Intimate Honor Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2020 D.C. Stone

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0130-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This one is for all our furry soldiers, companions, and family members.

  INTIMATE HONOR

  Blue Empire, 3

  D.C. Stone

  Copyright © 2020

  Prologue

  Juliette Graham stared down at the two pink lines and the room began its ride a la merry-go-round. The thump, thump, thump of her heart hammered out a staccato rhythm, the organ driving a beat that would make many rave disc jockeys proud.

  The pounding moved to her head, and with the spinning room, her meager breakfast of a bagel with her favorite strawberry cream cheese threatened to make a reappearance.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  “Juliette!”

  She blinked at the positive pregnancy results and turned toward the door as if she moved through a room of water where the current wanted to drag her under. The pounding didn’t originate from her head at all, but instead from a petite young woman on the other side.

  “Juliette, if you’re having second thoughts, we need to discuss this quick. Your case is next and court is about to be called into session.”

  Second thoughts? Especially now?

  Her plan had always focused on finding the love of her life, marrying said person, opening her own veterinary practice, and raising a family. She hadn’t asked for any of the other stuff. Things that had made her wish more than a time or two that she’d made a different decision.

  Or just died.

  She quickly but carefully wrapped the little stick in a brown paper towel found in most public restrooms across America and washed her hands in record speed. Then she unlocked the women’s restroom door and met the frantic, doe-eyed gaze of her domestic violence advocate, Sunny.

  Kid not, that was her name. Sunshine “Sunny” Floret. In layman’s terms, Sunny Flower. With a name like that, it was amazing she surrounded herself with such darkness and violence in her career choice. Domestic violence wasn’t a pretty thing on any given day. And Juliette’s story was more horrid than most.

  But she’d live to tell the tale. And now she had even more of a reason to get through this. She tightened her grip around the stick in her pocket and placed her other hand over her stomach as if to shelter the tiny being that was a part of her now.

  Juliette appreciated everything Sunny had done for her, especially since she’d been unable to escape Manuel’s abuse on her own, and for that, she’d forever be grateful.

  Despite the turmoil rolling in her stomach and the secret she held, Juliette presented her best smile and tossed her long, curly red hair over her shoulder with practiced ease. The thick weight landed just below her bra strap. The hair, along with her bright green eyes, was a product of her father’s Scottish ancestry. Unfortunately, in Georgia with the hot, summer sun bearing down six months out of the year, her very fair skin took the most abuse.

  “I’m not having second thoughts. I just needed a few minutes to collect myself.”

  Sunny arched a thick brown brow and looked at Juliette’s hand. Their gaze reconnected in an instance and she tried not to squirm.

  “Juliette,” Sunny started.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m fine. Let’s get this done.”

  This being attending the hearing where she’d get her name changed to Samantha Eagen, obtain a new social security number, and start a fresh life away from Manuel. But first, she had to have her whole sorry life put out for all to see.

  Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be for all. But for whoever would be in attendance within the courtroom. A handful of too many people who would look at her with sad eyes.

  Pity eyes.

  “Things change if certain circumstances…” Sunny took a deep breath and shook herself as if pushing away her train of thought. She dropped her head to the folder she held, a one-inch binder that covered twelve years of hell. Twelve years of ultimate terror compacted on a short court document describing Juliette’s life. The constant worrying of what would set Manuel off. The wrong piece of clothing to put him in a rage. An innocent smile at a stranger to bring out his demon. The lash of his belt because she hadn’t said the right thing in front of his colleagues. And that didn’t even begin to describe what would happen at night when he felt the need to assert his dominance, as if she hadn’t already been completely brought to heel.

  Even now, after six weeks of being hidden at a safe house, weeks of having fear live like a breathing being in her veins, she still struggled with constantly checking over her shoulder, looking for him … for his approval or disdain. To prepare for what would come. She genuinely feared he would come to the courthouse and rip her out of what she wanted to rebuild.

  Her life. Her company. Her confidence.

  Instead of continuing with what she knew would be an uncomfortable line of questioning that could yank everything away from her—freedom, safety, and security—Sunny gave her a bright smile and held out her free hand. “Ready?”

  Juliette smiled and took a deep, cleansing breath. “Yes.”

  Chapter One

  I firmly believe that any man’s finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle—victorious.

  Vince Lombardi

  Christopher Gonzalez had always been a firm believer in keeping two feet on the ground, or inside an airplane, as was the case with his job. His sanity—or insanity with his current predicament—came into question when he agreed to jump out of a perfectly good aircraft and embrace the lethal whip of air against his face.

  He sat back from the loading deck as the tail of the C-130 Hercules opened and revealed the dark sky. They were several thousand feet above the ground, which spread like a black sea of nothing, just beckoning with the kiss of death. Despite the wind rushing against the thin layer of the plane, the only sound he heard was his heartbeat, which sped as it always did before a jump. Adrenaline spiked high in his veins, and in his arms, his military working dog, Delta Alpha, shifted.

  He lowered his head, knowing that despite the oxygen mask, his partner, affectionately also known as Dumb Ass, would hear him. If not his voice, then at least he’d pick up on the low timbre of vibrations through Chris’s chest.

  “Right here, buddy. We’ll be on the ground soon. I don’t like this any more than you do.” He let the feral grin take over his face. “But just think of the fun we’re going to have in a bit.”

  Dumb Ass wasn’t stupid, not by a long shot, and those dark-brown eyes filled with years of intelligence and training glanced from the opening cargo bay to his face. The anxiety in his dog’s expression and the shifting of his doggy brows reflected back at him. Chris continued to stroke the long brown and gray hair Dumb Ass’s ancestors gave him from their German Shepherd breed. After a few minutes, anxiousness melted out of his body.

  The light above the doors switched from red to green, their sign that the mission was a go. His team, the rest of the Special Forces unit that made up the six badasses who would take down their assigned mark—or capture him, whi
chever came first—lined up along the side of the plane.

  Chris tilted forward to hook the straps of his body harness to the dog. He double-checked DA’s bite mask, making sure the supply of oxygen still flowed, before checking his own. Despite what many thought, at this high in the air, both man and animal still had to take in a steady supply of oxygen or risk hypoxia. It was why his team had been strapped to nothing but one hundred percent oxygen for forty-five minutes pre-jump. It was also why none of them smoked or did drugs. They kept in shape because despite being part of a Special Forces team, his team went above and beyond that call … a lot. And jumping out of perfectly good planes was just one of those beyonds.

  Rising from the folding seat attached to the hull of the aircraft, he grunted. The bulk on his back and front made him feel like he weighed close to five hundred pounds. Which, now that he thought about it, with a hundred and five in his rucksack, and another ninety-five on the front from his dog, he supposed it was about right.

  His knees cracked. “You’re going on a diet when we get back to base,” he said to Dumb Ass, unknowing if the dog understood the words. It wouldn’t surprise him if he got some of what Chris said, because yeah, his partner was pretty damn smart.

  “Aw, my feelings are shattered,” Captain Joe “Squirrel” Ford answered in his lazy southern drawl. “I’ve been trying to maintain my feminine figure.” Squirrel wiggled his brows and cut a hand down the side of his frame, a la Vanna White.

  Chris snorted a laugh and shook his head. The captain always had a way with his dry wit. And out of all on the team, Squirrel was the least of them who’d be considered feminine in any way. Bulky, much like a human-size version of the incredible Hulk, he looked like he could crush someone’s head between his biceps like a watermelon under pressure.

  In stressful situations or under fire, the humor was often welcomed. But right before jumping out of an airplane, Chris wasn’t so sure he could appreciate it as much. “Not quite what I had in mind for a feminine figure there, Cap’. Dumb Ass here is either putting on weight or my damn knees are going out.” He shifted again, making sure DA’s legs were free to move but not close enough to kick out and nail him in the balls. Not again. Happened once before. Lesson learned. Took one time of him losing his breath at several thousand feet in the air when the oxygen was thin and the pain of being nailed before it became a habit to make sure both he and his dog could breathe and move easily.

  One time was enough.

  Stepping into formation, Chris stood second in line. They needed to be ready to work from the moment they landed. It wasn’t about him as much as it was about DA’s sense of smell. The dog could root out a bad guy, or a treat, in less time than any other canine he’d worked with. And seeing as they’d been partnered together for close to two years, they had learned to read each other better than other teams. His dog’s training and intelligence, combined with Chris’s skills behind a rifle, had led to their spot on this elite crew.

  Squirrel glanced back as they got in position. The captain, shrouded in green from Chris’s night-vision goggles, and always leading his men, even when they hated it, winked at Dumb Ass before scuffing the top of his head with affection. “Time to live,” was all he said before he jumped. Chris’s heart lurched into his throat and his balls hid in his stomach, as it always happened, before he followed three seconds after. He pushed off the plane, and for what seemed like endless seconds, time stilled. No movement, no sound. Even the catch in his breath alerted him he had quit breathing. Just stillness, a peace in the sky where you were wrapped in the comfort of nothingness, like a heavy blanket on a cold night.

  The peace never lasted. Dumb Ass jolted at the same time the air disappeared from beneath Chris’s body. He tightened his grip around his dog and tucked his chin to his chest, pulling DA close with one arm to protect him as his instincts from training took over. He stretched his body as much as he could, trying to slow their descent. He fell faster than the typical one-twenty, and he’d heard rumors of people who had gotten up to two-hundred miles per hour, but that was a speed he’d leave for those who wanted to take that chance. He was in no way ready to push that bar. Jumping out of planes was where he drew that line.

  He choked on laughter with that thought. His dog wiggled and fought to turn his face against the wind. The world rushed to meet them from below in different shades of false green.

  Chris shifted into the wind to slow their fall and looked around, making sure they wouldn’t collide with others or interrupt their landing. In his ear, his team communicated in low, almost silent tones. An announcement followed, relaying the aircraft had gotten away from the landing zone without incident.

  They’d been falling in the air for about two minutes, which, from his calculations in his goggles, and from the time on his watch, told him he was only seconds from needing to pull. As if jumping from the plane wasn’t bad, the jerk in which he and DA would soon experience was worse. More so, the landing would be a bitch.

  Shit, he was getting too old for this. Even in his mid-thirties, he felt each landing take another year off the age of his knees.

  A low murmur in his ear told him Squirrel had ejected his parachute successfully. Chris braced and squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled on his cord, knowing he flirted with death doing this job. If this parachute didn’t work, at least he had the reserve. If the reserve didn’t work, well, then his team would have fun scraping him off the dangerous jagged mountains of Afghanistan for the next couple of years.

  Two to three seconds pulsed by with an agonizing slowness before his chute caught and whipped him and Dumb Ass up in a hard jolt. He gritted his teeth against the jar and slowly relaxed his hold on his dog. The Shepherd turned his head into Chris for a moment, taking the comfort he needed before looking back out. Not needing night-vision goggles, DA’s gaze roamed, searched, and hunted, his little doggie brain in full combat mode now with the scary part over.

  That thought almost caused Chris to laugh again, but he choked it down. They were operating in full blackout mode. And being only three hundred meters or so off the ground in enemy territory, he needed to concentrate and land as quietly as possible. They were vulnerable in the air. Sure, no one expected an attack from above, but anything could give them away. The whisper of a command, the glint of a gun, the paleness of skin under the moon.

  He glanced above to the dark ceiling. It was a new moon stage, leaving the very early-morning sky a deep empty pit with nothing but the blaze of stars. They winked like sequins on a dark velvet gown. He didn’t have time to relish in the beauty of things you didn’t see back home. He had to brace for landing. His feet touched first before he curled his body over his dog and rolled, coming to a hard and very painful stop. Before he could register any injuries or how much that fucking hurt—because it did, right on down to his bones—he unsnapped Dumb Ass from his harness, ripped off both their oxygen masks, and grabbed his M4 Carbine from where it had been strapped across his chest between him and his canine. Had he not been able to get his dog off in time, he still had the familiar and reassuring weight of his M9 on his thigh.

  Dumb Ass stood still beside him as one by one, each member dropped with almost complete silence, low murmured commands whispering over the com-sets in their ears. Only he and DA didn’t focus on anything other than what could be hiding out in the darkness. They, as the military-working-dog team, acted as a big part of perimeter security. If it had to be compared to anything, a kind of early warning system. With his dog’s low growl, one could consider the sound a deterrent. When his partner gave a good grumble, no one could resist pissing right where they stood.

  It was awesome.

  Mini clouds of white air puffed in front of his face, the effects from the jump still skittering through him. It took a bit for his body to calm and, unfortunately, time didn’t afford them that opportunity. They landed on the edge of a village where a local tribe leader to Al Qaeda was suspected to be hiding. Tayseer al-Libi had earned a spot on the top
twenty of America’s Most Wanted Terrorist list, and the mission handed down had been straight to the point: capture by any means necessary, even death. Intel on the plans al-Libi prepared to do included shocking images of dirty bombs he’d set off in the region, chemicals that caused big blisters to cover every inch of exposed skin until they popped. The aftermath had shown women and children, men of all ages with what looked like sores of acid eating them from the inside out. And the next stop on al-Libi’s list: the United States of America.

  It was bad enough this activity, this disgusting display of power in the wrong hands, happened in some far-off place where civilization still struggled to root. To bring it to his nation’s front door? No fucking way.

  Stashing the heaviest of their gear in a shallow grave, a place they’d come back to when all was said and done, the team moved forward. The only sounds surrounding them were the small clicks of their gear and the slight shuffling of feet. Dumb Ass brushed against his side, the Shepherd’s training absolute.

  The village sat in a canyon where two majestic mountains collided. Houses made of brick and stone faced away from the rise of caves inside the mountain, easy trails leading into each, an underground escape hatch for what hid inside this place, and a way for the terrorist organization to escape the seeing eye of the good ‘ole US of A.

  On the other side of the village sat a network of farms designed to feed and provide income for the community, grass so green and plants so lush that even under the cold climate in this portion of Afghanistan, it was still a surprise to see.

  His team had landed to the east, needing the shortest and most direct access to the main house. A dog barked in the distance as they slid over the short two-foot concrete wall, and Chris tensed, his attention darting down. He didn’t need to worry, though. Pride swelled inside him as Dumb Ass dismissed the sound with a flick of his alert ears.