Page 1 of France Face-Off
Chapter 1
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
Dane “Striker” Ryan adjusted the bowtie at his throat and stared around the Baie des Anges reception hall of the Hotel Le Negresco in Nice on the southern coast of France. He’d never worn a bowtie in his life, never been to Nice and sure as hell couldn’t afford to pay the room rates at the hotel. If he’d had any other choice, he wouldn’t be a fish out of water, dressed in a monkey suit and walking into a highly publicized event attended by world leaders from all over the globe.
No, he’d be with his SEAL team, training or performing vital missions in some of the most godforsaken locations in countries these world leaders hailed from.
His chest tightened into a hard knot.
The only reason he was in France and not homeless on the streets of San Diego was because he’d been given what he hoped was a second chance, an airline ticket and a wad of cash he couldn’t refuse.
The offer couldn’t have come at a better time. On the verge of being evicted from his apartment because he couldn’t pay the rent, he’d been desperate. His job flipping hamburgers for a mom & pop burger joint hadn’t earned enough money to keep a roof over his head. His years of training with the Navy SEALs meant nothing in the civilian world. The only jobs he was suited for required a clean record.
His record was shit. Dishonorably discharged from the military, he couldn’t get employment washing dishes on a military base or in any government facility. He sure as hell couldn’t get on with any security firms, providing armed escorts to diplomats or the rich and famous.
What else was he good for? He’d never held a desk job, his truck had been repossessed and he’d been facing homelessness. He’d been sitting at McP’s pub, nursing a beer in the middle of the day while the rest of his team was gainfully employed, probably training for the next mission, when he’d gotten the call.
That fateful call.
It had come through as an unknown caller on his cellphone. Usually, he ignored such calls. But he’d applied to a number of establishments, hoping for more lucrative employment. He hadn’t been able to afford to ignore a single call. He’d used his last few bucks to buy a beer, which wasn’t nearly enough to drown the pain of his unwarranted disgrace and subsequent removal from the only job he’d ever known and loved.
“Dane Ryan?” a female voice had addressed him as soon as he’d hit the receive button.
“Speaking,” he’d said.
“I understand you’re being evicted from your apartment at the end of the week.”
He’d frowned and almost hit the button to end the call, but curiosity stayed his finger.
“Who’s this?” he’d demanded.
“Someone who knows what you did to lose your job, and the people who gave you the order to do it and then let you take the fall for them.”
That had his attention.
His eyes narrowed. “What do you know?”
“That you can’t get work because of the black mark on your record, you barely have two nickels to rub together, you need a job that pays more than minimum wage to afford an apartment in San Diego and your team called you Striker because you were the best sniper in the Navy SEALs.”
“You seem to know a lot about me,” Striker had said.
“I do,” she’d said. “I know you grew up in the foster care system, joined the Navy at the age of seventeen and made something of yourself.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who cares. Someone who knows the value of your training and commitment to doing what’s right.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Do you have a name?”
“You can call me Lucie,” she said.
“Okay, Lucie,” he’d said. “Why are you calling me, telling me things I already know?”
“Because I have a job for you.”
Striker leaned forward in his seat in the corner of the bar. “I’m listening.”
“Good. Be looking for a packet to be delivered to your apartment. You’ll receive instructions in that packet. Money has been deposited into your bank account. You’ll receive another payment upon completion of your mission.”
