Special Forces: The Recruit (Mission Medusa Book 1) Read online

  “I’m not that unusual. I mean, I get that not every woman wants to put herself through the training I’ve had to. But if I can do it, so can other women, if they really want to.”

  “Honestly, you’ve surprised me with your fitness.”

  Hark. Was that a compliment from Mr. Grumpy Pants? “Thank you. For the record, I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

  He replied sharply, “Don’t. I’m not your friend.”

  “Huh. Had me fooled.”

  “Your judgment is clouded, Wilkes.” A pause. “You’re going to have to get over your crush on me before I can release you to go operational.”

  She pressed up and away from him in a quick push-up that popped her to her feet. She planted her hands on her hips and glared down at him.

  “That’s the first sexist, misogynistic, patronizing thing you’ve said to me, Beau. And I sincerely hope it’s the last. Otherwise, you and I are going to have a serious problem.”

  * * *

  Beau swore under his breath as Tessa stormed inside and then shut the door behind her so gently she might as well have slammed it right off the hinges. She was not wrong. That had been a rotten thing to say.

  Problem was, Torsten had been clear in his latest instructions. She had to become immune emotionally to the men she was going to work with.

  Beau didn’t know any other way to do that except to piss her off, provoke her and exploit her weak spots to toughen her up.

  But he felt like a jerk for doing it. Which surprised him. He didn’t want any woman in the Spec Ops community. Didn’t need her on his team. And he seriously didn’t plan to stand by and watch her endanger his brothers.

  He had been sexist, misogynistic and patronizing, though, when he accused her of having a crush on him, particularly since he was suffering from a crush on her, as well. Talk about hypocritical.

  If one of them was in trouble, it was him. His dreams were only getting more vivid. They were beginning to scare him, in fact. Imagining epic sex with Tessa had replaced his nightmares of the ambush that wrecked his knee.

  He had to keep his hands off her. Had to corral his feelings for her. Harden his emotions. Remember to despise her and everything she stood for. But every day he spent with her was making that harder. She was funny and straightforward, smart and kind. She was deeply likable, dammit.

  He shoved a hand through his hair and climbed to his feet awkwardly. His knee was killing him today, in spite of her words of encouragement. A woman had been able to keep up with him and walk away unaffected by a workout that had left him limping. Granted, she was a ridiculously fit woman. But still. He’d been shown up by a woman.

  How was he ever going to get back onto the teams at this rate? Was he deluding himself to even try?

  Of course, self-delusion was what got his leg torn up in the first place. He’d fallen into the trap of believing that he could do anything. That his body had no limits, his abilities had no boundaries and that an IED with his name on it would never come along. Dumbass.

  He’d paid the price, though. And a half dozen good men had nearly died because of it. He and his teammates had been stupidly lucky that US Marine Force Recon patrol had come over that ridge instead of reinforcements to the rebels mowing them down.

  He and his guys had been out of ammo, out of batteries for their radios, and were busted up, shot up and done in. Worst of all, he admitted privately to himself as he stared out into the bayou, he’d been out of ideas that day. Out of hope. Almost ready to give up.

  It was the cardinal sin of Special Ops. You died believing you were going to win. You never, ever gave up. It was the single fastest way to get bounced off the teams. And he’d almost gone there.

  He’d told the truth to Tessa. He was washed up. She had no business holding him up as a role model.

  Which raised the question of why he was training her. When he’d posed that exact question to his boss a few days ago, Torsten’s only response was that he thought the two of them would be good for each other.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  The only truly good thing he could do for Tessa was keep her off the teams so she could live to the bitter, feminist old age awaiting her if she didn’t get that Special-Forces-or-bust chip off her shoulder.

  He couldn’t keep having smoking-hot dreams. He would lose his mind if he had to keep enduring those nightly and pretend all day long that he felt nothing for her. She’d gotten too damned far inside his head already.

  Too restless to return to the house, he grabbed his toolbox and went to work on the electric pump connected to the well that supplied fresh water to this place.

  It took him most of the afternoon, but the house had running water again. In a few hours the water heater would even put out hot water. That should make Tessa happy. He frowned. Not that he should be worrying about her happiness.

  He flopped in the old swing under the porch overhang to watch the sunset.

  Maybe it was time for him to retire. To settle down and grow old swigging a beer in a swing like this, reminiscing about the good old days. He wouldn’t mind it so much if he had a woman like Tessa to share it with.

  But the adventure was just starting for her. Maybe he had no right to get in her way. She should get a chance to save the world...or try until she got cynical. Until she got sick of death and war. Or until she died.

  If only he could show her a taste of what she was headed into. It would scare any sane person off the romance of being a special operator.

  Now that was an interesting idea. Maybe he could stage an op here. Something that would show her what being operational was really like...

  * * *

  A few days later Tessa was shocked to hear a stranger’s voice shout a hello from the direction of the dock. Beau, who was teaching her how to make slap charges—small explosive charges used to defeat locking mechanisms on doors—looked up and grinned.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Come meet him.”

  She followed Beau to the boat dock and squealed in delight as she spotted her duffel bag slung over the shoulder of a clean cut, dark-haired stranger just climbing out of a sleek speedboat. She raced forward and took the bag, thrilled to have her clothes and toiletries back.

  “Tessa, this is Neville Thorpe. Nev, Tessa.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” The man’s British accent was smooth and sexy. But it didn’t make her insides melt the way Beau’s easy drawl did.

  “Help me unload your toys, Lambo.” Neville passed several heavy metal boxes to Beau. “Next time you can hump in your own ammo, my friend.”

  Beau laughed, and the two men traded insults. Then Beau asked, “How about I fire up the grill and fry some fish?”

  “Brilliant. I’m starving.”

  In short order, they lounged in lawn chairs, eating succulent catfish and drinking the beers on ice Neville had brought with them.

  “So, Tessa,” Neville asked. “How’s your training getting along?”

  She shrugged. “You’d have to ask Beau.”

  Neville’s gaze shifted to Beau and one British eyebrow arched questioningly.

  “It’s going,” Beau answered reluctantly.

  Neville’s next words surprised her. “Major Torsten sent me out here to observe for a day or two.”

  “Why?” Beau demanded.

  “We’re working on profiling a mission that might benefit from Lieutenant Wilkes’s participation. We need to know what her capabilities are before we build it.”

  Tessa leaned forward in interest. “What kind of mission?”

  Neville smiled a little. “The kind that won’t happen for a while. We’re helping an OGA set up and take down a bad guy.”

  “OGA?” Tessa asked.

  “Other Government Agency,” Beau murmured. “The alphabet guys. CIA, FBI, NSA
, DIA, HSA, etcetera.”

  She nodded. “I’ll try to be ready by the time you need me.”

  They cleaned up after the meal and then headed out for the afternoon’s training evolution—learning to use the slap charges they’d spent the morning making. They moved on to breaching charges, and blew a dozen man-size holes in the side of an abandoned barn.

  The next day they walked through a series of fire control exercises—the men teaching Tessa where to move and shoot in confined spaces to prevent hitting her teammates or getting shot herself. They practiced advancing and retreating as a team, providing cover for each other. The dynamic was different enough with three of them versus two that she was grateful for the opportunity.

  On the third day they practiced evacuating a two-hundred-pound dummy Beau had fashioned from burlap sacks, tag teaming hauling it on a stretcher for miles at a run.

  Tessa was trashed physically by the end of that training evolution. Not that she would ever admit it to the guys. But as she lay in bed that night, aching from head to foot, she did secretly worry about finding herself in a situation where she had to carry a teammate whose life depended on her being strong enough to hump him to safety.

  She dreaded rolling out of the bed the next morning, and it hurt every bit as bad as she feared it would. How she was going to get through today was an open question. Beau and Neville might just have found her physical breaking point.

  The smell of bacon frying wafted down the hall and she followed it, strolling into the kitchen to see Neville pulling an omelet out of the oven that had to be three inches tall.

  “Good grief, man. That almost looks like a soufflé!” she exclaimed.

  Neville smiled over the cast iron skillet. “I can make soufflés, but you didn’t have the ingredients. Sadly, you’ll have to settle for a humble omelet.”

  “A tragedy, but I’ll deal,” she replied, grinning. She dug into her breakfast enthusiastically. “Tell me more about your team, Nev.”

  He shrugged. “If you survive fun with Lambo in the bayou, you’ll meet them yourself. They’re good men. The kind you want to have your back.”

  She risked following up with, “Will they be okay with me?”

  Neville pinned her with a serious stare. “We all worked with the last Medusas. If you can do the job, you’ll be welcome.”

  Tears actually welled up in her eyes, and she looked away quickly. She nodded, too choked up to speak. When her throat muscles finally loosened up, she murmured, “I’ll do my best to be worthy of you guys.”

  He snorted. “If you can make it past Beau, you’ll be worthy.”

  He stood up, and as he moved past her toward the sink, his hand landed on her shoulder for a quick squeeze.

  That tiny gesture of support meant more to her than any words of encouragement he could possibly have said aloud.

  She was sad to see him go when he packed up after breakfast and headed back to civilization. As the sound of Neville’s boat motor faded in the distance, she asked, “What’s next, boss?”

  Beau snorted. “Don’t call me boss. That’s Torsten’s job.” He rubbed his leg, and she frowned. Their gazes met, and the worry he usually kept hidden from her was there, naked and exposed in his eyes.

  “You’ll make it back, Beau. I’ve seen worse knees. We can do this together.” She hadn’t seen much worse knees that had recovered, but she’d seen a few.

  “From your mouth to God’s ear,” he muttered.

  He nodded, and she nodded back. He was awful at talking about his feelings, but she was gradually learning his silent signals. That single, simple nod was an acknowledgment of equality. Of teamwork. Maybe even of friendship.

  Well, dang. This had turned into a red-letter day. First Neville expressed acceptance of her, then Beau had, too, after a fashion. Goodness knew Beau was a much tougher nut to crack than the charming Brit.

  * * *

  The next day Beau took off into the swamp so fast she had to actually track him to catch up with him. When she finally did, panting, she asked, “What did I do to piss you off?”

  “Nothing.” He took off again, but this time at a pace she could match.

  From behind him she said, “Whatever it was, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  “You sound offended.”

  “I said I wasn’t, and I’m not,” he snapped.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. She got that men like him didn’t typically want to talk about their feelings or even admit that they had feelings. But she had nobody else. He was her only ongoing peek into the minds of the male operators she would be asked to work with down the road.

  Had he freaked out after their rapprochement yesterday? Was this he retrenching in his fortress of male solitude?

  He stopped abruptly enough that she actually plowed into his back.

  “Pay attention, Wilkes,” he snapped.

  “Sorry.”

  “When you’re running with a team and your weapons are hot, a collision like that could cause someone to fire accidentally. Not only do you risk shooting a teammate, but you’d give away your position and potentially get the whole team killed.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said contritely.

  “Don’t sir me,” he bit out. “We don’t stand on rank in the teams.”

  Sheesh. Apparently, she couldn’t do anything right today.

  He unslung the Dragunov sniper rifle he’d been carrying across his back and unfolded the stock. “This is the squad support weapon in most Eastern European countries and in a bunch of crappy spots around the world that import Russian surplus weaponry. It’s also widely available on the black market. Hence, it’s a weapon you need to be familiar with. On top of that, it’s a nice little sniper rig. Tell me what you know about it.”

  She replied, “It’s semiautomatic. Uses a short-stroke-gas-piston system with a manual, two-position gas regulator to set recoil velocity. The barrel breach is locked with a rotating bolt. It has a chrome-lined barrel with four right-hand grooves along a portion of the barrel. Newer models have an increased twist, which reduces overall accuracy significantly, particularly at long range. The standard box magazine holds ten rounds. It fires 7N14 rounds at a little over eight hundred meters per second and can fire seven point six-two millimeter rounds, as well.” She paused for air and then added drily, “Shall I continue?”

  Beau merely scowled at her recitation.

  C’mon. That was impressive as hell. Actually, the coach of her rifle team in college happened to own one and had let the students handle and fire it. But still. How many women anywhere could rattle off that stuff, and furthermore, know what it all meant?

  “How well can you shoot it?” Beau asked.

  “Passably,” she answered humbly. She’d been a champion markswoman in college, but she suspected that real military snipers could shoot circles around her.

  Beau passed her the rifle, pulled out a spotter’s scope and knelt down. “I’ll call the shots. Let’s see what you’ve got, Wilkes.”

  She stretched out on her belly beside the weapon. This was familiar territory to her. She’d always loved the mental silence required for shooting, and welcomed it now. She breathed slow and deep, sinking into a state of full body relaxation.

  “Five hundred yards downrange, twelve degrees left. A black human silhouette.” He called a minor windage adjustment. She did the math and adjusted her sight one click left and a half click up.

  “Fire when ready,” Beau muttered.

  She exhaled then pulled smoothly through the trigger.

  “Four inches high two inches right,” he announced. “Again.”

  She made the adjustments, sighting in the scope until he was calling out bull’s-eyes. He started pointing out targets at greater range. Eight hundred yards, and then a thousand yards. As they reached the outer limits of th
e weapon’s ability her accuracy dropped, but that was a function of the wobble induced by the rifle and not her lack of skill.

  By the time Beau called a break, her right shoulder ached, and her back cramped from lying still for so long.

  Beau passed her a protein bar and unwrapped one for himself. “You’ve got a future as a sniper, kid.”

  She shrugged. “Thanks. I like shooting a lot.”

  “Ever shot live targets?”

  “Nah. I’m not into killing bunnies and Bambis.”

  He snorted. “You will be when you have nothing to eat.”

  “That’s different. That’s survival. I just don’t enjoy hunting for sport.”

  “That’s the correct answer for a sniper,” he commented.

  “Why?”

  He shot her an are-you-kidding look. “Do you seriously want someone who kills people for a living to enjoy hunting for sport?”

  She winced. “Good point.”

  “If you decide to pursue sniper training, you’ll have to pass an exhaustive battery of psych tests to make sure you don’t have any psychopathic tendencies. Uncle Sam can’t afford to teach a crazy how to kill people and get away with it.”

  She snorted. “I had to take those tests to even apply to the Special Forces. Women are getting screened pretty hard before we’re allowed to make a run at all of this. The military is calling it research, of course.”

  He shrugged. “It wouldn’t do anyone any good to have women going mental when they fail.”

  She laughed a little. “I came close when Torsten told me I was out and then you dragged me off base in front of everyone.”

  “Sorry about that. But Gun ordered me to make your departure public.”

  “I get it.” A pause. “Now.”

  “You looked like you were plotting my death when I put you on that plane.”

  “It did cross my mind.”

  “You wouldn’t be Medusa material if it didn’t.”

  So. He was starting to think of her as Medusa material, was he? Cool. Rock by rock, she was going to tear down his wall of objections to her, even if she had to do it with her bare hands.