Don't Let Go

Book 5: Navy SEALs

by Marliss Melton

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

DON'T GIVE UP. It's love that keeps teacher Jordan Bliss up at night: the lost love for a Venezuelan orphan named Miguel...and the memory of a Navy SEAL tearing him from her arms. Now in the U.S. and longing for her child, Jordan vows to somehow, some way, bring Miguel home. DON'T LOOK BACK. To Navy SEAL Solomon McGuire, orders are orders. But the fierce passion in Jordan's voice and the fire in her eyes when he separated her from her son haunt his dreams. Eager to make amends, Solomon promises to pull every string he can to find Miguel. Ony time will tell if Jordan can trust him and forgive him. One thing is certain: His desire for her is relentless and irresistible. And soon their indestructible love will be tested by a terrifying trap of violence... DON'T LET GO."Continuing her hot streak, Melton adds another chapter to her ongoing SEAL Team saga with Joe Montgomery's story. Besides pouring on not one romance but two, as well as gritty thrills, this complex novel also deal with the issue of survivor's guilt. Melton is rapdily proving herself a major player in the genre." -- Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine "I highly recommend this talented author!" -- Heather Graham, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: April 1, 2008

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 321

Sample

RAVE REVIEWS FOR MARLISS MELTON AND HER NOVELS

NEXT TO DIE

“A romance that sizzles.” —Publishers Weekly

“There is a lot of action and suspense . . . a work that is as exciting as it is heartwarmingly riveting.”

—Midwest Book Review

“A fast and fulfilling read . . . filled with emotion and suspense. The characters are finely drawn and the plot well crafted.” —RomRevToday.com

“Riveting suspense.” —OnceUponARomance.com

“Fast-paced thrill and challenging romances make this a winning story.” —HuntressReviews.com

“Melton brings her considerable knowledge about the military and intelligence world to this Navy SEAL series. You’ll enjoy this peek into the world—and love the romance that develops between Joe and Penny.”

—FreshFiction.com

“Another pleasing chapter in Melton’s highly addictive Navy SEALs series . . . Joe and Penny are both very appealing characters and their romance is rich and involving.”

—BookLoons.com

TIME TO RUN

“Melton . . . doesn’t miss a beat in this involving story.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Melton’s compelling protagonists propel the gritty and realistic storytelling . . . Excellent!”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“This book will twist all of your heartstrings . . . you won’t be able to put Time To Run down . . . a must-read.”

—FreshFiction.com

“Exceedingly riveting . . . enthralling . . . you’ll find yourself racing through it from one exciting scene to the next . . . my favorite.” —RomRevToday.com

“An exciting tale starring a fine lead couple . . . fans will enjoy this wonderful thriller.” —Midwest Book Review

“Exciting and emotionally moving . . . gripping.”

—Bookloons Reviews

“Edgy contemporary romantic suspense . . . emotional fireworks as well as some fancy sniper shooting.”

—Booklist

IN THE DARK

“Fantastic . . . keeps you riveted . . . will keep you guessing . . . Well done!” —OnceUponARomance.net

“A strong thriller . . . Action-packed . . . will keep the audience on the edge of their seats.” —Blether.com

“Hooked me from the first page . . . filled with romance, suspense, and characters who will pull you in and never let you go.” —Lisa Jackson, New York Times best-selling author of Absolute Fear

“Packed with action from the first page to the last . . . a must.” —Novel Talk

“[A] hard-charging romantic thriller as warm and heady as a Caribbean sun-soaked bay.” —Bookpage

“Picking up where Forget Me Not left off . . . danger, passion, and adventure.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

FORGET ME NOT

“Refreshing . . . fine writing, likable characters, and realistic emotions.” —Publishers Weekly

“An intriguing romantic suspense . . . Readers will take great delight.” —Midwest Book Review

“The gifted Melton does an excellent job building emotion, danger, and tension in her transfixing novel.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

“Entertaining . . . moving and passionate . . . with plenty of action and suspense . . . Forget Me Not is a winner; don’t miss it.” —RomRevToday.com

“A wonderful book, touching at all the right heartstrings. I highly recommend it!”

—Heather Graham, author of Dead on the Dance Floor

“Amazing . . . fantastic . . . a riveting plot, engaging characters, and unforgettable love story . . . not to be missed.”

—NewandUsedBooks.com

“A thrilling romance.” —TheBestReviews.com

“Riveting . . . you’ll definitely want to pick this one up.”

—RomanceJunkies.com

“Wonderful, thrilling . . . loved it!”

—RomanceReviewsMag.com

Prologue

Despite the heat blowing out of the vents near the old Volkswagen’s floorboards, Chief Petty Officer Solomon McGuire shivered in his woolen peacoat. He’d grown up in Camden, Maine, where the winters were ruthless. The milder weather in Virginia Beach seldom troubled him, but the memories of the mission he’d just come from sat in his chest like a block of ice, freezing him from the inside out.

Petty Officer Blaine Koontz from Kentucky had been one of those younger guys that made older SEALs feel tired and used-up. He was five and a half feet of boundless energy. His freckled face and grinning countenance made every deadly objective seem like kid’s play.

Hooyah! We get to parachute with a low open into enemy territory; run four miles with sixty-pound rucksacks over the dunes; set a perimeter around the oil well guarded by Iraqi National Guards and take it. No problem! We can do it!

And they had. Only, as they’d scurried across the open sand toward the oil well, a bullet had caught Koontz in the side of the head. It hadn’t killed him right away. He was still alive and rambling when Solomon held him still so the corpsman could tape his fractured skull.

After sixteen years of being a SEAL, Solomon thought he’d heard and seen everything. He was wrong. The exclamations tumbling out of Koontz’s mouth had raised the hairs on the back of his neck. It seemed that Koontz hadn’t been so happy-go-lucky after all. The twenty-two-year-old had flirted boldly with the Grim Reaper for a reason: Death couldn’t be a fate any worse than Koontz’s sadistic father.

Koontz hadn’t died until a NightStalker dropped into hostile airspace, dodging rocket-propelled grenades to pick him up and whisk him away. Though his death had shaken Solomon, time for grief was a luxury he and his men could ill afford, so they had pressed on to finish the mission—a mission that had lasted seventy-two sleepless hours. Not only had the SEALs commandeered the oil well, but they’d had to defend it from counterattack, until the Army’s Seventh Infantry Battalion arrived to relieve them.

Solomon, known for his relentless pursuit of an objective, was beyond exhausted. The memory of Koontz’s childhood horrors abraded his frayed nerves as he increased his speed through the suburban sprawl under a cold, January moon.

The entrance to his neighborhood came into view, and he downshifted, turning the corner without touching the brakes. He ached for relief. Relief that would come the instant he scooped his infant son into his arms and gazed down at the innocent contours of his cherubic face. Relief that would be complete once he found release in his wife’s soft arms.

His son was Silas. And he was Solomon’s joy.

His wife was Candace. At one time, he’d fancied her the center of his universe, and his every thought had revolved around her. But that was before he came to realize that her beauty was as shallow as her conscience. She was the mother of his son, however. It had been his choice to marry her, and he stood stubbornly by his decision.

His brick two-story home stood at the end of a cul-de-sac. Every month, the mortgage sucked away half of his paycheck, but Candace had wanted it, so he’d bought it for her. The windows were dark at this late hour, his little family sleeping. Solomon cut the engine and glided into the driveway.

Dragging his rucksack behind him, he got out and followed the granite walkway that cut across the frost-covered lawn. With stiff fingers, he unlocked his front door, his heart beating faster to know that one-year-old Silas was upstairs, tucked into his crib. He could almost feel the warmth of his sturdy little frame against his chest, smell his sweet, baby scent.

As he pushed his way inside, the warmth he anticipated failed to greet him. The air inside was cold and undisturbed; the silence tomblike; the smells faded.

With a stab of fear, Solomon flicked the light switch. Glaring light confirmed what his other senses were telling him. “Candace!” His anxious voice echoed off the empty walls and high ceilings. “No!” he breathed, dropping his rucksack.

He took the stairs three at a time, raced down the wide hall, and threw open the door to the nursery. The relentless moon displayed a room as empty as the rest of the house. There wasn’t any need to turn on the lights. The bear-on-the-rocking-chair border was all that remained.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, lurching back into the hallway and stalking to the master bedroom. He barreled through the double doors and stared. Gone. Everything was gone.

With a shiver, he pivoted, going back to the nursery. “Silas,” he moaned, feeling as if his very bowels had been ripped from him. He fell onto his knees where the baby’s crib had stood, bowed his face into his hands, and wept.

Chapter One

The double doors of the chapel at La Misión de la Paz slammed open, startling the occupants within. The interloper raced out of the hazy sunlight, his brown limbs coated in sweat, breath coming in gasps that punctuated his announcement. “Guerillas se acercan. ¡Hay por lo menos cincuenta y llevan armas!”

Guerillas are coming. There are at least fifty of them and they’re carrying weapons. Translating the message, Jordan Bliss straightened from the pupil she was instructing and looked at Father Benedict to gauge his response.

The priest’s benign countenance hardened with concern. “You should have left two weeks ago,” he said to her, catching her eye. “Now you’ll have to hide with us.”

“My choice, Father,” she gently reminded him, her gaze sliding toward the reason for her stay, four-year-old Miguel, who sat clutching his slate. She could not have left him, regardless of the political turmoil in Venezuela and the growing threat toward Americans.

“Come,” urged Father Benedict, who was British and only slightly less at risk. “Bring the children. We’ll all hide in the wine cellar. Pedro, run and fetch Sister Madeline,” he added in Spanish. “Hurry.”

Jordan gathered the children, instructing them to leave their slates beneath the pews. She scooped Miguel into her arms. Thin as a rail, he scarcely weighed her down, especially when he coiled his limbs around her.

“This way,” indicated the priest, hurrying toward the sacristy, which was separated from the sanctuary by a curtain. Once within, he kicked aside the worn rug that covered the stone floor. A wooden hatch was nestled in the flagging, providing access to the cellar below. He lifted it, exposing steps that disappeared into darkness, releasing a musty smell.

Jordan’s fear of closed spaces made her balk. The children bunched up behind her, instinctively silent.

“Take these candles,” the priest instructed, thrusting several waxen pillars at her. “Matches,” he added, his voice remarkably steady. She stuck them into the deep pockets of her cargo shorts. Lifting a cloth off a basket, he withdrew a loaf of bread meant for services that night. “We’ll need this.”

God knew how long they would be down there. Or whether the guerillas headed in their direction would avidly hunt them down or simply move on.

“Go ahead,” said the priest, with a nod at the steps.

With panic threatening to close off her airways, Jordan instructed her little troop to hold the rickety banister and follow her. She took her first step into the bowels of the earth and then another.

A spider’s web brushed her cheek as a dank coolness swallowed her. Shivering, she clutched Miguel closer while shaking off her fear for his sake, and for the others. Down, down into the black hole they went until coming to a floor of hard-packed dirt.

As she gazed up at the light, tremors rippled through her. What if she never saw the sun again? A scurry of footfalls heralded the approach of Sister Madeline.

“I caught sight of them,” the nun divulged, in her no-nonsense voice. “They’re a horde,” she added, with typical British understatement.

An angry horde, Jordan thought, a cold sweat matting her shirt to her back.

Sister Madeline bustled down the steps. “Whom do we have with us?” she inquired.

“The orphans,” Jordan murmured.

“We should let them go,” Sister Madeline suggested, glancing up at the priest.

“No,” whispered Jordan, clutching Miguel more fiercely.

“Their cries might betray us,” the nun argued.

“It’s too late to send them up,” Father Benedict pointed out as he, too, descended. “Besides, who would care for them? They would end up on the streets again. Pedro,” he called to the hovering teen, a youth hoping to join the priesthood, “close the door and lock it. Put the rug over the hatch and hide the key. Tell no one where we are. When the guerillas leave, let us out again.”

“Sí, padre,” answered the boy. With reluctance and apology wreathed upon his indigenous features, he gently lowered the door. It wasn’t so dark, not with rays of sunlight slipping through the cracks. But then the rug was tossed over the hatch, dousing them in blackness so deep and thick that it paralyzed every muscle in Jordan’s body.

“Let us light a candle and pray,” recommended Father Benedict, his voice swimming out of the darkness. It unlocked Jordan’s frozen joints.

She stiffly put Miguel down, eager to drive back the void. But the task, given her shaking hands, proved virtually impossible. The flare of her trembling match revealed the pale faces of her adult companions and the gleam of four sets of children’s eyes. They feasted their gazes on the wick, then looked around once the candle was lit.

Their hiding space was perhaps ten by seven paces, laced in cobwebs and peppered with holes that housed bottles of sacramental wine. We have plenty to drink, Jordan thought, swallowing a hysterical giggle.

The priest sat, folding his long limbs to make more space. Jordan hunted for a place to put the candle, out of reach of the children. Finding a crack in the wall, she wedged it in like a torch. “Sit down,” she instructed the children, doing the same.

Miguel scrambled into his customary seat—her lap, his hair tickling her nose. Jordan’s eyes stung with regret that she couldn’t shield him from harm any better than this.

“Beloved Father,” began the priest, his voice quiet and grim yet amazingly calm, “look down upon us and cast your mantle of protection over us, we pray you . . .”

As his sonorous voice droned on, Jordan’s thoughts wandered. She hushed Fatima, who whimpered in fear as she burrowed into Jordan’s side. Prayers couldn’t hurt, Jordan acknowledged, but neither would they necessarily help. God knew she’d expended many a prayer to keep from losing her pregnancy and then her marriage.

Unlike the priest and the nun, Jordan wasn’t in Venezuela to save souls. She was here to continue a healing process that had begun last summer, only to be cut short when her teaching job necessitated a return trip home.

This summer, she’d come back—not for healing but to complete the adoption process she’d begun nine months before. In doing so, she’d turned a deaf ear to government warnings that the political environment was unstable. Her refusal to acknowledge the dangers could well end up getting her killed.

The rat-tat-tat-tat of gunfire suspended Father Benedict’s prayer. They all listened, holding a collective breath. Had the guerillas killed one of the villagers visiting La Misión? Or were they merely announcing their fearsome arrival?

The threat of a disturbance had seemed so unlikely in this remote jungle mission, though for weeks newspapers had warned of Populist uprisings, urging Americans to leave the country.

Jordan didn’t concern herself with politics. The children of Las Amazonas needed her even more than her students at home did.

She touched each child, rubbing their narrow shoulders to comfort them. She would protect them with her life, if necessary, especially Miguel, who was exactly the age her baby would have been. Small and defenseless, he had found a special place in Jordan’s heart. She was so close to being able to take him home with her. Come hell or high water, she wouldn’t leave him now.

Special Agent Rafael Valentino read the freshly painted sign at the head of a tree-lined driveway.

SECOND CHANCE, HIPPOTHERAPY RANCH

With a stab of his finger, he curtailed the haunting aria from the opera Carmen and turned down the graveled driveway, braced for disappointment.

The Jillian Sanders he knew was a nurse in Fairfax, not a horse rancher in Suffolk, Virginia. Still, having seen the name on a roster of incoming calls, he’d decided to pay this house call in order to see for himself.

Mature oak trees gave way to a butter-yellow farmhouse in need of a fresh coat of paint. The front porch listed. Bushes and shrubs overran the walkway. A newly constructed barn stood fifty yards away, displaying a ruddy stain and a fence so recently erected that the tempered wood still looked green.

Rafe cut the engine and reached for the file. Jillian Sanders had made thirty-one phone calls requesting FBI assistance.

As he approached the front door, he listened, hearing only the sloughing of wind and the twitter of a bird. The heels of his Ferragamo shoes sounded out of place on the planks of the sagging porch.

Before he could knock, the door popped open. “Yeah?” said a boy of perhaps fourteen, his gray eyes hostile.

“Special Agent Valentino, FBI,” said Rafe, softening the rasp produced by his injured vocal cords. “I’m looking for Jillian Sanders.”

“She’s in the barn,” said the boy, eyeing the scar on Rafe’s neck.

“Who are you?” asked a young girl, poking her head out from under the boy’s arm.

“He’s the bogeyman,” said her brother.

“Nuhn-uhn.”

“Well, he could be. Go back to your room and play. We don’t talk to strangers.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

With a grimace, Rafe backed away. How long had it been since he’d overheard siblings squabble? Eight years, now, long enough that the memories had faded.

Crossing to the barn’s open doors, Rafe peered into the mellow shadows. The faint odor of horse manure mingled with the scent of fresh straw. “Hello?” he called, following a scuffling sound along an isle of empty stalls.

The ears and eyes of a huge bay crested the dividers. The horse gave a whinny, and the stall door slid open. A woman peered out.

“Rafael!” she gasped. Her long, golden hair was caught up in a ponytail. She wore shorts and a T-shirt stretched taut across her pregnant midsection, but he would have recognized her anywhere.

“Jillian.” A feeling of intense satisfaction rushed through him.

“Oh, my,” she breathed, putting a gloved hand to her heart. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Nor I,” he admitted, loving the sweet timbre of her voice, the periwinkle blue of her eyes.

“What brings you to Suffolk?” she asked in delight.

“I transferred from D.C. eight months ago,” he explained.

“You’re here because of my phone calls,” she guessed.

He indicated the file. “I wondered if it might be you.” Not only had she soothed him in the ER as he’d choked on his own blood, but she’d visited him daily in the weeks following his recovery.

“I’m so happy to see you again,” she said, pulling off her glove, extending her hand.

Savoring the warmth and softness of her fingers, Rafe realized this was the first time they’d ever touched.

“Do you live here in Suffolk?” he asked, releasing her regretfully. “I thought your husband was with the Fairfax police.”

She looked away, putting her gloves down. “I moved here to start a therapy ranch. It’s for veterans who’ve lost limbs in the war. Riding helps them regain muscle and get their balance back.”

“I had no idea,” he admitted, intrigued. He eyed her belly inquiringly.

“You caught me mucking out the stall,” she apologized, ignoring the look. “Come into the office,” she suggested. “I have so much to tell you.”

Ten minutes later, with the promise that the FBI would do everything in their powers to help locate her sister, Jillian watched Rafael leave.

With graceful ease, he slipped into the Cutlass and donned his seat belt. She had never seen him dressed in anything but pajamas, yet it came as no surprise that he wore a designer silk suit of unrelenting gray, a snowy white shirt, and no tie. Even in pajamas there had been something elegant about him.

As he smiled at her, a lightness buoyed her heavy heart, easing the crush that kept her so despondent. How nice to have seen him again, a friend she’d cherished for a short time and then lost, especially since she’d lost so much lately.

With a deft hand on the steering wheel, he backed up and pulled away, and her sorrow returned.

She hadn’t even told him she was widowed. Every morning she awakened to the panicky realization that her family’s welfare rested on her narrow shoulders. Her baby, Gary’s surprise legacy, would be born in two short months, and she had so much left to do before she could give their baby the attention it deserved.

With a weary sigh, Jillian turned to gaze at the barn. She must’ve been crazy to think she could honor her and Gary’s dream alone. But now that she’d started, she had no choice but see it through.

“What’s the plan, Senior Chief?” whispered Petty Officer Vinny DeInnocentis as he slapped at a mosquito boring through the camo paint slathered on his neck. With night falling, the insects were swarming worse than ever.

Solomon McGuire, aka Mako, took his eyes off the rebel-occupied Misión de la Paz long enough to send Vinny a glacial stare. Given the pale, almost colorless gray of his eyes, glacial stares required little effort on his part.

“What?” the kid demanded with inner-city bravado. “We’ve been lyin’ here for like six hours, watching these jackasses scare the locals. When’re we gonna pursue the objective?”

“We haven’t been lying here,” Solomon corrected him. “We’ve been observing.”

“True,” Vinny acknowledged, giving Solomon brief hope that he might one day make chief, but then he added, “and I have observed that a big-ass beetle is climbing up my right leg heading straight to my balls. There’s a venomous snake dangling five meters over our heads, and the vines that we’re hiding in look a lot like poison oak.”

“It’s trumpet flower,” Solomon retorted, nonetheless attuned to Vinny’s restlessness. “We’re going to penetrate at zero one hundred hours. You, Teddy, and Gus will sweep the enclosure while I locate the recovery targets. We find them, flexicuff them, and ge. . .