A Warrior’s Challenge Series
Book Seven
Chapter One
July 10th, 2038
Sloane rubbed the pinch out of her temple after disconnecting the caller. Tearing the sheet from her message pad, she swiveled in her chair, searching out her Administrations Lieutenant. “Ma’am, do you know a Lieutenant Damon Stone?”
Sarah popped her head up from her computer like a gopher from a hole. “Sure. What’s up?”
Sloane tugged the sweater from the back of the chair and covered her shoulders, suddenly cold. “I have to deliver this message to him.”
“Email him,” the lieutenant said, and placed her attention back on the base’s weekly plans.
Glancing at the message she’d written, Sloane shook her head. Considering her position, she’d dodged a bullet not having to deal with this before now. Absentmindedly, she tucked a wisp of hair from her bundled updo to adhere to Navy standards.
Six months had passed since enlisting. Basic training ate up a few weeks, and then she was briefly posted at another base in northern California in the logistics department, a fancy name for paper pusher. She’d immediately put in for a transfer to Coronado. She hated to admit nepotism had played a role in getting her request approved to come back to San Diego so quickly. Her Godfather, Greg LaPierre, and probably her dad, had a heavy hand in making it happen, although both denied it.
She liked the fast pace and stressors of keeping up with the heavy workload involved in a base the size of NAB Coronado. Varied responsibilities kept the humdrum away with the intake of new personnel, preparing and posting the Plan of the Week, preparing awards, writing up directives, and the enlisted evaluations, which were piling up on her desk. She tracked personnel leave, reviewed and disseminated correspondence and the file logs, but was also responsible for incoming message routing.
Sloane wasn’t prepared to leave this message like a grenade in Lieutenant Stone’s mailbox. He needed to know.
“Not this kind of message,” she said, catching her lieutenant’s attention, and attracting interest from a couple other women working in the department.
Sarah stepped over to her desk and quickly scanned the note. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “He’s one of the BUD/s instructors. They could be anywhere right now, but check the Grinder first. The recruits are probably being thrashed on the pavement.”
Sloane picked up her cap, then straightened her navy blue uniform skirt. “I’m going to deliver this in person.”
Sarah crossed her arms over a plentiful chest. “If I were you, I’d drop it off at his office. I wouldn’t interrupt them,” she warned.
Sloane nodded, but wasn’t going to let the poor man open the message without some kind of warning. This was a hand job. Not a pleasant one, either.
“What does he look like?”
Sarah arched a brow. “Bloody gorgeous, actually. He’s a big guy and easy to spot. Light brown to blond hair, shoulders about a mile wide and eyes the color of tropical water. Single, I think,” she said, pinching down on a smile.
Shoulders a mile wide described half the men on the Coronado Amphibious Base, the west coast headquarters for the Naval Warfare Special Command and the Navy SEALs. The single part didn’t interest her. Her policy on dating SEALs was strict and unwavering—never again. Besides, she had enough SEALs in her life.
Sloane Austen left the administrations building and headed for the Grinder, likely the most hated piece of pavement in California, if not the planet. At least by any man accepted into the Basic Underwater Demolitions program known as BUD/s. The instructors propelled the recruits through grueling exercises during the hottest part of the day. It was just one of the challenges you faced if you wanted to become a Special Warfare Operator. Most didn’t make it, but that was the point—only the best did. Every man was thrust to his limits. Those who didn’t ring the infamous bell signaling his own retraction from the program, went on to receive about a million dollars-worth of training and became a warrior for Uncle Sam.
She rounded the team’s main building to find the pavement littered with lean, sweating bodies. Most girls would swoon seeing the strained muscles roping down the men’s ripped torsos.
Not her.
SEALs were a no-go-zone in her book. All of them wore an invisible placard across their foreheads that said, “Man whore.” There wasn’t a SEAL alive that would change her mind, although plenty tried.
The black tarmac looked sticky, as if it were sweating from the scorching sun’s relentless barrage. Half the men lay flat on their stomachs with their hands laced behind their necks and feet crossed. A whistle blew, and the other men standing on the sidelines dove to the ground, covered the back of their heads with their hands, and opened their mouths, crossing their legs at the same time.
This was a simulation position, one they had to take with an incoming artillery round or risk their innards exploding like apples. Two more blows on a whistle, and they crawled toward their instructor. Three whistle blows, and they jumped to their feet.
Watching them, she thanked the Lord she’d been born a girl; Women weren’t accepted into the SEAL program. Clutching the message in her fist, she headed across the Grinder toward the man with the whistle. He fit the description Sarah had given her.
The instructor turned his attention on her as she crossed. When she was about twenty feet away, the whistle dropped from his lips and bounced once on a very broad chest, rolling with defined muscle. With his T-shirt strained tight around his biceps, the man could probably curl a small building. Narrow hips and strong legs spread two feet apart, towered him to at least six-foot-three. He reminded her of a statue of an Olympic God.
“What the hell are you doing, Seaman?”
For an instant her feet became heavy seeing his features contort, but she pushed on until she stood a few feet away. Blue eyes cut into her, the look on his face pure annoyance at her intrusion. Her heart drummed, but she maintained eye contact. Sarah was right for a change—this man was uber-hot, and Sloane was about to make him uber-sad.
“Are you deaf?” he shouted.
“No, sir.”
“What makes you think you can saunter your little ass through my exercise? What the hell is the matter with you? Would you walk through a bloody minefield that way?”
Not unless you were chasing me, but kept the retort to herself. This guy was hard core and pissed, not something she was totally unfamiliar or uncomfortable with. She glanced quickly to see the entire squad of recruits watched her dressing down.
“Lieutenant Damon Stone?”
The Grinder had gone very quiet. Even the other instructors stopped blasting the recruits with insults and watched while the lieutenant grilled her with a glare hotter than the San Diego sun.
“Are you blind too? What the hell does this say on my shirt?”
True, but she wasn’t looking at his shirt. Instead, she marveled at the invisible aura of strength wavering around him.
Sloane took another step and let out a breath. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I just received a call—”
“And it can’t wait or be delivered by something called email? Ever hear of that? It’s an old friggin’ invention. Works wonders,” he roared, loud enough to reach the other side of the base.
She glanced at the message in her hand, and then stared up at him. Removing her cap, she took one more step toward him. Wanting him to take a breath and listen, she waited. That’s what she’d always done when her dad shot into the stratosphere.
Thrusting his arms across his chest he leaned over her. “Am I supposed to use ESP? You’re wasting my frigging time. Do you have something to tell me or not?”
Though he was riled, her gaze lingered on his amazing eyes, a brilliant blue color, not quite like her father’s, but close. Her thoughts were totally inappropriate for the moment, and she internally swatted them away. Normally, she’d be firing a smartass remark his way, but not under these circumstances. She was about to ruin his day, probably his week, if not longer.
The lieutenant stilled, and his gaze ran over her—slowly—but it might as well have been his fingers because it had the same effect. He tilted his head a little, and his lips parted, but he pressed them closed. This man noticed everything in a single glance, including her nametag.
Finally, he deflated as he pulled his ball cap and ran a hand through his hair, eyeing her. “What is it, Seaman Austen?”
“Sir, your sister called. I’m sorry to have to inform you, your mother passed away a few minutes ago. When you can, please call your family. She says they need you.”
It was the oddest moment she’d ever experienced. Lieutenant Stone’s gaze and hers met somewhere in the space between them, tangled up with no urgency to untangle the invisible connection. Then, like a spring thaw, she saw or sensed his pain, and had the overwhelming yearning to hug him.
His jaw tightened, then he nodded sharply, releasing his hold on her by dropping his gaze to the ground.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” She held the note out to him. “And I apologize for interrupting.”
Without looking at her, Damon Stone gently grasped the note, and she turned and walked away. Tears welled in her eyes. One day someone would tell her the same thing, and she would be thrashed to ribbons.
Sloane loved her parents, and by the look of the lieutenant, he loved his mom too.