A SEAL’s Protection (Jake’s Heroes #3)

Chapter 1

MARCUS

My belly grinds into the cold earth, black locust thorns raking my cheeks as I listen to the woman’s low murmur.

From my cover in the thicket, scratchy like the gorse back home, I spot her perched on a boulder at the base of the rocky outcrop. She’s bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon as she speaks into a camcorder.

Her voice has a pleasing rhythm to it, the cadence rising and falling over the burbling of the nearby stream. It’s low and soft and reminds me of whispered lullabies at bedtime.

I squeeze my eyes shut and refocus. Dozing off to the sound of my target’s voice is not what I’m getting paid for.

Her voice stops, and I wait a moment before lifting my head to peer through the thick foliage.

The woman perches on a small boulder with her back to me, displaying an utter disregard for survival basics. Never put your back to the unknown. Out here, there’s a lot of unknown, but with a stream on one side and a rocky bank on the other, it’s common sense to face outwards.

She bends over her laptop, and I risk bringing my binoculars up for a closer look.

Through the scope, her blonde hair is thrown into focus.

It hangs in a thick braid down the small of her back.

She turns to the side and lifts her chin, and I get a full view of her profile.

Strands of hair have broken free and tickle her round cheeks.

She taps a finger on her chin, and her brow creases in a frown.

Then she looks down at her laptop and types.

I keep my binoculars on her face, noting how the frown increases, then smooths as she taps away on the keyboard. Her mouth moves, and I strain to hear her voice. This isn’t the steady voice she used for the camcorder recording. I’d guess she’s muttering to herself as she types up her notes.

Suddenly she stops and looks up. Her brow knits together, and she glances around the clearing.

I pull the binoculars out of sight and duck down to my flat position. My breathing echoes around the thicket, and I notice my elevated heart rate. I focus on bringing my physiology under control and count a few minutes before I dare to look again.

When I do, the woman is on her feet wrestling with a canvas tent.

It’s crease-free and still has the store tags on it. She slices them off with a hunting knife, the blade new and shiny, and lays the instructions on the boulder. Her frown deepens, and I resist the urge to go down there and help her put her damn tent up.

Her father was right to send me. She’s a trust fund hiker who’s seen too many ‘perfect’ trips on social media.

She’s about to find out what the wilderness is really like. Chances are this gig won’t go beyond the first night. Tomorrow, she’ll hike back in the way she came and call Daddy to come and pick her up.

Disappointment rolls through me at the thought.

I’ve spent the day tracking her, and it feels good to be back out in the field.

Sure, it’s no Afghanistan, and the stakes aren’t as high.

If I’m made, I’m more likely to get slapped than shot at.

But work is work, and I love being back on a mission, even if it is to follow Allegra Simpson, the only daughter of tech billionaire Ralph Simpson.

After perusing the instructions, she snaps the tent poles together with surprising efficiency.

In a few minutes, she’s got the tent set up and is using a mallet to whack the poles into the hard ground.

Her arms are thick and strong, and as she hammers in the last of the poles, I’m beginning to wonder if Allegra Simpson isn’t as helpless as I first thought.

She pulls out a gas stove and cans, and these too are shiny new. All leading brands, which is what I’d expect from someone whose father is on the world’s richest men list.

It’s only her clothing that doesn’t fit the trust fund brand.

She wears simple black yoga pants with a brand label down the side.

But they’re worn. The fabric hugs her generous figure, and when I peer through my binoculars, I notice a worn patch on the knees and that the fabric is softer on her backside.

My gaze lingers on said backside as she bends over her rucksack.

I allow myself one lingering look before I drag my binoculars away from her figure and remind myself why I’m here. Her father, a rich and powerful man, has hired me to keep his daughter safe. Not to spy on her womanly curves.

I breathe deeply to slow my heart rate and compartmentalize whatever physical attraction I’m feeling toward the target. The last thing I need out here is a distraction.

An hour later, Allegra is wrapped up in her sleeping bag around the campfire, and I’m stiff from lack of movement.

The sky is deep gray in the last throes of dusk, making it safe to move without fear of being seen.

I roll onto my side and sit up, wincing as blood flow returns to my legs. I rub my thigh where the old bullet injury still gives me trouble.

The wilderness has come alive with animals scurrying in the underbrush and insects calling to one another. The gentle burble of the stream will mask any noise I make, but I move silently, as I’ve been trained to.

My elevated position is a good one, and I walk the perimeter, scanning the terrain for the best spot to make my camp.

There’s a rocky outcrop east of Allegra’s camp that provides cover. It will also provide shelter and give me a direct line of sight to Allegra. The wind’s direction is northeast, so she won’t smell my food or hear me over the stream.

Her position is more exposed than I would have chosen, but at least she has the river on one side.

This ridge line looks straight down on her, and there’s a deer trail to the south.

She’s only a few feet from the main walking trail, but it’s unlikely any other hikers will come along at this time of night, although there may be early ones tomorrow.

I clear my chosen spot of debris and slide my Bergen off my back. I slip on my night-vision goggles and retrieve my sensor pouch.

Taking my time so as not to make a noise, I backtrack off my ridge to where it meets the hiking path, then follow it to the spot where Allegra went off the trail.

Her campfire glows in the darkness, and I shake my head again at her lack of awareness.

Her campfire should be hidden from the main trail.

I have no idea why her father allowed her to go off into the wilderness on her own, to let her go and then to have her followed. That’s some rich-person shit right there. I read the file on Allegra Simpson, and she comes from a world that’s different from mine.

Twenty-four years old. Has a degree in biochemistry. Was rejected from the PhD program.

I run the intel through my head as I scan the ground near the trail. She took the rejection hard, but she’s got the resources to carry out her research on her own without a university’s backing.

She bought a bunch of supplies and set out yesterday on the three-week Mountain Pass Trail.

She rejected security, so her father brought me in on a stealth mission. Follow his daughter on the three-week trail. Make sure nothing happens to her. That’s the brief.

He has no reason to suspect she’s in danger. He’s more concerned about other hikers and wild animals than a coordinated attack.

It should be an easy gig. I get to hike one of the most beautiful trails in the world, and all I have to do is make sure Allegra doesn’t get mauled by a bear in the night.

Markings on the ground catch my eye, and I crouch for a better look. A boot print in a patch of soft ground just off the main path. Large and heavy. A fellow hiker perhaps who stepped off the main trail.

I scan the ground for more prints, but the trail is dry. Crouched in the undergrowth, I stay still for a long while, straining for any unusual sounds. After half an hour, I’m satisfied we’re alone. The hiker who left the print is long gone.

There’s no immediate danger to Allegra, but I’m not taking any chances.

I crouch in the undergrowth and unzip the soft pouch and pull out two small cylindrical devices, no bigger than a ballpoint pen.

I plant one in the dirt at the base of a pine and the other on the far side of the clearing. I check my smartwatch, and a green dot appears on the screen, telling me the system is live.

If anyone or anything approaches from the trail, my sensor will pick them up and my watch will vibrate.

I plant another set across the deer path and the final set behind her tent across the rocks. It’s an unlikely approach, but I’m trained to look for the unlikely. I’d rather have her fully covered than not.

With the perimeter secure, I make my way back to my observation position. Allegra sits by the campfire typing on her laptop, unaware that I’ve been creeping around her campsite.

From my pack, I pull out a military-grade poncho survival shelter and set it up between two baby pines.

The camouflaged A-frame sits low to the ground and blends in with the foliage, and I carefully place branches over the top to further hide it from view.

There’s just enough room in the shelter for my sleeping bag and pack.

With my shelter in place, I pull out my flask and food bag. I scarf down a protein bar and some jerky. The coffee in my flask is cold, but I’m too exposed to risk a fire. I sip the cold coffee and keep my eyes on the camp below.

Allegra sits in the glow of the fire. Her laptop is now in its case beside her, and her hands wrap around a steaming mug as she stares into the fire.

A gust of wind makes me shiver, and I experience a pang of longing for a warm fire and a steamy mug. I shake the longing off as easily as pulling out a splinter. SEAL training taught me grit. How to go without when on a mission.

I remember that now and brace myself against the cold that settles over the mountain as it turns to deep night.

At twenty-one hundred hours, Allegra packs up her camp and disappears into her tent. Her headlamp glows through the canvas for another twenty minutes before going dark. I check my watch, and three green dots tell me the sensors are still live.

Nighttime settles over the mountains, and I listen for the sounds of the night, cataloguing each sound as I get used to my surroundings. Crickets chirping, the gentle burble of the stream, the occasional crack of a branch in the wind.

As night descends, my thoughts turn to Allegra. I wonder if she’s comfortable in her tent or if she’ll pack it all up after one night and scurry home to the comforts of her daddy’s mansion.

The cool night brings back memories of nights crouched in the desert, stiff from cold as we waited for our quarry. Then the kick of adrenaline pumping through my veins as we crept through sleeping villages to take insurgents by surprise.

It’s a far cry from babysitting some rich girl living out her dreams, but it’s good to be out here.

I’m not ready to trade in adventure for comfort just yet. If I wanted that, I’d go back to New Zealand.

I palm my phone and read the text that came in from my sister earlier today when I still had signal.

Best crop we’ve had in years. Could do with some help bro.

My hand clasps the pounamu around my neck, and I rub it absently, feeling the weight of the generations of the men who wore it before me.

The memory of my father handing it over to me on a visit back to New Zealand slips into my mind. His hand shook as he put it around my neck and said the words in a language I never learned. I joked that he still had many good years to wear it, but he must have known something I didn’t.

It was the last time I saw him alive.

I squeeze the pounamu tight. Maybe it’s time to go back to New Zealand.

In the stillness of the night, my mind turns over the possibilities.

Stay in North Carolina with my ex-SEAL buddies and help my old commander Joel finish the veterans center, or return to my father’s people and help Keely run the farm.

Since I was booted out of Teams, I can’t shake the nagging suspicion that my best days are behind me and there are a lot of dull years stretching ahead of me.

I rub my eyes and focus on the silent campsite below me.

No point in thinking about the past. I’m here on a mission—to keep one woman safe for three weeks, or however long she lasts in the wilderness.

It’s not the same as hunting bad guys, but as I sit in my bivy sack with my rifle by my side and the night closing in around me, there’s no place I’d rather be.

I’m trained to doze anywhere and to come awake at any change in my environment. I slip into the light sleep of a man who’s done this a hundred times, body resting, mind alert.

The vibration of my wrist has me awake instantly. I stay still for a few moments, letting my ears search the night for any change in sound. My eyes adjust to the dark, and in the moonlight I make out the tent below me, unmoving in the darkness.

With slow, deliberate movements, I raise my rifle. Through the scope, I scan the camp area. The tent rustles in the light breeze, but there’s no other movement.

The sensor information on the watch tells me it’s sensor one, the entry point from the main trail. I set the sensitivity to avoid the smallest of animals, so whatever tripped it was heavier than forty-five pounds. A small animal—a possum or a deer. Too small to be a bear, and it’s not cub season.

I slip on my night-vision goggles and do another scan of the camp area. There’s nothing visible. Whatever tripped the sensor isn’t down there.

There’s a rustling in the undergrowth, and I strain my ears to listen. Something moves through the scrub, quick, light movement. Probably the same animal searching for food. It backs out of the scrub, and I strain my ears to the sound of it moving away, uncertain if I’m hearing four feet or two.

If it’s another hiker, they’re not sticking around, and if it’s an animal, they’ve moved off elsewhere.

But I don’t operate on uncertainties.

Taking care not to make a sound, I slip out from under my shelter. Keeping low and hidden, I circle the perimeter, stopping every few feet to look and listen.

I keep to the shadows, not wanting to expose myself by encroaching on the campsite. Nothing stirs but the wind rustling in the trees.

I step over my own sensors, wanting to keep the records clean. All is quiet when I make it back to my position.

I settle into my bivy bag and keep my eyes and ears on the camp. The last embers of the campfire have long burned down, and all is still and silent.

I keep vigilant, knowing I won’t sleep anymore tonight. The camp is still, but my gut churns with a subtle warning. Animals wander, but people stalk.

This mission just got a whole lot more interesting.