Team 52 Box Set: Books 1-3 Read online

  “Will Grayson approve the trade?” Smith asked Lachlan.

  Jonah Grayson was the Director of Team 52. His background was a bit of a mystery, but Smith knew the guy wore a suit like a second skin, and navigated Washington politics like a pro. Still, something about the man told Smith that he could handle himself in a back alley as well.

  Lachlan drew in a deep breath. “No chance in hell.”

  Smith cursed. “So, we just throw Kinsey under a fucking bus.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “I won’t approve handing a dangerous piece of ancient technology over to criminals,” a deep voice drawled.

  Smith turned his head and watched the man himself stride into the room.

  The big boss wore dark trousers and a snow-white shirt that Smith suspected cost as much as Smith’s entire wardrobe of jeans and T-shirts. He had coal-black hair, piercing green eyes, bronze skin, and a sharp face Smith guessed women would find appealing.

  Smith’s hands curled into fists.

  “But I will approve a rescue mission,” Jonah said.

  Air shuddered out of Smith.

  The director looked at Ty. “You have six hours to create a reasonable copy of the artifact, then we need to prepare to get back to Las Vegas.”

  A wide smile broke out on Ty’s face. “You’re going to trade a fake for Kinsey.” The scientist nodded. “I’m on it.”

  Smith relaxed a bit. It was risky, but it could work. He’d make it work.

  “We have an incoming call,” Brooks called out. “Las Vegas Metropolitan Police.”

  Beside Smith, Blair stiffened. “Shit.”

  A man’s rugged face appeared on the screen. He wore a black shirt, and had a shiny badge hanging from a chain around his neck. The police detective was their contact at LVMPD.

  “Detective MacKade,” Jonah drawled.

  “Director Grayson.” MacKade’s brown gaze moved across the room, lingering for a second on Blair, before he zeroed in on Lachlan.

  “I have intel for you. Last night, some bikers reported a woman running from two men at a bar in northern Las Vegas. Rough area. Mainly industrial.”

  Smith straightened. “Anyone help her?”

  “Shit,” the detective muttered. “So, she is yours. From the description, I guessed.”

  “Did anyone help her?” Smith repeated, a little louder.

  MacKade shook his head. “My informant was an undercover cop. He’s been undercover with a biker gang for months. The bikers had no interest in wading in, and my man couldn’t risk blowing his cover.”

  Smith gritted his teeth and slammed a fist onto the counter. “So they fucking left her.”

  “Smith.” Lachlan waited a beat. “We have a recovery plan. You know who these guys were?”

  MacKade shook his head.

  “You get any more sightings, we’d appreciate a heads-up,” Lachlan said.

  MacKade nodded, then hesitated. “My guy said she’d been beaten up pretty badly. He barely held out from going after the guys who nabbed her. Said she was fighting them.”

  Smith looked down at his boots, sucking in air. Kinsey beaten, fighting for her life.

  “Thanks for the info.” Jonah inclined his head.

  “Good luck,” MacKade said. “Bring her home.” He ended the video call.

  “I’ll get to work on the artifact decoy.” Ty headed for the door.

  Nat rose to follow. “I’ll help.”

  Smith raised his head, his gaze hitting Lachlan’s. He wanted to get out there. He wanted Kinsey back.

  Lachlan nodded. “We have a rescue mission to plan.”

  Chapter Two

  Smith checked his weapons for probably the tenth time. First, he went over his high-tech, CXM7 rifle. It wasn’t just an assault rifle, but also had an integrated grenade launcher and shotgun. Next, he checked his grenades, then his SIG Sauer. Finally, he added a few grenades to the pockets on his vest.

  He was already wearing his all-black tactical gear. He was in the team locker room, the rest of the team around him, all prepping for the mission. Everyone’s faces were set and focused.

  I’m coming, Kinsey. Hold on.

  Smith slammed his locker door closed. He’d actually managed a short nap while Ty worked to make the decoy artifact. He knew that Kinsey needed him focused and alert, not exhausted. He sat on the metal bench between the lockers and lifted the left leg of his cargo pants up.

  He triple-checked his high-tech prosthetic. On his last mission as a SEAL, things had gotten fucked. Beyond recognition. That included Smith’s left foot. He’d still managed to drag an unconscious, bleeding teammate to their extraction point. But afterward, he’d lost his foot and ankle.

  And for a while, Smith had thought his life was over. He’d spent a year having surgery, physical therapy, drinking, and feeling pretty damn sorry for himself. Until Team 52 had come knocking, with a second chance to do what he was good at.

  And the chance for Ty to fit him with a prosthetic that was integrated into Smith’s nervous system and was almost better than the foot he’d lost.

  Smith lowered his pant leg, stood, and swung his rifle onto his shoulder. He slid his SIG into his thigh holster, and then headed out of the locker room. Soon, the entire team—minus Seth—regrouped in the rec room.

  Ty arrived, carrying a large, black, metal box. Beside him was the head of the warehouse storage facility, Arlo Green. The older, grizzled, former military man was carrying a matching black box. The men set the boxes on a table and opened them.

  Smith studied the artifacts—both real and fake. They looked like small, solid-looking trumpets made of a silver metal. They started out narrow, flaring out to a wider end. He couldn’t tell them apart.

  “This artifact’s been stored here a long time.” Arlo pointed to the real thing. “From before the team was even put together.”

  It was incredible to think that this thing could lift stones weighing tons into the air. Still, Smith had seen some mind-blowing things since he’d been recruited for Team 52.

  “Good job, Ty,” Lachlan said.

  The scientist shrugged. “I am a genius.”

  Blair nodded. “They look identical to me.”

  “They try to test it, and it ain’t gonna levitate shit.” Arlo’s voice sounded like gravel, as he closed the case.

  Lachlan nodded. “We’ll be long gone with Kinsey before they try to do that.” He looked at the team, grabbing the handles on the case. “Let’s move out.”

  Finally. Smith was edgy, eager. He headed into the elevator, and soon they were zooming up to the surface.

  Axel brushed his fingers over his rifle. “About damn time.”

  They wasted no time exiting the aircraft hangar and heading to their experimental jet helicopter. The X8 was a sleek, gray aircraft with the wide body and jet engines of a plane, and the dual co-axial rotors of a helicopter. It was fast, maneuverable, and had a long range.

  Lachlan loaded the box in the storage area at the back of the X8. Then they all climbed in the side door, settling into the seats. Blair moved to the cockpit. She and Seth were the team pilots. Today, she’d be flying solo.

  Smith sat back in his seat, his hands resting on his rifle.

  Lachlan grabbed an overhead handhold, his face intense. “Let’s bring Kinsey home.”

  They would. Smith was going to ensure she was safe and secure.

  Moments later, the X8 lifted off, moving smoothly into the air. They swept out over the desert, heading toward Las Vegas.

  Lachlan touched his ear. They all wore state-of-the-art microdot earpieces. “Go ahead, Brooks.”

  Smith watched, waiting to hear the update.

  Lachlan nodded. “Thanks.” He looked at Smith, Axel, and Callie. “Brooks studied the satellite feed and had Nellis send up a drone. Warehouse is empty, and he’s not picking up any heat signatures. So, it doesn’t look like they have an ambush planned.”

  Smith frowned. “No heat signatures? Then where�
��s Kinsey?”

  Lachlan shrugged a shoulder. “Likely they’ll move her into position just before the deadline.”

  Smith pulled in a breath. In just a few hours, they’d have her back.

  Shifting into a seat, Lachlan raised his voice. “We’ll go to—”

  All of a sudden, alarms blared from the cockpit. Lachlan jumped to his feet. “Mason?”

  “Fuck,” Blair shouted. “We have a missile incoming!”

  Missile. Smith’s body went stiff.

  “Evasive maneuvers,” Lachlan yelled.

  “Strap in,” Blair shouted back.

  Lachlan dived into his seat, strapping in. The jet-copter veered sharply left, throwing Smith back against his chair. He gripped the armrests. He generally liked flying, but he hated when things got rough.

  The X8 veered to the right, and he heard Axel mutter a curse in Spanish. Blair was shouting from the cockpit as she worked to avoid the missile.

  Boom.

  The aircraft shuddered under the impact, then started to spin.

  “We’re hit,” Blair yelled.

  Smith gritted his teeth, the X8 whirling in a sickening death spiral. He turned his head to look out the window. Flames and smoke were rising from the wing. Beyond that, lay the broad expanse of brown desert.

  “Brace positions,” Blair called out.

  “Fuck,” Axel bit out from behind Smith.

  Smith braced, but all he could think about was Kinsey. That smiling, beautiful face. He’d had a chance at that piece of heaven, and he’d stupidly pushed her away.

  The X8 hit the desert sand.

  Metal crunched and glass broke.

  Smith was thrown hard against his harness and something glanced off his head. Everything went black.

  Kinsey drew her knees up to her chest, the handcuff on her wrist clanking against the pipes she was cuffed to. At least it was only one wrist. Still, the wrist was red and raw from her attempts to escape.

  They’d moved her hours ago. She’d been shuffled into a blacked-out truck, driven for hours, and was now in some sort of dilapidated cabin. From the glimpse she’d gotten when her captors had yanked her out of the truck, they were somewhere in the desert.

  It was quiet. No city sounds. No cars driving past. Nothing.

  She grabbed the warm soda beside her and took a sip. It wasn’t much, but the soda and potato chips they’d given her to eat was better than nothing.

  Her face was still throbbing, but she mostly ignored it. She sat back in her shadowed corner of an empty room she guessed was a bedroom. As far as she could tell, the rustic cabin only had three rooms—the living room with a modest kitchen, a tiny bathroom, and the room she was in. Surreptitiously, she looked through the open doorway.

  Two of her four captors were sitting at a rickety table in the living area.

  She’d never seen any of them before, and she’d done her best to memorize their faces. She knew there were others, as she’d heard them talking on the phone. From what she could tell, most of them were Italian-American, with bronze skin, dark hair, and American accents. They reminded her of the man she’d had a couple of unfortunate dates with a few weeks back. He’d had the same dark good looks. Shame they’d hidden a pushy, cloying personality.

  The oldest of the group had dark, curly hair and black eyes, and appeared to be the boss. She’d nicknamed him Mr. Big.

  Mr. Short was about her height, with a thin, scrawny body. He looked strung out and excited by everything.

  Mr. Stocky was buff, with no neck. He looked like he spent too much time in the gym. He had a tattoo down his arm of some sort of snake, and from what she could tell, he looked like he was ex-military. She’d gotten pretty good at picking out who was military after working with Team 52.

  Mr. Cool smiled all the time, and had even, handsome features. He thought pretty highly of himself. His curly hair flopped over his forehead, almost into his velvet-brown eyes, and a dashing scar bisected one eyebrow.

  Mr. Big and Mr. Stocky had gone out at least an hour ago, super excited about something. She knew they were keeping in touch via a radio with the pair who stayed with her.

  The radio on the table flared to life. “Base, this is Rover. Bingo! The bird is down.”

  The two men at the table grinned and started cheering.

  Kinsey licked her lips and strained to hear more. What was going on now?

  “Fucking hotshots aren’t so hot when their fancy helicopter is in pieces on the desert sand,” Mr. Cool boasted. He bumped his knuckles against Mr. Short’s.

  Kinsey’s heart stopped. No. They couldn’t be talking about Team 52.

  Mr. Cool looked her way, smirking. “Our boys just bested your boys.”

  Bile rose in her throat. She’d held the spark of hope inside her that the team was coming to rescue her.

  Now…

  She couldn’t let herself think about it. She shut her thoughts down. All she had to focus on was getting out of there. If Team 52 had really been taken down, she only had herself to depend on.

  Kinsey shifted, and her cuffs rattled against the pipes. She wasn’t going anywhere. Despair rose up inside her. She was trapped and helpless. And this was all her fault. If she hadn’t fallen for their stupid trick at the Bunker and let them in…

  She’d put Team 52 in danger. Smith, Blair, and the others.

  Tears pricked her eyes. They couldn’t be dead. Big, beautiful Smith couldn’t be gone.

  The minutes ticked by and she frantically tried to think of something she could do. She stared at the handcuffs. She couldn’t do anything cuffed to this darn pipe.

  She cleared her throat. “I need to pee.”

  Mr. Short heaved out an annoyed sigh. He rose, pulling a key from his pocket. He quickly uncuffed her and dragged her toward the bathroom.

  “Be quick.” He slammed the door shut after her.

  In the bathroom, Kinsey eyed the small, grimy window. She tried to open it, but after a few grunts, she realized that it had been painted shut.

  A threadbare hand towel hung limply off the rail. She grabbed it and wrapped it around her fist. Swallowing, she punched the glass. To her ears, the breaking sound was loud and her heart hammered like a drum in her ears. God, had they heard it?

  No one rushed in.

  She carefully knocked more glass out. She had no idea what she’d do once she got out, but she couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.

  Swallowing, she looked out. There was nothing but dry, dusty desert surrounding the cabin. God, where the hell would she go?

  It didn’t matter. One step at a time. Get out, then run. She sized up the window, pressing one foot to the wall. This was going to be tight.

  The door flew open.

  “Nuh-uh.” Mr. Cool grabbed her, yanking her out of the room. He flung her and she went flying, falling onto her hands and knees. Cool strode toward her, his handsome face twisted, aggression in every line of his body.

  Kinsey jumped up. She was done being the victim.

  She’d trained with Team 52. Blair had showed her plenty of moves. Letting that training take over, Kinsey kicked out. She hit Mr. Cool between the legs and he froze, making a pained sound. When he dropped to his knees, she followed with a chop to the back of the head. It reverberated up her arm.

  He dropped into the fetal position, groaning.

  Mr. Short appeared. “What the fuck?”

  Before she could think what to do next, he backhanded her. She flew to the side, her shoulder slamming into the wall. Ow.

  He grabbed a bunch of her shirt and dragged her back to the empty bedroom where she’d been before. He wasn’t gentle when he re-cuffed her to the exposed pipes.

  “Bitch.” Mr. Cool was back on his feet, doubled over a little. His lips were tight with pain, and he wasn’t so cool now.

  “Forget it,” Short said. “You got bested by a girl. Best to pretend it didn’t happen, man.”

  Cool lifted his chin, his jaw working. “Lucky I’m in a good mo
od, seeing as your people are splattered across the desert.” He laughed.

  The sound grated and Mr. Short joined in. They slammed the door closed, and Kinsey wrapped her arms around herself and curled up in despair.

  Chapter Three

  Smith opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. It throbbed. Fuck.

  He was still strapped to his seat, his shoulders and head aching. He moved, pain shooting through him again, and he groaned.

  Shoving down the pain, he looked around, taking in the shattered ruins of the X8. Air whistled through his teeth. Fuck. They’d crashed.

  He heard a deep groan nearby. “Axel?”

  Unclipping his harness, Smith staggered to his feet. He wrenched some wreckage out of the way. He saw Axel’s black-clad legs protruding from under a seat. He pulled the seat off his teammate and helped the other man up.

  Axel groaned and pressed a hand to his bleeding head. “I know I must be alive. If I was dead, I wouldn’t hurt this much.”

  Smith spotted Lachlan still in his seat. He wasn’t moving. Damn. Smith glanced at the back of the X8. Callie was sprawled on the floor.

  “Help Callie.”

  Axel nodded and moved. Smith pressed his fingers to Lachlan’s throat. The man’s pulse was strong and steady. He was alive, but unconscious.

  Smith spun to the front of the aircraft. There was too much debris blocking the way to the cockpit. “Blair? Can you hear me?”

  No response.

  He tugged at the torn metal, but it was wedged in place. “Blair!” Smith touched his ear. “Blair? Brooks? You there?” He waited, hearing deafening silence. “Brooks?”

  Nothing.

  Smith hoped to hell that Blair was okay. He knew she was as tough as titanium, but they’d crashed hard.

  “Callie’s got a bump on the back of her head, but she seems okay.” Axel had the unconscious Callie slumped in a seat. He was gripping the back of one chair, clutching his CXM.

  “Lachlan’s out too. No word from Blair and we’ve got no comms.”

  “We got shot down.” Axel’s tone was filled with rage.