Page 58 of The SEAL's Runaway

Caleb took a deep breath to steady himself. “She was protecting me. She almost had me.” He shook his head to clear the fog of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “But I’m not letting her go. I’m going to find her and put an end to her ex.”

A sharp ping of alarm interrupted his train of thought.

Ryder swore under his breath. “Fuck. Gonna be a busy night.” He wheeled his chair to the Satellite Distress Beacons monitoring station on the far side of the room, waking the screen with a quick press of the keyboard. Scratching the back of his neck, he swiveled to an adjacent monitor to check the duty roster. “Let’s see…”

The distress system pinged again, demanding Ryder’s attention. He spun back to the screen, his eyes widening as he read the alert. “Jesus.”

Caleb wanted to cross the room, to understand the look of horror on his brother’s face, but his feet remained rooted to the spot.

Ryder’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Caleb. You want to see this.”

“What?” His skin creeped with goosebumps.

“I just checked the details on the Hull Identification Number from the distress call. Grace’s ex…” He looked up, the pale blue light of the screen deepening the crease of worry between his eyes. “It’s Hudson? Right?”

38

Caleb climbed into the main body of the Jayhawk. The pilot was already on board, his voice audible through the headset as he ran through the preflight checks. Caleb pulled on his own headset, the sound of the rotor blades and the pilot’s steady voice filling his ears.

He ran through his own safety checks on autopilot, his hands moving with a practiced ease that came from years of training. He could do this in his sleep, which was just as well, because right now, the only thing he could think about was Grace and how he’d failed her.

As he finished his checks, Caleb glanced toward the front cab, expecting to see Bishop. But a different familiar face greeted him.

“Wyatt?”

“Ryder called me.” His brother’s voice crackled on the headset. “Thought you might like some backup.”

“What happened to your suspension?”

Wyatt shrugged. “The commander was open to reasoning.”

Caleb shook his head, a grateful smile tugging at his lips despite the situation. Leave it to Wyatt to sweet-talk his way back onto active duty. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Wyatt’s expression was sober. “We’ll bring her home safe.” He turned to their flight mechanic. “Henley, pre-flight checks complete?”

“Pre-flight checks complete.” Henley’s voice was steady over the headset. “Hydraulics, fuel, and electrical systems are green. Hoist and rescue equipment are operational. We’re ready for takeoff.”

The dull thud of a flight medic bag hitting the Jayhawk’s metal floor announced Ryder’s arrival. With a grunt of effort, he boosted himself into the cabin. “Medic on board.” He took his seat and secured his harness, catching Caleb’s eye. “We’ll find her.”

Caleb took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.

This had to be a good omen. A rescue with both of his brothers. Everything about it felt right, the last piece of the puzzle falling into place.

Now they just had to bring Grace home.

At the thought of her name, something in his heart squeezed tight. Grace. Lost in the wilds of the Bering sea.

“Preparing for takeoff.” Wyatt’s hands moved with precision over the instrument panel, flipping switches and adjusting controls. “Increasing throttle and initiating vertical ascent. Let’s go get Caleb’s woman.”

The Mohawk skimmed low over the blue-black sea. The waves below churned dirty and mottled, whipped by the wind. Clouds hung low and thick on the horizon. The atmosphere in the helicopter crackled with tension. It was always this way on a rescue, but knowing Grace was on the boat made it all the harder.

Caleb checked the PLB on his tablet. Pressure bars circled the beacon. The boat was dead center in the storm’s eye. Rain battered against the windscreen, obscuring his view of the sea below, as the Mohawk lurched through an air pocket. Caleb breathed in and out. Slow breaths. Just like he’d done when he’d been a SEAL. Finding his center, the place of calm he could operate from, take the risks that needed to be made.

“Distressed vessel ahead, port side,” Wyatt reported over the headset. Caleb swung open the side door and icy rain needled his face. The roar of the storm rushed in and he was grateful for comms communication with his team.

“Caleb.” Henley pointed with one gloved hand to north of the Mohawk at three o’clock. A yacht of around eighty feet was being thrown around like a toy boat.

“Anchored.” Henley made a slicing motion across his neck. They both knew the extra risks this entailed. It was suicide to anchor in this storm.