Liz Johnson - SEAL Under Siege

SHE’S NOT SAFE YET

When Staci Hayes is rescued from a Mideast prison by navy SEAL Tristan Sawyer, she thinks the ordeal is over. But back in San Diego, a new threat arises. Staci has information that could prevent a hit on U.S. soil, and the terrorist will stop at nothing to silence her. Tristan insists on being her bodyguard, but his constant presence makes her long for things beyond her reach. Protecting Staci is the second chance Tristan needs to put the past behind him. Yet with a spy on the naval base, anyone could be a threat. Can he offer her safety…and love?

Men of Valor: These navy SEALs were born to excel….

“You said I was safe. You said you’d protect me.”

“I did. You made it safely home, didn’t you?” His words were short but not unkind.

“I made it home, anyway.”

Those blue eyes sliced into hers.

“What does that mean?”

“Someone has been following me, and I think it’s the same man from Lybania.”

His arms crossed over his broad chest, the sleeves of his T-shirt pulling snug around his biceps. He looked so intimidating.

“Did you call the police? Tell them you’re being stalked, and they can look into it for you. They can handle things like that.”

“They wouldn’t help me.” If she had any idea how to face down the man following her on her own, she would. But since she didn’t, she had to convince the lieutenant to help.

Taking a firm step toward him, she pointed her finger toward his chest. “Listen to me. I’m in trouble, but it’s not just me. I don’t know the name of the man who’s after me, but I know what I heard. He’s plotting to blow something up…here in San Diego.”

LIZ JOHNSON

After graduating from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff with a degree in public relations, Liz Johnson set out to work in the Christian publishing industry, which was her lifelong dream. In 2006 she got her wish when she accepted a publicity position with a major trade book publisher. While working as a publicist in the industry, she decided to pursue her other dream—becoming an author. Along the way to having her novels published, she wrote articles for several magazines and worked as a freelance editorial consultant.

Liz makes her home in Nashville, Tennessee, where she enjoys theater, exploring her new home and making frequent trips to Arizona to dote on her nephew and three nieces. She loves stories of true love with happy endings.

SEAL Under Siege

Liz Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound.

—Isaiah 61:1

For sweet friends who have encouraged me along this journey and fell for these SEALs right along with me.

Ashley Boyer, Staci Carmichael Havlik, Jessica Barnes, Amy Haddock, Kaye Dacus, Kristi Smith, and Katie Bond, my life is richer for knowing you.

Thanks for the brainstorms, book talk, and belly laughs.

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

EPILOGUE

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

EXCERPT

ONE

Lt. Tristan Sawyer whispered into the mic that brushed the corner of his mouth. “Rock, are you in position?”

Night hung over him like a blanket, wrapping up all of his senses, except his hearing, as he waited for the sound of his senior chief’s voice. “Affirmative.”

Across the street Petty Officer Will Gumble lurked next to the window of a crumbling single-story home. The house—not even a mile from the Persian Gulf—had been cleaned out, probably weeks ago, and Willie G. had swept it again to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises when they moved in on their target.

He took two short breaths and lifted his night vision goggles, giving the street another check. It was deserted except for the five stonelike figures hidden along the street. He spotted them only because he knew they were there. He’d scouted and scoped each location in preparation for this moment. He’d studied the maps and floor plans, packed his gear and prepared his mind.

All for this moment.

His blood began to pump harder, picking up speed. He tightened, then loosened his grip on the weapon in his hand, forcing his breath into a steady rhythm and his heart into an even pattern.

He was ready. But he had to wait for the signal that their boats were nearly in place at the extraction point. If they moved too soon, they’d recover the “packages”—three American hostages—but have no place to deliver them. If they waited too long, they left the inflatable boats open to discovery.

Timing was everything, so he schooled his muscles, keeping them alert yet relaxed until the signal.

A double click came through his earpiece.

Time to rock and roll.

“Let’s go.” Just like they’d practiced, he swung around the back of the building where Senior Chief Matt Waterstone, also known as Rock, wrenched open a window on the basement level and slid into the darkness below. Tristan followed suit until his shoulder caught on the frame. He wiggled, his feet still not quite on the floor.

The team was on radio silence for this part of the mission, but he didn’t need to see or hear his best friend to know Matt was laughing at him.

After what felt like an hour suspended by the snagged shoulder of his battle dress uniform, he reached across his body and yanked on it until it let go with a tear.

He dropped to his feet, squatting and squinting into the dark, his weapon at the ready. On the far side of the box of a room, the door cracked open and light filtered in. The weak sliver of a stream made it only halfway across the floor, but it did illuminate Matt’s gloved hand on the edge of the door.

Tristan moved forward, staying low. They’d done this enough to know the drill. He would move first down the hallway, Matt positioned at his six—covering his blind spot. Back-to-back, they’d sweep the basement, looking for the packages. Intel said there were two women and a man. They had been held here for at least three weeks, though word of their captivity had just reached the SEAL teams.

Only God knew what the three had endured. At least two of them were in their sixties. The people of Lybania tended to respect their elders. As for the girl in her twenties...

A shiver ran down his spine. He couldn’t think about that. He had to get her free and secure first. Once they were all safely out of this pit and away from men who kidnapped aid workers for no reason, he’d let the ones trained to deal with her situation handle it.

For now, he’d do what he was trained to.

Matt motioned for them to stop, opening a door with the toe of his boot. He must have encountered less resistance than he expected, since it flung open like a piece of paper on hinges, flapping against the opposite wall.