SEAL My Home: Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 2 (SEAL Brotherhood Series 9) (18 page)

Rory looked at his LPO and gripped his shoulder. “Thanks, man. That was awesome, Kyle.”

“Yeah, it was pretty fuckin’ awesome, wasn’t it?”

“Like a warm-up,” Cooper said as he continued to unwrap Corrigan and check on his wounds.

“Wasn’t the workup I was expecting. But it’ll do.”

Rory stared out through the windshield and knew he’d miss this. He also realized his hip was hurting him something fierce and he’d messed something up. He swore under his breath.

“You okay?”

Rory searched for something acceptable to say. “Yeah, just gonna hate watching you guys go, getting in on all the action. Me sitting around watching T.V.”

“Well, nothing says you couldn’t hang around a bookstore,” Kyle winked back at him. “Things could be worse, you know. And it looks like your dad’s alive. So I’d count your blessings, Rory. You got a shitpile of them.”

It was true.

Corrigan and his man, Derek, were rushed to Scripps Mercy Hospital where they were both admitted immediately. Corrigan was blubbering like a baby, heaping praise on Rory and his SEAL buddies for having rescued him. He looked like a nutty professor in a lab explosion, Rory thought, with his hair standing in stiff peaks and his face grimy. Corrigan had soiled himself too, so the smell was enough to nearly gag him but Corrigan seemed to be oblivious of his condition.

He was helped into a wheelchair at the entrance, Rory staying with him as Kyle helped T.J., Cooper, and the ER techs put Derek on a gurney. He hadn’t gained consciousness, and the SEALs knew the Emergency staff was more worried about him than Corrigan.

Once inside, Rory made sure they knew Corrigan was on medication for heart attack or stroke, so he was seen within a half hour. Derek was sent straight to surgery. The police had been called, and Rory knew Kyle wanted to leave before they got there. They stayed until they were able to speak with the Emergency Room physician on call and be assured Corrigan was stable, but still in pain. Nothing at this point indicated he was in any grave danger, unlike Derek. Other than the beating to his face, Corrigan was relatively untouched.

Rory told Corrigan he’d stop by tomorrow to see him, maybe have that blood test afte rall and then the two parted. He knew Corrigan wanted him to be called Dad, but Rory just couldn’t. Besides, he thought, no sense getting Corrigan’s hopes up. Rory had given up hope a long time ago and wasn’t about to stop now.

Coop and Brady were on their cell phones. Fredo was pacing the floor, checking the outside for the police they knew were on their way.

“Go home,” Kyle said to the three of them. “I’ll call you guys later.”

“No problem with that,” said Brady. “You drop me back to my ride?”

“No problemo,” said Fredo. “Coop, you coming?”

They took off in a fast walk toward the parking lot and were gone within seconds.

Rory, Kyle, and T.J. huddled quickly in the lobby out of anyone’s earshot. “Nothing more we can do for these guys. They’re as safe as they can be. I’m guessing talking to the cops would be a bad idea, so let’s agree to disperse. T.J. get home, and Rory, I’ll drop you off,” Kyle finished.

The three SEALs passed a pair of San Diego uniforms as they walked through the maze of the Emergency Room admitting area.

“That was close,” Rory whispered.

“Yeah. Hate to not give them a full report, but I gotta get over to Collins and Lieutenant Forsythe.”

“Roger that,” T.J. answered. He listened as Kyle put the call in to Collins, informing him of the raid and the possible implications. T.J. stood guard to make sure the uniforms didn’t come out to find them.

“Yessir, I’ll tell them. See you in ten.” He turned to T.J. and Rory. “He says to go home, you two. I’m gonna meet with them in a few minutes. We have to take precautions. Find your women and get things prepared. Get your equipment cleaned and ready. Maybe warn the ladies. He thinks it might be good if we went on a quick training exercise out of the way of local law enforcements, just to stay out of their reach, let Collins and the Forsythe take the flack.”

“I made a promise not to leave town without telling the LAPD.” Rory said.

“That’s gonna be something Collins will have to handle. Navy business first. It’s a bit of a stretch, but in this case, we don’t want to make it more complicated until we find out who these guys are and how we can get them. Remember, the one who orchestrated this is still out there, and he’s gotta be pissed.”

It made perfect sense to Rory. He could see T.J. was anxious to get back to Shannon and wasn’t happy about another training taking him away from her and the baby.

“I’ll be in touch later on. Stay sharp. Get ready and when I call, you show up wherever I tell you, got that? Might not be until tomorrow, but you stay ready.”

‡

M
oustafa was so
irritated he wanted to kill something. It was late before his handler called him.

“I require your services.”

“Always ready to be of service to the Prophet. I want a face-to-face, though.”

“I’ve no time for this.”

“But I have news. Been doing what you asked, surveillance, and I have—”

“Shut up. I don’t care about your fucking surveillance.”

Moustafa was inflamed. He’d be able to do better on his own, except for the money they threw at him. He never trusted Syrians fully. They’d had too much Western culture for his tastes, at least the tastes he had now. If he could find another benefactor, he could do the Prophet’s work unbridled by this man whom he guessed was too attached to the nicer things in life. He didn’t like being at this man’s beck and call. It was after ten o’clock in the evening. He liked his last handler better, but unfortunately, he’d been deported for tax fraud two months ago, and this man was his replacement. He wasn’t a mullah like his last one was.

“Moustafa, I need you to find someone. He is an American Navy man. Rory Kennedy is his name. He lives here in San Diego, and I believe he knows someone in the Special Forces community. May perhaps be one of them, I’m not sure. I want you to find him. Take the others and find him. He must be captured and taken where I can interrogate him.”

“A final solution for me?”

“No. I want him alive. I need him alive. He has friends. If you want to get his friends, all the better, but I want to be able to speak with him in person. I will work on my end to find him, but I want you to start looking for him tonight.”

“Sure. And you’re going to bed now?” Moustafa knew it wasn’t a wise thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t like your position? I can have that changed quickly. You aren’t the only one I have, and I think you know this. Don’t be stupid, Moustafa. I don’t seek sleep and won’t sleep until Rory Kennedy is in my custody.”

Moustafa waited until his blood settled. “I had wanted to discuss what I’ve found. Didn’t that American tell you I had things to report?”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Quite frankly, no. He didn’t. He’s indisposed at the moment.”

Figures.
The man had been so nervous he wouldn’t remember where he was or whom he spoke with, Moustafa thought. “You have your Navy man. I have the whereabouts of a woman of one of those bearded ones.”

“The SEALs?”

“Special forces, yes, perhaps SEALs. I recognized him. Is your Rory more important than getting the woman, and perhaps several others of these special warriors? I know where three households of them live. I’ve followed them. Their men do not leave them protected. They are ripe for the taking, my teacher.”

He could tell his handler was thinking about this. “Perhaps we can do that, after we get Mr. Kennedy.”

Moustafa was livid.

“What if I don’t survive this mission?”

“Like I said before, you take some of his friends. It can be public and brutal, but Kennedy isn’t to be killed just yet.”

He could hardly listen to the handler’s words, wanting him to go after a lowly Navy recruit, when he could capture a real warrior and his woman. Moustafa knew about the sixth sense they had for danger and how astute they were in combat. He had a much better chance of dealing with the women. And it would hurt them more, was the best way to seek his revenge for the Prophet. These men were prepared to die. They were not prepared to have their women killed.

His handler was exercising faulty logic, coming from some carnal desire or spot of anger that was clouding his judgment. Moustafa would play along for a bit. But he’d be looking for another teacher, someone who would fully appreciate and understand his capabilities, and was worthy of the sacrifices he and his family had made.

“I will require more money. I will have to purchase information and equipment.”

“Fine.”

“Are you sending the American?”

“No. I’ll do it myself.”

Excellent choice.

“Make a list of what you need, and I will meet you tomorrow at the coffee shop where you met the American. Noon. Do not be late.”

Moustafa noticed the
teacher was driving a more modest older BMW, not the sleek two-door Mercedes he’d been told cost nearly $200,000. He knew that when this happened, there was a reason. There would always be a reason for this man. Like the fact that no one but he showed up for the appointment. Things had changed in the teacher’s world.

He had also shaved off his moustache and had changed his glasses. His hair was streaked with gray. He looked easily fifteen years older than he had the last time they met. More grandfatherly, though the man was probably only in his fifties.

He even walked hunched over, shoulders rounded. Moustafa wondered if he had been injured.

“You look terrible,” he said to the Syrian.

“Good.” He had the same hand movements, and he quickly produced another packet of cash, this time a very thick envelope. “I am not staying in San Diego for long. This will have to last you for a month.”

He wasn’t giving Moustafa the pleasure of his eye contact. Something was definitely wrong.

“Why the disgu—” Moustafa wasn’t able to finish the word before he was shushed. A lady the next table over looked up from her book.

The handler hunkered down and said between clenched teeth, “You will shut up about my physical appearance. The stakes are rising, my friend.”

Moustafa leaned back, then bent down and dropped the cash into his nylon briefcase next to his computer. Then he pulled out a large manila mailing envelope and tossed it onto the table. The package slid across the Formica surface, stopping as it hit his handler in the belly.

“What’s this?”

“My fucking surveillance you aren’t very interested in. Pictures of the American and his woman.”

The man pulled out the pictures Moustafa had printed on his photo printer, and surveyed them one by one slowly.

“That’s the woman. Her name is Megan, if you care to know.” As the teacher sorted through several other photographs, he stopped at the close-up of the American, with crossed arms and legs, his baseball cap on backwards. “And that’s the bearded one. Like you, he has shaved off his facial hair.”

Teacher snarled and threw the photographs back on the table. Moustafa didn’t like the lack of respect he showed.

“I want Kennedy first. You find him, and then you can have your way with the woman and her warrior. But you find Kennedy first.” He handed him a piece of paper. “This is his address and cell phone number.”

“Why do you need me to do this?”

“That isn’t important. Just do as you’re told.”

Moustafa folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. “Perhaps they know each other, if they are both in the Navy?”

“You know how many Navy men and women there are in San Diego? Do not waste your time or mine.”

“Understood.” Moustafa was sure, somehow, there would be a connection. “But this one, he is special.” He told Teacher about what he’d observed this bearded one doing in the killing fields of Afghanistan, how he’d seen him rig explosives, kill some of the militants in their cadre. “They did lots of house-to-house raids and he’s an expert on explosives. I’ve watched as he blew up vehicles and doorways with pinpoint accuracy. He’d be a legend.”

The Syrian grabbed the photographs again and studied the warrior. “His name?”

Moustafa knew something had piqued his teacher’s interest. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked with him. Perhaps she will tell me. I could talk to her.”

The older man looked at her photograph as if memorizing the face of the American woman.

“Keep it. I have more,” Moustafa said.

“No. But I will take this.” He chose one photo of the warrior. “You must bring Kennedy to me. Then we’ll discuss your next plan with this bearded one.”

“What about the woman?”

Teacher pulled Moustafa by the shirt collar so hard he nearly toppled his coffee. “I said get Kennedy first. Nothing happens until we get him. You will make it your mission in life to get Rory Kennedy. You do not hurt the woman. Not yet.”

“Of course. I understand.” Moustafa wondered if the Syrian even liked women, his answer was so clinical.

‡