Page 1 of Seaside Strangers
Chapter One
Moriah Jensen eyedthe black Escalade with Illinois plates rolling down the dinky little town’s Main Street through the convenience store window. Tugging on her baseball cap, she made sure her face was concealed as she hid behind the magazine rack to the left of the front door. The driver and the vehicle’s two passengers had their windows down as they swiveled their heads in every direction. It was obvious they were searching for someone.
Well, not just anyone—they were looking for her.
How had they found her? She was in the middle of Ohio, in a town too small for its own Walmart—far enough from Chicago that no one shouldhave been looking for her there. Of all the places they could’ve looked, how had they ended up here?
This couldn’t be happening.
She’d been careful. More than careful. She’d stayed under the radar, used an alias, avoided her ATM card—anything that might leave a trail. Even the name had been chosen with care. Maura Jennings. Close enough to her own that she wouldn’t hesitate if someone called it, but different enough to keep her hidden.
My driver’s license! For crying out loud!
She’d handed it over to a police officer the day before, when the college girls who’d given her a ride got into a fender-bender about a mile outside the small town. There’d been no chance to slip away—the accident happened right in front of a patrol car. The officer had checked her license, handed it back, and sent her on her way. She’d thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t.
That had to be how the men in the Escalade found her.
Darn it!
She had to be more careful. At the first opportunity, she’d need to get a forged license under her alias—something that could pass a cop’s inspection.
Avoiding the police was the goal. But things didn’t always go according to plan. And mistakes like that could get her arrested… or worse.
She glanced around the store, grateful no one paid any attention to her. In jeans and a bland T-shirt, she wasn’t wearing anything that would make her stand out. Hopefully, no one would remember seeing her if the men came around asking questions.
Shifting the duffel higher on her shoulder, she lingered near the front of the store, forcing herself to look like just another customer killing time. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the faint scent of motor oil and dust clung to the air.
Through the front window, she watched until the vehicle turned left two blocks away. The second it disappeared, she pulled her hat lower, slipped out the door, and cut across the parking lot in the opposite direction.
The duffel and her backpack dragged at her shoulders, growing heavier with every step, the straps biting into her skin. But she couldn’t leave either one behind—she needed the money, the gun, and what few clothes she’d grabbed on her way out of Chicago.
Last night, the girls had dropped her at arundown motel a few blocks away. Close to the bus station, where she could disappear again.
She just had to make it there.
Keeping to the shadows, she moved along the backs of buildings, slipping past dumpsters and delivery doors, using anything that might hide her. The sharp scent of garbage and stale grease hung in the narrow spaces, mixing with the distant sound of traffic. Every stretch of open ground felt like a spotlight, her pulse kicking up, her breathing turning shallow as she forced herself across it.
She prayed she would make it out of the town alive because those men wouldn’t hesitate to kill her to get what they wanted.
Twenty minutes later, she huddled in the back of a bus bound for Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. From there, she’d buy another ticket to God only knew where.
As long as it took her farther away from those chasing her, she didn’t care.
She had nothing left—nothing except her own life.
Inching forward in silence, his face painted tan and dark brown, the same colors as his camouflage fatigues, the man was almost invisible against the terrain surrounding a small village east of Zabul, Afghanistan. United States Navy Lieutenant KC Malone lay a mere forty yards behind a dilapidated structure where two U.S. Army pilots were being held captive. The building, a little larger than a tiki hut, was one of eight still standing in the otherwise destroyed and abandoned village now occupied by Taliban forces.
The men had been taken hostage after their AH-64 Apache helicopter had been shot down six weeks ago, but their current location was far from the crash site as they’d been moved by rebel forces several times. However, less than thirty-six hours ago, CIA intelligence had finally pinpointed their position. Members of SEAL Team Six had been sent to retrieve the men before they were moved again or killed in retribution for the recent slaying of a high-ranking Taliban leader.
Two minutes before oh-four-hundred, the camp of twenty-three terrorists lay quiet. All but three guards—who looked ready to drop where they stood.
KC and his team had parachuted in three milesout and approached under the cover of darkness. They’d been in position for the past two hours, waiting for fatigue to take its toll.
Fifteen men were spread strategically around the village, awaiting his signal.
Chief Tobias Anderson III crouched to his left, ready to move in and recover the hostages. The rest would provide cover and distraction.
