Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Protecting Vixen (Kindle Worlds Novella) (A SEALed Fate Book 3) Read online

  Text copyright ©2017 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

  Dedication

  To Susan Stoker, for allowing me into her world, and giving me a way to learn more of my own family history while doing so. What a wonderful gift.

  Thank you!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Other Books by LeTeisha Newton

  Chapter One

  Vixen

  DETAILS:

  Nestor Ivanov.

  Alleged kidnapper, human trafficker, and ISIS supporter

  Known aliases: Petrov, Mikhail, Benny

  Affiliations: Bratva, ISIS

  Associations: Potential associate of Abd Al Alim bin Abdul, ISIS terrorist Cell in Qatar

  The known information on the man standing in front of her rolled through her head. Think, T. This is what you wanted.

  James Bond was a load of crock, and Tiffany Canon got irritated every time someone mentioned his name when it came to her job. Sure, spies got to enjoy a good dose of intrigue, danger, and amazing locales, but that wasn’t every day. Most of the time it was boring, and she had gents under her doing the dangerous work while her place kept her in a nice little office. Of course, Tiffany would kill for one of those days right now. Her jaw ached, and the throbbing pain shooting up her arms told her the skin around her wrists was rubbed raw against the rawhide bindings. An unfortunate reflex from the punches her captor had been feeding since the moment he captured Tiffany.

  “It’s very simple. I want to know why you’re here,” her captor said.

  Oh yeah, because when the bad guy asks really nicely, the heroine just opened her mouth and spewed secrets. Wrong. Sucking the blood filling her mouth, she then spat it on the floor before smiling. Her teeth probably glistened red. How about that for an answer? Her assailant swung, the beefy bastard, and caught her lip with his fist. Pain exploded and her teeth rattled in her skull, but training kicked in and rotating her face along with the punch helped disperse some of the blow. Tiffany couldn’t duck to take it to the forehead instead, but at least she didn’t get a full-on strike.

  Still hurt like hell.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, his thick accent coloring his rough tone.

  After three years of working on a lead into the ISIS group targeting secret service personnel and families around the world, this was the closest anyone had gotten to Nestor, and her boss wouldn’t stomach Nestor being lost now. The mission was to find out exactly how the terrorist cell knew so much intimate data about the ones they kidnapped. But literally having her hands tied behind her back could get her into trouble. Pulling her hands up and outward, Tiffany worked to free herself. Enough force, even if it broke bones or ripped skin, could snap rope. Her wrists were necessary to fight her way out, so the only option was leaving skin behind. Might mess up her hands, but there was no other choice.

  “I’m here because I wanted to talk to you,” she told him.

  Truth with the lies that’s how a good operative got what they wanted to know. Her aliases were her life, and so was the information network at her fingertips. Nestor liked to use his hands during business, but he was smart. The only way to get close enough was to pop on his radar, but it was dangerous.

  Case in point. He was a sweaty mess, his beady eyes trained on her. He didn’t about the dark confines of the warehouse he hid her in, which told her they were isolated and he felt secure. A bad mix for an already deadly situation. He clenched his fist and Tiffany knew he was going to hit her. He swung again. Eyes wide open, her training fought her body’s reaction to close them. Right before he connected, her head back as far as it could go, she sunk down. His blow glanced her forehead, but it didn’t hurt to whip her head back, mimicking a harder blow.

  “Why me?” he asked, his accent thick.

  “I’m looking to expand my business,” she said.

  “What business a pizda want here?”

  He called her a cunt. Men and their need for name calling when a vagina was involved. For now, though, it would be better that he didn’t believe his words made any sense. Information, and secrets, were a spy’s trade.

  “I’ve got a case I need to get rid of, and I hear you’re the one to do it.”

  He rubbed his jaw, a thoughtful expression clouding his dark gaze.

  “What case?”

  Oh no, that wasn’t how this worked. “Show me yours” she said, pressing her legs open a bit, “and I’ll show you mine.”

  Men, Tiffany thought as his gaze traveled to her legs. They always could get sidetracked with vagina. Maybe that was why they talked about it so much. The black bodycon dress hugging her frame rose on her dark thighs. Such a tanned complexion stood out in the Balkans, but it served her well. Her chocolate skin, eyes, and wild natural hair tempted those around her, as much as it confused them.

  Nestor, she hoped, would be no different.

  “You play this game, little girl, but you don’t know the consequences.”

  He gripped her thigh, pressing his fingers into her skin. That’s going to bruise. Her body jerked the minute he connected, and a cry ripped from her chest, all of it unfeigned.

  “Now what’s in the case?” he asked.

  Keep him talking, T. We need him to put in his call.

  The small microphone inside of her ear connected her directly with Headquarters. It was the proxy they’d use to triangulate this location and hack into the phone lines. If this was done right, they’d know what connection Nestor had with Abd, and to the rest of the ISIS cell. Britain’s national security relied on that information as much as the United States.

  “I’m looking to trade up a stable of renegades,” Tiffany finally said.

  The words tasted bitter in her mouth. Human trafficking was dangerous war field, and Alessia Mancarta, her Madam alias, was the worst one in her rolodex of alternate backgrounds. Now, Nestor Alessia Mancarta was interested in selling a collection of prostitutes who’d been working without a pimp. In the trafficking world prostitutes working on their own were the worst, the ones most needing retribution. They could charge what they liked, and they had some sense of self-worth. Sigle-handedly they could underbid the pimps they may have once worked with and take all local Johns, if they were careful. Any trafficker worth their salt wanted a piece of that pie.

  “Who are you?” he asked. But at least he let go of her thigh. He was intrigued. Tiffany pulled a harder on her wrists, and bit the inside of her cheek. Bile rose in her throat from
the pain, but there was no room for that here. Her teeth caged the noise.

  “Mancarta, and I don’t like when my girls get outta pocket and doing reckless eyeballing,” she told him. Translation: the renegades had been looking at other pimps, and in the street, that meant they were choosing for that pimp to take ownership of them. Pimps taught their hoes to keep their eyes on the ground. Tiffany hated this business, but years of rolling with it helped to play the part and mask the disgust. After a deep breath, Tiffany slumped to the side. Go to the phone. Make that call, you wanker.

  “Let’s be sure of that, shall we?”

  He lifted a slim silver smart phone and with each second that passed a calm descended. Almost time. Once HQ told her they had a connect, that would be her chance to slip out of here. It was almost worth potentially losing her alias to take a bit of heat from Nestor.

  “Da, prover'te yeye,” he said.

  Check her out.

  Her ear vibrated, a long tone, then a short one before another long and a short one again. At the end of the haptic feedback, the translation became clear. Morse code for “close.” Her mission was almost over. All they needed was a link to his phone and it would be checkmate.

  And just maybe Tiffany would find out who the traitor within the world’s intelligence forces was.

  But six ghosts in black with glowing green eyes took her breath away. They ignored her shaking head as she tried to tell them to stop, to back off, and kept coming. Four cleared the room and block the exits, while two approached Nestor from behind in silence. If they fucked this up, all her work, and the possible intel with it, would go up in smoke.

  No.

  The ghost in front went to action first. He placed a large hand over Nestor’s mouth and slammed him down to the ground while the other man snatched the phone and disconnected the line. Haptic feedback went wild in her ear, but Tiffany was already moving.

  “Clear, target down. Secure the prisoner. There is a civilian here, will require medical aide,” the one holding Nestor said. He lifted his night vision goggles off his head and the impact of his gaze stole her breath and scrambled her brain for one heart-pounding second.

  “You’ll be okay.”

  Jesus, oxygen was trapped in her lungs, and no words would form, and that was not okay. Men didn’t make her lose track on a mission like this, but here she was, staring and dumbfounded, at the male specimen before her. He was built, but his waist was narrow, and his face angular. His wide mouth was set in a firm line but the more Tiffany stared, the more it softened.

  It was the smile that pissed her off, that smug, perfect white smile. He was one of the good guys, and he’d just saved the damsel in distress. He had no idea who he was messing with. Angry and not too happy with herself, Tiffany leapt up from her chair, aware of their weapons as they swung toward her. Not willing to die today, she slipped back toward the wall and pressed her comm-mic to go two-way.

  “Mission compromised. Repeat. I am compromised, requesting immediate extraction.”

  “Wait,” the crouching one said, his eyes penetrating. “Who are you?”

  He was smart and trained well. He kept his rifle pointed at her and at the ready, his long, graceful finger caressing the side of the trigger.

  “U.S.?” Tiffany asked instead. “SEAL?”

  Five more rifles swung her way and, just barely, resisted rolling her eyes. Boys and their big toys. A pen was scarier, and deadly when used with precision.

  “You will identify yourself,” he stated. Different, darker. Gotta say, Pretty Boy could do the command voice well.

  “Your mics should be kicking in soon.”

  On cue, the six men pressed a finger into the mic on their ear.

  “They’re probably saying put down your guns and let me walk out of here,” she said, already moving to do just that. Three years. Three years of work all down the shitter because of them. The team lowered their weapons, although hesitantly, before securing Nestor.

  “You are free to leave,” another man, this one big with bright blue eyes and blond hair, told her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be seeing me again. I promise you that.”

  No one ruined her mission. No one.

  Tiffany Cannon did not fail.

  Chapter Two

  Cry Baby

  “Close your mouth, Cry Baby, or you’ll catch flies,” Xavier “Heim” Spencer joked.

  “Heim, you say anything I’m going to knock your teeth out and stuff ‘em down your throat,” James “Cry Baby” Alvarez said. Not that it really mattered, Cry Baby knew better than to think he’d ever get a free hit on his Team Leader.

  “Yeah? Want to lose your balls while you’re at it?” Viktor “Snake” Franklin, second only to Heim, asked. His silver gaze cut to Cry Baby through a black and green painted face. For a moment Cry Baby blinked, trapped in that gaze.

  “Cut it out Snake,” Heim told his second, and then gripped Nestor by the neck to get him into position.

  “What I do?” Snake asked, looking away, and Cry Bay could take a breath. The bastard.

  There was something to be said about the bullshit karma that made Snake look like a fucking walking billboard advertisement instead of some barrio kid, like Cry Baby. Cry Baby never had to deal with not having his pick of any woman, but beside Snake, he probably looked like midnight snack instead of a full course meal.

  “He does that to us all,” Oh “Glitz” Byung-Lee, the team’s explosive expert, told him as he passed. Cry Baby grunted, not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.

  “Who was the babe?” Thomas “Welsh” O’Connor asked and that was the real question.

  More than securing that son of a bitch Nestor, Cry Baby wanted to know about the fiery beauty who’d obviously been here for a reason—and that was saying something. For the last four years, since Heim’s wife, Katya, had first been kidnapped, their SEAL team had one mission: find out who supplied the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria—or ISIS—cell based in Qatar and eradicate them. Within those years Akwasi, Snake’s wife and mother to their young son Kondo, had been taken, along with eight intelligence family members from CIA and FBI. The cell struck hot and fast, in many counties around the world, and hadn’t stopped with the supposed leader, Hakeem bin Mohammed Tahib. Even after his death, the only thing the SEAL team had stopped was him. Tracing leads had led them to Nestor, a Russian contact with the cell, and it was imperative they brought him in for questioning. Cry Baby didn’t get his focus interrupted.

  The woman had been a surprise.

  And what a surprise the secretive woman had been. Wild curls framed her face and almond shaped eyes drew him in. And that mouth of hers, Dios mio, the things he could do with her mouth. Even beaten and tied up she’d appeared regal and strong, and the perfect aerial her lithe body preformed to get out of her chair told him training was in her past.

  “You hear her accent?” Cry Baby asked, thinking back.

  “British, for sure. We’ll find out more. Let’s get this asshole home and then we can get briefed,” Heim ordered.

  “Hooyah!”

  *

  “Why were we called to stand down, sir?” Heim asked the Commander. Cry Baby paced, agitated beyond all measure. First, when they’d returned to base, their prisoner was taken. Then they had their clearance and access to him revoked, and then they find out that Nestor, their first real lead in over eight months, was off to some undisclosed location.

  “Your team has been moved to a mandatory vacation time of six months. Due to the threats, that will still require you to stay within two hours of the base.”

  Vacation. Mandatory. But they’d have to stay within on-call distance. It didn’t add up, and it didn’t make sense.

  “Nestor Ivanov—” Cry Baby began.

  “Is now none of your concern, SEAL. I’ve briefed you on what you need to know, and now you can go home and spend time with your families.”

  Cry Baby didn’t like the way any of this smelled. SEALs weren’t t
aken off missions. They were pulled when it was personal like this. SEALs took care of their own, and Nestor had a hand in the operations, they all knew it. Snake clenched his fists tight on the table in front of him and his silver gaze whipped with anger. Glitz paced back and forth, Welsh stared into space, and Eric “Hawk” Standing, their intel expert, leaned against the wall with murder in his eyes.

  They’d all played a part in this dance to find Nestor, and, they hoped, a clue into the affluent terrorists out of one of the wealthiest places in the world. Hawk had worked with John “Tex” Keegan, intel and red-tape cutter extraordinaire, to even find out about Nestor for over a year, and Heim and Snake had a personal reason in it all. Though Hakeem had died, it was thought that Nestor was the mastermind behind Katya and Akwasi’s transport to their holding sites.

  “Who’s taking over Nestor’s interrogation?” Heim asked.

  He was pushing it. They’d always had a close connection with their Commander, but he was still their superior. He could have all their asses in the ringer if Heim didn’t back off a bit.

  “That’s a need to know, Sailor, and you aren’t within the need to know,” came the response.

  “My wife—” Heim began.

  “Your personal issues in this matter are clouding your judgement, Heim. I gave you a direct order and that is all. Nestor Ivanov will be passed on to the judicial body that has jurisdiction and your team will be on leave from mission for the next six months.”

  Heim shot to his feet and Cry Baby gripped his arm. “Cool your shit, Boss, or you’ll have hell to pay. Think of Katya,” Cry Baby said urgently.

  “I am thinking of Katya,” Heim argued. He swung his gaze back to the Commander. “I’ve been a SEAL for over twelve years, sir, and I’ve never ignored an order. I’ve never come home without completing my mission. We have asked to continue our mission in the fight against ISIS by going after the cell that attacked out families—no time off, not breaks, no life. I am only asking why, sir.”