Next To Die Read online

  Copyright © 2007 by Marliss Arruda

  Excerpt from Don’t Let Go copyright © 2007 by Marliss Arruda

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Warner Forever

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  The Warner Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: August 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-446-19875-2

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowlegments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Don’t Let Go

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  RAVE REVIEWS FOR

  MARLISS MELTON

  AND HER NOVELS

  TIME TO RUN

  “Melton . . . doesn’t miss a beat in this involving story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Melton’s compelling protagonists propel the gritty and realistic storytelling . . . Excellent!”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “This book will twist all of your heartstrings . . . you won’t be able to put TIME TO RUN down . . . a must-read.”

  —FreshFiction.com

  “Exceedingly riveting . . . enthralling . . . you’ll find your-self racing through it from one exciting scene to the next . . . my favorite.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “An exciting tale starring a fine lead couple . . . fans will enjoy this wonderful thriller.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Exciting and emotionally moving . . . gripping.”

  —Bookloons Reviews

  “Edgy contemporary romantic suspense . . . emotional fireworks as well as some fancy sniper shooting.”

  —Booklist

  IN THE DARK

  “Fantastic . . . keeps you riveted . . . will keep you guessing . . . Well done!”

  —OnceUponARomance.net

  “A strong thriller . . . Action-packed . . . will keep the audience on the edge of their seats.”

  —Blether.com

  “Hooked me from the first page . . . filled with romance, suspense, and characters who will pull you in and never let you go.”

  —Lisa Jackson, New York Times

  bestselling author of Absolute Fear

  “Packed with action from the first page to the last . . . a must.”

  —Novel Talk

  “[A] hard-charging romantic thriller as warm and heady as a Caribbean sun-soaked bay.”

  —Bookpage

  “Picking up where Forget Me Not left off . . . danger, passion, and adventure.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  FORGET ME NOT

  “Refreshing . . . fine writing, likable characters, and realistic emotions.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An intriguing romantic suspense . . . Readers will take great delight.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “The gifted Melton does an excellent job building emotion, danger, and tension in her transfixing novel.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine

  “Entertaining . . . moving and passionate . . . with plenty of action and suspense . . . Forget Me Not is a winner; don’t miss it.”

  —RomRevToday.com

  “A wonderful book, touching at all the right heartstrings. I highly recommend it!”

  —Heather Graham, author of Dead on the Dance Floor

  “Amazing . . . fantastic . . . a riveting plot, engaging characters, and unforgettable love story . . . not to be missed.”

  —NewandUsedBooks.com

  “A thrilling romance.”

  —TheBestReviews.com

  “Riveting . . . you’ll definitely want to pick this one up.”

  —RomanceJunkies.com

  “Wonderful, thrilling . . . loved it!”

  —RomanceReviewsMag.com

  Also by Marliss Melton

  Forget Me Not

  In the Dark

  Time to Run

  In loving memory of the three Navy SEALs who died on

  June 28, 2005, while on a reconnaissance mission in

  support of Operation Redwing, in Afghanistan.

  Michael Murphy

  Danny Dietz

  James L. Suh

  and the sixteen Special Operators who sought to rescue

  them and also perished.

  Lastly, to the sole survivor—

  This is not your story, but your heroism inspired it.

  God love you, Chief.

  Carry on, down the Good Road.

  “A light shines above them, and an angel comes down to them—beckoning them to come. The angel is dressed in a WWI-style infantryman’s uniform. He tells them, without words, not to worry. Warriors take care of their own in Heaven, he says. They have been expected, and there is a big reception planned.”

  A Tribute to the Fallen, CMDR Mark Divine

  Acknowlegments

  There are so many souls who deserve credit for helping me write this story. The most outstanding contributor would be a reader-turned-collaborator, Janie Hawkins. Janie, you have painted my world in Technicolor! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your contributions to my characters, their stories, and every last line of this book. Here’s to the next project; I can’t wait!

  Thank you, Kevin McPartland, Special Agent FBI, retired. You were with me at the conception of this story and answered all of my silly questions along the way, with patient faithfulness. I’m thinking you deserve a story of your own . . .

  Commander Mark Divine, thank you, sir, for checking the accuracy of my facts and for your unintentional influence when you wrote in your Tribute, “What if it were me?” In some ways, this story answers that question.

  Thank you, Sam the SEAL, for taking the time to hash out details that changed the whole gist of my story and made it more real.

  For Sharon, who helped tremendously in determining the personality types of my characters and for the articles you’ve sent my way.

  For Cathy, Kerri, and Lisa P., who helped me get started, and everyone else who has contributed a portion of this shared project.

  Thanks to physical therapist, Carrie Hewitt, for contributing your expertise and making Joe’s therapy more credible.

  Above all, thank you, loyal readers, for urging me to carry on with the SEAL series. Without you, I’d be writing to myself. Bless you all!

  Prologue

  Northern Afghanistan

  “Break contact,” Joe whispered through the interteam radio, and he and the three SEALs in his command stepped off the trail to descend as quietly as possible into the wooded ravine. Wending through the cypress forest that glowed green in his night vision goggles, Joe counted the seconds that elapsed before the staybehind—the claymore that he’d placed on the trail—explo
ded.

  “. . . nineteen, twenty.”

  Bang! The loud crack was accompanied by the screams of Taliban insurgents, the same men who’d surprised them four miles up the trail when they swarmed from an underground cave. The SEALs had retreated, taking and returning heavy fire. It was a long way back to the landing zone, made longer still with forty men or more, equipped with night vision capabilities, raining bullets at them in a firestorm that echoed off the surrounding mountains.

  The SEALs had dropped their backpacks on the trail to speed their retreat. And with just six rounds of ammo per man, they were running low on both ammunition and energy by the time the landing zone, or LZ, came into view.

  There it was, on a plateau on the adjacent mountain, the side of which had been riddled by aerial cannon fire that incinerated the scrub brush and cratered the earth. The only way to access the LZ was to pass through a precipitous wooded ravine and climb the other side.

  Once deep within the ravine, the SEALs remained hidden and, for the time being, safe. In the wake of the claymore’s destruction, gunfire gave way to moans and shouts. Wind whistled eerily through the limbs of stunted evergreens.

  If the SEALs were lucky, the explosion and their subsequent disappearance would send the insurgents back into their caves, away from the LZ.

  This reconnaissance mission, thought Joe, darkly, had been cursed from the moment Chief Harlan spiked a high fever, prompting Joe to take his place. The Spectre gunship that had swept this mountain an hour prior to their drop-off had completely overlooked the presence of unfriendlies on the trail. Worse still, the gunship was nowhere within range of the four SEALs now. If it were, one simple radio call would bring the AC-130 screaming to their rescue like a mother eagle protecting her fledglings. Its minigun was capable of knocking out the forty or so insurgents with the precision of a surgeon’s blade.

  Driven into retreat, Joe’s squad had only one option remaining: to call for extraction. If the insurgents didn’t leave before the helicopter’s arrival, and if—God forbid—they were carrying rocket-propelled grenades in their arsenal, then this cursed mission would officially be classified a goatfuck.

  At the bottom of the ravine, Joe checked his watch. The window was open, the satellite in position, for Curry to get on the SATCOM radio and request a hot extract.

  “Bravo, report,” Joe said into his mouthpiece.

  “Curry here,” whispered the corpsman.

  “Smiley,” acknowledged their sniper.

  “Nikko,” said their gunner. “Shit!”

  Joe hesitated at the swear word. “What is it?”

  “I wondered what the fuck was running down my leg. Oh, shit!”

  That didn’t sound good. “Rally up,” Joe instructed, bringing the squad into a tight perimeter.

  Four shadows drifted together. Nikko was breathing hard. He collapsed next to Curry the corpsman, who kneeled to assess his wound. Joe did the same, taking in the severity of the hit that was illuminated by Curry’s penlight. “Shit” was not the expletive that leaped into Joe’s mind. Nikko’d taken a bullet in the thigh, close to the femoral artery. Given the gunner’s pallor, he’d lost a lot of blood already. Didn’t it figure, since they would have to climb with the agility of mountain goats to make it up to the LZ?

  They needed to call for extraction immediately, or Nikko was a goner.

  With Curry frantically stanching the gunner’s wound, Joe took the radio from him, set it up a short distance to one side, and made the call to their task force commander, Captain Lucas.

  “Helo’s on the way,” Lucas assured him.

  “Blackhawk?” Joe requested, praying for a sleek and stealthy craft.

  “Can’t get one in the air,” Lucas admitted grimly. “We’re sending in a Chinook.”

  With a sinking sensation in his gut, Joe dismantled the SATCOM. The thunderous arrival of the Chinook helicopter would not be overlooked by the insurgents they’d left on the trail, who—given the way this mission was going—most certainly carried missiles.

  “Let’s go,” said Joe, infusing his tone with optimism. As the officer in charge, his most important job was to keep the squad motivated and functioning smoothly.

  The men scurried to obey him. Curry pulled Nikko to his feet and propped him under one arm. Smiley stepped forward and relieved the gunner of his M60, which would lighten Curry’s load, but the corpsman still faced the daunting task of getting both him and Nikko up to the LZ.

  Armed with Nikko’s gun, Smiley took point. Lean and agile, the twenty-year-old darted out of the cover of trees to tackle the near-vertical incline. Ascending fifty meters, he ducked behind a boulder and shouldered his rifle, covering Nikko and Curry, who hobbled painstakingly after him, leapfrogging his position and pausing farther up the ridge.

  Then it was Joe’s turn. Physically, he was as fit and robust as the younger men, but the soil slipped beneath his boots. His raw-boned body strained for speed as he dug his toes in, scrambling hand over hand to reach his destination, an outcropping of stone that resembled a Tyrannosaurus rex. Over the pounding of his heart, he heard the whop-whop of the approaching helo.

  No doubt the insurgents could hear it, too. Come on, he urged both the helo and his men. It wouldn’t take the enemy long to spy the four SEALs clambering up the opposite mountain, not with a four-ton helicopter landing at its height. To make matters worse, the first hint of dawn was silvering the sky.

  It was Smiley’s turn to take off. He pushed to his feet and bounded up the incline, seemingly unhindered by the weight of Nikko’s M60. At the same time, the Chinook surged closer, its blades chopping the air like the wings of a thousand angels. Any minute now its shape would materialize out of the charcoal canopy above.

  Yet Nikko and Curry struggled now to make their ascent. Joe was about to abandon his position to give Curry a hand, when both men slipped and took a tumble that had Joe scrambling after them in consternation.

  The Chinook thundered into view, yet they were nowhere near the LZ yet.

  “Curry, Nikko!” Joe called, reaching them at last.

  “I couldn’t hold him, sir,” Curry explained. Nikko had passed out.

  “Get his feet,” Joe urged. Together they heaved and struggled to carry Nikko uphill.

  But then a half-dozen missiles streaked overhead. “Son of a bitch!” He and Curry threw themselves on top of Nikko. Grenades punctured the very earth around them, sending up spumes of rock that peppered their backsides as they succumbed to gravity.

  Finding himself intact, Joe peeked up at the helo. It still awaited them, rotors whirring impatiently. “Let’s go!” he yelled, preparing to haul Nikko, without stop, to the ridge.

  Neither Nikko nor Curry made reply. Joe nudged aside his NVGs. “Curry!” he cried in disbelief. Curry’s skull had been crushed, presumably by falling rock.

  He thumbed his mike. “Smiley, get down here. Both men are down.”

  He glanced up again, praying the Chinook would linger. Smiley’s shadow made a quick and steady descent as four more missiles sizzled across the ravine at them.

  Joe gritted his teeth and ducked, bracing himself. Boom, boom, boom, boom! The mountainside trembled. It vomited rock and dirt, all of which fell in a merciless rain on Joe’s back. When he looked up, Smiley was gone. Joe groped for his NVGs, but they were gone, too.

  His last hope was the Chinook. Its ramp was down, with reinforcements pouring out, bearing grenade launchers. Joe pushed to his knees and waved them down. He needed hands to pull his men up, get them into the belly of the Chinook, and bear them home again—dead or alive.

  But it wasn’t to be.

  Another missile shot across the ravine like a falling star. And there wasn’t even time to make a wish.

  In the next instant, the helicopter exploded into a giant fireball that mushroomed outward, blasting Joe with heat and flaming shrapnel. The force of the explosion thrust him backward, tearing him away from Nikko and Curry.

  He felt himself falling.r />
  He hit the ground and rolled. The earth beneath him was vertical. He grappled to slow his descent, but he was moving too quickly, glancing over rock and shrub. He tucked and rolled, protecting his head and extremities. He crashed through the boughs of an evergreen, struck the base of a tree, bounced off it, and rolled again.

  He dropped, hit the ground, and spun around, sliding on a carpet of foliage.

  At last, he skidded to a stop.

  Cracking open an eyelid, he found himself peering through cedar limbs to see flames dancing from the remains of the Chinook. Spumes of smoke darkened the brightening sky. Joe sucked a slow and painful breath into his lungs. The stench of burned flesh made him cringe.

  Jubilant cheers floated over the ravine, followed by volleys of gunfire as the guerillas sounded their victory.

  Oh, Jesus. Oh, God.

  Not a soul aboard or near the Chinook could have survived that explosion. His men were either dead or dying.

  So this is defeat, Joe thought, losing consciousness. It was worse than anything he’d imagined.

  Chapter One

  The chiming of Lieutenant Penelope Price’s doorbell elicited a groan. She had just sunk onto her overstuffed couch to watch the six o’clock news while indulging in a slice of cheesecake. Penny’s hands and feet ached. She deserved a little downtime, having worked extra hours at the naval hospital, seeing to her own patients plus those of the physical therapist on maternity leave.

  “It better not be a salesman,” she muttered, leaving the cheesecake on the coffee table. As she crossed her two-story foyer toward the front door, she tightened the sash on her velour bathrobe. Perhaps it was her neighbor, the Navy SEAL, back from his assignment and looking for his cat.

  But the face peering through the door’s glass oval wasn’t that of the too-hot-to-handle Commander Joe Montgomery. It was Penny’s twenty-four-year-old drama queen of a little sister, Ophelia.

  “Hi,” said Penny, braced for trouble. “What’s up?” Crisp October air surged inside, bearing the scent of dried leaves.

  “Um, I need to stay here a while,” Ophelia answered, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Can I park my car in your garage?”