Run, Hide, Escape: The Navy Seals Team One Romantic Thrillers, #1

By Angelin Sydney

Run, Hide, Escape is unputdownable from beginning to end.

Former Navy Seals Frank "Dog" Wright is recovering from PTSD in the safety and tranquillity of his sanctuary, a shack deep in the Appalachian Mountain Ranges.

But his time alone is interrupted by the ghostly spirit of his deceased Team Leader, the legendary Joseph "Tennessee" Coleman.

His message? 'Save Anita for me."
Anita Ferguson is Tennessee's aunt.

Initially, Frank refuses to listen. He digs his heels in until he could no longer ignore the persistent haunting appeals from his former Boss.

Finally, Frank accepts the task, but now he has a problem. How does he explain to Anita that her dead nephew is speaking to him and telling him to protect her?

He rehearses while he waits for her: 'Hey, your nephew's ghost sent me to keep you safe.'  It sounds daft. More to the point, he sounds as though he needs to be institutionalised. 

Eventually, he is able to convince Anita that he is telling the truth and he isn't insane. 

She allows him to shadow her for a day. Thankfully she did because her life is suddenly upended when someone shot at her.

From then on, it is up to Frank to keep her safe and to get to the bottom of who wants her dead. It would take all his special forces skills to do so.

Would he be able to keep her safe?
And, would there be a chance for them to be together?

To find out, get a copy NOW.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angelin Sydney
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393973980

Angelin Sydney

Before becoming a full-time author, Angelin Sydney was one of the most prolific contributors to fanfiction and fictionpress where her compelling style of story-telling had strong followings. She was a journalist for a daily business paper in the Philippines. Since moving to Australia many years ago, she has had numerous incarnations. She was a banker, insurance seller, housing loan broker, home-stay mother to hundreds of international students, small business operator, casual kitchen hand and a nanny. She’s really been around. Her most consistent role, however, is being a mother to four wonderful people. Sadly, one of them has gone ahead, leaving her to write stories to help others to heal, laugh, hope, and continue to dream. In all honesty, the only thing active about her is her imagination. It is as fertile as the rice fields of the Philippines where she was born. About Her Stories They are original, funny, swoon-worthy, and thrilling to the core. She’s the self-styled queen of romantic comedy and romantic thriller. Follow her on Twitter: @Angelin_Sydney and Instagram: writingangel

Book preview

RUN

1: The Presence  

IT HAD RAINED ALL NIGHT in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee. Outside his tiny makeshift house, the moss-covered ground would be slippery and boggy that morning, so Frank opted to stay indoors. There was no point going out for a hike.

He had been living at his off-the-grid address for close to three months. There, time seemed to stand still, which didn’t bother him one little bit. He preferred this solitary, stress-free existence to the bustle of city living. Moving into this mountain home in the Great Smokies was the best thing he had done since leaving the U.S. Navy’s elite SEALs.

He moved closer to the glass window, which was dripping with condensation. He couldn’t see much; everything was shrouded in mist.

It was weird, he thought, that he should feel very at home here. He had expected that he would feel morose to be continually reminded of Tennessee, his former Team Leader in SEAL Team One. They had been closer than blood brothers, and now he was gone.

Frank heated his drinking water on a stove that used bottled gas. As he waited for it to boil, he flipped through a set of documents that was lying on a reclaimed table that was as sturdy and unassuming as the man who had shaped it.

The documents itemised everything Tennessee had bequeathed to him. It included this shack and the land it was built on, a hundred and four acres in all. The tiny house had rudimentary furniture, much of which was made of repurposed everyday items. The wooden chairs, six of them, were all mismatched, probably salvaged from the tip. They were hardy though. Ever the practical man, Tennessee had painted them with whatever colour was handy at that time. There were a couple of green ones, a black one, and a white one. Two had been distressed with sandpaper to highlight the layers of different colours they once had.

There was also cash in the bank, but on his first night, Frank had found more under the thin mattress of a metal cot. He hadn’t been surprised when he made that discovery. He would have been disappointed had there not been any money squirrelled away, because Tennessee was that kind of guy.

Frank himself had been homeless for months suffering from PTSD, yet even he had some money cached in some obscure places—one never knew when that might come in handy.

The SUV, a Toyota Land Cruiser, had been left to him, too. It was the love of Tennessee’s life.

There was also a substantial share fund being managed by a brokerage firm. Tennessee’s aunt, lawyer Anita Ferguson, was presently busy transferring these stocks to Frank’s name.

Speaking of Anita, Frank still couldn’t get over the fact that she was, in fact, ten years younger than her nephew. But if one were to go by their looks, she looked twenty years younger. It wasn’t surprising, since she had led a sheltered life compared to her nephew. Special Forces didn’t allow much beauty rest.

And how very attractive.

He was a little distracted by thoughts of her. For a millisecond, he entertained the thought of asking her out but quickly swatted the idea away as tragic.

He glanced down; there were more items listed on the legal paper. He had felt guilty about being the sole recipient of Tennessee’s assets. The first thing that had crossed his mind was, what about his relatives?

Eventually, he came to accept the gifts with immense gratitude because, presumably, his former Team Leader had been of sound mind when he wrote his Will, so all Frank could do was be thankful.

In time, he would learn that Tennessee was orphaned at an early age, which was what saw him join the U.S. Navy at just seventeen. He was born Joseph Coleman, the only child of Robert and Jacinta Coleman. His military legend had grown so larger-than-life that no one referred to him by his given name. To those who had the honour of serving with him, he was just Tennessee, named after the state in which he was born and raised.

That night, the wind howled ferociously, and it poured steadily.

Despite the weather, Frank slept soundly to the music of rain bashing against the corrugated iron. It reminded him of his boyhood.

Around midnight, he felt someone sit on the bed next to him.

It was a thin mattress, so it wasn’t a depression that he felt, but a large presence. He shot up on the bed frightened out of his skin.

I’m losing my mind.

The intangible presence seemed to hover; he sensed it urging him.

Go to Anita; she’s in danger.

‘Fuck off,’ he said to no one. He got out of bed to drink a glass of water. The presence was still there, just standing at his shoulder.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Frank asked angrily. ‘I knew this was too good to be true. Why me? Why me?’

The only sound that he could hear was the branches of trees smashing against each other as the wind buffeted the mountainous area.

But, then, he also heard a whisper, and it gave him goosebumps.

Because you’re loyal, Dog. Save Anita for me.

2: Five Months Earlier

UNABLE TO GO TO SLEEP, Frank’s mind flashed back to an earlier time. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on, but the memories intruded uninvited, nevertheless. And they stuck around like leeches draining his lifeblood. The scenes played out in his mind like a movie.

Sometimes, the flashbacks were in black and white. Sometimes in Technicolor. The pictures in his mind showed bursts and flashes of gunfire and gushes of blood, like tomato sauce coming out of a smashed jar.

THE FIVE OF THEM HAD come to Somalia to fulfil a vow: to return Orion’s remains to his wife and family. This promise had taken six long months to execute, and now they were seconds away from loading the body bag into the rigid-hulled inflatable boat.

Bernard Duck Cameron, Clearance Diver with the Royal Australian Navy, and Joseph Tennessee Coleman were in the water swimming towards them. They pulled alongside them a body bag that contained the remains of Navy SEAL Jake Orion Drury.

He, along with Zed and Cat, held their collective breath as they waited for the guys to make it to them. It felt like an eternity. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Once Duck and Tennessee got onboard, and they had hauled the body bag into the RHIB, they allowed themselves to feel euphoric, fist bumping and hugging each other.

However, their triumphant celebration was short-lived.

They heard it: a short, sharp whistle. They paused momentarily, their hearts in their throats. There was no doubt in their minds what it meant—a warning and a call to arms. They received confirmation from each other, an acknowledgement in their eyes that each had heard it.

‘Fuck, we’ve been sprung,’ Duck said.

One massive shit had hit the proverbial fan, but Tennessee still had to make a snide remark.

‘There he goes again with his convict English.’ It didn’t matter that they were just seconds into a full-blown cluster-fuck; banter goes a long way for team morale.

They sniggered but didn’t waste any time.

Duck quickly positioned himself at the controls. He didn’t have to warn them to hold tight. They knew what to do; they had rehearsed this a gazillion times in rough seas and dangerous conditions.

Within seconds, the RHIB was skipping over the water at tremendous speed.

They securely strapped themselves to the gunwale, their trusty old AK-47s at the ready.

While Duck was focused on the direction they were heading, he and the rest kept their eyes on the shoreline where armed men were rushing towards the water to check out what the warning whistle was about. It wasn’t rocket science. They could guess what those men were thinking—they who were on the boat were foreigners trying to flee.

Frank gulped as someone in the crowd raised an automatic weapon and fired. It had produced an impressive display of firepower. It alerted scores of other fighters in the area. Soon, boats of all shapes and sizes were speeding towards them.

They had previously intended to find a secure location to wait out the daylight, but that was no longer going to happen. It was time for Plan B.

Duck had expertly handled the RHIB, speeding across the water so fast it lifted off the waves.

They were being chased on all sides, being fired upon in the increasing daylight.

There was an element of fatalism in them; who lived or died would be a lottery from thereon.

Duck had to stay upright to drive the vessel.

Frank thought as he glanced at the back of the Australian, If he gets hit, that’s it for him; no reset button.

But it was true for all of them, not just the Australian, even if they were crouched behind the gunwale for now.

Duck weaved the inflatable in the water as bullets whizzed wide. All it would take was one lucky shot. One stray bullet, but who was worried about that?

Not them, not today. Not at that moment. That day, all that mattered was getting out of hell. At that moment, they had, as one unit, pushed all other thoughts aside and concentrated on the present.

The enemies were firing indiscriminately, counting on a lucky shot.

Undeterred, Duck kept control of the throttle while the other members of the SEAL team prepare for a fight to the death.

They lay on their bellies on the gunwale, one man on each side, straddling it. With self-control born out of discipline and extreme training, they didn’t fire back with their AKs. There was no point wasting a good bullet that wouldn’t hit anything but air. They were saving their ammunition for a much better hit rate.

Duck had kept weaving, making them a harder target. Mentally switched on, thinking speed and velocity, he angled for the right spot to squeeze between two of the three fast boats coming right at them. He made a calculated gamble.

‘Hold tight y’all,’ Duck warned, then headed straight for the middle one. With nerves of steel, he pushed the RHIB, hoping that the skipper of the other boat would lose his nerve and swerve.

With just twenty feet to go, the other skipper didn’t seem fazed, and for a second, Frank thought Duck might have left it too late to prevent a smash-up.

It’ll be a quick death at least.

The other skipper suddenly lost his nerve at the last minute. He veered to avoid Duck and slammed right into the other boat instead. The smaller of two boats went flying. Men fell out, screaming, their weapons still firing as they somersaulted in the air. The vessel slammed into the water with a heavy thud, upside down. The bigger boat tilted sideways, spinning out of control as the skipper lost his footing.

Tennessee fired his AK at the last of the three boats, which was coming at them from the left. He aimed at the boat rather than the men; it was a far bigger target. His AK was on full-automatic. With a rate of fire of six hundred rounds per minute, all he had to do was to wait for the right time.

At ridiculous speed, the two boats passed each other. As they did so, Tennessee squeezed the trigger. He hit the target; holes appeared on its hull, all in a row like connect-the-dots. Seconds later it erupted into a ball of fire. A 7.62 x 39mm round had found the gas tank.

Two of the boats from behind were gaining on them. He wasted one.

Frank felt exhaustion come over him as the others, even with no hope of ever catching up to them, remained relentless in their pursuit. Tennessee must have seen Frank’s expression, because he said, ‘I’ll see you at my hide in the Appalachians.’

Frank nodded with an exhausted grin.

Then, suddenly, there was a flash of horror!

There was a thunderous boom from behind, followed by the soft, hair-raising, whistling sound effect of a rocket as it flew from the launcher.

‘RPG! Incoming!’ They had both shouted at once.

Their Aussie pilot heard their unified screams.

Creating more distance was the solution, but the problem was their inflatable couldn’t go any faster if Duck tried. He was already gunning it at maximum speed. At the rate they were burning fuel, it was very likely that they wouldn’t make it back to Kenya.

Duck wouldn’t let that simple fact get in the way of a good evade and escape story. He went for it, weaving and dramatically changing course. Crosswinds, even as low as seven miles per hour, could mess up a gunner’s estimate. At a range beyond one hundred and eighty metres, the probability of a first-round hit would be reduced to fifty per cent.

The maximum effective range of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher was five hundred metres for stationary targets and three hundred metres for moving targets. Maximum range was nine hundred and twenty metres, at which point the projectile would self-destruct. Truly, it was all down to distance and not being an easy target.

Duck focused his mental and physical energies into that, willing and driving the Zodiac beyond its maximum power.

The first missile went wide. The second was much closer.

The first gunner had reloaded. This time, the 85mm rocket-assisted grenade landed so close its explosion on the water lifted the inflatable in the air, tossing Tennessee out of the vessel in the process.

Frank’s heart palpitated wildly in shock. One second ago Tennessee was beside him, and then he was gone. It took a couple of seconds for Frank to process what had happened, and only because of the almighty splash that followed as Tennessee slammed heavily into the water.

‘Tennessee!’ he screamed.

Duck didn’t know what had happened, but he told them later that he had felt the horror of it. He had turned slightly to see what had happened and glimpsed a body bobbing in the water, half submerged. He had wanted to turn around but Zed, who was now automatically in command by seniority, stopped him.

‘Keep going,’ Zed had said, ‘that’s what he would want us to do.’

‘No,’ he had said in fury, angered at Zed’s decision to abandon Tennessee.

It was Cat, the teammate he was always at odds with, who made him see how futile it was to go back for their Team Leader.

‘Do the math, buddy. At the speed we’re going—’

He knew, of course, so he fell into Cat’s arms—drained and resigned.

Then, how was this for irony?

After all that, the chase suddenly ended. It was so random and cruel. So f’ing cruel.

After the gunfight and the adrenaline had subsided somewhat, Zed rubbed his back and squeezed his shoulder to console him.

‘It is what it is,’ Zed had said to him.

He tears kept pouring then, as they do now.

THE RHIB RAN OUT OF GAS right at the border of Kenya. They were beyond exhausted, but the only way to get back to Lamu was to row. They removed the engine and destroyed its moving parts before tossing it into the sea. This was done so, if they were met with more bad fortune, no one could use their own high-powered engine to chase them.

There was no point asking how far there was to row or how long before they reached Lamu. The knowing wouldn’t help. Everyone just had to dig deep. This was why wannabe Special Forces did what they did in the initial stages of their selection and training.

Their muscles were burning after hours of rowing. Thankfully, Cat spotted a familiar man skippering a dhow from a distance. He had a boatload of tourists with him. It was the same guy who had offered them a sailing safari when they were in the preparation stages of their mission.

They put their weapons in the water along with anything else that looked suspicious.

Cat waved at the toothless skipper, who smiled and waved back at them with enthusiasm. He cupped his hands around his mouth and in broken English yelled that he was heading back to Lamu with his tourists.

They must have been quite a sight, because the tourists stood to gawk at them with expressions of confusion and intrigue, wondering what on Earth they were doing.

As they neared each other, the boater laughed and said something in African that may have meant, You silly idiots, why are you rowing in a fat dinghy?

Cat got an idea; he threw a rope to his toothless friend.

‘Tow us back to Lamu, and we’ll pay you for a safari trip.’

THEY SPOTTED THERESE, their CIA contact, dressed in native attire standing on the shore. No acknowledgement passed between them. One look at them and she knew what had happened because the crew was minus one.

At the wharf, Cat asked the skipper, ‘How much?’

The man wouldn’t take the cash; he wanted the inflatable.

Cat had to explain that they didn’t own it. The skipper wasn’t convinced. He took the money anyway, but his eyes were still on the Zodiac.

They dragged the inflatable out of the water and hauled it back to the warehouse. Along the way, people’s eyes had followed them as they whispered among themselves. A group of young men looked especially interested. They could intuitively hear the observers’ brains working overtime, plotting how to obtain the inflatable.

Inside the warehouse, they undertook the task of destroying it. If they didn’t, it would end up stolen and on the black market.

On a table, there was food and beer in a bucket of icy water. Therese had organised it for them, knowing that they wouldn’t have had anything decent to eat in the last thirty-six hours.

Duck hobbled over to the table. His left leg, the one that had been amputated above the knee,