Shunned (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  EXILE: Sneak Peek

  EXILE: Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Copyright

  SHUNNED

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  Book Three

  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

  1

  Piapoco, Colombia

  THE BABY WAS a fake.

  Disavowed Navy SEAL Everett Black snatched the doll out of the crib by its shaggy black hair, pitching it across the dark room where it fell with a thump atop thick carpet. What was he going to tell Nash and Maisey? They’d trusted him to come to Colombia. To break into the heavily guarded compound of Vicente Rodriguez’s widow and take back their kidnapped son.

  What now?

  Pulse revved, he darted his gaze about the typical nursery. Crib. Changing table. Rocking chair. What was he missing? Was this whole scene a set-up? Had the infant ever been in the freaking castle this chick called home? Or was the intel Trident, Inc. had been given misinformation? Meaning the Widow Rodriguez had been one step ahead of them since the baby had been snatched twenty-four hours earlier.

  Gauzy curtains floated in the light breeze.

  Time for him to fly.

  He’d report his findings to Nash and the rest of the team, then lay low until receiving further instructions.

  After sticking the decoy baby back in the crib to hopefully hide the fact that he’d ever been there, Everett pushed aside the curtains, straddling the windowsill.

  Since free climbing was kinda his thing, it was no biggie to maneuver himself sideways onto the third floor ledge, then use the limestone mansion’s elaborate sills and moldings for handholds. Earlier, he’d run a dummy signal through the security system, making it feel nice and cozy the whole time he’d been breaking and entering. He’d remotely switch it back once he got clear.

  Everett reached the second-floor ballroom’s balcony when a metallic click caught his attention. He froze.

  He hadn’t worn NVGs, partly because the moon was nearly full and he didn’t figure he’d need them. Mostly, because he’d been afraid Baby Joe would have taken one look at “Uncle Everett” in scary monster glasses and freaked. Now, he wished he had them so he could make out the source of the noise.

  Only when he heard muffled voices did he start to sweat.

  June in Colombia was no joke, but up until now, adrenaline had kept him cool. There hadn’t been time to do a thorough study of guard activity, but intel said there were always three rotating crews of security teams. Two guards monitored the house, and six watched the grounds. Thus far, they’d done a piss-poor job, considering he had yet to see one.

  Odds were in his favor that the noise he’d heard had been one of the regular patrols making rounds.

  When he didn’t hear another sound save for a gazillion bugs’ rhythmic humming, he figured he was free to scale the last floor, then hightail it through the mountainous jungle to the Jeep he’d stashed a few miles from the compound.

  Antsy to make a quick exit, Everett braced his palms on the balcony’s stone rail, then vaulted himself over.

  At that instant, a blinding beam spotlighted him.

  “¡Al ladrόn!”

  Translation? Shit.

  He grabbed for the next handhold just as shots were fired. One pinged close enough for him to see sparks.

  Pulse racing, he sucked in a deep breath and hoped for the best as he reached blindly for his next perch. What he got was a freefall, a seriously not good twist to his left knee, then, when he tried standing on it, he fell ass-backwards onto the manicured lawn.

  He tried hopping up, but screaming pain sent him crashing back down.

  Adding to the party were a circle of at least a dozen seriously armed commando-types holding M16s. All headlamps aimed at him.

  He groaned. Why had he made this a solo mission?

  “What a wonderful surprise,” a smoky female voice said with a thick Spanish accent.

  The lights being shone in Everett’s eyes made it too bright to see the woman attached to the voice. The lady of the house?

  “I do love a party,” she said. “Although next time, please call first.” He still couldn’t see her, but her perfume was cloying—choking him with the crisp floral scent of high maintenance. “Take him away. See that he has medical attention for his knee. He could possibly make a nice trade for that bitch who killed my husband.”

  2

  SISTER MARY MARGARET O’Hanlon fidgeted in the straight-backed chair, wiping her sweaty palms on her habit’s long, gray skirt. This was it. After five years of waiting to finally become a full member of Our Mother of the Blessed Angel, she had been called into Mother Superior’s office to be given the happy news that she was soon to undergo the final ceremony that would mark her permanent acceptance into the convent.

  The room smelled of Vicks VapoRub and the lemon oil Sister Helen used to clean the convent’s miles of wood trim.

  “Ah, I should have known you’d be early.”

  Proving how much she’d learned, though Mary Margaret’s natural inclination would be to grin, she tamped down her joy. Rather than sporting a giddy smile, she slowly exhaled, nodding while forcing her lips into a prim line. “Did you and the senior sisters meet?”

  “We did.”

  Heart pounding loud enough for her to hear it in her ears, while Sister Agnes sat behind her imposing oak desk, Mary scooted to the front of her chair. And? She longed to blurt the question, but didn’t. More modern convents encouraged sharing of feelings through conversation, but Our Blessed Mother followed a strict, traditional set of rules, both in
behavior and dress. During the day, the sisters worked in the small local hospital and orphanage founded by their most generous benefactors, Camilla and Vicente Rodriguez. By night, after evening prayers, silence was required in order to foster deeper spiritual reflection. There were no mirrors and beyond general cleanliness, personal grooming was discouraged.

  Sister Agnes leaned forward, clasping her hands atop her desk.

  When she sighed, Mary Margaret’s heart sank. She’d been through this too many times not to know what came next.

  “Dear Sister, you know we love you and appreciate all that you do, but please understand that you came to us as a young girl who never—”

  “No!” Mary Margaret shocked even herself by slapping her palms atop the imposing desk. “I’m tired of hearing that just because I’ve never been anywhere else, that I’m somehow different. I don’t want to go anywhere else. This is my home. You and the other sisters . . .” Her voice cracked. “You are my family.”

  “Child . . .” Sister Agnes left her chair to enfold Mary Margaret in a hug. “Please try to understand this decision wasn’t easy—for any of us. We love you. You are a bright spot in all of our days. But when authorities brought you to us after you having lost your parents, we expected you to return to America as soon as family arrived. When they didn’t . . .” She stepped back to shrug. “Yes, we became your family. But that doesn’t mean you’re meant to spend your entire life in the order. You’re so young.” She tidied Mary Margaret’s eternally askew wimple and black veil. “Taking your final vows is a serious matter. Tonight, during your prayers, look inward, my child. Ask yourself if you truly desire to spend your life in the service of God, or if you are merely here because you feel you have nowhere else to go.”

  Everett woke to a dry mouth that tasted like wallpaper paste.

  His eyes took forever to focus.

  His head throbbed like he’d been on a two-day bender, but then the events of the previous night rushed back. Had the black widow drugged him?

  He sat up in a narrow, hospital-type bed, raising his hand for a morning scratch, only to find both wrists cuffed to the bed’s metal rails. This ordinarily wouldn’t have been an issue, as he kept modified bobby pins in both side pockets of his cargo pants, but while he’d been out, Everett had been stripped of all of his gear and clothing and now wore a standard-issue pale green hospital gown.

  He scanned the room.

  Whitewashed stone walls. A tall, thin stained glass window not wide enough for him to squeeze through. A nightstand holding a lamp and Bible. A rolling metal tray loaded with a sweating, stainless steel water pitcher and an empty glass. A closed door faced him, as did a picture of smiling Jesus with his arms outstretched to a gathering of children.

  “When you get a sec,” he mumbled to the painting, “I could use a hand.”

  As if on cue, the door swung open.

  An angel entered.

  Holy shit. Everett was pretty sure it broke all kinds of rules to find a nun attractive, but this one had big blue eyes, full, kissable lips and a complexion so creamy she appeared to be made of porcelain. He closed his eyes for a sec to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating, but sure enough, she was still there and still hot. Even better—bobby pins held her nun hat in place. All he needed was one to pick his cuffs, then get the hell out of Dodge.

  She froze with her hand on the old-fashioned brass doorknob. Where was he? In the black widow’s charity hospital? She had balls.

  “You’re awake,” his angel said in perfect English with what he could have sworn held a hint of a deep Texas accent.

  “You’re American?”

  She nodded, approaching with a blood pressure cuff. A stethoscope hung like a necklace around her white-collared throat. “My parents were missionaries. We moved to Columbia when I was in sixth grade.” She wrapped her small, nimble fingers around his bicep, fitting the blood pressure cuff. Had his resulting bolt of awareness been due to an actual attraction to a nun or the drugs? He opted for the drugs. He’d done some crazy shit in his days, but getting attached to a woman who was already married to God wasn’t his thing.

  Still . . . That didn’t mean he couldn’t sweet talk her for information—or even secure unwitting help in making a quick escape.

  Her eyes widened while studying the cuffs trapping him in the bed. He took that to mean handcuffed patients weren’t all that common. Interesting. What the hell kind of game was Camilla Rodriguez playing?

  Everett cleared his throat. “You mentioned your parents were missionaries. What are they doing now?”

  She froze. For an awkward few seconds, their gazes locked. It was too damned long, but not nearly long enough. “Unless the local cemetery suffered a natural disaster that failed to make the news, I would imagine they’re both still in their graves.”

  Ouch. Wrong approach. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course. How could you?” Was it his imagination, or was she pumping the cuff too damned full? When he winced, she let off the pressure, pressing the business-end of her stethoscope against his inner elbow.

  “My folks passed when I was ten. How old were you?” The lie stung. But he needed a conversational ice breaker. If he were to have any chance of getting out of here, befriending the nun could be key. Thankfully, Doris and Fred were as active as ever in their Boca Raton retirement condo.

  “Twelve. I’m sorry for your loss, as well.” Yahtzee. Her tone had softened.

  “What happened? Mine died in a car wreck.”

  Tears shone in her eyes. He was an ass. I’m sorry, his conscience said when his mouth couldn’t. “They were trying to locate an orphaned child’s grandparents when what they thought was a village turned out to be a drug smuggler’s encampment. They were both shot on sight.”

  Christ . . . “You witnessed this?”

  She noted his blood pressure on a chart, then shook her head. “Thankfully, I was in school that afternoon. But if I hadn’t been, I assume I would also be dead. Word travels fast. When family back in Texas delivered one excuse after another for why they couldn’t come get me, Sister Agnes took me in, and I never looked back. The church is my only way forward.”

  “Wow . . .” Everett rarely found himself at a loss for words, but even he wasn’t sure where to go from there. All he’d needed was a bobby pin, but she’d delivered much more. Part of herself. Which was the last thing he wanted. During his early days in the Navy, he’d fallen hard for a woman, only to learn through the grapevine she hadn’t wanted a real marriage, but government health and retirement benefits. Since then, he’d adopted a strict no-commitment policy in regard to all members of the fairer sex. How lucky was he that this angel was already committed to the Big Guy? “So then you didn’t actually plan on becoming a nun? It just sort of happened?”

  She paled as if he’d slapped her, then spun with a flash of red Converse to leave the room. Had he struck a nerve? Maybe that was his in?

  “Hey!” he shouted after her. “I’m sorry. Come back!”

  She did not.

  3

  MARY MARGARET ROUNDED the corner away from her new patient’s room and leaned hard against the century-old stone wall, letting the comforting coolness seep through her habit’s heavy wool. The last American she’d helped treat was a photographer who, while capturing wildlife stills, had fallen backwards over one of the mountainous region’s many cliffs. If local hunters hadn’t found him and carried him in, he might have died from a simple break to his right leg. He’d been a nice man. Charles. But nothing about him had turned her insides topsy-turvy and made her forget to breathe.

  Why was Everett Black even here? Where had he come from? Why was he cuffed to his bed? Strangers to their area were always a fun topic of mealtime conversation, yet not one of her fellow sisters had spoken a word about this man other than instructing her to regularly take his vitals.

  Which reminded her, she’d failed to check his temperature or pulse.

  Hugging the man’s chart to her chest,
she forced her breathing to slow. Clearly, she was still upset by her meeting with Sister Agnes. To so soon after have a stranger casually echo essentially the same sentiments—that the only reason she aspired to be a nun was because she had nowhere else to go and had never known any other life—had been disturbing She loved her life here at the convent and hospital. She loved serving people of all ages. It made her feel as if in some small way, she were a living extension of the precious hand of God.

  Eyes closed, she said a quick prayer for forgiveness. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper with Everett Black. She returned to his room to take the rest of his vitals. All without saying another word.

  That didn’t mean she didn’t feel the heavy weight of his dark brown stare. Or a strange humming ache throughout her body that came from simply touching her fingers to his wrist to take his pulse. All it really meant was that Mary Margaret was determined to prove herself the best nun anyone had ever seen—starting now, by caring for this man. This awful man who she instinctively knew held the power to unravel parts of her spirit, as if her resolve were no stronger than the yarn from a hand-knitted sweater.

  Part of the reason Sister Agnes’s kind admonishment had been so upsetting was because deep down, Mary Margaret feared she might be right. And that fact stung.

  “I’m sorry.” Everett Black’s deep voice startled her. “I never meant to dredge up what was obviously a painful part of your past.”

  She shrugged while adding his pulse to his chart. “It’s okay. It happened a long time ago. Now, I try to remember only the good times.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  As only a select few would, he very well could understand the grief stemming from losing both parents at once. The fact saddened her as much as it joined them in a macabre way.

  “Why are you here?” she blurted. “I mean, beyond your injury, why have you come to Piapoco?”