Falling hard, p.1
Falling Hard, page 1
FALLING HARD
Crimson Point Protectors
Kaylea Cross
FALLING HARD
Copyright © 2022 Kaylea Cross
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Cover Art: Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs
Developmental Edits: Deborah Nemeth
Line Edits: Joan Nichols
Digital Formatting: LK Campbell
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 978-1-928044-50-5
Table Of Contents
ABOUT THE BOOK
DEDICATION
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Dear reader,
Crimson Point Protectors Series
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COMPLETE BOOKLIST
ABOUT THE BOOK
Danger is closing in.
Kerrigan Whitaker has spent the past two years reinventing herself into the strong, independent woman she’s always wanted to be, and running her first ultra marathon is the chance to prove to herself and everyone else how far she’s come. Her failed marriage made her wary of relationships, so she’s not ready to get involved with anyone else. Not even the man she secretly fantasizes about—who also happens to be her brother’s best friend. But when people she works closely with are murdered, she goes to the only place she feels safe—Crimson Point, and the man who tempts her like no other.
And the killer is closer than they realize.
Air National Guard Pararescueman Travis Masterson loves his career and has dedicated his life to saving and protecting others. There’s only one thing missing. Kerrigan—but she’s determined to keep walls up between them. He understands why she’s gun shy, but he can’t let her go. Not when every instinct is screaming that she’s it for him. After a shocking attack leaves her in the crosshairs of a cold-blooded killer, Travis is the only one who can save her. With her life in his hands, he’ll risk it all to stop the killer and protect the woman he can’t live without.
DEDICATION
For Happy and Meg. Two incredible, powerhouse women I feel blessed to call friends.
xo
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Welcome to this exciting, brand new series featuring PJs and personal protection experts, based in and around the charming coastal town of Crimson Point, Oregon. Not only will you get to see some familiar faces, I hope you’ll also fall in love with this new cast of characters you’re about to meet!
Kaylea
Chapter One
A blast of frigid February air cut through the rear of the aircraft as the C-130’s tail ramp lowered into position. Framed in the opening, the western Yemeni highlands stretched out below them in a vast, black blanket, the ridges and valleys barely discernable through the broken clouds.
“Stand,” the jumpmaster commanded.
Air National Guard Pararescueman Travis Masterson pushed to his feet and moved into line with the rest of the team he was embedded with for this mission, then turned to face the front of the aircraft.
“Check equipment.”
He twisted around to check the gear of the SEAL behind him, then the one in front while they did the same for him. They turned to face the open ramp doorway, staring out into the blackness while the cold air whistled around them.
Travis’s heart rate picked up. He’d conducted plenty of combat search-and-rescue missions and HALO jumps over the course of his career. But none of them had ever been this personal.
Somewhere down there in the darkened, rugged landscape, his best friend was being held captive by the enemy. Travis and the others were here to find Whit and bring him home.
Wind whistled in his ears, mixing with the sound of his own breathing inside the oxygen mask as he watched the jumpmaster stationed near the foot of the ramp. Their drop zone for this mission was a wide plateau nestled in the mountainous terrain just under two miles from the target village where the latest intelligence said Whit was being held.
The jumpmaster raised his arm in an arc over his head, thumb up, his voice barely audible over the combined noise of the wind and the drone of the turboprop engines. “Stand by.”
Two places ahead of him in line, his partner for this mission, Asher “Groz” Grozinski, fellow Guard PJ with the 125th Special Tactics Squadron out of Portland, stepped forward behind one of the SEALS to await the signal to jump. Their commanding officer had pulled every string available to him to get them embedded with the SEALs on this mission.
He thought of Whit, their PJ brother down there somewhere in enemy hands, hopefully still alive. He thought of Kerrigan, enduring the agonizing wait for word about her brother.
I’m bringing him home, he vowed silently.
Seconds later, the jump light on the side of the interior wall turned green. The jumpmaster brought his right arm across his chest, then pointed at the exit. “Go!”
The first SEAL in line charged forward and launched himself into the black void outside the aircraft, then the next. One by one they jumped, the metal deck vibrating with the thud of their boots.
Groz leaped off the edge of the ramp and disappeared into the blackness, quickly followed by another SEAL. Then it was Travis’s turn.
Head down, he ran for the edge of the ramp and launched himself out of the aircraft.
Cold surrounded him, the air ripping past him like an icy ocean current as he hurtled toward the ground. He assumed a stable free-fall position, body horizontal to the ground, back arched, head up. Arms out, hands at eye level, palms cupped and fingers spread apart. Legs shoulder width apart, knees bent.
Without altering his position, he glanced at the altimeter on his left wrist. Twenty-one thousand feet.
Below and above him, the rest of the team fanned out in the sky, visible by the green glow of the chemlites attached to their bodies and the backs of their helmets. They needed to keep a tight formation in order to hit their target together.
His wrist altimeter reached four thousand feet. Travis checked around him, waved off to signal the others, and yanked the primary ripcord on the right side of his chest to deploy his chute. The canopy shot out and fanned open, jerking him in his harness. The rush of the wind faded, his breathing loud in the oxygen mask as he snapped his NVGs down into place on their helmet bracket.
Beneath him, team members already on the ground were either dealing with their chutes or establishing a defensive perimeter. Travis made his final turn as he descended, gauging the spot where he would touch down. On his final approach, he yanked down on the toggles, braking hard, and tucked his knees up before executing a running touchdown.
As soon as he stopped, he removed his harness and ruck. He spotted Groz thirty yards away, on the other side of the DZ. To his right, SEAL Lieutenant Declan McCabe was already in position, checking the team and equipment in preparation to begin the trek upcountry.
Travis got busy packing his chute away, then quickly buried it in the hard-packed soil. Adjusting his ruck, he raised his M4 to his shoulder and took up a defensive position to await McCabe’s command.
“All right, boys, let’s move,” the LT said quietly, his voice clear through Travis’s earpiece.
Travis and Groz silently fell in line with the others. They moved across the plateau in a wedge formation, angling toward the mouth of the canyon at the far end. A light, cold wind gusted down the mountainside, bringing the smell of damp soil and juniper.
The trek up the mountain was grueling. They followed an ancient wadi that command had identified on topo maps, until the faint sound of tinkling bells carried on the air. McCabe paused and raised a fist, ordering them all to halt.
Everyone hunkered down in defensive position, on the alert for any sign of enemy contact. Groz stretched his long frame out on his belly beside Travis, taking in the view. Once they found Whit, they would provide whatever medical treatment was necessary, and support the SEAL element during the evacuation to the LZ to await their ride back to base.
When nothing else disturbed the silence, McCabe ordered them forward again. This time they stopped at the crest of a low hill to observe the village from afar. Eight hundred yards away, a cluster of mud-brick buildings stood huddled close together inside a walled compound. Herds of goats wandered around a large enclosure inside the wall s.
The village reminded Travis of a dozen other places just like it that he’d been to in Afghanistan and Syria. Dirt poor, and remote enough that the militant group holding Whit thought it was untouchable here.
They were about to find out just how mistaken they were.
His gaze slid past the bleating goats to the rectangular building beyond the main village. Two stories tall, the largest building in the village, and supposedly where the warlord stayed when he was in residence. Where the militia had supposedly brought Whit two days ago.
Staring at that building, resolve hardened inside him like steel. He and Whit had met on the first day of INDOC, and had endured the entire grueling journey to becoming PJs together. Whit was the closest thing Travis had ever had to a brother. That’s why Travis had volunteered—no, insisted—that his commander get him in on this mission. Whit would have done the same for him in his place.
Using hand signals, McCabe split the team into three elements and directed his to approach the target building. Travis and Groz accompanied McCabe to a spot behind the building next to it and hung back to provide overwatch while the breaching team moved into position outside the back of the target building.
Travis waited for the men to enter the door, pulse thudding, grip tightening on his weapon. It was still dark and quiet but sunrise was only a few hours away and they needed to be long gone before the first rays of light crested the ridge to the east.
Tense seconds ticked past as the other SEAL element fanned out behind cover to handle any militants or civilians who came flooding out as soon as the breach commenced and the element of surprise was gone.
“Execute,” McCabe ordered in a low voice.
The breaching team stormed into the target building. Shouts and precise, spaced gunshots echoed in the darkness, the muzzle flashes visible in the open doorway. Travis crouched in place, itching for the moment he and Groz could help their friend.
Seconds later the village stirred to sudden life. Old men and kids rushed out of their homes, wide eyed as the rest of the SEALs closed in on them, keeping them contained while the main assault element cleared the target building.
From near the doorway, McCabe motioned him and Groz forward. Together they ran across the courtyard between the buildings and entered the target through the breached doorway.
Inside, the SEALs had already completed their sweep. Three militants lay dead on the hard-packed dirt floor in the hallway. Travis and Groz stepped over them and approached where McCabe was talking to one of his men.
McCabe glanced over at them and shook his head. “He’s not here.”
Disappointment punched through him, but he refused to give up hope as McCabe gave the order to search the village while he and one of his guys interrogated the two prisoners they’d captured inside the target house.
“He’s gotta be here, man,” Groz said to Travis under his breath as they searched under rugs and debris for a trap door, something that might lead to an underground room or tunnel. “Command confirmed it five hours ago.”
There was no hidden passageway anywhere to be found in the building. “Maybe they moved him.” That, or they’d already killed and buried him somewhere.
A search of the village netted the same result. Whit wasn’t here. There was no sign of him anywhere, and none of the locals were talking.
The hike back down the mountain seemed to take twice as long as the climb up had, made more difficult because they had three reluctant, bound and blindfolded prisoners in tow. McCabe radioed the pilot to confirm the LZ coordinates and time of extraction.
By the time they reached the edge of the same plateau they’d landed on less than two hours before, the first faint streaks of light were marking the eastern ridges of the mountains behind them. Frustrated and disheartened, Travis hunkered down beside Groz to wait, jaw tight.
His eyes swept the area in front of him, mind churning. Whit might not be at the village, but he had to be close. There was another village seven miles to the southwest, but the terrain was way too rough for anyone to move a prisoner that fast in the darkness without the use of an aircraft.
He couldn’t fucking go home without Whit. Couldn’t abandon him here, dead or alive. Couldn’t bear the thought of looking into Kerrigan’s beautiful turquoise eyes again if they didn’t bring Whit back, knowing he’d failed her as well as his best friend.
The faint pulse of distant rotors broke the stillness. He looked up and spotted the unmistakable silhouette of the approaching Chinook through his NVGs. The twin-rotor aircraft circled them once, then dropped down near the edge of the plateau where it dropped off in a sheer cliff, and lowered its tail ramp.
McCabe waved them all forward. The SEALs dragged the prisoners aboard. Travis and Groz sat well away from them near the ramp, staring out through a bubble window in the aircraft’s hull. Groz was uncharacteristically silent, all traces of his sarcastic humor buried under the grimness of his expression.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up at McCabe, the LT’s golden-brown eyes vivid against his cammied face. “We’ll find him.”
Travis nodded and went back to staring through the window beside him. The big helo lifted, nose angling down as the aircraft moved forward and up off the edge of the cliff.
Below them in the faint morning light the valley floor cut deep into the rock, wadis carving through it like scars. This area of the highlands got more rainfall than the rest of the country but it was still a desolate, barren landscape. There were no farms here, no villages.
They flew over a scrubby area. From amidst a thick growth of juniper, something flashed. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes pinned on the shooter as he opened his mouth to yell contact and warn of enemy fire, then the flash came again.
A flicker that wasn’t a muzzle flash.
As he watched, a shadow detached from the underbrush and darted out from the underbrush. A human.
Whoever it was waved his arms. Travis flattened his hands on the interior wall and stared in disbelief, his heart lurching. Was it Whit? They were too far up and it was still too dark to tell.
He grabbed Groz’s shoulder, pointing as he called out over the noise of the helo, and waved McCabe over. “Someone’s trying to signal us down there!”
McCabe rushed to their window and peered out, then gestured to the loadmaster and got on the radio to the pilots. The Chinook slowed and turned around, going in for a closer look. Travis scanned the ground anxiously, hoping he was right and that there wasn’t a force hidden down there waiting to ambush them.
The lone figure was stumbling toward them now, still waving its arms. It looked like he was shirtless. Travis peered harder, straining to see the man’s face through the shadows.
Then the man stepped into a faint patch of light, and Travis jumped out of his seat. “It’s Whit,” he blurted to Groz and McCabe.
“You sure?” McCabe asked.
“Positive, and I don’t see anyone else down there.”
The lieutenant issued some orders and reached for his weapon. “Get ready. Terrain’s too rough to set down. We’ll have to fast rope in.”
Everyone quickly geared up again. The next several minutes dragged past as the crew did another pass to make sure there was no enemy force below. When the big bird finally moved in and dropped into a low hover, Travis lost sight of his friend. Worse, he and Groz were forced to wait while the SEALs roped in first to secure the area.
A hundred different thoughts raced through his mind as he crouched near the end of the ramp, thinking of all the possible injuries Whit might need to be treated for. Injuries, dehydration, possibly hypothermia.
McCabe cleared them to rope down. The loadmaster manned the top of the rope while Travis moved into position. On the ground, a SEAL held the loose end of it for him.
He grasped the thick braid between his gloved hands, lowered himself out of the helo and caught the rope between the insteps of his boots, then slid down. The second he landed, he took off toward the area where he’d seen Whit, leaving the SEAL to hold the rope for Groz.
As Travis raced forward he saw that McCabe had already reached Whit, and was leading him toward them.
Travis ran a trained eye over his friend as he ran up, but the forming smile faded when he got close enough to see Whit’s face. His eyes were bruised to hell, nearly swollen shut. Blood streaked across his lips and chest, and he had deep gashes on one cheekbone and the bridge of his nose.
