Forget Me Not

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright © 2004 by Marliss Amida

Excerpt from
In the Dark
copyright © 2004 by Marliss Arruda.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover art and design by Dale Fioretto

Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee

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First Paperback Printing: December 2004

10 987654321

With gratitude to the men and women in the United States Armed Services, especially to those in the U.S. Special Forces, for their bravery and sacrifice.

Dedicated to Chris Nally, "Ozzy," a former Allied Special Forces Ranger, whose dedication to freedom left him with post-traumatic stress disorder and chronic fatigue syndrome. Your sacrifice has not been overlooked. Thank you from all of us who live free.

And for Akin Arruda, U.S. Navy Ret. I couldn't love you more.

Special thanks to the following Navy SEALs for your professional input and encouragement:

Greg
Jeff Stratton and his wife, Paula Stratton
and Stephen White

My hero was inspired by Major Dave Reynolds, USMC. For a man with no gray crayon in his coloring box, you sure colored my imagination!

Heartfelt thanks to my fabulous agent, Pamela Ahearn.

And lastly, thank you to my editor, Devi Pillai, for remarking on the potential in this story and knowing how to summon it. You have a gift that will serve you well!

G
unfire rained down on the four-man SEAL squad, ricocheting off the concrete floor and metal walls of the warehouse in Pyongyang Harbor, North Korea. Bullets punctured holes in the barrels of crude oil stacked between massive metal containers, spewing slick liquid all over the floor.

Lieutenant Gabriel Renault, code name Jaguar, ducked behind a barrel as a bullet chipped the wooden pallet beside him.
Who the hell?
he wondered, his heart beating fast beneath his wet suit. Local tangos—terrorists—weren't likely to shoot up their own warehouse just to ward off intruders. Nor could they have seen the SEALs in the dark, camouflaged as they were to blend into the shadows.

Yet there were at least four shooters, positioned at opposite ends of the warehouse on catwalks that crisscrossed overhead. To have spied the four-man SEAL squad, they would have had to have night-vision goggles similar to Gabe's. And if that was the case, they were either lousy shooters or they had no intention of killing the SEALs, only scaring them, which didn't make sense if they were terrorists.

The executive officer's anxious whisper floated through Gabe's earpiece, sounding as uncertain as it did on the other scant missions he took part in. "Fall back," he told them.

Gabe grimaced in disgust. "We need to secure the rest of the cargo, sir," he reminded his senior officer. Christ, there were only four shooters; it wasn't like they were outnumbered. They'd faced more serious odds in the past and still fulfilled their objective.

"Negative. We'll be good with what we have. Repeat. Fall back to the SDV. Westy and Bear, do you copy?"

"Copy, sir." It was Chief Westy McCaffrey, who sounded as pissed off as Gabe was feeling.

"Roger, X-ray Oscar," Bear confirmed on a growl, using the XO's call sign.

"You two take the south exit," Miller instructed them. "Jaguar and I will take the west."

The message ended with a hiss of static that made Gabe flinch. Not again! He tapped his earpiece, concerned that his communication system, faltering for the last twenty minutes, had finally crapped out on him. "X-ray Oscar, do you copy?" he inquired, hearing nothing but static. "Shit!" He tapped the microphone three times, but no response.

At least his NVGs were working. He scanned the catwalks with the thermal sensitive goggles, spying an arm as it emerged from behind a steel girder and fired rounds in a random pattern, wreaking havoc on the barrels of oil, which emptied their contents in sluggish streams. Cautioning himself not to slip, Gabe backed out of his hiding place.

Leaving behind the fourth surface-to-air missile left a bad taste in his mouth. He finished a job, no matter what obstacles impeded the mission—and there was always something. Quitting now was an act of cowardice. Westy was a good enough sniper to take the tangos out, one by one. They hadn't even tried a distraction, for God's sake! Why carry smoke grenades if they weren't going to put them to use?

He snaked out of his cover, flattening himself against the crate that housed the fourth missile. The fact that this surface-to-air missile, or SAM, was bound for the Middle East tomorrow meant that it might ultimately be used against the United States. Leaving it in this North Korean warehouse was not an option, in his mind.

With great reluctance, he slid his hand along the crate, feeling the rough splinters prick his palm. He rounded the comer and came face-to-face with his XO, and drew back in surprise. Miller was supposed to meet him by the out point.

Even with grease paint on his face, Miller looked nervous. The whites of his eyes shone in the darkness. "Let's go," he muttered, jerking his head toward the exit.

Gabe tried to tell him that his headset wasn't working, but Miller had already turned away. Gritting his teeth, Gabe followed. Every muscle in his body quivered in frustration.

Suddenly Miller pivoted. The butt of his Heckler and Koch flashed before Gabe's eyes and made stunning impact with Gabe's right cheek. Pain lanced through him. He staggered back, losing his footing on the oil-slick floor, and went down hard, the air knocked out of him. He tasted blood in his mouth.

What the fuck?

Miller bent over him, grabbed him by the belt, and turned him forcibly onto his stomach. Gabe struggled to inflate his lungs. He struck out a foot, landing a blow to the XO's knee. The man cursed and grabbed him harder.

The pain in Gabe's head seemed to swell, making thought impossible.
What the hell is happening?
He couldn't get beyond the question. Why was Miller turning on him? A tie-tie, a plastic cuff, snared his left wrist, then his right. Blood filled Ms mouth. He spat out a tooth and sucked a painful breath into his lungs. "What the hell are you doing, Miller?" he growled, thrashing as the man groped in the dark to latch his ankles together.

Miller didn't answer him. Through the waves of pain beating at his skull, Gabe was aware that Miller had immobilized him. The gunfire that had compelled their retreat had ceased. That held some significance, but in his pain-filled haze, Gabe couldn't fathom what it was.

Miller yanked his head back. Gabe could feel a tremor in the man's hands as he fumbled with duct tape. A sticky strip imprisoned Ms mouth, making speech impossible. He gagged on the blood mat had nowhere to go but down his throat.

Miller released him and turned away. Gabe watched with dawning horror as the man stepped into the open and gave an all-clear gesture to the men on the crosswalks. Over the pounding in his head, Gabe heard their approach.

But his eyes were glued to Miller's back as he grappled with the realization that his own XO was the one stealing weapons worldwide. For months now, SEALs had gone to interdicts various armaments, only to find them missing. And it was Miller who was stealing them. Weak-willed, sallow-faced Miller!

He could hardly believe it. But there he was, telling the shadowy figures around him to take the SAM in its packaging out the side exit and be quick about it.

Gabe fought to remain conscious, to identify the other looters. But the darkness hovering at the comers of his eyes warned him that he was about to pass out. Miller turned, looking at him one more time before he, too, drifted away, presumably to rendezvous with Gabe's unwitting teammates.

Gabe lay with his left cheek in a puddle of oil. The NVGs had been knocked askew and were lying across his right ear. His arms and legs were bound. His mouth continued to bleed. He would never have the chance to tell the world who was stealing weapons.

For whatever reason, Miller had left him here to die. Why? It took a moment for his battered brain to supply an answer. It had to be the memo he'd found on Miller's desk pertaining
to the
requisition
of an
additional sub. He'd queried Miller about it, thinking the man was too inept to know that one sub provided sufficient cargo space for four missiles. He'd never suspected his XO was plotting to take a missile for himself.

With oil oozing between his eyelids and into his Kevlar diving suit, Gabe heard a noise that made every hair on his head stand on end. Someone somewhere struck a match. If he couldn't find a way to get out of there, he was going to burn like coal doused in lighter fluid.

He didn't know what was worse—burning alive or realizing he'd never have the chance to tell Helen he loved her.

H
elen immersed herself in the bath so that only her eyes and nose cleared the layer of bubbles. Gazing down the length of the tub, she studied Gabe's picture, standing amid a ring of dancing candles. Mixed emotions stormed her heart as she stared into his eyes.

Even from a distance of a few feet, the eyes in the eight-by-ten portrait mesmerized her, just as they had when she and Gabe first met. Light green with a gold starburst at the center, Gabe's eyes had given him his code name, Jaguar. They were uncannily direct, making her blush whenever he'd stared at her, which had been quite often in the beginning. But by the time he'd disappeared last year, only two years into their marriage, he'd scarcely given her the time of day. He was too wrapped up in being a SEAL platoon leader and in saving the world.

Helen blew the encroaching suds away from her mourn, sending a bubble into the, air. It drifted a moment and then disintegrated.
Like my love for you,
she thought, addressing the man in the picture.

He'd disappeared a year ago. The Navy wouldn't reveal where he'd been or the circumstances surrounding his disappearance. For twelve long months, they'd referred to him as MIA, missing-in-action, never as deceased. But all that changed last week when a young officer appeared on her doorstep bearing a flag.

With twelve full months gone by, the Navy was ready to declare Gabe dead. The flag made it official. Strange that a brand-new banner with crisp red stripes and bold stars would send Helen into shock. Not that she'd expected Gabe ever to return, but the way the flag had been folded in military fashion drove home the reality of his death like nothing else. Seeing the flag so tightly bound made it possible to imagine that Gabe's vitality had also been subdued.

Yet, on the heels of her shock came an inordinate sense of relief. She wouldn't have to surrender the newfound independence she'd discovered in recent months. She wouldn't have to give up the job that gave her so much satisfaction. She would raise her thirteen-year-old daughter alone, as she should have done in the first place.

It wasn't easy to admit, but her marriage to Gabe had been a mistake, an unnecessary detour. She'd thought she needed him to redeem herself in her parents' eyes. She'd wanted Mallory to have a father. But Gabe, with his drive to save the world, hadn't had time for a wife, let alone a stepdaughter.

Within a year of their marriage, the man who should have been her knight in shining armor had practically forgotten her. Three years in, he was dead.

So now it was over.

The mighty, indomitable Jaguar was gone, taken out by some faceless enemy..Hie flag made it evident It was time to put the past behind her and to let it go. She didn't need Gabe Renault to make her whole. She'd done just fine this past year on her own. Better man fine. And yet...