We’re in position and have you in our sights. Verify range to target.”

“Coming up on the starboard side of her stern, hundred and fifty meters and closing,” Tuck answered in a low voice.

“Copy that. Intel says there might be two other vessels inbound.”

“Roger.” Tuck turned and nodded at Clay, who cut the engine. In a synchronized motion, the guys up front picked up their paddles and began rowing toward the target boat, their blades cutting into the water in near silence.

Once they were close enough to drift the remaining distance, Clay and the others ducked down low in the Zodiac, going to radio silence and using hand signals only. Inside the target vessel Clay could see the sentry moving around the cabin. An outer hatch opened and the man stepped through, binos raised to his eyes as he scanned the water off to the starboard.

Clay brought them soundlessly alongside the vessel out of sight, the rubber siding of the Zodiac nudging the stern of the boat with a soft bump. His heart rate remained steady, his breathing calm. Out here on the water in a maritime operation, he was in his fucking element.

The other Zodiac arrived behind them. Two guys got the boarding ladders ready. Tuck confirmed with the DEA team that they were in place and ready to board, then motioned for them to wait while he did one last visual sweep.

They were all on guard, all locked and loaded, but as team leader the timing was his call, as was the responsibility of whatever happened here. Tuck was the most experienced operator Clay had ever worked with and knew he would never send any of his men into harm’s way without making absolutely sure he’d done everything possible to ensure their safety. Even in training.

The sentry remained up near the bow, peering out into the darkness, his back to them. They were still undetected. Clay brought his weapon up and took aim at him, centering his sight between the man’s shoulder blades.

Tuck raised his right arm, brought his hand down in a sharp chopping motion, fingers extended forward.

Execute.

Blackwell locked the hooks of the boarding ladder over the side of the vessel’s railing, the quiet clanks barely carrying in the still air. Vance took point, scaling the ladder in seconds while Blackwell held the ladder steady. The rest of them kept their weapons trained on the deck to provide cover. Cruz went next, then Schroder, Evers and Tuck.

Clay went up last, climbing the aluminum rungs of the ladder as quickly as he could. On deck his teammates had fanned out around the stern, every one of them crouched slightly, weapons up.

The squawk of a radio sounded from where the sentry had been. Male voices speaking rapid Spanish punched through the quiet, followed by rapid footsteps and the sound of the steel hatch slamming shut.

Element of surprise gone. Now the success of the op depended on swift, violent action.

“Go,” Tuck ordered.

They moved as a unit toward that hatch door. The breaching team set a charge on the hatch, blew it with a loud bang that echoed in the quiet. The instant Blackwell kicked it open, raised voices and the roar of gunfire shattered the night.

Stacked up along the starboard wall, Clay maintained his place at the rear of the line, keeping part of his attention on what was happening ahead of him, and part behind him to make sure their six was secure even though he knew the DEA team was providing cover.

Vance took point again. The team surged through the open hatch, returning fire with the same simunition rounds the bad guys were using, while Cruz yelled over top of the noise in Spanish.

“FBI, FBI! Everybody down on the floor!”

By the time Clay got through the hatch, it was practically over. Four crewmen lay face-down on the steel deck inside the wheelhouse, three of them hit with yellow dye from the simunition rounds. The captain, a man they’d codenamed Juan Valdez, lay crumpled on his side against the port-side wall with two shots to the chest. Dead. All the HRT members were unscathed.

Fucking A.

Just as the noise died down, Clay’s ears caught the faint scuffing sound coming from outside. Instantly he whirled and crouched in the open doorway, the muzzle of his weapon trained sternward. The man holding an AK froze in shock when he saw him.

“Drop it and put your hands up!” Clay growled, aware that one of his teammates was in position behind him, moving alongside to provide backup. Language barrier or not, there was no mistaking what he’d said.

The man hesitated an instant, must have realized he was the only crewman left, and made a fatal mistake by raising his weapon in an effort to get a lucky shot off. Clay fired twice in a controlled burst, the double tap hitting the guy dead center mass before he could fire a single shot. He stumbled back with the impact and dropped to his side, unmoving.

Clay shot to his feet and rushed over to kick the man’s weapon out of reach. It clattered over the steel deck, hitting the wall with a thud. The crew member didn’t even twitch.

He looked up to find Tuck behind him, providing cover, and nodded. “Clear.”

“Clear,” Tuck echoed. “Cruz, Blackwell. Get out here.” The two members exited the wheelhouse a second later. The FAST team leader arrived to take charge of the prisoners and help search the ship.

“Let’s go,” Tuck said. Together they moved through the rest of the vessel, checking each and every room and storage closet.

“Clear,” Clay called out from the engine room, the last room to check. Tuck strode in, glanced around briefly and gave a satisfied nod. Now it was a search and seizure operation. He and Tuck searched the room for drugs and weapons.

“Think I found the mother lode,” Cruz called out from down the hall two minutes later.

“That was fast,” Clay muttered. He and Tuck followed the sound of Cruz’s voice to the head at the end of the hall. In the brilliant beam of the flashlight he held, Cruz nodded toward a panel set behind the toilet. “Take a look.”

They both stepped closer. Tuck let out a low whistle and Clay finally saw the duct taped bundles stacked inside the stash site. Clay reached up one hand to yank at the panel. The faux wood material came away in a big chunk, exposing yet another large stack. And another. He yanked again. Another.

“Jesus,” he muttered. He was no expert on the street value of drugs, but there had to be at least ten million dollars’ worth of cocaine in here.

Tuck was silent a moment as he surveyed the stash, then contacted the remaining teammates still in the wheelhouse. “All clear.” He tapped his earpiece to change frequencies. “This is blade two actual. Target is secure. All crew members accounted for. And we’ve found the cargo.”

“Roger that,” the FAST Team leader responded, a smile in his voice. He appeared in the doorway a minute later and slapped Tuck on the back, his grin showing up neon white against the camouflage paint on his face. “That was fucking awesome to watch, man.”

Ever the humble operator, Tuck merely nodded by way of acceptance. Clay and his teammates stood at the stern as the wounded and dead crew members—who were actually DEA officers posing as tangos for the training op—lifted their heads from where they lay and started talking shit amongst themselves.

Clay smirked at the good-natured ribbing, still juiced from the rush of the op. Other officials began arriving to document everything. That was their signal to take off.

Clay and the others climbed back aboard their Zodiacs. He opened up the throttle and zoomed back to shore. DeLuca was waiting for them at the dock, along with other FBI, DEA and Homeland Security officials.

DeLuca’s hard features eased into a grin when they pulled up alongside the dock. “Good night’s work, I’d say.”

“Yeah, not bad,” Tuck said as he climbed out of the boat, his grin as wide as DeLuca’s. The CO shook each man’s hand then ushered them toward the waiting van. Fifteen minutes later they were inside a private room at Keesler for their debriefing and after action report.

An hour after that, DeLuca straightened from where he’d been bent over a folder of documents, closed the front cover and gave them all a smile. “Go on and get outta here. Report back at oh-eight-hundred hours. Meetings with the DEA people will go until around eighteen-hundred, I figure. Guess I don’t have to ask where you boys are heading after that, do I?”