Breaking Free

  Breaking Free

  By

  Teresa J. Reasor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Breaking Free

  COPYRIGHT © 2011 by Teresa J. Reasor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: teresareasor@msn.com

  Cover Art by Tracy Stewart

  Teresa J. Reasor

  PO Box 124

  Corbin, KY 40702

  Publishing History

  First Edition 2011

  ISBN 10: 0615502431

  ISBN 13: 978-0-615-50243-4

  DEDICATION

  To my partner in crime, Tracy Stewart. Thanks so much for the beautiful cover. And to all the members of Lethal Ladies. You are the bomb.

  PROLOGUE

  Damn thing fits like a coffin lid. Lieutenant “Hawk” Yazzie eyed the edge of what had once been the outer wall of a building balanced above him. Sweat trickled across his shoulder blade down his side. He thrust aside the claustrophobic pressure and focused on the two lookouts on the roof through night vision binoculars. They weren’t moving. Good.

  Come on, come on.

  A silhouette appeared in the second story window. The light behind the man gave the impression of broad shoulders and a stocky frame. The rifle slung over his arm, the firearm’s barrel pointed skyward, identified him as another hostile. Hawk squinted but couldn’t make out his features. He’d counted six men upstairs earlier. Was this one of them or someone new?

  Three clicks came over the radio. “Doc”, Zack O’Connor signaled he was finished and in position.

  Hawk pushed the call button on his radio in answer.

  Where the hell were Cutter and Strong Man?

  Derrick Armstrong, “Strong Man” broke radio silence. “We have a problem, over.”

  Hawk’s muscles tensed.

  “C’s a no show, over,” Strong Man whispered.

  Fuck. The last assignment of their tour, and fucking Murphy’s Law decides to kick in.

  Hawk pressed the switch on his belt triggering his throat mike. “Cutter, come in, over.”

  Damn it, Cutter, respond.

  Silence.

  “Last location, over?” Hawk asked.

  “Ground floor. I thought he was right behind me, over.”

  Hawk blinked the sweat from his eye.

  “Five minutes, over.” Oliver Shaker, “Greenback”, their rear security, came across calm, level, reminding them they needed to get the hell out of here.

  God damn it.

  He’d never lost a man and Cutter wasn’t going to be the first.

  “I’m going back in for him, over.” Hawk shook free of his pack and slithered like a lizard from beneath the slab, pushing his submachine gun ahead of him and kicking up dust.

  There was always dust in this dry desert country. God, he was sick of it.

  He belly crawled to the cracked wall fifteen feet to his right. The rush of adrenaline pumping through his system thrust his heart into overdrive.

  He pushed to his feet behind a half wall still standing and glanced up at the second floor. Everything appeared still. All hell would have broken loose if they’d discovered Cutter. He was either trapped somewhere inside and waiting for an opportunity to escape or something worse.

  Shit.

  Hawk drew a deep breath and assessed the situation. He’d have to go up the street out of sight of the lookouts, go across, and work his way back. Keeping to the shadows next to the crumbled wall, he moved east down the strip of abandoned buildings.

  Gravel crunched just ahead. He dodged into a doorway and flattened himself against the wall. Shadows closed around him like a cocoon.

  A man strode by, a rifle held in the bend of his arm. He clasped a flashlight and projected a small golden circle on the broken sidewalk before him.

  Hawk withdrew his SOG knife and fell in behind the tango. Concrete debris crunched beneath his feet. The man started to turn. Hawk slit his throat and any sound he might have made strangled to a gurgle. Hawk caught him as he sagged, dragged the body to a doorway, and rolled it into the shadows.

  He took off his helmet, tossed it aside, and peeled off his tack vest. The cloying, coppery scent of blood hit him as he jerked the tango’s shirt free and put it on over his body armor. With his dark hair and skin, he’d pass for one of them.

  Maybe.

  Hanging the MP-5 down his spine, he retrieved the MK-47 rifle and flashlight.

  Seconds ticked by in his head like a metronome. Two minutes thirty seconds. His muscles jerked with his efforts to keep his pace to a stroll when everything in him urged him to run.

  A voice called from the second story window asking if he’d seen anything. His heart rate surged.

  Think.

  Answer him.

  He formulated an answer in the local Kurdish dialect. Sweat ran in itchy rivulets down his spine beneath the Kevlar vest that hugged his torso.

  The man said something about a cold. Hawk grunted an agreement.

  He thumbed off the rifle’s safety and putting his finger on the trigger, dodged into the building through the front door. The room opened into a dark, empty hallway. After a moment’s pause, he flipped on the flashlight and trotted down the hall to the fourth doorway on the left.

  A voice called from upstairs asking what he was doing.

  “Getting my ass blown up,” he murmured beneath his breath. He darted into the back storage room. Crates stacked nearly to the ceiling lined the walls. One crate stood open, straw spilt onto the floor around it. AK-47 rifles lay nestled inside.

  Intel was right. They had to get out of here.

  Hawk flicked the flashlight back and forth as he worked his way through Cutter’s route.

  A black piece of fabric sticking out from behind some furniture caught his attention and he jogged to it. Cutter lay crumpled into a ball behind a heavily carved cabinet, his helmet beside him. Blood coated the side of his head near his temple and pooled on the floor.

  Jesus. What the fuck happened? Hawk bent to check for a pulse. It beat weak and thready beneath his fingertips.

  He glanced at his watch. One minute. Fear ripped through him. His breathing grew labored. He laid the flashlight and rifle atop some crates and swung his MP-5 into position under his arm. Bending, he heaved Cutter’s limp frame up and over his shoulder.

  Forty-five seconds. Hawk’s stomach and back muscles grew taut as he adjusted to the one hundred and seventy pounds of limp weight with an effort.

  He poked his head out. The hall light flashed on. A tango blinked at Hawk in surprise. He shouted an alarm as he raised a pistol and closed the distance between them at a run.

  The forty-five automatic’s muzzle looked like a cannon. And sounded like one as the tango fired.

  Wood splintered from the door facing close to Hawk’s face. He swung the submachine gun up and pulled the trigger in a controlled burst. Red blossomed across the tango’s chest, the force of the bullets throwing him back against the wall. His body bounced off the surface then crumpled to the floor. Footsteps pounded above.

  What a clusterfuck. They were sitting ducks in the hallway. Hawk sprayed the hall light with bullets killing it, then sprinted down the hallway to the front door. The timer in his head counted off the seconds, thirty-five--. He leveled a short burst of fire at the doorknob and it flew open. He struggled through the opening.

 
Bullets peppered the road and dogged his steps from above, ricocheting off the asphalt around him. Muzzle flashes exploded like sunspots in front of him as his men laid down suppressing fire.

  Another shot of adrenaline coursed through his veins making Cutter’s body seem like a featherweight as he zigzagged towards the cover of the crumpled wall he’d left five minutes before.

  A foot away from safety, the sky lit and his ears popped. The ground heaved throwing him up and forward. Cutter’s body flew through the air like a rag doll.

  The world came crashing down.

  CHAPTER 1

  “Hawk.”

  Zoe Weaver’s heart lurched at the masculine voice behind her. She looked over her shoulder, her gaze searching the group of casually dressed naval personnel who took up most of the backyard and deck. Several men called out greetings and converged on the tall man balanced on crutches just inside the wooden gate.

  Hawk’s midnight dark hair stood out against the lighter toned heads that surrounded him. His high forehead, sculpted cheekbones, and angular jaw were a study in pride and control as well as his Native American heritage. She had only a moment to admire the bone deep masculine beauty of his features before his pale gray gaze homed in on her. Shock reverberated from her midsection to the bottoms of her feet. Her heart rate kicked into a gallop.

  Realizing her prolonged stare could be misconstrued; she turned her attention back to the tray of hamburgers she was replenishing. Had she known he would be coming to the Marks’ barbecue, she’d have made some excuse to avoid the gathering.

  Just his presence made her hands tremble and her stomach to somersault. A burst of resentment tightened her shoulders. She took a deep breath, drawing in the scents of chlorine, suntan lotion, and grilling meat as her rapid-fire heartbeat continued to thump against her ribs.

  The man was six foot, four inches of Navy Brass through and through. He’d probably bleed Brasso if he scraped his elbow. The analogy wasn’t true, but it served to remind herself of whom and what he was. A Navy SEAL. Through and through.

  Since meeting him six days earlier, she’d found it hard to push aside the impression he had made, or the anger she experienced because of it.

  “I screwed up,” had been the way Hawk had put it. Without any details. She understood injuries happened in combat, but he made no bones about taking the blame for her brother’s condition. Like a good team leader.

  To hell with that.

  She wanted answers, not military platitudes.

  She couldn’t direct her rage at a situation, only at the man claiming responsibility. A likely military ploy.

  Every time she went to the hospital and saw her brother hooked up to tubes and wires, she experienced another surge of emotion, grief and fear.

  The strongest of them, fear.

  She needed to know what had happened to Brett.

  She scanned the small clumps of people scattered around the yard eating and drinking. Langley Marks, her host, had finally abandoned his position at the grill and joined some of the men at the volleyball net set up in the corner of the yard. Others sat at one end of the deck in the shade, watching the game and calling out encouragement to the players.

  Under any other circumstances, this trip to California would have been a treat. The weather remained beautiful, the temperatures a moderate seventy degrees. Palm trees loomed over the wooden privacy fence encircling the yard. Hibiscus shrubs, hugged the deck, their big fuchsia blossoms a splash of color against the lightly stained wood that matched the sand-hued stucco on the house’s exterior walls.

  High-pitched squeals coming from the pool drew her attention. Her mother and sister sat poolside with Trish Marks, encircled by a ring of female supporters, wives and girlfriends of the men present.

  The deep worry lines etched into her mother’s face were a testament to her own beliefs. Getting involved with a man in uniform was just asking for pain. A father and possibly a brother were enough to give for her country.

  The muted tones of a child’s voice broke into her reverie. She looked around the food-laden picnic table in search of the source. Limping around the corner of the table, she spied a small discarded sandal peeking out from under the tablecloth. She kneeled and pulled up the edge of the plastic to look beneath.

  Pale blond ringlets obscured the child’s face as she danced a bathing suit clad Barbie doll, minus its shoes, across the decking and inserted her, legs first, into a pink, plastic convertible.

  “Katie Beth what are you doing under there?”

  “Playin’.”

  The simple logic of the child’s answer had her shaking her head. Ask a dumb question.

  “Come out, baby.”

  Katie Beth looked up briefly before going back to her make- believe car journey. Pale blue eyes and a rounded jaw, much like her own, held the Weaver stubbornness she recognized all too well. “Don’t want to.”

  “Why not, sweetheart?”

  A pale pink lip protruded. “Grandma and mommy keep crying. I don’t like it.”

  With a weary sigh, she rested her forehead against the edge of the table. “May I come in with you?”

  Katie Beth cocked her head as though considering the request. “Okay.”

  She crawled beneath the table with her niece. With a four year old’s trusting affection, Katie Beth climbed into her lap and cuddled back against her. Zoe rested her chin against the blond curls and breathed in the baby powder and sun block scent that clung to her.

  “Grandma and mommy are very sad,” she explained as she adjusted one strap of the hot pink bathing suit over the fragile curve of the child’s shoulder.

  Katie Beth’s voice dwindled to a whisper. “Uncle Brett is sick.”

  “Uncle Brett was hurt while doing something very important, sweetheart.” Her voice sounded husky and soft around the lump in her throat. “He wanted us to be safe. He wanted other little girls and boys like you to be safe, too.”

  “Mommy said I can’t go see him.”

  “That’s right. But--” her voice wobbled, and she cleared her throat. “Once he gets better, he’ll come home and you’ll get to see him then.”

  A beat of silence followed, then with her normal precocious bluntness Katie Beth asked, “Is Uncle Brett going to visit God like Grandma Rose?”

  “No.” Her arms tightened around the child as she fought back her own fear and uncertainty. “He’s going to come home to us.” She sought something to distract the child. “Would you like to be my helper, Katie Beth?”

  “Okay.”

  “We have to help Mommy and Grandma feel better. You know what helps me feel better?”

  Katie Beth shook her head.

  “Getting your hugs makes me feel better. Why don’t you go give Grandma and Mommy a hug, so they can feel better, too?”

  “Okay. I’ll take Barbie so she can hug them, too.”

  “I think that would be a good idea, sweetheart.”

  Katie Beth wiggled free and crawled from beneath the table, the doll clutched in her hand.

  Some of the tension that drummed at Zoe’s temples relaxed and she rested her forehead against her bent knee.

  “Hello there, little bit.”

  She stiffened at the sound of Hawk’s distinctive deep voice.

  “What happened to your leg?” Katie Beth asked.

  “I hurt it, but the doctor’s are making it all better.”

  Zoe crawled forward to peek from beneath the table just as the child lunged forward and hugged Hawk’s good leg.

  His eyes widened in surprise, and after a minute hesitation, cupped the back of her head. Her blond ringlets curled between his long fingers. A smile touched his lips. Katie Beth jerked away as quickly as she had hugged him and ran through the guests toward her grandmother.

  Hawk’s attention settled on Zoe as she crawled from beneath the table and settled back on her heels. She took in the crutches and the bulk of the knee brace clamped around his leg. The denim of his cut- offs hugged his muscular
thighs. A white tee shirt stretched across the broad width of his chest, delineating the shape of a well-toned torso. A strip of gauze covered a four-inch section of his arm just above his elbow. Bruises already turning yellow peppered his legs and arms. How had he gotten those injuries? The rest of the team seemed free from any.

  “If you’ll have a seat I’ll fill you a plate and bring it to you, Lieutenant.”

  One black brow quirked at her stiffly formal tone. “No thanks, though I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”

  She nodded and flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder. Conscious of his regard, her limp had never seemed more conspicuous as she traversed the distance to the coffee pot and back, returning with a Styrofoam cup. “You prefer it black, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Instead of going to sit at one of the tables with the other men, he hiked a hip on the deck railing, propped his crutches beside him, and reached for the cup.

  “That knee will swell if you stay on it too long,” she warned him.

  “I know. Brett told me you were a physical therapist. How long have you been practicing?” He sipped the coffee.

  “Two years. I can get you a chair.”

  His smile flashed white against the swarthiness of his skin. “If I allow you to get me a chair, you’ll disappear as soon as I sit down.”

  His words fired her cheeks with heat and her temper at the same time. She held her tongue to keep the peace in front of the other guests.

  “Your mother said your sister was returning home with Katie Beth tomorrow.”

  She nodded. Where was he going with this topic of conversation?

  “I want to help, if you’ll let me.”

  “How?”

  “I know you and your mother are staying at a motel, which is pretty expensive. I also know that Brett’s one bedroom will be pretty cramped. I live off post and can offer you both a place to stay until Brett is well.”

  Surprised, she studied his expression. “Why would you want to do that?”