SEAL Out of Water Read online

  SEAL Out of Water

  Silver SEALs, Volume 7

  Abbie Zanders and Suspense Sisters

  Published by Abbie Zanders, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SEAL OUT OF WATER

  First edition. June 11, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Abbie Zanders and Suspense Sisters.

  ISBN: 978-1386845881

  Written by Abbie Zanders and Suspense Sisters.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  SEAL Out of Water (Silver SEALs, #7)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Thanks for reading Gabe and Virginia’s story

  If you liked this book...

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Abbie Zanders

  The Next Wave

  Want More Silver?

  SEAL Out of Water

  Silver SEALs, Book 7

  by

  Abbie Zanders

  Copyright 2019 Abbie Zanders

  Chapter One

  Gabriel

  It was a hell of a thing, watching a brother being lowered into the ground.

  Gabriel Michaels stood rock-still, his face displaying none of the emotions churning deep in his gut. The dark graphite of the clouds overhead reflected his mood, as did the sudden chill in the air that had nothing to do with the approaching storm.

  Joe “Homer” Simpson had seen a lot of action in his lifetime, much of it at Gabe’s side. As Navy SEALs, they’d been to hell more times than Gabe could count but they’d always come back.

  Not this time, though.

  Death in the line of duty was a price they were willing to pay. Every SEAL understood the risks of what he did, but forged ahead anyway. That was part of what made them SEALs; they were wired differently than most.

  That didn’t make dealing with death any easier; it was just less of a surprise when it happened. Except, of course, when the guy who died had been happily enjoying his retirement on American soil. That was the story, anyway.

  Actual details were sketchy, the story warranting only a few lines in the obscure small-town paper where Homer had chosen to park his ass after leaving the teams. The cause of death hadn’t been given. Gabe had read the obit, looking for something to explain the sudden and unexpected loss. Men like them didn’t just die for no apparent reason, unless it was by their own hand. God knew, the suicide rate among veterans was too fucking high. If that were the case—and Gabe had his doubts that it was—it was the worst kind of irony.

  Someone approached from the left, angling toward the spot where Gabe had chosen to stand, on the fringe and back behind the small crowd of mourners. Gabe kept his eyes forward, tracking the movement in his peripheral vision. The man moved carefully, slowly, as if he understood the peril of sneaking up on someone like him.

  Dark suit, short hair. Gabe pegged him as a Fed, lending some credence to his theory that Homer hadn’t been as retired as he’d claimed to be. Retired from active duty, maybe, but he hadn’t taken himself out of the action entirely.

  The newcomer paused as the clergyman concluded the brief service with a prayer. He waited for those gathered to disperse before closing the remaining distance between them.

  “Saint.”

  Gabe blinked and turned toward the smooth, deep voice. No one had called him that in years, the nickname he tolerated from only a select and privileged few. Another blast from the past, this one very much alive, stood beside him, eyes forward and locked on the hole in front of them. Around his height at a respectable six-three. Dark, brown-black hair, now dusted with gray. Years had gone by since they’d last seen one another, but Gabe would have recognized the former lieutenant commander anywhere.

  “Crash. Been a while, man. What are you doing here?”

  They shook hands, their grips firm and confident. A simple gesture between men, but one seemingly lost to the new generation who preferred a head bob to physical contact.

  “Same as you. Paying my respects to a good man.”

  The hair on the back of Gabe’s neck prickled, another sign things weren’t as they seemed. Silas Branson wore the same stoic mask they’d all perfected, but his eyes gave him away. The current assistant director of the Department of Homeland Security’s presence at Joe’s funeral was about more than honoring a fallen friend; it was business.

  “I thought Homer retired.”

  “He did. Officially.”

  Silas’s answer confirmed Gabe’s suspicions: Joe had been working off the books, and his sudden and unexpected death hadn’t been due to natural causes.

  Especially not Joe, who’d been healthy as a horse only six months earlier when he’d shown up at Gabe’s mountain sanctuary. Occasional visits by former teammates weren’t unusual. Every one of them had open invitations and sometimes they’d just appear out of the blue, hang out for a few days, then disappear again.

  He and Joe had fished, tossed back a few, and reminisced, understanding each other the way only fellow SEALs could. Gabe had sensed a restlessness in him then, the same feeling he got sometimes when things were too quiet, too peaceful. Unlike Joe, however, Gabe had no intention of doing anything about it.

  “So it’s like that, huh?” Gabe asked quietly. “Tell me you got the fucker.”

  Silas said nothing and in doing so, told Gabe everything he needed to know. Familiar emotions roiled in his gut—rage, grief, and the thirst for vengeance—but Gabe kept it all neatly tucked away, allowing none of it to show. That part of his life was over. Had been for a while.

  “No,” Gabe said firmly, answering Silas’s unspoken question.

  “I haven’t asked you anything.”

  “Not yet, but you will.”

  The corner of Silas’s mouth quirked. “Did the Zen of living with nature make you prescient or something?”

  It didn’t surprise Gabe that Silas knew all about his pristine lakefront parcel in the mountains, far away from civilization. Si made it his business to know everything about everyone, always had. That was one of the things that made him an outstanding leader. To strategize, you had to und
erstand what you were dealing with—on the team and off.

  “No, but I’m not one of those suit-wearing, hive-minded sycophants you’re surrounding yourself with these days. I can actually think for myself.”

  The quirk grew into an almost-grin. “You haven’t changed at all.”

  On the contrary, Gabe had changed a great deal. Violence, beyond that of the natural cycle of things, was no longer a part of his daily life. Any killing he did these days wound up on his dinner plate, and the only orders he followed were the ones he gave himself.

  “If you believe that, then your spies aren’t as good as you think they are.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Silas commented smoothly, his eyes once again scanning the perimeter before settling back on him. “Where are you staying?”

  “Nowhere. I’m heading back tonight.”

  Silas looked at the darkening skies doubtfully. “That’s a long drive, and a storm is brewing. Might be safer to wait until morning.”

  “You have gone soft. Since when did a little water ever stop a SEAL?”

  “Stick around. We could have a few beers, catch up. I’ll even buy the first round.”

  “Now I know you’re up to something. You never bought a round in your life, you cheap bastard.”

  Silas chuckled, his eyes both amused and calculating. “Meet me and find out.”

  It was a challenge, one meant to appeal to Gabe’s innate curiosity. It did, but not enough to change his mind.

  “No, thanks,” Gabe said, though he took the card Silas held out to him. Matte black, it held an unfamiliar logo and a number etched in silver. Whatever it signified, Gabe sensed having it might come in handy someday.

  “I’ll be expecting your call.”

  Gabe shook his head. Another thing about Silas Branson: he was an arrogant son of a bitch. “See you around, Crash.”

  Gabe turned and began the slow walk back to his truck. Fred, his loyal Black and Tan Coonhound, bayed out a joyful welcome, immediately easing some of the tension that had taken up in his neck and shoulders. It was true what they said: a dog really was a man’s best friend, and Fred was his. Unconditionally loyal, Fred never wanted anything more than Gabe could give.

  “What do you say, boy? Burgers or Chinese?”

  Gabe slid onto the big bench seat, reached out and scratched Fred’s big, floppy ears, receiving a deep doggy purr in response.

  “Hell, no, we’re not getting Mexican. We’ve got a long ride home and by the looks of those clouds, we won’t be driving with the windows open.”

  A tilt of the head, a plea from soulful hazel eyes.

  “No. Mexican.”

  Fred turned away, choosing to stick his nose out the open passenger window instead.

  Gabe angled the truck toward the town limits, hitting a fast food drive-through on the way. He bought two burgers with everything for himself and two without onions for Fred. They split the large fries.

  The clouds continued to darken, going from steely gray to an ominous charcoal. Only an hour into the twelve-hour drive home, he pulled off into a rest stop to let Fred stretch his legs and do his business. They’d no sooner gotten back into the truck when the skies opened up and dime-sized hail pelted the windshield. Fred, who didn’t like storms, tried to shove his nose between Gabe’s back and the seat.

  “Relax, buddy,” Gabe told him, offering a comforting pat on the dog’s rump. “It’s just a storm. We got this.”

  Gabe groaned a short while later when he saw the flashing lights and barricades stretching across the road, forcing him to a full stop. The pouring rain and near stygian darkness made it impossible to evaluate the situation, but the strobe-like bursts of red, blue, and yellow lights up ahead couldn’t mean anything good.

  Fred continued to tremble, half his beefy body on the passenger side, the other half now in Gabe’s lap. Gabe pried him off, and promising to be right back, grabbed his baseball cap, and went to investigate. He almost wished he hadn’t. The scene was a grisly one, made all that more macabre by the flashing lights. Twisted pieces of metal littered the road; it was impossible to say for certain just how many vehicles had been involved.

  “Need a hand?” Gabe asked one of the state policemen charged with securing the scene.

  The kid, who looked like he was barely out of the academy, shook his head somberly. Rain poured down over the wide brim of his hat. “Not unless you’re the coroner. Or a priest.”

  Gabe went back to his truck and pulled out his phone. The GPS app confirmed what he already knew: the road was the only east-west route for miles. He could drive fifty miles out of their way along back country roads to get to the next semi-major road, or he could head back the way they’d come, wait out the storm, and get a fresh start in the morning.

  Cold rain continued to pound against the truck. He was tired, wet, and the thought of spending the next several hours navigating his way out of the godforsaken place with a shaking hound in his lap didn’t appeal to him. It had absolutely nothing to do with the bait Silas had dangled in front of his nose, and everything to do with a warm, dry bed, cold beer, and cable.

  With a heavy sigh, Gabe made his decision and turned the vehicle around.

  Chapter Two

  Gabriel

  “I knew you couldn’t stay away,” Silas said, amusement coloring his voice.

  Gabe didn’t bother looking up. He’d spotted Silas the moment the other man had walked in. One of the reasons he’d chosen the back corner table in the dark, hole-in-the-wall tavern was because of the excellent view it afforded. His eyes swept over the place once again, reaffirming the lack of an immediate threat as Silas sat down with a cocky smirk and signaled the server to bring two more beers.

  Gabe could have just picked up a six-pack and gone back to his room to enjoy it in peace, but then he would’ve had to wait until Silas knocked on his door to get some answers. This way, he got to people-watch and indulge in some late-night bar food, too.

  “What took you so long? We’ve been here nearly thirty minutes.”

  Silas chuckled and cast a bemused look toward Fred, who had turned his eyes from the plate of deep-fried goodness to check out their new companion.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Gabe made introductions around a mouth full of nachos. “Fred, Crash. Crash, Fred.”

  Silas looked doubtfully at the bar napkin that had been tucked into the back of Fred’s collar, the one upon which Gabe had hastily scribbled when the bartender was hesitant about letting Fred accompany him inside.

  “That is no service dog.”

  Gabe told Silas the same thing he’d told the bartender when he’d made a similar comment. “Sure, he is. He keeps me from hurting assholes who don’t know how to keep their opinions to themselves.”

  Rather than be offended, Silas laughed. The server arrived with two bottles, leaning down to pet Fred and giving both men an up close and personal view of her ample cleavage in the process.

  “He’s also a damn fine wingman,” Gabe commented, his eyes following the sway of her hips as she walked away. He gave Fred a fried mozzarella stick in reward and patted the dog’s head.

  “You look like shit, Saint.”

  Gabe shrugged. He knew his hair was overlong and shaggy, and his beard was in need of a good trim. Living in the mountains as he did, appearance didn’t really matter, and Fred didn’t care one way or the other. But they weren’t here to discuss his personal grooming habits—or lack thereof.

  Gabe leaned forward slightly and dropped his voice. “What the fuck happened, Si? Last I heard, Homer was living the dream.” Or, at least, Homer’s dream of restoring vintage bikes. They all had their own blue-sky version of retirement. Gabe’s was living a life of solitude away from a society he no longer felt connected to.

  Silas took a drink before answering. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, he looked less like the government suit he’d become and more like the hellraiser Gabe remembered when they’d
first met. Knowing Silas, that was probably intentional, meant to appeal to Gabe’s sense of brotherhood and better times. Silas knew Gabe had little respect for men who sat behind big desks and treated each mission as if it were some kind of board game, rolling the dice and moving little plastic pieces around as if they weren’t actual people with lives and families. Thankfully, there were also men like Silas, men who’d actually spent time in the trenches, and, hopefully, ensured that an occasional dose of reality made it into those closed-door strategy sessions.

  Gabe wasn’t about to tell Silas that, though. He’d take it as a compliment, and the man was cocky enough as it was.

  Silas was clever, too. Gabe could almost see the wheels turning in his head, deciding how much to reveal and when. Imparting information was a learned skill, like fishing. It required knowledge and experience. One had to know the right lure to use, when to cast, and how hard to tug. If there was one thing Gabe knew, it was that Silas was a damn fine fisherman.

  When the other man raised his gaze, Gabe saw something he didn’t normally see in his eyes: a momentary flash of regret.

  “He was living his dream, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Men like us, we’re made to do things, Saint. We can’t sit on the sidelines for any length of time, watching the world go to shit around us, not when we know we can do something about it.”

  Maybe Silas couldn’t sit idly by, but he could. Most of the time, anyway. “Speak for yourself.”

  Silas offered a small grin. “And yet, here we are.”

  Yes, here they were, playing a game of cat and mouse, except they were both big, bad cats who’d rather just kill the damn mouse than play with it.

  “I don’t know why you’re here. The only reason I’m here is to pass the time while I wait for the road to open up.”

  “Keep telling yourself that often enough and you might start to believe it.”

  Gabe grunted.

  Silas leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Tell me you don’t miss it. The action. The adrenaline. The feeling that comes from doing something good.”