Second Chance Missile Strike

Chapter One

Danny Mayhew lifted a plastic water bottle to his lips as if he were taking a sip while he spoke to his team through the mic embedded in the stem of his white earbuds.

“Sighting confirmed. I’ve got eyes on Mohammad Tabril.

Five-eight, olive skin, short black hair, trimmed beard, dressed in a blue and white striped button down over tailored white shorts. ”

A typical tourist visiting Greece.

Except he wasn’t.

He was a former Syrian militia fighter and rumored Hezbollah operative.

And Dìleas Security Agency’s current target.

Danny’s Oakleys muted the glare from the late afternoon sun reflecting off the two-story whitewashed buildings that surrounded him in this quaint seaside village on the island of Paros.

The only thing that made the late July temperatures bearable was the breeze—layered with salt, fish, and sun-warmed stone—that blew across the nearby harbor.

He’d need to slap on another layer of sunscreen, or his pale skin would be lobster-red by the end of the day.

With deliberate casualness, he followed Tabril down the narrow cobblestone streets.

A cobalt blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo shorts completed Danny’s tourist disguise, and he was rather proud of the fact that his top matched the shutters that adorned so many of the windows in this town.

He’d traded in his usual white Nike high-tops for light brown tactical boots that looked like trainers but gave him better traction in and out of the water.

In case he had to take down his target on land or from the sea.

Hooyah.

Nathan Long’s central Texas drawl flowed like molasses into Danny’s ear.

“Well, shit.” His former SEAL platoon leader normally ran the corporate security side of Dìleas, but Nathan had wanted back in the field for this mission.

“Looks like the tip Lucas Caldwell got was right. Keep Tabril in your sights as best you can, but don’t spook him.

We want to see if he meets up with anyone. ”

“Roger that.” Danny flashed a toothy grin at three barely dressed twenty-something women walking in the opposite direction as they eyeballed him like he might be a good time.

Which he usually was.

Not today, ladies.

Caleb Varella joined the conversation in Danny’s earpiece, his voice threaded with amusement. “Keep your eye on the prize. And by prize, I don’t mean the women currently scoping out your ass.”

“My ass, huh? Well, it is a pretty spectacular one.”

Caleb was further back in the crowd, maintaining his distance. The former Green Beret, with his dark hair and eyes and copper-hued skin, blended into the background here better than Danny, and he was glad to have the other man watching his six.

Even if he was Army.

“Stick with Tabril, Chaos.” Nathan used the call sign Danny had gotten as his SEAL platoon’s breacher.

“You sure he got that nickname from blowing things up and not his driving? Or the fact that I’ve seen him jump off a hotel roof?” Caleb quipped.

“I landed on my feet,” Danny interjected.

“Then after my wedding you drove seven and a half hours to bungee jump off the country’s highest suspension bridge,” Caleb added.

Nathan’s heavy sigh, equal parts humor and exasperation, buffeted Danny’s ear. “Some people grow out of their nicknames.”

Danny snorted. “Some people are boring.”

And he had slowed down since his time on the Teams.

At least by his standards. He’d stayed in the Navy for a few more years after Nathan left, before deciding he didn’t want to be forty with a broken marriage, PTSD, and only Consuela, his Deep Impact Blue Ford Mustang GT, for company.

Although, come to think of it, he was thirty-two, unmarried, had occasional nightmares.

And Consuela was still his only steady companion.

He’d dated some adventurous women. None of them had ever made him believe he was the kind of man who could stay.

Go figure.

Tabril turned abruptly and disappeared into a side alley.

A quiet curse slipped under Danny’s breath as he walked past, taking the scene in with a single practiced glance. Fuchsia bracts of bougainvillea shaded outdoor cafe tables where several people gathered, the hum of conversation and the clinking of plates echoing off stucco walls.

Good. He could follow Tabril without giving himself away.

He did a one-eighty and went left. To anyone casually observing, he was just another American tourist, but someone with Tabril’s training undoubtedly would recognize in Danny what the average tourist wouldn’t.

A warrior in sheep’s clothing.

“Cover the exit,” he muttered to Caleb. His teammate would head down a parallel street and loiter near the end of the alley to pick up Tabril’s trail.

A few more steps of distance kept Danny out of the Hezbollah operative’s direct line of sight. Wherever Tabril was going, he was a man on a mission. And if FBI Assistant Director Caldwell’s intelligence source was right, that mission involved US Senator Graham Strickland and his family.

A family Danny knew personally.

The senator represented his home state of North Carolina now, but he’d spent years stationed in Danny’s hometown of San Diego as an F/A-18 fighter pilot.

“We need pictures,” Nathan piped up. “Positive ID of a threat before we pull the plug on the Stricklands’ vacation.”

Danny quirked a brow, not that his teammates could see it.

“An Iranian-backed operative shows up on the same Greek island as the former defense secretary who ordered a missile strike on the senior commander of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps?

That’s not enough reason to scoop up the Stricklands and hightail it back to the good old U.S. of A?”

“Lucas wants to know if Tabril’s getting help from any groups in Greece, and, as that’s a bit sensitive, they don’t want the Greek government knowing.

,” Nathan replied. “Which is why we were sent in. Low profile. Not US military or government. We slip in, surveil, and if necessary, extract the Stricklands before the bad guys can strike.”

“I’m not sure how low-profile Danny is in that shirt,” Caleb chimed in.

Danny injected a note of amazement into his voice. “Listen to you. You go and get married and suddenly you have a sense of humor.”

Caleb didn’t say much, and his expression usually gave little away. But since he’d met his wife and reconnected with his Navajo mother’s side of the family, he’d loosened up.

Love and contentment apparently did that to a guy.

Not that Danny knew anything about that.

He dismissed the twinge that briefly tightened his chest. There was nothing wrong with the life he led. Stability would be downright boring.

Tabril came to a sudden halt, his posture tensing as his gaze swept in a full circle.

Danny quickly sidestepped under the awning of a boutique clothing store.

Either something had alerted the Hezbollah operative, or he was about to do something he didn’t want anyone else noticing.

With another furtive glance in both directions, Tabril climbed a set of whitewashed steps to the second floor of a nearby building and knocked on the blue door.

A military-aged male, a couple of inches taller than Tabril, but with a similar build and coloring, emerged. The man’s gaze swept the alley with a predator’s patience.

Clearly not a tourist.

Both men descended the stairs.

Angling his phone as subtly as possible, Danny snapped a quick burst of photos before the new arrival’s head swiveled in his direction.

Their eyes met briefly. A bored expression settled over Danny’s face, as if he didn’t give a flying fuck about some local in his line of sight.

One look. That was enough. A quick tap sent the photos to Nathan. “Whoever this dude is, he’s not a good guy.”

They had their answer a few minutes later when Nathan’s voice came back over the comm, all humor leached from his tone.

“His name is Mahdi Hariri. Lebanese with dual citizenship in Germany. Rumored to have ties to Hezbollah’s Unit 910, responsible for terrorist activities outside of Lebanon’s borders. ”

“I’ve got eyes on them.” Caleb picked up the tail. Ten minutes later, he reported that the two men had ducked into a small cafe.

“Danny, I’m dropping Emily off to join you as cover,” Nathan said. “She has a voice recorder clipped to her handbag. Try to get a seat close to the tangos and see if you can record their conversation. Caleb, wait outside. Follow them when they leave.”

“Awesome, I get the hot chick.” Danny barely held back a full-throated laugh when Nathan growled. “Of course, I’m afraid of her, so there’s that.”

“You should be.”

In the background, Danny overheard a feminine voice exclaim, “Hey, I heard that!” and chuckled.

Emily Dane Long was the daughter of Admiral Porter Dane, a retired Navy SEAL, and, like her father, a force to be reckoned with. Nathan had his hands full.

And loved every minute of it.

Funny how his former SEAL team leader went all mushy around his wife. But they made a great team.

That twinge returned to Danny’s chest. He shook it off.

Better Nathan than him.

Five minutes later, he caught sight of Emily’s shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair as she made her way down the street toward the cafe in hot pink shorts and a white T-shirt, a tan crossbody bag slung over her shoulder.

He gave her a cheeky grin. “Hey, sugar buns, wanna grab a bite to eat?” he asked in a suitably loud American voice.

Nathan snarled in his ear.

Emily rolled her eyes but pasted on a simpering smile and smooched his cheek.

“Careful, Surfer Dude,” she whispered the nickname she’d given him because he was a SoCal boy and looked the part.

She then pulled back and said loudly, “Sure, sweetie-pie,” before linking arms with him as they entered the cafe.

Their targets sat in the corner and, as luck would have it, the table closest to the two men was open.

Danny asked the server to be seated there and directed Emily into the chair closest to the men, ignoring their sharp-eyed gazes as he ordered two iced coffees and a plate of local cheeses, olive oil, and bread.