I ROLLED OUT OF MY rack the next morning and hit the head to take a piss. A hot shower would’ve been nice, but I had something more important to do.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and went over to our computer and typed in the name she had given me. Annie Hamilton.

The screen lit up—articles, news clips, videos, websites. “American Analía ‘Annie’ Rose Hamilton Vanishes on Spring Break.” There was even a wiki: “The Disappearance of Analía Rose Hamilton.”

Could the drug-addicted prostitute from last night really be America’s missing sweetheart? Maybe she was part of some elaborate con job? A light-skinned prostitute could’ve faked the American accent, learned the story, and used it to bilk johns like me out of cash.

I clicked on the first image—the cover of People Magazine. “Vanished without a Trace: Annie Hamilton.” Those deep hazel eyes from last night stared back at me.

Fuck.

Those eyes were about the only part of her, which resembled the girl from last night. She was hardened, despondent, and scared. Those pretty eyes were now encased by dark circles, and had only given a dead stare.

I skimmed the first line; five years ago, just as she’d said. And by all accounts, she was still missing.

After five years, surely she was dead. Yet no trace of her body had ever been found. I remembered hearing about her disappearance, but I was deployed in Iraq at the time so I never knew all the details.

I read the first article. Annie and her boyfriend, Chris Porter, had taken a spring break vacation to the Caribbean. They’d partied until around two a.m. in the nightclub at their resort and multiple guests saw them dancing together. By all accounts, they’d both been extremely intoxicated and a few guests recalled that Chris seemed to be jealous when Annie climbed up on stage to dance with a professional ballroom dancer from the resort. At two thirty a.m., her boyfriend’s key card was used to enter their hotel room, and he swore she was with him. Chris stated the last time he saw her was around five a.m. sitting on the balcony of their suite the morning she went missing. He figured she wanted to get fresh air and watch the sunrise, so he went back to sleep. A few other guests claimed they saw her around six a.m. in the elevator with the dancer. Chris passed a lie detector test and repeatedly insisted on his innocence. The dancer was also questioned but there wasn’t any evidence to hold him. Authorities believed she’d committed suicide, or was killed by her boyfriend after a fight. Despite a FBI search The FBI had conducted a thorough search of the resort and the nearby ocean but no trace of her had ever been found.

Suicide? Doubtful. She was young, hot, in college and in love. Came from money. I guess she could’ve been depressed, but I figured it was a long shot.

As for the boyfriend? I felt bad for the guy. He was a pretty-boy, wealthy surfer from La Jolla who had probably never worked a day in his life. Tan and blond, he looked like one of those guys who sat on the beach smoking weed, laughing at the BUD/S candidates while they were running around carrying logs over their heads during Hell Week. Came from a good family, played water polo at San Diego University. He seemed normal enough, but how did anyone really know how he treated Annie behind closed doors? Maybe he abused her. If he killed her, then he got away with the perfect crime. If he was innocent, his life was ruined from the suspicion and the guilt he must’ve felt not knowing what had happened to her.

I gazed across the ocean from my porthole. The resort was only a mile away. If she had been killed, surely there would’ve been some evidence—blood, clothes, a body. It didn’t add up.

In the weeks, months, and years, which had followed, there’d been a few sightings of Annie on Aruba and on other neighboring Caribbean islands, but nothing ever panned out. Her family had even reportedly hired a former SEAL to find her, but he turned out to be a fraud.

I fucking hated any motherfucker who lied about being a SEAL. It was easy to figure these assholes out—just ask them their SEAL training class number. Not knowing your SEAL training class number is like not knowing your last name.

I still wasn’t convinced yet that the prostitute was who she said she was. I didn’t want to stake my career on a maybe.

I studied a few more websites. Her parents had created .

There were childhood photos, lists of sightings, news articles, and links to television programs.

There was a letter begging for her return posted from Chris with pictures of the happy couple.

Then a photo caught my eye.

The tattoo on her ankle.

That surfboard with an American flag. So that’s why she made sure I saw it. Just in case I was the man she thought I was.

The words of the Navy SEAL Code, our warrior creed, echoed in my head.

Fuck.

But tattoos can be faked. I needed more.

I clicked on another picture.

Yup—the scar on her shoulder. She’d shown me that also.

My heart beat rapidly in my chest, my jaw clenched.

I needed to see her face again, look into her eyes. That’s the only way I’d know for certain.

Why hadn’t anyone rescued her? She was an American for Christ’s sake!

But this wasn’t a fucking movie. There weren’t FBI and CIA agents on the ground in Aruba searching for kidnapped Americans, especially since there was no proof she had been abducted. Any sightings of her would first be passed to the local police, who were corrupt as fuck. Her parents could’ve hired one of the many private contractor groups filled with former SEALs who did this shit for a living.

She didn’t need a private contractor group—she now had me. I’d trained my entire adult life for missions like this one.

There was a three hundred thousand dollar reward for her safe return. But I didn’t want any money. Giving Annie her life back would be reward enough. If I saved her, I had to remain anonymous. Any hint of an active duty Navy SEAL going rogue would ruin my career on the Teams.

I glanced back at her pictures. Man, she’d been beautiful. Could’ve been my high school sweetheart. She was half Latina, looked almost like a young Wonder Woman. Her black hair had been shiny; her hazel eyes had been bright. A soccer star, a prom queen, a little girl in pigtails. And I had treated her like she was a piece of trash.

Fucking traffickers. Most Americans were completely oblivious to the sex trade. They thought it only happened in third world countries. But girls were kidnapped off the streets in Middle America, and forced to service assholes like me. I wanted her to be just another piece of ass who I could use and forget, but the pain in her eyes reminded me too much of my own hell.

We were headed back to the states tonight. What the fuck was I going to do? Tell my men? Ask my command? It wasn’t that easy. Everyone thinks Navy SEALs are above the law, that we can do whatever we please without any consequences. Like the ridiculous story about one of our snipers who shot and killed two civilian men and wasn’t even brought in for police questioning. Bullshit. There’s protocol, and busting into brothels was way out of our jurisdiction. I’d have to talk to my commanding officer. He’d send me to Captain’s Mast for going to a brothel. Any authorized rescue attempt would have to be cleared with the FBI and CIA. There would be an investigation to see if she was who she said she was. They might set up a sting operation. And the crooked cops in Aruba could tip off her pimp. If her pimp had any inkling of what was going on, he’d probably kill her without a second thought.

I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Were all those prostitutes trafficked? Prostitution was legal here, and I deluded myself to think that at least the women were there willingly. And I couldn’t save everyone in the place. It would cause an international incident; most of them were probably from Eastern Europe or Central and South America. But I’d be damned if I let Annie, or any other American trapped there, spend one more day than they had to in that hellhole. Other men didn’t get why I hadn’t shed a tear when I found out my ex-fiancée had cheated on me. But the national anthem? “The Star Spangled Banner” had me bawling like someone shot my dog. I’d watched my buddies die protecting our country’s freedoms. And I’d lay down my own life before I let some traffickers steal Annie’s.

She was twenty-three now, two years younger than me. She’d spent her entire adult life in a foreign country as a sex slave. I couldn’t even fathom her miserable existence.

Enough men had used her and then abandoned her. I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Vic made his way through the tangled maze of hungover SEALs in our sleeping quarters. “Want to get lunch?”

If I flaked on them two days in a row, they’d know I was up to something. “I can’t. I’m going to get a massage.”

Kyle’s head popped up in his rack. “As long as it includes a happy ending, I’m in.”

These men were my best friends—I didn’t want to lie to them. We’d saved each other’s lives more times than I cared to remember.

“No can do, I’m already late. I’ll be back in a bit and we’ll go have a drink before our ship leaves.” I slipped a watch on my wrist and left the ship.

I had to see Annie before they shuffled her to another brothel and I lost the opportunity forever. Tattoos and scars could be faked. I needed to be one hundred percent certain the girl with the hollow eyes really was Annie.

Would the pimp get suspicious if I came back two days in a row? I doubted it. If she had survived five years, she must’ve gained their trust. They probably thought she was so strung out that she wanted dope more than she wanted her old life back. That’s how these lowlifes worked—strip these girls of their identities and leave them with nothing left to fight for.

But she’d told me her name. She trusted me. And I’d walked away from her.

Some hero.

The streets seemed less bright today. I’d actually looked forward to my Team’s mission in the Caribbean waters. Aruba was a better destination than Afghanistan as far as I was concerned. But now I’d rather be roasting in the mountains than investigating the underbelly of paradise.

I stopped by a tourist shop. Purchased some water, snacks, lotion, and a dress for Annie. Also bought her a small necklace, which I placed in my pocket.

The same pimp found me on the street. “Hey, hey. You had good time? Welcome back, my friend.”

I hated the way these vipers called me friend. Did he even know that Annie was a kidnapped American? Often these girls were traded to other pimps, so he might not know her true identity if she kept her cover. Even though he had a gun, I could take this fool in a second, even unarmed. Were there more armed men watching this place? Without my men and my weapons, I couldn’t take any chance of smuggling Annie out.

I followed him back to the brothel. He was about to ring the bell but I stopped him. “I want the same girl I had last night.”

“Star? Sure, sure. How about two girls? I give you a good price.”

I shook my head. “Nope, one will do. ‘Star’ did a good job.”

“What’s in the bag?”

I opened it up. “Some food, water, clothes, lotion. I wanted her to dress up for me and smell good. How much for an extra hour? I’m heading back out to sea tonight.”

He rummaged through the bag, and then squinted his eyes. “I give her to you for two hours free, for your watch.”

I didn’t hesitate to hand it over to him.

His face broke out into a smile. He motioned to me and led me down the hallway, to her door. Then he turned and left, probably to lure the next jerk like me inside.

I paused before I opened the door. There was no going back; I needed to know one way or another if the woman behind this door was Annie Hamilton.