Fallen SEAL Legacy
Book 2 in the SEAL Brotherhood Series
Nebraska born and bred Navy SEAL Calvin “Coop” Cooper, after his own family has perished in a tornado, is ordered to meet the family of a prominent San Diego psychiatrist. The doctor's brother is a fallen SEAL medic who died in Grenada. There, Cooper meets Libby Brownlee, the beautiful niece of this fallen hero. Heavily influenced by her father, “We don't speak military here,” is her comment about the military in general, and the SEAL community in particular. What starts out as a frosty debate between two people privately dealing with their own personal grief, turns into a passionate affair neither expected. Just as Cooper realizes perhaps Libby is the woman he's always been looking for, she is snatched out from under him by a psychopathic killer bent on revenge. Dr. Brownlee is forced to rely on Cooper's help, along with his buddies in SEAL Team 3. Will Cooper be able to survive the loss of the woman he loves, or will his self sacrifice be enough to keep her safe?
“Sharon Hamilton definitely has turned me into a dedicated reader of her SEAL Brotherhood.”
—Karen Roma, Goodreads
“…wonderful action stories that keep you on the edge of your seat with your mouth hung open saying NO WAY.”
“The romance was HOT and STEAMY!!! I'm looking forward to the next book in this series!”
—Cheryl Sanders, Goodreads
READ AN EXCERPT
A tornado scraped the Nebraska landscape with deadly force, tasting contents of houses and farms, furrowing down fence posts and over pencil-thin crop rows like a tongue from Hell. It seemed to like the flavor of metal and sheetrock as well as the tender green stalks of corn, sunflowers and soybeans. Human and animal body parts spewed out to the sides, detritus from a bored gourmand.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The steamy ground hissed in response.
* * *
Special Operator Calvin “Coop” Cooper awoke and smelled cherries mixed with crisp morning sea air. He heard running water and then felt the steam, which had filled the entire motor home.
Daisy. In the shower. Slippery and soapy all over.
She’d spent the night in his love cave, which was usually parked by the beach. What a night it had been. He still wore a handcuff that dangled from his left wrist. Only Daisy had the key. He chuckled to himself.
His other SEAL Team buddies called his place the Babemobile. They could call it anything they liked, he thought. Coop was saving a ton of money by pocketing his housing allowance.
He’d have been pissed if it was one of his Team buddies using up all his propane taking a hot shower. But for Daisy he allowed the indulgence, since her qualities and talents made it so worth it. Besides, it was one of the greatest places to fuck. Maybe…
Coop scratched above his forehead as the handcuffs jangled and then slapped against his ear. His sparse light brown hair left his fingers sticky. And smelling of cherries.
That would be the gel she used on me last night. The gel I used on her, all over.
Daisy did have a job to get ready for, and God, yes, they both needed a shower.
Coop rolled over and placed his palms behind his head, disentangling the sweaty sheet from his long six-foot-four-inch frame. It had been a wonderful Coronado Island night. Daisy was the best pleasure partner a guy could want. Totally willing. Totally hot. She’d brought her costume bag filled with “cop props” as she liked to call them. She’d arrested him several times last night, and each time he was subjected to fierce interrogation which usually made her wind up in compromising positions. He loved her sex play.
“I have a thing for cops,” she’d told him one day when she was working on a new tat.
“I’m not a cop,” Coop had said.
“But you wear a uniform. I love uniforms, too. Got a whole closet of them.”
He could only guess.
Everyone else wanted to bang her, too. But she, temporarily at least, had secretly chosen Coop to share her bed. Or rather, his bed. Daisy never brought anyone to her place. Cooper had occasionally dated other girls, mostly when they threw themselves at him. He wasn’t really looking. They just seemed to find him.
Daisy was the one all his SEAL Team 3 buddies hired to do their tattoos. It was odd, with all the places they’d been sent, all the injuries they’d incurred, his buddies would only let one tattoo artist touch their delicate skin. Daisy was the best. In lots of ways.
Coop rubbed his groin, which was getting interested in chasing down the trail of thoughts his brain wandered through.
He usually parked his motor home at the beach, where the owner of the now-defunct trailer park was happy with the fifty bucks Coop gave him each month for his share of the water and power used. But tonight he’d parked in the lot at Costco so they wouldn’t have any visitors. No sense having a sweet young thing calling on his door, thinking he was available, and him being kinda busy. Daisy had followed him there so he wouldn’t need to take her home. She was a very practical woman.
“Hey baby,” Daisy said as she paraded in front of him, sizing up his exposed torso. “We had some fun last night, didn’t we?” She put two fingers in her pink-lipped mouth. Those lips would leave a ring, all right. Her makeup was done, and she was wearing one of those kid’s T-shirts that showed off the frog tattoo around her belly button, which was pierced with a gold ring glinting in the morning sun. Her shorts were so short, if Coop slipped a hand up her backside, he’d be in clover before he got three inches in.
“You smell good.” You taste good, too. Cherry wasn’t his favorite flavor. He liked the way she tasted all by her little lonesome, he thought as he scanned her many alluring attributes. And he’d told her that one time, just before she exploded in his arms. Telling her things like that worked real well on Daisy. Like some of the girls in high school he had read scriptures to, especially the Love Chapter from Psalms. Make them hot as hell, and so willing to show it.
Her knees sunk onto the bed and crawled her way up to straddle him. “I’m gonna be late for work if you aren’t quick.”
By the time he gave his assent, she had already removed her T-shirt and 38 DDD bra.
* * *
Just before Daisy left, Coop had to remind her to remove his cuffs. Then, while he waited for the water to warm up again, he sat in his boxers at the nook, chowing down on granola and whole milk. He checked between the metal blinds in the window and watched a couple of early Costco employees arrive. That also meant it was time for him to leave.
His cell phone chirped.
“Coop here.” He recognized the number belonging to his Chief Petty Officer Timmons.
“Mornin’ Coop. Say, mind if we have a word?”
“Sure. When do you need me in by?”
“How soon can you get here?”
Something was up, and it wasn’t good. “Can you tell me a little about it?” Coop asked.
“No, mister. I gotta do this eyeball to eyeball.”
Coop hesitated a bit before answering. Timmons hadn’t said it involved anyone else, so this wasn’t a Team thing. Had someone complained about him parking the Babemobile at the beach? Some jerkoff do-gooder Ranger exerting himself on the community they loved to bust for littering and public drinking? Only because the girls would rather hang out with me than some overweight guy with a green gabardine scout leader uniform and a chronic case of sunburn.
“I can be there in a half hour, unless there’s a jam-up on the highway.”
“See you then, son.”
Son? When his Chief called him son, it usually meant he was in trouble. Coop felt dark fingers dig into his spine at the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right.
He called Fredo. “Timmons calling a Team meeting this morning?” he asked his Mexican SEAL friend.
“Shit if I know. What’d you do last night, Coop?”
Cooper fingered the vase of fresh flowers in front of him, and shrugged, like Fredo could see it.
Fredo whispered into the phone, “You better pray she’s over 18.”
“Not to worry, Fredo. I’m heading over there now. You want to meet me afterwards for some PT?”
“Sure, you go have your meeting with Timmons, get your strength back up, cowboy, and I’ll kick your ass in a few.” Fredo hung up.
He skipped the shower, anxious to find out what Timmons wanted. He doubted his Chief would notice Daisy’s smell or the trace of cherry lube gel instead of his usual Irish Spring. If he ran into his Team leader, Kyle Lansdowne, he’d be ordered to get wet and sandy. Old married man Kyle, with a new baby, was a real hard-ass these days. But a damn good SEAL, and the best Team leader a guy could have.
He considered taking his scooter, but decided to drive the Babemobile instead.
He climbed over the bench seat at the nook, inserting his extra-long legs under the wheel of the beast and started her up. Coop had turned the beast into a regular fortress, installing a secret weapons compartment, a sophisticated GPS unit, a satellite tracking system with infrared, and a sound system worthy of a rock star. The entire blackened roof surface of the motor home was a solar collector. He’d rather spend his money on toys than housing, so he spent half of his paycheck on special parts and upgrades for gadgets he was constantly tinkering with. The rest he dutifully saved. Something his dad had taught him growing up on the farm in Nebraska.
Never too early to plan for a rainy day, his dad had always told him.
He opted for the Gone Country satellite channel, donned his sunglasses and departed for the check-in.
Coop rounded the corner to the Special Warfare base at Coronado, stopped at the guard shack and addressed the flunky on duty. A new one. Navy Regular. Clean cut. Cooper was thinking he might luck out and get on base without a wisecrack since the guy was new, but had no such luck.
“Well if it isn’t the stud of Coronado and his limp dick pleasure palace.”
Coop studied the new man’s nametag, Dorian Hamburg. He and his Team guys could have fun with that name. And the look on the man’s face told him he had a hair trigger. That was always fun. So the other regulars had told him about Coop’s motor home. No problem. If the guy wanted to spar, Coop would spar with him, and make him pay for it.
“Nice to see the ladies’ve told you about it. That’s why they won’t lick your sorry ass.” Coop watched his words punch Dorian in the face and make him redden. But the man was quick on his feet, unlike some of the other Navy regulars.
“I hear the health department wants to do a study of all the interesting cultures growing in that bat mobile, especially on the ceiling…”
“Nice try, asshole, or is it Dorian? If I were you, I’d go by the name asshole. Dorian sounds queer.”
“You ought to know…” Dorian squinted at Coop’s upside down nametag hanging at a slight angle. “Calvin.”
Sticks and stones don’t bust my balls…
“Well Dorian, you can call me Special Operator Cooper. But for your information, the only other Calvin I ever met was a real big black dude, and he definitely wasn’t gay.” Coop handed over his military ID.
“When are you gonna fix that rag on your head? Don’t they pay you boys enough for a hairpiece or some plugs?”
“Lost all my hair going down. If the girl likes it, she kinda tugs. Hurts sometimes, get my drift?”
“Um hum.” The sentry handed Coop back his card. “You be careful how you park, hear? And straighten that god-damned nametag.”
The rumble of the engine left a thick cloud of black smoke in its wake. Happened every time Coop plastered his foot against the floorboard.
Timmons’s office was all metal and no frills, except for the bright lime-green ceramic frog holding a surfboard that SEAL Team 3 bought him. It stood two and a half perilous feet tall, perched on top of a metal bookshelf. This was the replacement to the statue Timmons had destroyed on a rather ill-tempered day last year.
Timmons had bouts of anger, more frequently now, especially about procedural things. Coop knew the enlisted man was not longing for the forced retirement. It meant more time at home with a wife who publicly made fun of him. The Navy was his life, always had been. But that wasn’t going to stop them from retiring him anyway.
“Chief?” Coop called out as he stooped under the doorframe to avoid hitting his head.
“Sit down, son,” Timmons said, pointing to one of two metal folding chairs in front of his paper-strewn desk.
The cold chair matched the eerie chill that tingled up his spine every time his Chief Officer used the term son. He licked his lips and waited while Timmons looked like he was gathering strength. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything good.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. We’ve just been contacted by the authorities in Nebraska.” He looked up at Coop with his watery light blue eyes. Coop held his breath.
“I’m not sure if you’ve heard it in the news, but there’s been a tornado in Pender and parts nearby, and I’m sorry to say that your family and the farm are gone, son.”
Cooper had been trained to deal with the death of a Team guy. He’d held them sometimes as the life force exited their bodies, rocking them slowly or telling them little jokes to ease their way home. But his real home, his roots in Nebraska, those always remained.
Gone? All of them? Gone? He never figured this could ever happen. I’m completely alone?
His body tensed as he came to terms with the reality of what was just spoken. One by one, every nerve ending began to shout, until the rage inside, the scream Hell, no! consumed all his energy. He dug his fingernails into his thighs and, without realizing it, had drawn blood through the green canvas of his cargo pants.
Timmons got up, which prompted Coop to stand as well, although he was weaving. If Timmons hugged him, he’d deck the guy and end his career for sure. But Timmons stood a healthy two feet away, which was close enough to smell the angst of the older man who nervously flexed and unflexed his fingers at his side. “I’m so sorry, son.”
There’s that goddamned word again. Coop took a deep breath and then felt the tears flood his eyes. I’m no one’s son any longer. Mercifully, he couldn’t see his Chief’s expression. Coop’s fists tightened, he stepped to the side and belted the frog statue, which crashed up against the side of the wall and shattered. Although his Team had recently replaced it for well over two hundred dollars, the green, glassy fragments exploded and fell in a satisfying tinkle all over the floor, the windowsill and Timmons’s desk.
* * *
Timmons looked over the mess in silence, nodding his head. He apparently thought the frog had suffered a good, honorable death, after all. Team 3 would have it replaced as soon as the donations came in. Next time maybe he should find a way to bolt it to the wall. But that could be dangerous.
For the wall.
© Sharon Hamilton