Page 1 of A SEAL's Protection
1
MARCUS
My belly grinds into the cold earth, black locust thorns raking my cheeks as I listen to the woman’s low murmur.
From my cover in the thicket, scratchy like the gorse back home, I spot her perched on a boulder at the base of the rocky outcrop. She’s bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon as she speaks into a camcorder.
Her voice has a pleasing rhythm to it, the cadence rising and falling over the burbling of the nearby stream. It’s low and soft and reminds me of whispered lullabies at bedtime.
I squeeze my eyes shut and refocus. Dozing off to the sound of my target’s voice is not what I’m getting paid for.
Her voice stops, and I wait a moment before lifting my head to peer through the thick foliage.
The woman perches on a small boulder with her back to me, displaying an utter disregard for survival basics. Never put your back to the unknown. Out here, there’s a lot of unknown, butwith a stream on one side and a rocky bank on the other, it’s common sense to face outwards.
She bends over her laptop, and I risk bringing my binoculars up for a closer look.
Through the scope, her blonde hair is thrown into focus. It hangs in a thick braid down the small of her back. She turns to the side and lifts her chin, and I get a full view of her profile. Strands of hair have broken free and tickle her round cheeks. She taps a finger on her chin, and her brow creases in a frown. Then she looks down at her laptop and types.
I keep my binoculars on her face, noting how the frown increases, then smooths as she taps away on the keyboard. Her mouth moves, and I strain to hear her voice. This isn’t the steady voice she used for the camcorder recording. I’d guess she’s muttering to herself as she types up her notes.
Suddenly she stops and looks up. Her brow knits together, and she glances around the clearing.
I pull the binoculars out of sight and duck down to my flat position. My breathing echoes around the thicket, and I notice my elevated heart rate. I focus on bringing my physiology under control and count a few minutes before I dare to look again.
When I do, the woman is on her feet wrestling with a canvas tent.
It’s crease-free and still has the store tags on it. She slices them off with a hunting knife, the blade new and shiny, and lays the instructions on the boulder. Her frown deepens, and I resist the urge to go down there and help her put her damn tent up.
Her father was right to send me. She’s a trust fund hiker who’s seen too many ‘perfect’ trips on social media.
She’s about to find out what the wilderness is really like. Chances are this gig won’t go beyond the first night. Tomorrow, she’ll hike back in the way she came and call Daddy to come and pick her up.
Disappointment rolls through me at the thought. I’ve spent the day tracking her, and it feels good to be back out in the field. Sure, it’s no Afghanistan, and the stakes aren’t as high. If I’m made, I’m more likely to get slapped than shot at. But work is work, and I love being back on a mission, even if it is to follow Allegra Simpson, the only daughter of tech billionaire Ralph Simpson.
After perusing the instructions, she snaps the tent poles together with surprising efficiency. In a few minutes, she’s got the tent set up and is using a mallet to whack the poles into the hard ground. Her arms are thick and strong, and as she hammers in the last of the poles, I’m beginning to wonder if Allegra Simpson isn’t as helpless as I first thought.
She pulls out a gas stove and cans, and these too are shiny new. All leading brands, which is what I’d expect from someone whose father is on the world’s richest men list.
It’s only her clothing that doesn’t fit the trust fund brand. She wears simple black yoga pants with a brand label down the side. But they’re worn. The fabric hugs her generous figure, and when I peer through my binoculars, I notice a worn patch on the knees and that the fabric is softer on her backside. My gaze lingers on said backside as she bends over her rucksack.
I allow myself one lingering look before I drag my binoculars away from her figure and remind myself why I’m here. Her father, a rich and powerful man, has hired me to keep his daughter safe. Not to spy on her womanly curves.
I breathe deeply to slow my heart rate and compartmentalize whatever physical attraction I’m feeling toward the target. The last thing I need out here is a distraction.
An hour later, Allegra is wrapped up in her sleeping bag around the campfire, and I’m stiff from lack of movement.
The sky is deep gray in the last throes of dusk, making it safe to move without fear of being seen.
I roll onto my side and sit up, wincing as blood flow returns to my legs. I rub my thigh where the old bullet injury still gives me trouble.
The wilderness has come alive with animals scurrying in the underbrush and insects calling to one another. The gentle burble of the stream will mask any noise I make, but I move silently, as I’ve been trained to.
My elevated position is a good one, and I walk the perimeter, scanning the terrain for the best spot to make my camp.
There’s a rocky outcrop east of Allegra’s camp that provides cover. It will also provide shelter and give me a direct line of sight to Allegra. The wind’s direction is northeast, so she won’t smell my food or hear me over the stream.
Her position is more exposed than I would have chosen, but at least she has the river on one side. This ridge line looks straight down on her, and there’s a deer trail to the south. She’s only a few feet from the main walking trail, but it’s unlikely any otherhikers will come along at this time of night, although there may be early ones tomorrow.
