D-Day (SEAL Team Alpha #22)

Chapter 1

1

Andrew “D-Day” Nolan sat in back of the sheriff’s cruiser and watched the ambulance drive away. He had a clear conscience and a set of bruised and scraped knuckles. There was a large group around the sheriff, and he held up his hands looking like he was trying to calm them all down. He was doing his job, and D-Day couldn’t fault him for that.

The sheriff tried to walk away, then had to turn back to the people who followed protesting, raising his hands in supplication. His deputy took over as he made it to the cruiser. He got into the driver’s seat and put the car in motion.

“You know how to stir people up, young man,” the sheriff said, radioing into his headquarters that he was bringing in a prisoner.

D-Day closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the seat. That was his job, stirring up trouble. He and his team were excellent at doing their job.

He couldn’t really blame anyone for this misunderstanding, except for that blonde angel, Helen Buckard. The reason he was here at this out-of-the-way bar—Carlos just outside San Diego—had to do with her. He had to get out of town to drink himself into oblivion, and none of the usual watering holes around Coronado would do. It was much too likely he’d run into people he knew, and his condition would get back to the team, and they would stick their noses in his business. Nothing good could come of it. Just his shame at having crossed the line with Helen, repeatedly. His mouth went dry, and if he got the chance, he’d probably give in to the same temptation again.

That’s why it had been six months since he’d seen her and since he’d been back to Wyoming. Buck’s mother had called several times, this last call to invite him to their Thanksgiving celebration, but he’d turned her down, saying that he was going to be with his family in Bedford. He mentally scoffed.

Like his family knew anything about thanks or giving or forgiveness or common decency.

His only regret here…this would get back to his CO, Elias “Joker” Jackman, and that would open up a whole can of worms. Namely, his whole SEAL status, and even his Navy enlistment. He could lose it all, but there had been no other course of action. Just like in his past…there had been no thought, no reasoning, just visceral reaction and immediate interdiction regardless of the odds, the consequences, or the repercussions. It was the only thing he didn’t regret about what had happened.

They pulled up in front of the sheriff’s department and he got D-Day out of the car as people started to arrive—the same crowd who had been at the bar.

The sheriff swore and ushered him quickly into the building. As he passed the front desk, a woman deputy looked up, and her mouth dropped open.

She looked familiar but in his inebriated state, he couldn’t place her. She came rushing out from behind the desk.

“What is going on?”

“He’s being arrested for assault. Now get back to work. I don’t need?—”

“That’s bullshit. I know this guy. He’d never?—”

“Lucy, get back to work,” the sheriff said, low and firm. She closed her mouth and shot D-Day an outraged look. She marched back to her chair and sat down heavily with a soft protest. He was so tired, and he stopped trying to figure out where he knew her from. He didn’t make it a habit of sleeping with local girls, but if he’d slept with her, he would have remembered, even though most women paled next to Helen. Sex was something he’d only indulged in if he was hurting, and it was only to keep his mind off Helen. One-night stands were good for his purposes.

They took him into a room where they fingerprinted him and took mugshots, and through it all he felt dead inside, hollowed out.

It was a familiar feeling…he’d been lost for a long time.

When he entered the small cell and the door clanged shut behind him, he folded down onto the meager bunk, closing his eyes, and even though it was painful, counterproductive, and just plain stupid, he couldn’t help thinking about, remembering, and reliving every moment with Helen.

Deputy Sheriff Jessica Mendez knew that man who had been led into the department by the sheriff. First off, no woman would ever forget such a man with his soulful blue eyes, angular face, tall, ripped body, and that mop of blond hair, or the kind of still-waters-run-deep look that made a woman want to dive into that pool—a quiet pool with nothing but surface tension, and an alpha male vibe that would melt any woman’s underwear.

At first glance, he looked like an outlaw. She took in his compelling face, his strong jaw, and Roman nose, defining his profile, and the strong column of his throat. His blond hair was disheveled and even longer than it was the last time she’d seen him. The thick, tousled, glossy-looking strands added to his bad-boy look. His eyes were dull and a bit glassy from alcohol, and he was unshaven, the blond stubble looking like gold against his deeply tanned skin. He was in desperate need of sleep.

Then there was the black and blue bruise ringing his swollen left eye and the fresh cut on his lower lip that added to his rough-and-tumble appearance. His once white T-shirt, stretching across his wide chest and covering those big, broad shoulders, was grimy and smudged with blood, tapering to a lean waist. Part of the shirt was torn, showing a hard swell of muscle along the edge of his abdomen…often referred to as the Adonis belt.

Faded, well-worn jeans ripped in places, covered in more dirt and grass stains, hugged his tight ass and strong thighs. There wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on his body, mouth-wateringly cut and delineated with ropes of thick muscle everywhere.

And those were the injuries that she could see.

He was the real deal, a man with honor and integrity. He was dependable, trustworthy, and he’d been very kind to her. She had no doubt that his scraped and bloody knuckles were courtesy of a fight he had to win, not for any other reason than to defend someone else.

So, secondly, no one could mistake him for what he was: dangerous.

Except maybe the dumb fuck who didn’t have the sense God gave a goat to mess with him in a pissing contest. It was no contest at all.

Petty Officer Andrew Nolan. D-Day. Special operator and Navy SEAL. What the hell was he doing here? She fished her cell phone out of her back pocket. “Davis,” she called as a deputy walked past. “Can you cover the desk for ten minutes?”

He nodded and came over as she ducked out from behind and went to an interrogation room in the back. She pressed the little phone icon on her contacts, and it started to ring.

A sleepy voice answered in rough and lazy Spanish. “There had better be a good reason you’re waking me up, chica .”

She didn’t have time for any kind of banter with her cousin—petty officer and corpsman for the team, Mateo “Zorro” Martinez. His parents had taken in her and her brother Pete when their parents had been killed in a car accident. They were more like siblings than cousins. She loved him to pieces, and she knew that whatever one member was going through, it affected the whole team. “ Primo , the sheriff just brought in your buddy, D-Day. He’s being arrested for assault.”

“What the fuck!” he said, now fully awake. “What happened?”

She imagined him sitting up in bed, that mop of dark hair all messed up, his dark brown eyes concerned. It brought back memories from all the times he’d soothed her nightmares and comforted her with a story. He and his parents almost made it bearable to lose her parents.

“I don’t have a clue. The sheriff is not in the mood to share information with me. There’s a crowd outside, and they’re all pissed. He stirred up quite a dust storm.”

“Geezus! I’m on my way.”

“Hurry. I don’t know what happened, but I have no doubt that if he beat a guy and put him in the hospital, he deserved it.”

Thirty-five minutes later, Zorro pulled up to the Avery Sheriff’s Department, a small town east of San Diego and nestled in the mountains. It had been a hot spot during the gold rush, but now it was more famous for its apple pie. Its rivers and streams were used for recreation and fly fishing instead of panning for nuggets, the town a small get-away, with cozy eateries, scaled-down galleries, and boutique shopping. His cousin had accepted a job in law enforcement, a way for her to emulate her older cousin.

She wasn’t kidding. There was a sizable crowd outside and they were milling around, occasionally shouting. How and why D-Day had ended up here, arrested for assault wasn’t much of a surprise, and as a medical professional, he hadn’t missed the signs of some heavy-duty drinking.

In the last six months.

What the hell had happened back then to cause D-Day to go from that quiet, duty-bound man to the guy who used his fists to settle his problems? If anything, he was more buttoned up than ever before. In Zorro’s experience, that made for explosive outbursts. He never recommended keeping any volatile emotions inside. Maybe it was his Latin heritage, but Latinos weren’t exactly known for their timidness or keeping their mouths closed.

D-Day was in trouble, layers of trouble, but if that were the case, the team would never turn their backs on him, especially when it was clear he was hurting.

Zorro got out of his car and scanned the crowd. He could detect a leader from a mile away, and when an older man shouted something Zorro couldn’t make out, he focused in on the man. Tall, salt and pepper hair, solid. People rallied around him. Zorro’s cowboy boots crunched through the white gravel before hitting the concrete walkway leading up to the front door. He loved these boots and had several different kinds—fish scales, made from the arapaima gigas or pirarucu, a giant freshwater species native to the basin of the Brazilian Amazon River. It was a gorgeous leather, produced in a sustainable way, contributing to the preservation of the species and generating income for the Indigenous community, adding to their quality of life.

“Excuse me,” Zorro said. “What’s this all about?”

“We’re protesting an injustice, that’s what. Who are you?”

“Just a nosy bystander, amigo . What kind of injustice?” The guy started talking, and Zorro nodded and smiled. “Well, it looks like he got what he deserved then.”

“Damn straight.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Zorro left the man and his friends. Leave it to D-Day to get himself a cheering section. Pulling open the door, Jessica waved him to her at the front desk. A woman with a black eye, stitches in her cheek, a fat lip, and bruises around her neck and arm sat quietly in one of the visitor’s chairs. A large, protective male sat next to her, his arm around her shoulders and her cuddled to his chest.

“I got the lowdown,” she said, her voice soft.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what happened, and fuck D-Day.”

She chuckled. “Well, that wasn’t what I thought you’d say. He’s a hero.”

“I know. Not at all surprised.”

“Apparently, Sara Kincaid’s boyfriend, a drinker, gambler, and no-count hustler, was beating her outside the bar D-Day was drinking in. Your teammate kicked his ass but good.” She glanced over at the young woman and older man and nodded, clearing her throat. “Sir, let me introduce you to my cousin, Mateo Martinez. He’s Andrew Nolan’s friend.”

The man rose, gratitude on his face, and Zorro met him halfway, nodding to Sara. “Ma’am,” he said, as he clasped Kincaid’s large hand in his and shook.

Jessica nudged him and said, “This is Sara Kincaid and her father… Judge Randy Kincaid.”

Zorro grinned. “Judge…it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said enthusiastically, and with a great deal of relief.

“No, the pleasure is mine,” Sara’s father said before letting go and resuming his seat next to his daughter. “We’re here to protest Mr. Nolan’s arrest. He saved my daughter’s life and defended her. We aim to get his charges dropped on account of self-defense.”

“That would be excellent since Drew’s in the Navy, sir, active duty, and this would really mess up his career.”

“That isn’t going to happen if I have anything to say about it,” he said, staring at Zorro for a moment, irritation flashing in his eyes.

Once the judge got to the sheriff, he laid down the law, literally. He ordered the sheriff to drop all charges against D-Day, expunge his record as if it had never happened, release him immediately, and arrest Sara’s brutal boyfriend, Joseph Hickey, for assault and attempted murder. After numerous accounts of the incident, Sara’s teary appeal to let him go, and the judge’s unrelenting stance to comply, the sheriff complied.

Zorro waited until D-Day appeared in the lobby. When he emerged from lockup and saw Zorro, he froze and swore softly, looking suddenly cornered. “She’s your cousin,” D-Day said. There was no mistaking the undercurrent of irritation in D’s voice. His narrow gaze traveled from Jessica to Zorro, then back to him again in a heated and furious stare. “Of all the towns I had to choose?—”

He was interrupted by Judge Kincaid, who thanked him profusely for helping his daughter and said he wanted D-Day to come back for a parade in his honor as a town hero. Then Sara, with tears flowing again, took his hand and begged him to come, telling him how much she appreciated his help. He had stepped in when no one else dared. D-Day’s blue eyes softened along with the tense look on his face. When she hugged him, he hugged her back, gently patting her back in comfort.

D-Day took it all in stride, but Zorro knew him like the back of his hand. He would never disrespect these people by refusing. He was too noble for that, so he would stoically endure the honor of accepting the whole thing, which, in moments, he did. There was no way he could turn down that battered woman’s plea.

Zorro knew it wasn’t funny, but he couldn’t help chuckling to himself at the pained look on D-Day’s face as he headed for the door, only to be blocked by the mob of people outside, cheering and hooting. His teammate was often quiet and reserved. He’d never seen him drunk or disorderly in all the time they had been together. But considering D-Day’s weaving walk, the cuts and bruises on his knuckles, and the swelling eye that was going to go some shade of black or blue, he’d been hella drunk and disorderly.

“Oh, shit ,” D-Day said. “What the fuck?” He didn’t show much, so it was like looking at a dormant volcano and getting the sense that it wasn’t exactly inactive: magma simmered below the earth, building and building energy that had no place to go but up and out in a magnificent, epic explosion. It was going to happen, and Zorro suspected it would be soon.

“They’re here for you, amigo,” he goaded. “To get you justice.” He couldn’t help needling him. Teammates were there not only to have their combat buddy’s back but to keep them in check when they stepped out of line. SEAL justice could be harsh and exacting, but it was effective. “If you can’t handle the glory—” He paused for emphasis. “—stop saving people’s lives.”

D-Day looked at him. “I’ve already punched one guy in the face today and got away with it.”

Zorro made a derisive snort as he shot D-Day a mocking look. “It’s going to be a long drive home with that attitude.”

D-Day gave him a deadpan stare, a tenacious set to his chin, knowing that Zorro had him pegged and that he’d get nowhere trying to argue his way out of it. SEALs never went down without a fight, and D-Day wasn’t any dormant volcano. “Attitude? What attitude?”

“Yeah, someone might get punched,” Zorro said, just as deadpan.

D-Day exhaled a deep breath, looking suddenly exhausted and weary, as if he didn’t have much more fight in him. As soon as the door opened and he stepped out, there was handshaking and back-slapping. D-Day once again stoically accepted the compliments and well wishes as they steadily made it to Zorro’s car.

Once inside, the people were still calling out to him, and he waved sheepishly to them as Zorro backed out and drove away.

“My car is?—”

“Going to stay exactly where it is. I’m not going to risk a DUI on top of this fiasco.”

“I had no choice.”

“If that hadn’t gone your way, you could be in a hell of a lot of trouble. If Joker finds out….”

Raw frustration and genuine pain etched his expression as he stared at Zorro, his entire body taut as he tried to keep a firm rein on the temper and some other emotion too close to shame, which Zorro guessed was simmering right below the surface. “Are you going to tell him, Z?” D-Day’s voice wavered slightly.

He liked it better when D was angry. That statement broke his heart a little. He didn’t like seeing D-Day this way. Zorro was a healer for fuck’s sake, and without his teammate’s cooperation, his hands were tied. “No, what kind of question is that? After all we’ve been through, it’s insulting to think that I wouldn’t have your back.” He inhaled hard. “But I’m going to cut you some slack here because you’ve had a tough night, you’re drunk, and your head is fucked up.” D-Day didn’t say anything, just rubbed the dried blood on the back of his hand.

“He doesn’t have to know you went off the ranch…deviated significantly from the expected or normal behavior, engaged in disruptive activity outside of normal bounds, out of control to what is required of a Navy SEAL.” The actual term was off the reservation, but Zorro, who was also a minority on the team, never used that idiom because it could perpetuate stereotypes and be disrespectful, especially to their teammate Dakota “Bear” Locklear—a big, tall Native American Lakota warrior and member of the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. He was their dog handler, responsible for Flint, their pitch-black, crazy good military working dog.

“Thanks for telling me of the consequences of my actions.” He was now rubbing hard at the blood. “I’m not a fucking moron,” he said through gritted teeth.

Anger nipped at his own emotions, and he snapped, “No, but you jeopardized your whole career, not to mention the possibility of putting the team under Command’s microscope. We don’t need that kind of heat, D.”

The frown creasing his brows deepened into a scowl. “Did you want me to walk away and let her get beaten to death?”

“No! Of course not. You could have chosen to drink at home, but you went looking for a fight. Didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer, just scowled, his body tensing as he stared just beyond Zorro’s eyes. His mouth tightened, and his eyes shuttered.

“Goddammit, Drew! I’m trying to help here, and you’re being difficult. So not like you. Why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

D-Day’s scowl deepened as he combed his fingers through his golden hair, then closed his eyes and folded his arms over his chest, effectively shutting Zorro out.

Zorro fumed all the way back to D-Day’s condo.

He said nothing as he got out of the car and slammed the door.

Zorro watched him walk away, deciding that this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Something sharp and metallic intruded into the heaviness of his sleep, jerking D-Day fully upright in bed. For a moment, he was blinded by the pain in his head, face, and hands. Having stumbled his way up to his bedroom, stripping down to nothing, and falling into bed, he’d lost all track of time. He was completely wiped out, more tired than he could have possibly been when he’d fallen asleep—or perhaps “passed out” was the more accurate term. It felt like ice picks were jammed in his eyes, and tiny, but just as brutal mini-ice picks stuck in his brain, causing a tight, throbbing ache that wracked inside his skull. His mouth was dry as a bone, and his stomach rolled.

“Rise and shine, slugger.” That was Buck’s voice, and D-Day groaned and collapsed back against the headboard. He could barely see, partly because it was still dark, and the dim light in his room was even too much for his eyes. But his teammates were ringing the bed, all staring down at him. He’d think he was dreaming if it wasn’t for the goddamned pain. Buck was holding a metal pot and spoon. He prayed he wouldn’t start banging on it again.

He growled when someone turned on a light, covering his eyes as the brightness shot into his aching retinas. Before he could even catch his breath around the excruciating pain, hands grabbed at him and dragged him from the bed, marching him between their hard bodies. He stumbled several times, but there was no mercy.

He knew all about that, and the memory came at him like a demon in the darkness, malevolent, shrieking, and so real. He’d been helpless back then, a boy dealing with high school peers, and his tenacity to right wrongs and take whatever punishment came his way.

And the repercussions had been brutal, humiliating, and without mercy.

But BUD/S had taught him the depth of his endurance and that he could get through anything with the help of his teammates. It was just too bad that his problem would be devastating to the team if he tried to tell them what was going on. He was dealing with the pain, enduring it, and about ready to start throwing some bows and fists when he was shoved under the spray of the shower.

The freezing cold spray.

His scream was harsh, filled with old rage and dark shadows. “Fuck! I’m going to fuck you up! You fuckers!” The water chilled him to the bone, woke up every nerve ending in his body, and all of it hurt . An unbearable trembling took hold of him, and all he could do was stand against the tiles, trapped in the past and present, and shake.

“Oh, I believe he’s awake,” Gator drawled.

“You sure?” Professor said, tapping him on the head. D-Day shoved his hand away, his glare taking just about all his energy.

“Get out!” he shouted.

Everyone shuffled out except Bear. He stood there looking intimidating and so fucking wise, D-Day wanted to lash out. There was always this calmness about Bear, as if he’d tapped into the soul of the world and understood everything about it. D-Day wasn’t sure anyone could ever shake this man’s resolve.

“We’re here for you, kola ,” he said in that deep, cosmic, venerable voice. Kola was Lakota for friend, and in fact the word “ koda ” short for Dakota, translated to friend as well, and symbolized the brotherhood that existed between those who lived, hunted, and went into battle together. “This is an interdiction?—”

“Intervention, Bear,” Professor shouted from outside the bathroom.

“Why?”

“Because you missed a briefing. We’re rolling out in six hours. We covered for you, but if you miss a troop movement, you could be out, and we can’t have that.”

A sick sensation traveled through D-Day.

It was as if his words, presence, and quiet voice all had weight and heft to them, reminding D-Day that this brotherhood meant everything to him, and no matter how hard they hammered him, or how much he wanted Helen, he would be completely lost if the bond between them all was broken, especially by his own actions.

He was nothing without this team.

Nothing.