Hard Landing
Authors: Marliss Melton
Hard Landing
The Echo Platoon Series
Book Two
by
Marliss Melton
Bestselling, Award-winning Author
Published by
ePublishing Works!
ISBN: 978-1-61417-724-1
By payment of required fees, you have been granted the
non
-exclusive,
non
-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.
Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Copyright © 2015 by Marliss Melton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Cover & eBook design by eBook Prep
www.ebookprep.com
Table of Contents
Excerpt from FRIENDLY FIRE (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3)
Dedication
I dedicate this story to the eleven servicemen who died in the Black Hawk helicopter crash that took place on Friday, March 13, 2015. Among those who perished were Marines from the 2nd Special Operations Battalion of the Marine Corps' Special Operations Command at Camp Lejeune. And among those seven Marines was a very special man—Master Sgt. Thomas Saunders, whom I knew when he was just a toddler. As his teenaged neighbor, I babysat Thomas and his sweet younger sister. Even then, I recognized that he was destined to be a remarkable young man and a blessing to his amazing parents. He could not have asked for a finer family. At three, he could recite the names dinosaurs I had never heard of. Last year, the Marine Corps Association and Foundation named him the "critical skills operator of the year." Our country will be forever grateful for his service, but we will never get over his loss and the loss of his brave comrades. Surely God's legions are invincible now.
Chapter 1
Brantley Adams stepped out of his 1986 Ford Bronco, clutching his contribution to the party—a case of his favorite bottled beer. Checking that he'd cracked the windows of his vintage truck to counteract the sweltering Virginia Beach heat, he locked it up and marched toward the sprawling white brick ranch-style house where his commander lived.
Lieutenant Commander Max McDougal—the Team-guys called him Mad Max whenever he was out of earshot—headed up Brant's task unit. He didn't command all of SEAL Team 12, just Brant's task unit, but he carried a great deal of influence and enjoyed throwing his weight around. Hosting parties on every national holiday was only one of the strategies he used to exercise his power. Brant grumbled under his breath. Here he was, forced to make an appearance at another of his CO's parties when he would rather have been enjoying his day off.
Approaching the man's whitewashed house, he had to admit Max owned a lovely piece of property, about an acre in size and situated on Rudee Lake. The ranch-style home looked humble in comparison to the elaborate homes on either side. The pool in the backyard was one of its nicest features, as was the private pier and the dry dock for Max's boat. A three-car garage housed his Tahoe and his kit car. Max loved his toys. He also laid claim to the prettiest, most pleasant wife on planet Earth, who happened to be Brant's good friend. Unfortunately, the way he saw it, the CO treated his wife as another of his ego-enhancing possessions.
As he traversed the paving stones bisecting the lush lawn, the option of playing hooky slowed his step. These social functions weren't mandatory, but if he wanted to stay on Max's good side—and no one wanted to get on the CO's bad side—he should probably show his face. Not that he needed to kiss the CO's butt, as he had zero desire to be promoted to senior chief—too much responsibility. He was happy to remain a chief for as long as he stayed on the Teams.
Then why am I here?
he asked himself. The answer occurred to him at once: He wanted to visit with Rebecca, Max's wife.
As usual, he'd have to be careful not to spend too much time alone with her. He rolled his eyes with annoyance. Max watched Rebecca jealously—not that he needed to. She seemed as true blue as apple pie, and Brant had no intention of making any moves on his commander's wife. Who would be that stupid? He merely wanted to hang out with her—period, the end. Was that asking too much? With a shake of his head, he ascended the front stoop, artfully graced with potted geraniums that were indicative of Rebecca's nurturing touch.
He didn't bother knocking. Everyone knew just to come on in. Once inside the foyer, he could see straight through the great room and out the wall of rear windows to the throng gathered around the shell-shaped pool. The house itself looked deserted, with the exception of the one dark-haired woman he was hoping to see—
Rebecca
. She entered the eating area via the French doors, and his outlook suddenly improved.
Stepping inside, he cut right through the formal parlor and dining room, keeping out of sight of those out back. Arriving at the rear of the kitchen, he leaned against the opening to watch her slice additional celery for the veggie plate.
What was it about Rebecca McDougal that made him smile inside? He wasn't attracted to her sexually—not much anyway. She wasn't his type, which tended to be blondes with big knockers. Rebecca projected femininity, but she didn't ooze it the way some women did. She represented everything that was honest, considerate, and classy.
He liked the way her glossy brown hair—today caught up in a ponytail—brushed her shoulders when she moved. The length of her neck, the dainty cleft in her chin, and the slight scoop of her nose created a profile he never tired of looking at.
"Hey," he said, cluing her in to his presence.
To his astonishment, she jumped like a startled cat. The knife in her hand came close to slicing her cheek open as she whirled to face him, lifting up her hands simultaneously as if to ward him off.
Whoa, sister
.
"Bronco," she breathed, her gaze softening and her hands lowering. "God, you scared me."
"Sorry." He stepped closer, taking in her strained smile and the way she broke eye contact almost right away. Hosting these enormous parties couldn't be easy. The skin of her face, usually soft and incandescent, looked like it was pulled taut over her forehead and especially around her mouth. "How are you doing?" he asked her.
"Good." She glanced at him again, her dimples flashing momentarily, but they promptly disappeared as she took in the box of beer hanging from his left hand. "The cooler's out back, if you want to stick those in there." Turning her back to him, she went back to slicing celery.
Brant didn't move. Everything about her greeting struck him as off. She hadn't asked him how he was doing, for one thing, and she'd never
not
shown an interest in what was going on in his life. An awkward silence ensued, but then she broke it, asking, "Where's your date?"