Page 1 of Being Bold (Tactical Operations & Protection (TOP) Security #1)

Bo

Everett “Bo” Larson’s earpiece crackled before a voice spoke three words that promised to ruin his day, “Suicide bomber threat.”

He gave the signal for ‘message received’ and kept moving. His team was on a routine reconnaissance mission in Kandahar—or had been. That information just changed everything.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Instead of scouting for an urban security op, Bo and his teammates had a new objective—neutralize the threat.

Blaring car horns warred with the hum of generators as he walked the busy city street and waited for further instructions.

His special warfare unit had been in Afghanistan for the past six months.

He knew the work they did was important, but if he was being honest, he was ready to leave the country because of shit like this.

There was beauty here, though. A harsh, rugged one.

Everything seemed to have sharp edges—the buildings, even the mountains—and the dry landscape left everything a shade of brown, never green.

Like the sky. When it was blue, it still wasn’t clear.

A layer of dust, pollution, and smoke permeated the air so that the days passed in a haze.

It lingered above the stores he walked by, drifting out to settle over the mountain peaks like a dingy shawl surrounding the city in the distance.

These mountains were more like hills compared to the Rockies he grew up with in Bozeman. Glancing at them now, Bo thought of home. Of Montana.

Too long.

A frown tugged at the stern corners of his mouth. He’d been away too many years. Over the last half-decade, the Navy had sent him all over the world, but he’d avoided his namesake.

“Bo” was short for Bozeman. During initial training, he’d earned the nickname when his instructor thought the city sounded made up. What had started as “Boze’s Man” had been shortened to “Boze” and eventually became just “Bo” the day he’d earned his SEAL pin.

A shopkeeper called to potential customers in Pashto, pulling him out of his reverie. The exuberant man fell silent as Bo approached. Sometimes, he said hello in the Afghans’ language. Other times he chose to ignore their guarded stares. Today, he didn’t have time to win hearts and minds.

The spring sunshine warmed his broad shoulders as he followed ten feet behind his teammate at a leisurely—unthreatening—pace.

Plain clothing and the beard he’d grown out disguised Bo’s true identity.

Still, people crowding the cement walk in front of the shops moved out of his way.

He couldn’t hide that he was an outsider here.

Not with his auburn hair and sunburned skin, but he hoped his look said, “European expat” and not “Navy SEAL.”

Being the trained operator that he was, the news about the bomber had still tightened every muscle in his body—and there were a lot of them. You didn’t make it in his line of work without being in the best shape of your life.

“Confirmed sighting. Martyr’s Square.”

Well, fuck.

A traffic circle surrounded the square. It made Bo wonder if they were dealing with an SVBIED. A suicide vehicle-borne improvised explosive device would be a lot tougher to eliminate than a person on foot.

His teammate’s shoulders tensed in front of him.

The younger man had earned the nickname “Nugg,” short for golden nugget, because of his propensity to point out a lesson learned for any situation.

Afghanistan was Nugg’s first deployment, but Bo had mentored him for the last year.

They’d become close as brothers. Growing up, Bo didn’t have any, but he’d found his family with the SEALs.

When Nugg cursed, probably wondering the same thing as Bo, he spoke, knowing Nugg would hear him. “Not our first rodeo, man. Stay cool.”

This wasn’t the first time their unit had tangoed with an extremist intent on blowing themselves up.

While that should have made things easier, an unfamiliar worry gnawed at Bo’s gut.

Adrenaline surged through his veins, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Good thing he was used to setting emotions aside to focus on the mission.

Ignoring the gloom dragging at his heels, he listened to the information coming through his communications device.

He and Nugg were the closest to the location intel claimed the bomber would be.

Not that they needed the instruction, but their commander ordered them to respond to the situation.

They’d both already changed course for an intercept.

Bo started to scan the crowds in earnest as information flooded in.

“Female. Black hijab.”

A grumble moved his chest as the feeling in his gut broke past the barrier he’d erected.

He hated that extremists used female suicide bombers.

Not only was it ten times harder to pull the trigger on a woman, but that description was useless.

A black hijab described every female in this country.

They all wore scarves of some sort that covered their heads and necks.

He quickly glanced across the square and counted over fifteen women in his general vicinity who met that description.

“Have to do better than that,” he muttered, but kept walking.

He’d made it halfway around the square when he realized Nugg had pulled his disappearing act.

The guy had an innate ability to blend into the background in any situation, almost like a ghost. Normally, it impressed Bo, but at a time like this, it annoyed the hell out of him.

He was about to ask for his location when Nugg’s voice filled his ear. The words echoed from Bo’s eardrum to reverberate throughout his entire body. “Tango identified. Eleven o’clock. Corner pharmacy.”

Go time.

A fresh surge of adrenaline heightened his senses.

When he spotted Nugg’s terrorist, the woman’s face was visible, but the long, black head scarf concealed her hair, shoulders, and upper body.

She could be wearing a suicide vest with a bomb underneath it, but how could they know for sure?

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—take her life unnecessarily.

Inching forward, his hand hovered at his belt, ready to grab the pistol in the IWB he used on these missions. The inside-the-waistband holster sat by his appendix, leaving his weapon easy to reach but hard to see. “I’ve got eyes on her. Nugg, confirm target is hot.”

Nugg didn’t respond right away, and the closer Bo got, the clearer he could see the woman’s face.

Tears tracked down her cheeks while the crowd of shoppers milled around her without sparing her a glance.

He was ten paces away across the roundabout exit when her gaze met his.

Something desperate shone in her eyes, and it liquefied his gut.

“Help me,” she mouthed in Pashto.

A car drove by. The wind from its speed blew her hijab aside enough for him to see the vest she wore underneath. His gun was in his hand. Still, he hesitated. She might be wearing a bomb, but he didn’t believe she wore it willingly.

A flicker of light drew his eye, and he spotted Nugg close behind the target, weapon lifted and ready to fire. Before he could say or do anything to stop him, the woman disappeared in a cloud of smoke, and the world exploded.

The car that had just turned in front of Bo helped shelter him from the blast, but its force still picked him up and tossed him into something solid. His back connected first, then his head. The breath rushed from his lungs, and he struggled to pull more in as his ears rang and his vision swam.

A cloud of smoke and building dust darkened the sky.

Beneath it, everything was chaos. It raged around him as he attempted to sit up.

Hot pellets of pain showered his body with the movement.

When his eyes cleared, he found his left leg trapped under a flaming car door.

The sight of the fire sent a flood of adrenaline coursing through his veins to wash the shock from his body.

Frantically, he worked to shove the metal off. The slightest movement sent lances of heat shooting up his leg.

“Arrgh!” A piercing howl left his throat as the fire ate at his skin.

Gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain, he kicked the door off with his right leg. He thought he’d been in pain before, but the effort it took to move that door left him in agony so acute he couldn’t fight against it. A blackness swallowed him, and he crumpled to the ground.

With a gasping breath, Bo shot upright on the couch. His heart hammered in his chest as his head swiveled, taking in his surroundings.

Cabin. Home.

Not that horrible day four years ago.

A tortured sound—half groan, half sob—escaped his throat. He’d had the nightmare again. Only it wasn’t just a nightmare. It was his past. A past that haunted him relentlessly.

Dropping his head into his palms, he squeezed his eyes shut against the images from that day. He’d lived through torture as a SEAL, but this torment was slowly driving him to the edge of insanity. Death waited at the bottom, and it was getting harder and harder not to give in and jump.

Not that he’d take his own life, but he felt dangerously close to doing something stupid like BASE jumping at night without any lights.

After the explosion left him with a fractured tibia and third-degree burns, he’d spent nearly a year recovering.

He’d regained full use of his left leg, but scars mottled the lower half.

Though he could’ve remained a SEAL, he hadn’t been able to face his unit.

Instead, he’d gotten out of the Navy and found a new team at Tactical Operations & Protection.

TOP, as everyone in the business called it, was a leading security firm. He’d been with the company as an operator for the past three years. They did everything from personal protection to private military operations.