Seaside Strangers (Whisper Softly #1)

Chapter One

Moriah Jensen eyed the black Escalade with Illinois plates rolling down the dinky little town’s Main Street through the convenience store window.

Tugging on her baseball cap, she made sure her face was concealed as she hid behind the magazine rack to the left of the front door.

The driver and the vehicle’s two passengers had their windows down as they swiveled their heads in every direction.

It was obvious they were searching for someone.

Well, not just anyone—they were looking for her.

How had they found her? She was in the middle of Ohio, in a town too small for its own Walmart—far enough from Chicago that no one should have been looking for her there. Of all the places they could’ve looked, how had they ended up here?

This couldn’t be happening.

She’d been careful. More than careful. She’d stayed under the radar, used an alias, avoided her ATM card—anything that might leave a trail.

Even the name had been chosen with care.

Maura Jennings. Close enough to her own that she wouldn’t hesitate if someone called it, but different enough to keep her hidden.

My driver’s license! For crying out loud!

She’d handed it over to a police officer the day before, when the college girls who’d given her a ride got into a fender-bender about a mile outside the small town.

There’d been no chance to slip away—the accident happened right in front of a patrol car.

The officer had checked her license, handed it back, and sent her on her way. She’d thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

That had to be how the men in the Escalade found her.

Darn it!

She had to be more careful. At the first opportunity, she’d need to get a forged license under her alias—something that could pass a cop’s inspection.

Avoiding the police was the goal. But things didn’t always go according to plan. And mistakes like that could get her arrested… or worse.

She glanced around the store, grateful no one paid any attention to her. In jeans and a bland T-shirt, she wasn’t wearing anything that would make her stand out. Hopefully, no one would remember seeing her if the men came around asking questions.

Shifting the duffel higher on her shoulder, she lingered near the front of the store, forcing herself to look like just another customer killing time. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the faint scent of motor oil and dust clung to the air.

Through the front window, she watched until the vehicle turned left two blocks away. The second it disappeared, she pulled her hat lower, slipped out the door, and cut across the parking lot in the opposite direction.

The duffel and her backpack dragged at her shoulders, growing heavier with every step, the straps biting into her skin. But she couldn’t leave either one behind—she needed the money, the gun, and what few clothes she’d grabbed on her way out of Chicago.

Last night, the girls had dropped her at a rundown motel a few blocks away. Close to the bus station, where she could disappear again.

She just had to make it there.

Keeping to the shadows, she moved along the backs of buildings, slipping past dumpsters and delivery doors, using anything that might hide her.

The sharp scent of garbage and stale grease hung in the narrow spaces, mixing with the distant sound of traffic.

Every stretch of open ground felt like a spotlight, her pulse kicking up, her breathing turning shallow as she forced herself across it.

She prayed she would make it out of the town alive because those men wouldn’t hesitate to kill her to get what they wanted.

Twenty minutes later, she huddled in the back of a bus bound for Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. From there, she’d buy another ticket to God only knew where.

As long as it took her farther away from those chasing her, she didn’t care.

She had nothing left—nothing except her own life.

Inching forward in silence, his face painted tan and dark brown, the same colors as his camouflage fatigues, the man was almost invisible against the terrain surrounding a small village east of Zabul, Afghanistan.

United States Navy Lieutenant KC Malone lay a mere forty yards behind a dilapidated structure where two U.S.

Army pilots were being held captive. The building, a little larger than a tiki hut, was one of eight still standing in the otherwise destroyed and abandoned village now occupied by Taliban forces.

The men had been taken hostage after their AH-64 Apache helicopter had been shot down six weeks ago, but their current location was far from the crash site as they’d been moved by rebel forces several times.

However, less than thirty-six hours ago, CIA intelligence had finally pinpointed their position.

Members of SEAL Team Six had been sent to retrieve the men before they were moved again or killed in retribution for the recent slaying of a high-ranking Taliban leader.

Two minutes before oh-four-hundred, the camp of twenty-three terrorists lay quiet. All but three guards—who looked ready to drop where they stood.

KC and his team had parachuted in three miles out and approached under the cover of darkness. They’d been in position for the past two hours, waiting for fatigue to take its toll.

Fifteen men were spread strategically around the village, awaiting his signal.

Chief Tobias Anderson III crouched to his left, ready to move in and recover the hostages. The rest would provide cover and distraction.

A support team was two minutes out by chopper if things went sideways. The Black Hawk remained nearby, ready to extract them and the hostages.

KC scanned the area one last time through his night-vision goggles, checked the time, then tapped the microphone on his communication headset. "It's a go."

He had to keep himself from chuckling when he heard a soft voice respond through his earpiece. "Here comes trouble!"

A half second later, an ammunition storage shack on the far side of the camp exploded in a thundering wall of flames.

The terrorists, known in military speak as tangos, poured out into the compound in confusion and dropped to the ground as automatic gunfire was sprayed in their direction from all sides.

KC and his chief quickly reached the back of the building housing the hostages and snuck their way around to the front entrance.

The Taliban rebels desperately tried to return fire at the invisible enemy, well hidden in the dark of night.

Those who were still alive were too busy running for cover to notice the two men entering the simple wood and brick structure.

KC hurried over to the nearest man lying prone on the ground.

Although the pilot was covered in dirt and grime, the lieutenant could still distinguish the remnants of the U.S.

Army flight suit. The man appeared weak but alert.

"Captain Nichols?" When the man nodded, his eyes widening in disbelief and hope, the SEAL continued with wry humor. "U.S. Navy, here to save your sorry butts, sir. Are you able to run?"

The emaciated Captain nodded his head again and scrambled to his bare feet with the help of his rescuer. "I think so.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Fischer?”

“Over there,” Nichols replied, indicating the southwest corner of the dirt floor. “He was beaten up pretty badly yesterday. Been in and out of it all night."

KC reached behind him, where he had a pair of combat boots and black socks hooked to his belt, and handed them to Nichols. “Here, quick. Throw these on. Figured you’d need them. I brought a pair for Fischer, but I doubt he’ll be running.”

Rushing over to the unconscious man lying near the back wall, KC did a quick assessment.

He thanked God when he found the man was breathing and had a weak pulse.

Unable to rouse the young pilot, he picked him up and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry as if he were a five-pound sack of potatoes.

He told Nichols to join Chief Anderson, who stood at the door, his eyes and weapon aimed outside, providing cover.

Speaking into his com-set, Malone informed the rest of his team that the hostages had been recovered, and they were ready to haul off to the extraction point.

“Pick up the action, boys, so we can slip out of here and get a head start.

The sound of gunfire immediately increased from the surrounding blackness.

Anderson, Nichols, and then KC, carrying Fischer, filed out of the hut, disappearing over a nearby hill as fast as possible in absolute silence.

KC had no trouble carrying the unconscious man over the treacherous terrain.

The lieutenant weighed barely a hundred and forty pounds after his ordeal.

The four men were met by two camouflaged SEALs about fifty yards out. One took point, guiding them through the darkness, while the other fell in beside Anderson at the rear, both men watching for any sign they’d been followed.

Even before sunrise, the humidity clung like a wet blanket, thick and suffocating. The SEALs moved through it without breaking stride—they were used to worse—but Nichols struggled to keep up, his footing uneven, his strength nearly gone.

He stumbled.

Anderson caught him under the arm before he could hit the ground, hauling him upright and keeping him moving.

Three minutes after they crested the first hill, KC’s team gave the all-clear, and he relayed it to the Army support staff back at base.

He counted off thirty seconds in his head, steady and automatic, the rhythm ingrained from years of operations like this.

Right on cue, the village behind them erupted under a U.S.

airstrike, fire and debris ripping through the remaining enemy fighters as the rest of his team regrouped and caught up to them.

A few moments later, the extraction bird came in low and fast, the thump of the rotors growing louder until it drowned out everything else.

It set down roughly half a football field away, the downdraft blasting dirt and grit across the clearing as the team moved in a tight formation, heads down and weapons angled out.

They reached the helicopter at a controlled run, loading up with the two rescued soldiers while the crew leaned out, grabbing arms, vests—anything they could—to haul them inside fast.

The pilot didn’t waste time. The helicopter lifted almost as soon as the last man cleared the door, the maneuver smooth and practiced, the entire landing and takeoff taking less than ninety seconds as they pulled away from the burning village and left it behind.

KC glanced around and surveyed his team—all were present and accounted for, with no signs of injuries. The hostages were alive and secure. Lieutenant Fischer was already being tended to by the team medic and showed signs of awakening.

Thank goodness.

It had been another successful mission. He wished they all went this smoothly, but that was like praying for the sky to fall. There were no guarantees in his business. The older he got, the more that sad fact was proven.

Seated next to KC, Captain Nichols tapped him on the upper arm. "Not that I'm ungrateful for you rescuing us, but Army is still going to beat Navy at the next football game."

“I don’t think so, sir. Hoo-yah!”

The helicopter cabin erupted in a chorus of hoo-yahs, followed by relieved laughter as everyone relaxed and settled in for the long ride back to the base. KC closed his eyes and looked forward to heading home for four weeks of well-deserved leave.

“What do you mean you can’t find her? It’s a two-bit town without a Walmart! How big can the place be?”

Leo Simmons flinched as Adrian Hernandez’s voice tore through his ear, each word sharper than the last, leaving no doubt how badly he’d screwed up. The only thing keeping him breathing was the slim chance he’d been given to fix it.

Find the woman. Recover the money. No excuses.

He dragged a hand over his face, jaw tight as the reality settled in. If he failed, Hernandez wouldn’t simply get rid of him. He was as good as dead once the drug dealer got a hold of him, and there wouldn’t be anything quick about the way it ended.

Running crossed his mind, but it would be a futile effort. Hernandez’s reach stretched too far, his connections buried in too many places. Leo might make it to Canada, maybe even Mexico, but sooner or later, they’d find him.

No, running wasn’t the answer.

His grip tightened on the phone as hot anger pushed past the fear. It all came back to one person—Susan’s sister. She’d taken what wasn’t hers, and now he was the one paying for it.

Not for long.

He’d find her, and when he did, he’d make sure she answered for every second of this.

When Hernandez stopped his rant to take a breath, Simmons tried to placate him. “The guy at the motel said she’d already left. We checked the bus depot and then drove up and down the main strip. There’s no sign of her, but we’ll keep looking.”

“You’d better. This is your screw-up. Fix it!”

The call disconnected, and he stared at the phone for a beat, jaw clenched, the urge to hurl it into the brick wall of the convenience store pulsing through him. The place smelled like stale coffee and something faintly sour, the kind of odor that clung to a place that never quite got clean.

She had to be there.

A cop ran her license late last night in this small town after a minor accident with a few other women.

That was the only reason they’d even found the lead.

Leo and two of Hernandez’s flunkies had driven straight through the night to get here, headlights cutting through miles of dark highway, but now they were stuck circling a town that refused to give her up.

Kicking a discarded bottle, he sent it skittering across the asphalt, the hollow clatter echoing off the storefronts and earning him a glare from a man walking toward the store’s door.

Leo ignored him. Frustration rode him hard as he strode back to the Cadillac, where the other two waited inside, the engine idling low.

He yanked open the rear door, slid in, and slammed it shut. “Drive,” he snapped, shoving the phone into his pocket. “She’s here somewhere.”