Forsaken (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Epilogue

  SCORNED Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FORSAKEN

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  Book Six

  Laura Marie Altom

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  To become a United States Navy SEAL, a man must be physically forged in steel and able to mentally compute life or death situations with laser accuracy and speed. Our country trusts these men with the most sensitive military operations—many so covert that once they are successfully completed, they are never spoken of again.

  This series celebrates one particularly fierce band of brothers who valiantly battled terrorists whose crimes against nature and humanity were far too great to chance escape. On a dark night, on foreign soil, SEAL Team Alpha witnessed acts so unspeakably cruel against women, infants and small children that their consciences would not allow anything other than their own brand of justice for the scum terrorist cell.

  A trial would have been too good for these pigs, and so, one-by-one they were taken out, and the women and children they’d used were freed. By dawn, an entire region breathed easier. The men of Alpha found themselves heroes to those whose lives they had saved, but virtual criminals in the eyes of the organization they served. After a lengthy investigation, their elite, covert team was formally disbanded.

  They now spend their lives deep undercover, still serving—no longer their country, but individuals who find themselves in need of not only their own personal warrior, but a particular brand of justice.

  While honorably discharged, these men and their actions will forever be disavowed . . .

  SEAL Team: Disavowed series

  Rogue, Book 1

  Outcast, Book 2

  Shunned, Book 3

  Exiled, Book 4

  Renegade, Book 5

  Forsaken, Book 6

  Scorned, Book 7

  1

  Three weeks ago. Two nautical miles east of Little Palm Cay, Turks & Caicos.

  SHARKS. EVERYWHERE. SO much blood…

  India Fanning released air from her buoyancy regulator, descending to the North Atlantic’s sandy bottom to a depth of twenty-two feet. With her back against a coral tower, she waved to her cousin, Turtle—nicknamed because he spent more time beneath the turquoise waters surrounding their island home than in their family gift shop where they were both due to start the evening shift in thirty minutes. A cruise ship was in port, which meant hundreds of rushed T-shirt buyers.

  From her vantage, gazing up through crystal clear turquoise water, she clearly made out the feeding frenzy’s cause. The crew of a forty-foot fishing trawler had tossed bucket after bucket of chum over the hull. The blood served as a shark dinner bell, calling them in by the dozens. Black and gray-tip reefs, a lemon, even a couple bull. A hammerhead hung back at a cautious distance.

  She considered herself an experienced diver. Not much rattled her. But this . . .

  Forcing her breathing to slow she checked her dive computer’s air gauge. Thirteen minutes remained. From her current location, the surface was only a minute swim. Piece of cake—except for navigating through the undulating mass of black-eyed monsters snapping their jaws with enough force for the chilling sound to carry through the water.

  What was wrong with those chumming assholes? The diver down flag bobbing on its blaze-orange buoy was visible a mere ten feet from Turtle’s boat.

  Pulse racing, she waved again at her cousin who seemed oblivious to anything but his new toy. He’d been saving for months for an underwater metal detector and in the week since its arrival, they’d put in more dive time than they had in the last few years combined. The Turks and Caicos were famous for shipwrecks and Turtle was determined to do his part for their family tradition by making his fortune with gold doubloons and tourist dollars.

  The more chum hit the water, the more frenzied the sharks grew. Foul-tempered, competing with much nipping and thrashing at assorted fish heads and tails and bony remains left after filleting. Smaller sharks had begun feeding on the scraps sinking to the sandy bottom.

  Heart pounding, when a three-foot gray turned to her, India slammed his nose with the heel of her hand.

  Thankfully, he got the hint and swerved right.

  India followed the coral wall where it joined with another in the shape of a Y. The spot was a family favorite for not only its abundance of colorful coral and fish, but because of the unmistakable shape that made for an easily seen rendezvous point. As children, she and Turtle used to play treasure hunters in the nearly impossible to see coral cavern on the opposite side.

  A particularly nasty barrel-chested bull shark rammed the hull of Turtle’s prized Sea Ray. The thump’s concussive force against the fiberglass hull of his twenty-six-foot baby was at least enough to have gotten her cousin’s attention—but not in a good way. Instead of descending from the threat, the notorious hardhead showed his fury with the shark and chumming bastards by wildly swinging his detector’s wand, clearing a path for him to reach the surface.

  Turtle, no!

  India’s chest ached from the effort of rapid-fire inhalations through her regulator. Air bubbles surrounded her, impeding her view. There was so much blood. What was happening?

  A masculine cry of terror spiraled through the water like a bullet, piercing India’s soul.

  She wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

  Time froze.

  Sunbeams sliced through the horror of Turtle’s shredded body parts—his left foot, right arm—sinking only to be snapped between scissoring jaws.

  India threw-up into her regulator, then switched to her back-up.

  By the time she’d composed herself enough to force her breathing to slow, her dive computer beeped a low air warning. With her current location a few good kicks from the surface, finding air wasn’t as big of a problem as forcing herself to actually move. Despite balmy water, her limbs felt frozen. Incapable of the slightest shift.

  The beeping grew frantic.

  Overhead, fewer sharks circled, but the fishing vessel remained. Someone aboard turned on music. Reggae celebrated her cousin’s death. Something besides blood was tossed overboard. Plop. Muted laughter sank to her depth along with an empty beer bottle—Kalik.

  The boats name? Pearl. She couldn’t make out the port of origin. Though she didn’t recognize the trawler, if it was from one of the other islands, it shouldn’t be hard to find.

  Surely the men had witnessed Turtle die. Why hadn’t they been on the radio? Calling for help? Realization dawned, but her panicked, grief-stricken mind had grown as sluggish as her body. Could she take this a step further and assume the men knew Turtle? Wanted him to die? Had they followed him from the marina? If so, they knew she was down here.

  They weren’t fishermen, but monsters. What could Turtle have possibly done to deserve such a horrific end? Were they hanging around to ensure she also died?

  Terror constricted her throat, cramping her already leaden limbs. Her heart pounded in tandem with the dive computer’s urgent warning.

  If she didn’t act fast, she would die down here.

  Her baby’s warm brown eyes and adorable grin flashed before her. Her mom and dad’s gentle strength and unconditional love. Her grandparents. Aunts and uncles. She didn’t want to die. There was still so much left
to do. Raise Bridgette, her twelve-month-old daughter. Expand the family shop. Maybe college? Find love. Welcome more children into her beautiful world. Snapshots flipped through her head, faster and faster until the images were no longer recognizable beyond shock’s kaleidoscopic blur.

  What little air remained in her tank tasted thin and stale.

  Move! her mind screamed.

  Her eyes could only focus on a scrap of Turtle’s tropical-print swim trunks.

  Think of Bridgette! Moooove!

  India wanted to. Planned to. Very soon. When the men and sharks left.

  But when her lungs next reached for air . . .

  There was none.

  2

  CALM DOWN. FOR Bridgette’s sake, get a grip.

  From hold-your-breath contests she and Turtle had played as small children, India knew she couldn’t have more than sixty seconds before her aching lungs rebelled. But if she burst up to the surface, those murderers would turn their attention to her. With her gone, no one would be left to seek justice for her cousin’s death. No matter what, she couldn’t let that happen.

  Now that the chum had cleared, so had most of the bigger sharks. Juveniles still swarmed the sandy bottom, but she eyed Turtle’s air tank and regulator a mere ten yards away. The equipment looked pristine. As if its user had vanished—not literally been eaten away.

  Like painfully loud rock concert bass, her pulse thundered in her ears.

  Out of time, she had to go—now.

  After unclipping her buoyancy vest, she shrugged free of her useless gear, then burst from her safe spot against the coral into the frenzied sharks. Her sudden movement startled them, clearing her path to Turtle’s gear.

  Almost there, her lungs burned. Her vision blurred and then blackened.

  She fumbled for the regulator, inching her fingers down the rubber hose before reaching either the primary regulator or octopus. Didn’t matter. She felt for the business-end, then shoved it into her mouth. Muscle memory told her to blow out the water, then breathe.

  The air came choppy at first, with an uncomfortable chugging. But then her breathing slowed and steadied.

  In his death, Turtle had given her life.

  She dragged the gear behind the coral wall, then performed the emotionally crushing task of resizing her cousin’s vest to fit her smaller form. It was still loose, but fit well enough for her to start the two-mile swim to shore. Having spent her entire life diving the area, she knew enough underwater landmarks to put a safe distance between her and the murderers’ boat.

  Once she was far enough away from them to surface without being seen, she flopped onto her back, conserving the air in the tank. The fins made for an easy swim. What wouldn’t be easy?

  Telling her family that Turtle was dead.

  Now…

  India chose a corner table at The Tipsy Crab, a local breakfast hotspot on Little Palm Cay. They specialized in rum-flavored everything. Pancakes, waffles, muffins and coffees. At the moment, her stomach was so knotted with grief for Turtle, now laced with apprehension over this unexpected—unwanted, yet much needed—reunion with her former flame, that she couldn’t imagine eating. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. The especially tricky part would be keeping him from her baby—their baby.

  When he’d left nineteen months earlier, he’d made it clear that his security career was his world.

  Then non-stop nausea sent her to the island’s clinic, and she’d discovered he’d left a part of himself forever with her. India had tried calling to tell him he would soon be a father, but their conversations typically centered around his latest job, and how psyched he was. The last thing she or her daughter needed was for him to return out of a sense of obligation.

  Her big sister, Meghan, had gone that route. Upon losing her newborn to pneumonia, her husband had asked for a divorce. Meghan had overdosed on Xanax.

  The trauma had nearly destroyed their mother.

  India would rather raise her daughter on her own than risk putting her family through more pain. Meghan’s and now Turtle’s deaths had been tough enough—not that India would ever consider taking her own life. But there could be ugly custody battles. Was she being fair to Briggs? Maybe not?

  On the flip side, he’d flat out said on multiple occasions he had no plans for a wife or children.

  In keeping Bridgette from him, she was doing him a favor.

  Right. If you tell yourself that enough, maybe you’ll believe it. The man deserves to know.

  “Just you?” Frenchie frowned. “I was hoping to get a squeeze from your adorable baby girl.” Everyone’s favorite waitress and a close family friend, Frenchie weighed at least three hundred pounds and had every man on the island wrapped around her finger. The African American’s bright white smile, bountiful bosom and flirty personality had made her obscenely wealthy from gratuities—not that it mattered as she was Tipsy’s half-owner with her longtime husband, Roger.

  “Mom’s showing off Bridgette at her gardening club meeting. I will have three more joining me, though.” India fidgeted with the napkin rolled around the silverware.

  “That’s a party. Why so glum? Still thinking about Turtle?”

  India nodded. “Hard not to. I see him everywhere I go. How many times did we share the breakfast special at this very table?”

  Frenchie knelt for a sideways hug. “We all loved him. Bring me your favorite photo and we’ll hang it over the bar.”

  “Thanks.”

  Three lost-looking tourists wandered into the open-air space with its palm-thatched roof and tile floor. A pretty, petite blonde danced to the reggae piped in over Roger’s new Bluetooth speakers.

  India’s pulse took off on a runaway gallop.

  Frenchie whistled. “You failed to mention one of your guests was him.”

  India didn’t try pretending her friend’s disdain was unwarranted. Having grown up in a tourist town, she’d been taught from a very young age that tourists are a fun way to earn a living. Make friends—even lifelong friends. But never, ever trust one with your heart. Then she’d met Briggs—a former Navy SEAL with the body of a god, the mouth of a flirty sailor, and the dizzyingly, mind-altering sexual prowess of a—she gulped to see him heading her way. Why, of all people, had she turned to him for help?

  Because out of all the men I’ve ever known, he’s the only one I instinctively know is capable of getting the job done—of finding Turtle’s killers and seeing that my cousin gets the justice he deserves.

  All she had to do was keep him away from Bridgette while he solved the crime.

  “India. Long time, no see.” He occupied the seat beside her, leaning in to kiss her cheek. The old electricity was unfortunately still there.

  Fighting back a shiver, she cursed the distraction.

  “Hmph.” Frenchie smacked the back of his head with a laminated menu. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “You’re killing me, Frenchie.” Briggs clutched his chest before wielding his damned dimples in conjunction with his patented sexy-slow grin. “I’m starving. Please don’t deny me your rum-banana pancake perfection.”

  “Don’t tempt me. I know where my husband keeps the rat poison.” Turning her smile to the man and woman who’d joined him at the table, she introduced herself, handed them menus, then said. “You two are allowed to order. He is not.” She pointed to Briggs before huffing off.

  “Ouch.” Briggs shook his head.

  “Don’t take it too personally,” India said. “She does the same with all my exes.”

  “You two were an item?” The blonde held out her hand for India to shake. “I’m Delilah Crow. We’re staying on Starfish Cove for our wedding and honeymoon.”

  “Congratulations,” India said, squelching the jealousy that cropped up each time she met a newlywed. Would Bridgette ever have a daddy? Would India ever be a wife to a man she adored who felt the same love for her? With Briggs, she’d dared to hope. Boy, had that been an epic fail. Most men her age left the island
for better opportunities. She couldn’t blame them. If it hadn’t been for her family’s souvenir shop, she might have also been forced off-island. Her father worked so hard to ensure the entire family never had to worry. “I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m Sawyer—her better half.” His bride elbowed him, but smiled. They were adorable. Their love was far too beautiful to begrudge. India took an instant liking to them.

  “Welcome,” India said. “Nice meeting you. Sorry I interrupted your fun.”

  “No worries,” Briggs said. “The fact that I was only an island away when you called is pretty much fate. Tell us what’s going on.”

  They ordered—well, everyone save for Briggs—then over rum-laced coffees, India relayed the horror of losing her cousin. “I know every boat on the island, and these weren’t locals. The worst part is, I can’t imagine why anyone would have wanted Turtle dead. He was the life of every party. It makes no sense.”

  “Sounds to me,” Briggs said, “like he must have seen something he shouldn’t? As lovely as these islands are, I’m sure there’s a healthy drug trade.”

  India nodded. “No one talks about it, but it’s there. Many young people have bright futures cut short by running drugs between islands. I suppose Turtle could have been caught up in that, but my gut feeling is that not only was he too smart to make that big of a mistake, but that this is connected to something deeper.”

  Sawyer leaned in. “Briggs told me there might be a shipwreck connection? I did a little research on the ride over and some of these treasure hunters are ruthless when it comes to protecting their finds. Is there a chance your cousin discovered a wreck someone else had already claimed?”

  “That’s just it, according to my uncle—our family already did. Decades ago, he said my father found a fortune in gold doubloons. He never told anyone where he’d found them, but the stash was big enough to have paid cash for our family store—even back then, land around here wasn’t cheap. That was the first—and the last I’ve heard of it. My parents forbid me to even speak about it. They say it’s connected to a curse, and that’s why my sister and Turtle died.”