Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Mason (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The 13) Read online

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Stoker Aces Production, LLC. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Special Forces: Operation Alpha remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Stoker Aces Production, LLC, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  To my husband, Chuck, always the hero of my stories. As we transition to a new life after 28 years, I’m so excited to see what the future holds for us.

  Chapter 1

  Of all the places Jess Baylor could’ve chosen to live, Providence, Rhode Island, had not been among the top ten. She pulled her coat tight around her and buried her nose and mouth into her scarf. Even this early in winter, Rhode Island was damned frigid.

  She had chosen to move here. Taken a job with an architectural firm. And yet here she was, four years later, still wondering what the hell she had been thinking.

  In all fairness, she’d visited the city in summer, and was seduced by the abundance of outdoor activities—mostly on the water. Growing up lower middle class in a small Texan town hadn’t afforded her much luxury to visit the beach every weekend with her imaginary yacht.

  Stepping inside the bar, it took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light before she had any hope of finding her friends.

  “Jess.”

  Caribbean Meda, one of Jess’s closest friends, called to her from across the bar. Next to her the third member of their quartet, Laura Townsend, waved her over. These two had been Jess’s life support since moving to town.

  Weaving her way through the tables, she dropped into a chair and sighed.

  “Why?” She asked, pulling off her gloves and shoving them into her coat pocket. “Why does it have to be so friggin’ cold?”

  “Because. It’s winter. In New England,” Laura said, and tossed a mini pretzel in her mouth. She gave Jess a cheesy grin.

  Caribbean slid a tumbler before Jess. “That’s why we took the liberty of ordering you a scotch, my friend.”

  The amber spirit slid down Jess’s throat, smooth heat lit her chest on fire. She closed her eyes and relished the fifteen year-old cask. “Oh, that’s so good.”

  “You look as if you’re having an orgasm,” Laura said, and took a sip of whatever fruity concoction was her drink of the night. Laura was the most social drinker Jess knew. In fact, it was doubtful Laura even enjoyed alcohol, since she was always masking it with frozen fruit and whipped cream.

  “Well, it has been a while since she’s had one—and the way she shuts down men on a regular basis—it’ll probably be the closest she’ll come to having one for a very long time.”

  Jess opened one eye and glared at the women. “Wow. You’re both bitches.”

  Laughter filled the table. “True, but you love us just the same.” Caribbean raised her glass.

  “And we learned from the master,” Laura said, tipping her glass towards Jess.

  Jess clinked her glass against the other two. “World-class bitches.”

  Four men sat around a table nearby. Jess quickly caught the eye of one of them. He raised his glass, and smiled.

  Slick blonde hair that hit his shoulders. Well-groomed five o’clock shadow. Dark eyes rimmed with long golden lashes. Not bad looking. But the little voice in her head was whispering--don’t get involved.

  She gave him a slight nod and turned back to her friends. Hopefully he can take a hint.

  “So, what’s everyone’s weekend plans?” She asked.

  Laura sighed. “Well, I was supposed to see Justin this weekend…but he’s ‘too busy’.”

  “With what?” Caribbean drained her glass of rum. “His wife and son?”

  Laura stared at a spot on the table. “I didn’t ask.”

  “You don’t need to, sweetie,” Jess said, reaching across to squeeze Laura’s hand. “It’s kind of a given.”

  She swiped at the whipped cream and licked it off the tip of her finger. “He doesn’t love her. He’s only staying because of Christian.”

  The empty chair beside Jess spun around and a body straddled it. The man from the other table rested his arms across the back with a cocky grin.

  “Daniel Forrester.” He leaned forward and reached his fingers towards her hair. She pulled back before he could touch her.

  “I thought I knew all the beautiful women in Providence,” he said, his gaze roamed her body and returned to her eyes. “So, how is it I have never met you?”

  His words were like snakes slithering through her veins. She tensed, nervous that she would be bitten, filled with his poison. The overwhelming desire to escape sent shivers through her. She glanced at her friends, both wide-eyed and dumb.

  She couldn’t be the only one who felt unease?

  “Um,” Caribbean said. His eyes darted over his shoulder, and his smile dropped to a scowl. His gaze was a warning, as if she should know better than to address him.

  “Hi,” Caribbean began. “We’re trying to have a drink and catch up. Do you mind returning to your own table and leaving us alone?”

  Ignoring her, his attention returned to Jess. “Why don’t you and I go somewhere we can—” his fingers clasped Jess’s hand and lifted it to his lips, “see how much we can learn about what we both enjoy?”

  His touch chilled her. His dark eyes scared the shit out of her. In their depths she saw what he wanted to do to her—he would take his time, torture her, and leave her broken. She wanted no part of what this man offered. She didn’t even want to breath the same air he expelled from his evil lungs.

  Yanking her hand from his, she wiped it along her pants. His eyes flamed.

  “Thanks, but I think I am going to call it a night.” She slid her arms into her coat and wrapped the scarf around her neck, never taking her eyes off the persistent man. “I’m not feeling well.” She glanced at her friends. “We’ll catch up tomorrow?”

  They nodded in unison. “We’re just gonna finish our drinks, and follow you out,” Caribbean said.

  Jess stood up to leave, and tried to pretend the man wasn’t there. She’d said what she needed to say. She owed him nothing more.

  Suddenly, a warm grip tugged against her arm.

  “So, that’s it? I don’t even get your name?”

  “There’s no reason for you to have it.” Her gaze darted around the bar. Where the hell was a bouncer when you needed one? “Please let go of my arm. I want to go home—”

  He started to speak, but she cut him off.

  “—Alone.”

  He released his hold, and sneered. “Frigid bitch.”

  Forcing herself to walk calmly to the door, she pushed it open and took in a large gulp of icy air.

  Thanking the powers that be, she shrugged off the bone-tingling fear and walked towards her Jeep.

  * * *

  The snow crunched under her boots. She concentrated on foot placement as she neared her vehicle, not wanting to slip on snow-covered ice.

  “Hey,” a male voice broke the silence of the night air.

  Fuck. He’s back.

  Thrusting her hands deeper into her coat pockets, she tightened her grip around her keys, wishing she had taken the time to replace her lost key fob. Manually unlocking her door hadn’t been an issue—until now.

  The wind whipped around her, whistling in her ears. She wanted to believe that he had given up and gone back inside the bar
, but she knew better. Everything about him screamed narcissistic persistence. No doubt, she was going to have to actually drive away to get him to realize she was not interested. At all.

  Maybe I should do the world a favor and run his ass over.

  The sound of footsteps pounded across the parking lot. He was not going to give up without a fight. She picked up her pace. The Jeep was so close. She pulled the keys from her pocket.

  A hand wrapped around her upper arm, fingers clamped down like a vice. He tugged at her arm, spun her until she faced him. The keys slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. He snatched her other arm. Twisting, she attempted to wiggle out of his captivity.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He gritted out through a clenched jaw.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. The scotch transformed into a molten lava rock in her stomach. “Let go of me.” She glanced around, desperate for someone to see them. To help her.

  “You’re just a little prick-tease, aren’t you?” He yanked her against his body. She could smell alcohol on his breath. “Do you know what I do to little sluts like you?”

  Quick, hard, she thrust her knee up between his leg and connected with his balls.

  “Umph!” He released her, his hands spread across his groin.

  Jess shuffled through the snow and searched the ground for her keys. Her foot kicked them ahead. She snagged the keys from off the ground. Into the lock. Click. She jerked on the handle.

  Click. The sound was soft but distinguishable.

  Turning her head, she caught sight of a black barrel—pointed at her chest.

  In two long strides, Forrester was in front of her. He backhanded her with the gun-hand. She sprawled onto the snow. He lifted the gun. Placing her foot between the barely opened door and frame, she mustered every ounce of energy she could, and kicked it wide open.

  Forrester fell on his back. The gun skittered through the snow. But he was too quick. Already back on his feet, he slammed the Jeep door shut.

  She rolled to her side. Her hand gripped the gun. She swung it around.

  Forrester loomed large over her. His eyes dark. Angry. Arms outstretched. He lunged.

  Jess pulled the trigger.

  The world exploded around her. The shot echoed off the surrounding buildings. The flash from the muzzle blinded her. Bright red bloomed from the man’s chest. His body flew backwards through the air, and landed on the ground with a thud.

  She sat up. Forrester lay in a pool of blood. Strangled breaths came at slow, erratic intervals from his throat.

  Tossing the gun on the ground, she scrambled across the ice and snow to his body. Blood poured from a hole in the center of his chest. His eyes were wide, his face unnaturally pale. She shimmied out of her jacket, balled it up, and pressed it against the wound.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she said to him as tears flowed over her cheeks.

  Jesus, you just killed a man! You just killed a man!

  She glanced around the parking lot. Several people slowing walked towards her, their faces tentative. Nervous.

  “Call 9-1-1!” she yelled.

  Suddenly, Daniel grabbed her hand. His eyes darted back and forth between hers. Questioning why. Begging her to save him. He coughed. Blood spewed from his mouth, and all the muscles in his body went lax.

  Eyes glazed. Vacant. Staring at her. Condemning her.

  You killed me, they said. And your life will never be the same.

  Chapter 2

  The Providence Police built an ultra-sleek building with floor to ceiling windows in the lobby. Mason followed his commanding officer, Colonel John Holt, to the bullet-proof glassed-in reception desk. Holt slid his military ID to the white-haired cop on the other side.

  “We’re here to see Chief Gordon.”

  The cop glanced at the ID then back at Holt before turning his gaze on Mason. “He got ID, too?”

  Mason handed his ID to the Colonel. This was a new experience for him. Typically, Lieutenant Commander “Lance” Knight would be accompanying Holt. But he and another Navy SEAL, Ben Wells, were on leave for a week visiting a friend in Norfolk. Tex, a computer genius, had helped the men on a couple of missions recently, and it was time to pay respects. And offer up a bottle or two of some pretty choice hooch.

  That left Mason to deal with some civilian who had shot a guy and gotten herself mixed up with a terrorist organization.

  Jessica Baylor under arrest for the first-degree murder of a man named Daniel Forrester. Soon after his death had been reported, intel picked up chatter of a hit ordered on Ms. Baylor. Mason and Holt were at the station to find out why Forrester’s murder had landed Ms. Baylor in deep shit with the Russian Revolutionary Army—a relatively new group in the world terrorism theatre that members of The 13 were attempting to eradicate.

  A highly covert unit, The 13 was made up of twelve special operations members from all four branches of the military—Navy SEALs, Marine Raiders, Army Rangers, and Air Force Parajumpers. Mason was one of three SEALs. Holt was a Raider. The thirteenth member was the only non-military (as well as, the only female) on the team. CIA analyst and terrorism expert, Riley Bray, had not been the first choice, but had drawn the spotlight after uncovering a mole within the CIA that had been responsible for the death of a SEAL and an attack on the US Embassy in Amman, Jordan.

  The old dude at the desk buzzed them through, led them down a hallway and into a big office with a large window. One cop with a substantial gut sat behind the desk, another guy in a suit stood off to the side.

  “Bill Gordon,” the man said, rose from his chair, and stuck his hand out for Holt. He used his other hand to gesture toward the second man. “This is District Attorney Davis Rinehart.”

  Holt nodded and shook both men’s hands. “Colonel John Holt, and this is Master Chief Mason Hunt.”

  Chief Gordon’s eyes roamed over Mason’s uniform and landed on his Budweiser pin. “You a SEAL?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Mason responded.

  “As we discussed on the phone,” Holt began, “we’d like to talk with Jessica Baylor regarding the shooting she was involved in tonight.”

  “Kind of late for a visit,” the Chief said.

  Holt nodded, but offered no explanation.

  “What is your interest in Ms. Baylor?” Rinehart asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Holt stared at him for a moment, and Mason watched Rinehart shrink under the scrutiny.

  “Yes, I do mind. I can tell you it’s a matter of national security.”

  “I’m afraid you may have wasted a trip down here. As I said--it’s late and visiting hours are over.”

  “And I just told you this is a matter of national security and we need to speak with her tonight.”

  “You have no jurisdiction here, Colonel,” Rinehart said.

  “I do.”

  “This is a local matter, not a military one. I’m the one who has authority over this case.”

  “My authority comes from the President. You might remember that he is the highest law enforcement officer in the U.S.” Holt handed over a letter. Gordon glanced at it, then handed the letter off to Rinehart, who skimmed it and nodded at Gordon.

  A tight white line crossed Gordon’s face. He lifted the phone receiver and pressed a button. “Bring Jessica Baylor to an interrogation room.”

  * * *

  Mason followed Holt into a cramped, dark room. A woman sat in a metal chair. The orange of her jail scrubs were vibrant against the dull gray background. She glanced at the men, her chocolate brown eyes widening as she caught sight of Mason.

  He was used to the reaction. At six-foot-five, two-hundred-thirty pounds—he was a big guy. His chest and arms nearly forced him to turn to the side when entering a room. He prided himself on being lean mass. He worked hard to be fit.

  A cop stood behind Ms. Baylor, arms tight across his chest, jaw clenched. Mason shook his head. The guy looked as if he was all ready to detain her.

 
; What the hell was he thinking—that this woman was a serious threat?

  “Please remove Ms. Baylor’s handcuffs,” Holt said to the cop.

  “Afraid I can’t do that,” he responded.

  Mason stepped closer to the cop, mirroring his stance. The cop was by no means a slim guy, but was still shadowed beside Mason.

  “Jesus Christ,” Holt exhaled noisily. “Son, I will take responsibility for any actions Ms. Baylor takes that might endanger the lives of Master Chief Hunt or myself. Now please remove the handcuffs.”

  The cop hesitated, looked at Holt, then back at Mason. Mason kept his gaze steady and intimidating. Finally, the cop stepped back, unlocked the cuffs, and pocketed them.

  “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you leave,” Mason whispered, and glanced at the name tag on the cop’s uniform, “Officer Hick.”

  “Hicks,” the cop corrected.

  Mason held the door open. “Whatever.”

  Holt pulled out a chair across the table from Jess Baylor, and gestured for Mason to take the other seat. “Would you like some coffee, or water?”

  She shook her head. Thick, dark brown hair sat in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were drooped at the corners, tired and sad.

  “Ms. Baylor, I’m Colonel John Holt, and this is Master Chief Mason Hunt. We’d like to talk to you about the events of last night.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, God, was the man I—”she swallowed, and it looked painful, “was he in the military?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Then why are you here?”

  “We just need to you to run through what happened last night.”

  “I’ve told the police already. Several times.” She rolled her eyes. “What could you possibly need to know that I haven’t already told them?”

  “If I could ask the questions upfront, I promise I’ll address your concerns as much as I can.” Holt flipped open his file and clicked his ballpoint pen.

  She sat straight in her chair. Not confrontational—more confident. Strong.

  “Okay. What do you need to know?” Her voice was soft, but steady. There was no denying she was tired. Scared. But Mason also saw a willingness to help.