Page 34 of Kai (Alpha Heroes #13)

Kai

I tracked the intruders on my Tak, calculating their approach vector as they navigated the intricate reef, keeping my weapon braced and ready to shoot.

They came in fast without giving away bubbles or ripples.

This combination indicated advanced technology.

I was chill and hospitable most of the time, but I couldn’t afford to take any chances as long as Cece was on my catamaran.

It struck me that protecting her life had become more than a mission. We’d been about to make love on the beach before my Tak alarmed. I’d been ready. Me . Ready at last. To move on. To seize the fate my grandmother had predicted and accept the universe’s gift.

Right now, leaving my post to warn Cece of a potential threat was not an option. Maybe it was better this way. With a little luck, Cece had surrendered to her exhaustion and was out of harm’s way.

She was an asset in any situation, but I could take care of whatever this was quietly and quickly, then bring her up to speed after the danger had passed.

For now, she was better off in her berth, tucked away safely, and hopefully enjoying some sweet dreams that entailed me bringing her to pleasure.

A glance at my Tak showed me the threat slowing down and then coming to a stop some fifty feet away from Serenity .

That was close enough. A faint ripple disturbed the placid surface above the spot, one that would not be visible to the casual observer and could easily be mistaken as part of the natural landscape.

I knew better.

Aiming my carbine, I put my eye to the scope and acquired my target.

I kept my sights on the spot, even as a sequence of infrared lights, visible only to my scope, glowed dimly a few feet beneath the water.

The signals gave me pause, but I had to be careful, especially since the shield had failed and there was a chance we’d been detected.

I activated my carbine’s side-mounted laser interrogator, focused the scope on the light sequence, and got three green flashes around the ocular for verification.

In reply, I clicked twice on my infrared laser, but I kept myself concealed and my aim on my target.

If the NWO’s mercs thought they could dupe me, they were about to find out how wrong they were.

I’d fought them long enough to understand their capabilities.

They’d intercepted our intel before, and they regularly used deceit as a weapon.

The dome of a neoprene-covered head emerged slowly out of the flat surf.

I homed my scope on the invisible identifier patch sewn into the top of the high-tech wetsuit.

It confirmed with a green flash in my ocular.

I let out another breath and waited behind the surfboard with the patience of a concealed sniper and the same deadly intent.

I refused to give away my position just yet.

The head rose higher in the water to reveal a dive mask and the dual hose of a rebreather’s distinctive mouthpiece—DSV for short.

A pair of gloved hands slowly pierced the flat surface and rose in the air to show no weapons.

I didn’t make a sound, but the operator in the water released his mouthpiece.

“Oh, K-maaaan,” he called out, his familiar voice breaking the night’s silence.

Shit . He wasn’t super loud, but he wasn’t quiet either.

“It’s meeeee,” the male voice singsonged as the man treaded water. “Your favorite, friendly neighborhood bro.” When I didn’t reply, he went on. “You want it official?”

Hell yeah, I wanted it official. Cece was on my boat, for fuck’s sake.

“Okay, all right.” A familiar smirk flashed beneath the man’s mask, right before he shifted into his Marine mode. “ID,” he barked. “One, oh, three, seven, one. Juliet, Golf, Mike. Friendly in the water.”

Javier Guzman—aka Goof, Goofman, or Goodman, as we called him these days—was a tease and a clown, but he was also best in business and lethal to boot.

If he was joking around, I was one hundred percent sure he’d cleared any possibilities of additional threats in the area.

A glance at my Tak verified this. Even so, I kept my carbine on target.

“Keep the volume down,” I whisper-shouted, relying on the cove’s natural echo to carry my words to Guzman.

“Fine,” Guzman whispered-shouted back. “Are you gonna deactivate your defenses or what?”

“Not gonna deactivate shit,” I replied. “There are two of you. Who’s with you?”

“I bet the blockhead ten bucks that you weren’t gonna miss his approach,” Guzman said, using a normal voice. “He just wanted to test you, I guess.”

This could mean only one person.

“Granite better show me his face right now,” I snapped, aware of the flicker of fury and the surge of protectiveness that sharpened my voice. I resented being tested in the middle of my mission, particularly one involving Cece.

“Aren’t we in a Neanderthal mood tonight?” Guzman widened his smirk. “Not your usual, but hey, I know how it feels. So…”

He slapped his hand on the water three times. Another head emerged from the water, this one even larger than the first. The second diver also held his hands up in the air.

“Identify,” I ordered, even though by now I knew who I was dealing with.

The man released the DSV from his mouth. “Ten, five, six, niner.” Micah Bozeman’s grave voice echoed over the water. “Golf, Romeo, Alpha. Friendly in the water.”

I punched an icon on my Tak, deactivating the underwater explosive charges I’d deployed around Serenity .

Buried in the sand, these charges wouldn’t damage the boat beyond a few moments of rough waters, and yet they would unleash a powerful underwater blast that would repel and kill intruders on contact.

“You’re clear to proceed.” I stepped out from behind the surfboard and lowered my weapon.

“I told you he’d be pissed,” Guzman muttered to the man swimming next to him as they breast-stroked toward Serenity , keeping their faces above water. “But did you listen to dear old Goof? Nope. It’ll be your damn fault if we end up as fish confetti.”

A grunt was Bozeman’s only reply.

Micah Bozeman was Dagger’s second in command at Tracker Team. Technically speaking, Bozeman, also known as Granite, outranked me, but this was my mission. So, also technically speaking, I was in charge.

I was never gonna shoot at my teammates, but even a guy like me could get trigger-happy when he was on protective duty. Even more so after the shield had gone down and my fate was in play. This usually chill dude was officially peeved.

“Do you guys enjoy playing Russian roulette?” I asked as Guzman reached the stern. “You realize I could’ve shot first and asked questions later? Not to mention, there are enough explosives planted around here to blast you both to hell.”

“No shit, dude.” Guzman took off his fins and tossed them on the swimming platform, where they landed with a hollow thud . “We got a firsthand look at your handiwork. It took us a while to get around them. Permission to come aboard?”

“Permission granted.” I hugged my weapon to my chest.

Guzman planted his hands, and using the sheer strength of his flexed biceps, hoisted himself up, along with all the gear strapped to his muscular form. He twisted sideways at the last minute and landed his ass on the platform with another thump that made the boat bob on the tranquil surf.

“Keep it down, will you?” I scolded him. “And fold out the ladder. It’s there for a reason, showoff.”

“Just testing the old guns.” Guzman smirked up at me and then took a moment to drop the ladder in the water for his diving buddy. He clutched his fins by the straps and stood to his full height.

Water cascaded down his next-gen combat dive suit. It encased a tall, muscular warrior in his prime, geared for full mission mode. Water also dribbled from his forward-facing, top-of-the-line rebreather, and dripped from the side tubes of his DSV, now hanging loose over his chest.

For stealth missions, the closed-circuit oxygen rebreather was a favorite of special operators. BB’s latest version had a compact, ergonomic design that increased maneuverability and didn’t produce sound or bubbles. Good thing I’d had my surveillance systems up and running.

Guzman climbed Serenity ’s stairs with his carbine hooked to his vest, his sidearm strapped to his right thigh, and his combat knife fastened to his calf. He looked like the definition of a high-tech special forces operator, capable of terrifying anyone in sight.

When he reached the deck, he pulled down his hood and slid off his mask, revealing his brown hair, shaped in a military-style high and tight. His broad face, brown eyes, and teasing eyebrows combined with his cocky smirk to broadcast his badass reputation.

The aforementioned badass reputation had once extended to the ladies. The strapping hunk made an art of impressing the Bravo Whiskeys—the females that hung around military bases looking for a good time. However, Guzman’s gallivanting years were now behind him. The dude was out of circulation.

These days, he limited his once ample range to one woman only. It was as if every other female in the world had disappeared from the planet. His attention—and his heart—belonged to Missy Astor.

“Permission to come aboard,” Bozeman’s grave voice announced as he reached the ladder and shed his fins.

“Granted.”

The deck bobbed beneath my feet as Bozeman’s giant form mounted the boat, all six-foot-seven inches of massive.

At an inch taller than me, Guzman cut an impressive figure, but Bozeman was next-level huge.

A cross between a basketball center and an offensive lineman, Granite towered over all of us at Tracker Team.