The Wrong SEAL: Wrong Never Felt So Right, #5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictionally and are not construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Other books Published by Nancy Brophy:

Plotting Your Story Arc, Workbook for Fiction Writers, Plotters and Pantsers

Fiction:

Hell On The Heart

The Wrong Brother

The Wrong Hero

The Wrong Cop

The Wrong Lover

The Wrong Husband

The Wrong SEAL

Book 5

Sam Samson is a hero. He’s a former Navy SEAL, a former security specialist, and a former decorated police detective - a man successful by everyone’s standards but his own. Five years earlier his life fell apart. 

Sam has spent time in the most dangerous places in the world. Fought for his country. Protected his teammates. Put lawbreakers in prison. But it is tiny Crenshaw Valley, Missouri, home of Driscoll Produce, featuring Imogene’s Jams and Jellies, where everything went wrong.

Imogene Cricket Driscoll is in big trouble. Someone is stalking her.  The windows of her home have been shot out while her kids were in their beds. The production facility of her produce company has had waves of sabotage. She’s broke and sees only bad news ahead. Most of the county works for her. If she goes under so will their jobs and the community.

Cricket needs help.

The sheriff, a drunken fool, has refused.

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Whomever is behind her problems, is no stranger.

But while Sam appears to be the answer to her prayers, he could open an entirely new can of worms. Even in small towns people’s lives are built on lies.

And why hasn’t the five years since he last visited turned him into a troll instead of the handsomeness man she knows?

Book 1 –

The Wrong Brother

Zack and Chloe

This is what lying got you – the wrong brother.

Book 2 –

The Wrong Hero

Travis and Abby

"If this is a chess game, the one thing you should have been able to predict is that the queen always protects the king.

Book 3 –

The Wrong Cop

Grant and Dori

It pisses me off I’m attracted to you. His erection betrayed his words.

He was lying, but so was she.  You’re like the wad of gum on the sole of my shoe. Only worth as much consideration as it takes to get rid of you.

Book 3.5 - Bonus book –

The Wrong Lover

Marshall and Lily

Her brown eyes and raspy voice stayed with him. Her taste lingered on his lips. After this fiasco was over, he’d find her. All he knew was that her name was Lily, but it wasn’t her name he was after.

Book 4 –

THE WRONG HUSBAND

Austin and Nicole

It’s a vacation and we are going to have a fabulous time.

Book 5 –

THE WRONG SEAL

Sam and Imogene

She had no idea how lucky she’d been to be raised in a place where crazy people weren’t running the circus.

The

Wrong  

SEAL

Nancy Brophy

Chapter One

Cricket Driscoll collapsed into the Adirondack chair on her cabin porch. Her bones sank into the wooden slats. She hadn’t sat for hours. Water slapped the dock in a rhythmic beat accented by the occasional screech of a lone owl. The snap of wind blew through the leafless trees as the sweet familiar background symphony of lake living descended upon her like an innocent bridal veil.

The tension in her neck eased. She exhaled and relaxed her shoulders. Unable to quell the pain that laced her forehead, she pressed the glass of ice tea between her eyebrows to numb the pounding. The chill against her skin had her tugging her denim barn coat tighter to her body. Crenshaw Valley, Missouri was having an unseasonably warm late January, but after the sun had set, nights were still cold.

With her eyes shut, she drifted, almost lulled into sleep. The crunch of tires on gravel from a fast-moving vehicle jackknifed her to a sitting position.

Who would visit at this time of night?

Other than shoving her feet into thick sheepskin slippers, she still wore her work overalls and t-shirt. At least she wouldn’t be greeting guests in a nightshirt.

Headlights reflected off the trees by the water’s edge. Her body bent and creaked like an old woman when she stood, testifying to too many hours spent working on her feet and too much stress. At thirty-four, her body shouldn’t be laced with the aches and pains of the aged.

She entered the back door to her kitchen and glanced at the clock. Midnight.

Automatically, she bolted the door. Her four-year-old twins had upped her safety precautions. From the moment they walked, they acted like puppies with the gate left open. Maybe in a house with a flower garden and a white picket fence they might have been safe, but living close to the water meant she was constantly on guard.

The lakefront cabin nestled into the surrounding hills had been her home for fifteen years. With the exception of the kids’ playroom, where Legos, naked Barbies, and plastic soldiers aligned to bring down unsuspecting adults, lights weren’t needed to walk through the dark rooms. At the kitchen window, she leaned over the sink and turned her head to see the driveway.

The yard light had gone out sometime last week. Replacing the bulb required a tall ladder from work and time she lacked. One more thing on her never-ending to-do list.

The half-moon hung in the night sky like a ladle of cream posed to spill its contents, but it provided only enough light to see the faint outline of a dark pickup. In this part of the world, every family owned at least one truck. Black was a popular color.

No one emerged from the cab.

Her Mustang was in the shop for a grinding noise she’d been hearing all week, leaving the carport empty, which might account for why the driver hadn’t emerged.

Briefly she considered flipping on the porch light and throwing open the door. Perhaps if she hadn’t read In Cold Blood, she might have acted neighborly. But now the itch that came with a mother’s instinct reacted like fire ants on the back of her neck.

A red dot flared. The driver was a smoker. She forced herself to swallow as she mentally inventoried a very short list of friends who still smoked and eliminated each one.

Nick and Noelle’s bedroom windows faced the drive at the front of the house. Cricket set her unfinished drink in the sink. The glass tipped. The metallic ring of ice hitting the stainless steel sink made her jump.

How could she protect her babies? She passed the front door in her hurry to get to her children and tested the deadbolt, ensuring it was in the locked position. A million worried ideas crowded her mind. Child abduction. Hostage situation. Kidnapping. Murder. Robbery. Way too many TV shows convinced her no matter where a person lived, they weren’t necessarily safe.

The Ozarks provided spotty cell service. Her landline was at the opposite end of the house.

Noelle’s bed was closest. Cricket lifted the child, blankets and all, and rushed her to the only room without windows and a door that locked. The hall bath. Where to put her? Not the floor. The tub.

She gently laid her daughter in the tub wrapping blankets underneath her to avoid her body coming in contact with the cold metal. Noelle mumbled. Normally, Cricket would have spent a brief moment rubbing warm circles on her stomach. Tonight there was no time.

Nick was a good seven pounds heavier, but his weight was nil. She managed to grab a pillow as well. Getting her children settled, she was pleased to see the journey hadn’t woken them. The room was lit by a single Mickey Mouse nightlight. Cricket’s fingers hovered over the switch before deciding against leaving the kids in the dark.

Please God, keep my children safe.

She didn’t have a pistol. With two children present, she’d never wanted one − until now. Grandpa Joe’s hunting rifle was packed in the tool shed behind the carport, but it would take too long to locate. Finding shells would be another issue.

She retraced her steps, moving at a run, and peered through the kitchen window a second time. The gleam of metal in the moonlight had her chest tightening into a tight ball. The pickup door stood open. Without an interior light she couldn’t see a person. She scanned the yard hoping for a movement to see who was behind this. Nothing.

Torn between needing to watch the yard and get to the phone, she chose calling for help. Crouching on the floor in the living room, she pulled the phone off the end table and dialed 9-1-1.

The call went directly to voicemail. Her stomach lurched as her worst nightmare played out before her eyes. Think. She tried a second time with the same result.

Calling Grandpa Joe wouldn’t help. He’d come, but it’d take him half an hour to get here. And he’d probably drag Lottie, her grandmother with him. Her nearest neighbor, Mary Helen, was ninety-two.

Who? Who? Who?

Jesse Pollack was the closest male under seventy-five who lived on Washed Out Gully Road. Seventeen years ago, she’d gone to school with his daughter. She dialed Tiffany’s number from memory. Gritting her teeth, it took all her concentration to punch the right buttons.

A large crack and shattered glass crystallized her fears. She jumped, her heart thumping wildly her chest, but her fingers refused to let go of her death-grip on the receiver.

Nick. Noelle.

The phone on the other end rang as another shot took out a second window.

Hello.

She’d awaken him. Mr. Pollack? she whispered, hardly able to get out the words, her mouth was dry. Another shot. Another window.

Yep.

Cricket Driscoll, your neighbor. Someone’s firing a gun at my house.

The shooter had gained confidence. The windows shattered faster. Cricket lay flat on her stomach and covered her head as the living room windows on the other side of the room splintered, and glass shards became airborne.

I hear it. Jesse Pollack’s voice was alert. I’m coming. Call the Sheriff’s office.

She knew he couldn’t see, but still she shook her head. I dialed 9-1-1. No one answered.

Damn drunken asshole. Keep safe. I’m on my way.

Please hurry. I’ve got children.

She crawled across the living room, feeling splinters of glass grind into her palms and knees. In the enclosed hallway, she sprang to her feet and ran. Quietly she eased the bathroom door open. Both children were awake. Cricket locked the flimsy door, knowing it would only detain a person determined to enter for mere seconds.

Tears rolled down her daughter’s cheeks, and she opened her mouth to let out a wail. Cricket quickly covered it with her hand.

Hush. I’m here with you. You’re fine. No matter how much she wanted to crawl into the tub and clutch the children to her, she was the last line of defense. Other than a hair dryer she was weaponless. The lid to the toilet tank was the only heavy object she could grab.

She gestured to her children to lie flat and put a finger to her lips. No sounds, she whispered and pressed the switch to the night light. The bathroom plunged into darkness. I’m still here. Be very quiet. No matter what happens don’t talk until I tell you it’s okay.

The plastic shower curtain slid awkwardly on the rod until Nick and Noelle were hidden from sight. Lifting the heavy ceramic toilet lid, she wedged herself in the corner between the sink and the door, ready to smash any and all intruders.

Please God, keep my children safe.

The shots stopped. Was that a good thing or bad? Had the shooter run out of windows? Or out of bullets? Or was that only the opening volley?

Then she heard it − tires spraying gravel as the truck pulled away from the house. She exhaled and slowly rested the heavy lid on the sink.

Are they leaving? Nick’s loud, sniffled whisper echoed in the dark room.

Mommy said not to talk, Noelle didn’t bother to lower her voice.

Cricket flipped on the small nightlight by the sink and opened the shower curtain. Putting a finger to her lips, she said in the firmest, I’m an adult voice, she could master, Stay here. Be very quiet. I’ll be right back. Noelle reached out her arms in a silent plea. Cricket shook her head. I need you to be brave.

Nick threw his arm around his sister. He was as tough a four-year-old that ever lived, but like his sister, he wore a wide-eyed panicked expression.

Her smile came from her heart. I love you to the moon and back. She closed the door behind her after her children echoed her words.

The truck had indeed left. She raised her gaze to the ceiling and gave thanks for their narrow escape. In the distance a loud pop echoed. Was that another gun firing? That didn’t panic her nearly as much as the returning sound of tires on gravel. Her stomach leaped into her throat. Not again. This vehicle was moving much faster.

Cricket ran to the bathroom. Lay down. Mommy will be right back. She didn’t have a clue what to do. Every cell in her body screamed protect Nick and Noelle. She grabbed a fireplace poker and clenched the cool metal as she crept to the front door. The vehicle came to an abrupt halt.

Are you okay in there? a deep masculine voice called through the door.

Mr. Pollack? Relief swamped her as he identified himself. She flipped the dead bolt.

The man who stood at her door was white-haired, had to be over sixty, but he held the shotgun in his arm like it belonged. If it was all bravado, he had her convinced.

Is everyone all right?

She nodded and swayed, suddenly weak in the knees.

C’mon. Let’s get you to a chair. He grabbed her arm and turned to yell at his car. Brynn, come in. We’re going need your help.

The wooden kitchen chairs were the easiest to clean. While he wiped the seat with a wet tea towel from the kitchen, he kept up a running commentary. I think they got almost every window in the place. Where are the kids?

Bathtub.

Good thinking. He patted her shoulder in encouragement. A black pickup peeled out of your driveway as we pulled up. I didn’t get the license plate, but Brynn peppered his tailgate with a load of buckshot.

Brynn Pollack quietly entered the room and stood behind her husband. In a chenille robe and furry boots, she didn’t appear to be a gun-wielding, buck-shot shooting woman, but one could never tell.

Cricket needed to get to her children. Thanks for coming. I didn’t know anyone else who was close.

Brynn rested a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, forcing her to remain in the chair. That’s what neighbors are for. They’ve made a mess of your house. You’re going to have a devil of a time getting the glass out of the carpeting. It’s not safe for young ones. There are some ladies at the church who’d love to help out. I’ll call them in the morning.

Down the hall, her kids excitingly told Mr. Pollack the events of the evening.

As the older woman bent over her in a caring fashion, patting her hand, Cricket fought to hold back tears of relief. She was alive. Her children were safe. Her mind couldn’t focus on anything else.

Look at this, you’re bleeding. Well, you can’t stay here. I know you’ve got kin in the area, but for tonight let’s gather your kids and have you come to our house. There’s plenty of room. We’ll doctor you there. You and your kiddos will be safe. Tomorrow we can deal with what that jerk-off of a sheriff was doing not answering a 9-1-1 call.

Chapter Two

As Sam Sampson drove his shiny gray rental car across the state of Missouri, he couldn’t help but know this was the land of Mark Twain. First were the numerous signs for tours of Hannibal. Then there were the names. Tom Sawyer this and Becky Thatcher that. Every possible location tried to work in a connection − no matter how remote − to draw tourists.

Missouri loved their native son, they’d name a forest for him. 

Sam glanced at his phone’s GPS. Crenshaw Valley was barely a dot on the map. It’d been five years since he’d last been here. And while many of the details were fuzzy, the one thing he remembered with absolute clarity was that it had been one of the worst days of his life.

As a boy, his father had told him how certain events could become permanently etched in a person’s mind. Like sitting in algebra class in the eighth grade when the news that President Kennedy had been shot came over the PA system or when his dad and his buddies watched the moon landing from basketball camp.

Sam had a similar recall, but unlike the excitement of the moon landing, happy memories were not part of his make-up.

The living room had been cast in the hazy dim of twilight. He’d been in trouble for fighting at school again and was on the stairs headed for his bedroom when the doorbell sounded. Sparky and Brutus immediately barked and ran in a frenzied circle. His mother told the little wiener dogs to ‘stop that’ as she turned the lamp switch. Light chased the gloom from the room. 

Barely sparing her son a glance and admonishment to ‘go on up’, she opened the front door. The police officer stood on the step. James, as he’d been known in those days, froze on the fourth step from the bottom. Cops had been called? He couldn’t believe it. His father was already mad. He’d taken his younger brother, Bryan, to the ballpark instead of him. Bryan wasn’t six and didn’t like baseball. It hadn’t been fair.

But baseball was the least of his problems. When his father found out the police had come to the house, he would hit the roof. At eight James knew