Special Forces_Operation Alpha_Handling Haven_A Deimos/Trident Security/Delta Team Crossover

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  Handling Haven

  Special Forces: Operation Alpha

  A Trident Security/Delta Force Crossover

  Deimos Book 1

  Samantha A. Cole

  Dedication

  To Susan Stoker: Thank you for letting me be a part of your amazing and crazy world!

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books By Samantha A. Cole

  Connect with Me!

  About the Author

  Deimos—the Greek god of terror; symbolized by the serpent; son of Ares, the god of war, and Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love; twin brother of Phobos, the god of fear.

  The United States fought for their independence, hundreds of years ago, and won. Now, they are faced with a new fight—the one against terrorism. The government has called forth operatives, hand-picked for their skills and intelligence, to defend America’s borders and shield its citizens from those who wish them harm. These men and women have willingly “died” for their country, only to be reborn under a new identity, with one common goal—to hunt, and terminate, if necessary, those hell-bent on destroying the American way of life. Joining forces with elite members of the US military, they rain terror down on their adversaries whose agendas include murdering any innocents disagreeing with their religious or political beliefs.

  Enemies of the United States, there is no safe place for you to hide—Deimos will find you.

  One

  S canning the crowded ballroom filled with a majority of the eight-hundred people attending the celebration, US Army Captain Keane “Ghost” Bryson studied each person diligently, trying to narrow down possible targets. Someone, or more than one someone, was not here to rub elbows with everyone else. Nope, they had an ulterior motive . . . a nefarious one. The guest list was a who’s who of the famous and infamous of the world—movie stars, politicians, royalty, Fortune 500 business owners, and those who were known just because the tabloids pasted their pictures on the cover every freaking week for some stupid reason.

  The festivities were for the wedding of Bollywood movie stars Vinod Kayal and Anya Nambisan. In addition to being the highest paid and most adored actress in India, Anya was also the daughter of India’s Prime Minister. But word on the Dark Web, a communication and trade network for illegal transactions, was that someone was using the event to finalize a deal. Ghost and his Delta Force teammates were there to stop the sale and transfer of nuclear launch codes, under the guise of being Wesley Sutton’s security team. The Virginia senator’s wife, Hollywood starlet, Darby Scott, was a good friend of the bride. The couple had agreed to supply the elite soldiers with a cover since Sutton was on the senate’s Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs committee. The man had proven in the past he could be trusted with the real reason for his bodyguards’ presence.

  Prior to the event, the team had been able to identify the seller, but the buyer, who was currently in possession of the nuke, was a mystery that hadn’t been solved yet. Ghost’s head was on constant swivel as he mentally assessed and cataloged everyone in sight. There were a few other undercover Delta Team members scattered about the grand ballroom, as well as outside on the huge patio and manicured lawn, where some people were enjoying the pleasant evening air. The rest of the highly trained team were hidden in the thick jungle surrounding the venue’s compound, a few miles outside Mumbai’s city limits.

  His gaze passed over a small group of guests conversing before zipping back to them as recognition kicked in. While he didn’t know the dark-haired beauty in a stunning, blue evening gown, her tuxedoed date was all too familiar to the Delta Force soldier. He stood a commanding six foot four, his long, dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape, and could kill someone in at least two dozen ways. The man with one name worked for Deimos, an American black-ops agency that ninety-nine percent of the population didn’t know existed.

  “Fuck,” Ghost whispered, catching the attention of his teammate standing next to him, also wearing a monkey suit. Damn, he hated undercover gigs that required black tie attire. The noose around his neck was practically strangling him.

  Being the trained operative he was, Cormac “Fletch” Fletcher remained stoic and seemingly unaffected by the muttered curse. “What’s up?”

  “Your ten o’clock.”

  Turning slowly, Fletch zeroed in on the problem. “Well, shit. What the fuck is Carter doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but I can guarantee he’s not just here for the food.” Once, just once, Ghost wished the US government and military branches would talk to each other and share a few secrets so their operatives weren’t shocked and pissed when they found out someone else was most likely undercover for the same damn reasons.

  As if he felt their eyes upon him, the spy looked in their direction while laughing at something that was said in the group. His gaze met Ghost’s for only a split second, but there was no doubt he’d recognized the two Deltas who he’d run into on undercover missions before. Hopefully, he was using the alias they knew about—the CEO of a very successful import/export company. While the business was legitimate, it was really run by Deimos to supply their operatives with a cover that was nearly impenetrable.

  With his arm around his date, Carter strolled away from the group, and, without looking at them, slowly meandered his way over to where Ghost and Fletch were standing on the outskirts of the crowd. The couple chatted as they moved, giving the appearance they were just like every other guest in the room—who wasn’t a spy or terrorist. Thankfully, Carter was one of the good guys and worked for the US of A, because what little Ghost knew of the spy, he could earn a similar eerie moniker like Phantom, Phantasm, or Shadow. The spy could float in and back out of any situation, and if he didn’t want you to know he was there, you never would.

  The couple had almost passed right by them, when Carter feigned a double take, snapped his fingers, and pointed at Ghost. “Hey, John Benbrook, right? You were on my security team a few years ago. Either that or you could be his twin.”

  John Benbrook was one of Ghost’s aliases and the one he’d used several times in the other man’s presence. And since he’d been standing here, pretending to be a bodyguard, it was the best way to start the conversation the spy apparently wanted to have. Also in those three brief sentences, he’d given Ghost enough information to hold up his side of the dialogue. While his real name was T. Carter—no one knew what the T stood for, or if they did they weren’t telling or still alive—the persona he’d cultivated over the years was Carter Burke.

/>   “Yes, sir, Mr. Burke. Nice to see you again.” He extended his hand for the other man to shake.

  “It’s been a while, but I never forget a face or a name. Darling, this is John Benbrook. He was on my security team before moving onto bigger fish. John, this is my girlfriend and associate, Jordyn Dominguez.” In other words, the gorgeous woman was also here in an undercover capacity. It was a fair bet her surname was an alias, but it was up for grabs on whether her first name was real. Some agents found it easier to alter one instead of both.

  Ghost dipped his chin once. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Dominguez.” He gestured to Fletch. “Allow me to introduce you to my teammate, Keith Shelton.” Carter knew Fletch’s real name, but the alias was a new one. The two men shook hands as he explained, “We’re on Senator Sutton’s detail tonight, although, I miss the days covering your back. Skydiving and racing Lamborghinis is a lot more fun than watching everyone else get drunk and try to top each other with how much money they have. And don’t even get me started on the politics.”

  The spy snorted. “Anytime you want to join me again, you’re more than welcome. But I’m actually a little surprised you’re here. A mutual friend of ours and his buddies are camping in the woods this weekend, and I could have sworn he told me you and a few guys were going too.”

  Oh, shit. He raised his eyebrows in mild curiosity at the man’s veiled statement—anyone eavesdropping wouldn’t have a clue the man was talking about anything but camping—however on the inside, Ghost’s stomach plummeted as his heart rate sped up. Potential Clusterfuck-101, here we come.

  “Why the fuck are they talking about camping?” Lucas “Frisco” Ingram asked his temporary teammate, Graham “Hollywood” Caverly. They were lying on the ground, under the cover of the jungle, with their weapons and binoculars pointed at the compound, an hour or so before sunset. Frisco and a few others from his squad, Trigger, Lefty, Oz, and Grover, were with the other man’s team for a joint mission in India. They’d already been outside the venue for hours and had a few more to go before the festivities wound down. With any luck, though, the exchange would happen soon and team members inside got what they needed—the launch codes and the person who had possession of the nuke.

  Before Hollywood, or anyone else listening through their comm units, could answer him, the soft crack of a twig behind them had Frisco flipping over, his weapon up, ready to fire. He stared in disbelief at the grinning, camouflaged man leaning against a tree, with his empty hands in full view to show he wasn’t about to shoot them in the back. It took a moment for Frisco to realize Hollywood hadn’t had the same response to the person who’d snuck up on them. He was still surveying the compound as if he’d expected someone to show up out of the blue. “If you just got me killed, dude, my wife’s going to rip you a new one.”

  “She should rip him a new one just for the hell of it.” Behind his face paint, the newcomer’s smile grew wider. “Mind if I join you twatwaffles?”

  “As I was about to say, before we were so rudely interrupted . . .” Hollywood continued, ignoring the man’s question, “. . . the ‘camping’ references were to let us know we’re not the only ones in this damn jungle. Sawyer, what the hell are you and your frogs doing here?”

  Pushing off the tree, the man dropped to the ground and crawled forward to take the spot on Hollywood’s left. Relieved there was no threat, Frisco returned to his original position on his stomach to his teammate’s right.

  “Probably the same thing you’re doing here . . . except I’m getting paid a helluva lot more than you. Thank God for the private sector. And you’ll be happy to know I’ve hired more people, and they’re not all Navy. Never let it be said I’m not impartial to the lesser branches of the military. Who’s he?”

  Hollywood’s eyes remained glued to his binoculars as he made the introductions. “Ian Sawyer, retired SEAL and sarcastic son of a bitch. Lucas Ingram, current Delta and twatwaffle. I like that . . . I’m gonna have to use that.”

  “Nope. I’ve got the copyright on it. Come up with your own damn insult. In fact, I’ve been using that for someone else, lately. I’ll have to think of a new one for this mission. Hmm. Taint-waffle . . . still rolls smoothly off my tongue. I like it.” Sawyer settled in and pulled out his own binoculars. “Now that that’s taken care of . . . since we’re probably here for the same damn reason, what frequency are you boys on, so we’re not stepping on each other’s toes out here?”

  Activating the microphone on his comms unit, Hollywood said, “Hey, Ghost, we got a couple of Trident frogs who want in on our frequency. You okay with that?”

  A single click was his answer.

  “Did Daddy say we’re allowed to join your sweet-sixteen party or is he worried we’ll spike the punch?” Sawyer snarked as he surveyed the crowd on the patio.

  Between the man’s name and the mention of Trident, Frisco now knew who they were dealing with. The world of black ops was a relatively small one in the grand scheme of things, and even if you were meeting someone from it for the first time, you’d probably already heard about them from other members of the community. Ian Sawyer and his brother Devon had retired from SEAL Team Four a few years ago and started Trident Security in Tampa, Florida. The company took on cases from the private sector and government contracts, specifically from the FBI, CIA, and Deimos. That last agency was still a large enigma in that until just recently, a scant few people had known it even existed and that included members of the black-ops community.

  “Yup, you’re in. But you owe him a case of scotch . . . the good stuff.”

  Frisco grinned for the first time since the other man had snuck up on them, knowing Ghost had said no such thing.

  After Hollywood rattled off the frequency the team was currently using, Sawyer repeated the info to someone named “Polo” over his own unit. Within seconds, there were several clicks and then the two groups were suddenly able to communicate with each other. Frisco took over the watch as the two men to his left compared maps of the surrounding area and alerted their own team members about who was within shooting distance so no one got caught up in friendly fire. It was bad enough they had to worry about the armed guards patrolling the outer edges of the compound spotting them.

  “Damn, I wish these two fuckers would just meet up already,” Frisco grumbled about twenty minutes later, after all was quiet over the comms once more except the chatter from the party inside. “Then we can take them both out and get the hell out of here with the codes and nuke.”

  Sawyer yanked the binoculars from his eyes and glared at Hollywood and Frisco. “What do you mean take both of them out? Damn it, this is what fucking happens when those dingleberries back in Washington don’t talk to each other.” He activated his microphone again. “Hey, Jackass, Sweetheart, and Vixen, there’s a price on your boy’s head. Ghost, under no circumstances do any of your men shoot the guy with the damn codes. He’s friendly.”

  Hollywood groaned. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s a plant?”

  “More like a dweeb, but yeah, we need to get him out in one piece.”

  For the next thirty seconds or so, there was back and forth conversation between Ghost, Fletch, Carter, and the woman, Jordyn, about some guy who worked for an import/export company. It was all fictional, of course. The end result was they were all on the same page—finally. “Preston Ward” was now off the Deltas’ hit list. Unfortunately, the one person who remained on it was still an unknown entity.

  Once he was satisfied their inside man was not going to end up in the morgue, Sawyer gave the Deltas a quick intel report. “The dweeb is from Deimos—one of their support guys using a cover that’s been cultivated for years. His date, Vixen, is an operative. Egghead, get with whomever Delta’s got on the wires and send out the pic of Reardon and Caldwell. They get extracted no matter what; resistance isn’t in the dweeb’s vocabulary. He won’t last sixty seconds.”

  Great, just great. That meant the guy wasn’t trained in SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resis
tance, and Escape. If he was captured and tortured, he’d be spilling his guts in no time. Not what you wanted to hear about a black-ops agent, even if he was on the support team. He still probably knew enough to cause huge problems for Deimos and the President of the United States.

  A few seconds after Beckett “Coach” Ralston and Sawyer’s man synchronized their databases, Frisco’s miniature tablet vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out. When a photo of a couple popped up, he studied it. They were dressed in formal wear—a tuxedo on the red-haired guy, while the looker wore a gold evening gown with a thigh-high slit in the skirt. And damn, was she hot. Her chestnut-colored hair was down and full of curls that framed her heart-shaped face. Without knowing how tall the guy was and with nothing else in the photo to use in comparison, it was difficult to tell how tall she was, but with that mile-long leg that was exposed, Frisco figured she was somewhere between five seven and five nine, which was three to five inches shorter than he was. While she had curves, it was obvious to him she was in excellent physical condition, which was in direct contrast to her “date,” whose arm was around her waist as they grinned for the camera. It was evident they knew each other well, and an odd jolt of jealousy struck Frisco as he assessed the other man. The lucky bastard looked like he spent most of his time indoors behind a computer—he was pale, skinny with almost no muscle tone, and his black-rimmed glasses had “nerd” written all over them—not that there was anything wrong with that. The “nerds” and “geeks” of this world held a lot more power than most gave them credit for. Hell, Coach’s wife, Harley, was a computer geek . . . and she was pretty damn hot, too.

  “Coach, are you fucking with the damn feeds?” the guy named “Egghead” queried in a pissed-off tone.

  “Nope—was just going to ask you the same thing. I’ve got garbage on half of them.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sawyer and Hollywood spoke into their comms at the same time.