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  ONE FOR THE TEAM

  ZUMA SEALS

  BOOK 3

  DEBORAH BROWN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  One For The Team

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2018 Deborah Brown

  Kindle Edition

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  Books by Deborah Brown

  ONE FOR THE TEAM

  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

  About the Author

  Books by Deborah Brown

  ZUMA SEALS SERIES

  Malibu Hills Murder

  Mission Paradise

  One for the Team

  PARADISE SERIES

  Crazy in Paradise

  Deception in Paradise

  Trouble in Paradise

  Murder in Paradise

  Greed in Paradise

  Revenge in Paradise

  Kidnapped in Paradise

  Swindled in Paradise

  Executed in Paradise

  Hurricane in Paradise

  Lottery in Paradise

  Ambushed in Paradise

  Starfish Island – A standalone romance

  ONE

  FOR THE

  TEAM

  Chapter One

  It was the kind of day that raised the hems of women’s skirts and made middle-aged men suck in their guts and squeeze into last summer’s t-shirts. The Venice Beach boardwalk felt warm enough to bake bread. Walking along the crowded walkway, Slice maneuvered out of the way of skaters and around sidewalk entertainers and panhandlers. He caught sight of his face in the window of a store selling electrical goods and paused to admire his reflection. He wasn’t decked out in his usual beach attire of bare chest and board shorts; since he was down here on business, he’d donned a pair of casual dress pants and a long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Looking good, Slice my man,” he said and gave himself a wide, toothy grin. Dragging a hand through his blond hair, he fingered the scar that ran from his forehead to his collarbone, which had faded some but was still a reminder from his SEAL days to watch his damn back.

  “Well, if it ain’t Tom Cruise,” a voice said behind him, and he turned to see an old woman with wild, matted hair pushing a shopping cart along the sidewalk. She was wearing too many clothes, and one of the cart wheels squeaked.

  “Excuse me?” Slice called after her.

  The woman stopped, bent down to collect two soda cans from the walkway, then straightened up, groaning at the cracking of her joints. Without turning around, she said, “Kiss my booty, Al Pacino,” and patted her expansive rump with the palm of her grubby hand. She dropped the cans into the cart.

  Slice grappled for an appropriate comeback, something smart and witty but not too harsh. He was on his way to meet with a potential client and wasn’t about to let a bag lady spoil his good mood. Slice enjoyed deal-making. Zach had suggested he take two aspirin and sit down the first time he volunteered, but he’d brought the contract back signed and sealed, and now Zach just dumped potential client information on his desk.

  He was still searching for a reply to the old lady when an alarm bell sounded farther down the walk. He looked toward the sound in time to see a figure in a jogging suit dart out of a store and run down the boardwalk, weaving between startled pedestrians, moving fast, like a quarterback on a touchdown charge. Slice didn’t stop to think. He took off in pursuit, zigzagging across the busy street to the sound of blaring horns and screeching tires.

  “Oh, so now he’s Jessie Owens!” the old woman shouted at his back. She laughed, then coughed, hawked, doubled over, and spat into the gutter. “Jeez, I need a cigarette,” she wheezed and continued along the sidewalk, her cart squeaking as she went.

  The thief was quick, but Slice was quicker. The gap between them was down to ten yards when Mr. Jogging Suit disappeared into an alley. Slice pumped his legs faster, shot around the corner… and stopped dead.

  Garbage cans and dumpsters lined the alley walls, piles of rotting cardboard and bundles of old newspapers tied with string littering the ground. Someone had abandoned a complete set of bald car tires. There was no sign of the thief. Slice inched forward on the balls of his feet, wishing he’d wrapped the .32 holster around his ankle when he left the beach house that morning. He almost had, but then thought, Business appointment, Slice, remember?

  He looked behind the first dumpster and found the remains of a half-eaten rat, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and moved quickly on. His eyes flicked back and forth around the alley, his ears straining for the slightest telltale sound. Checking each dumpster in turn, he reached number four and heard the sound of someone breathing hard. Gotcha!

  The thief crouched against the damp alley wall, looking up at Slice with wide, frightened eyes. “Don’t hurt me, mister; please don’t hurt me!”

  “What the hell? You’re a girl?” Slice laughed, and the adrenalin pumping through his body began to subside. He hunkered down and asked her name.

  She hesitated, her eyes darting left and right, and then, with a trembling bottom lip, whispered, “Cassie.”

  Slice reached out a tentative hand. “Hi,” he said, “I’m Slice.”

  Cassie didn’t want to shake. She tried to pull away, but wedged between the wall and the dumpster as she was, there was nowhere for her to go.

  Slice withdrew his hand. “How old are you, Cassie?”

  “I’m, I’m eighteen,” the girl stammered, staring down at her bright-red sneakers.

  Slice smiled and shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

  Cassie tried again. “Fifteen?” she said hopefully.

  “Close enough for now, I guess.” Slice pointed at the cloth pouch she had stuffed down the front of her jogging pants. “You want to give me that, Cassie?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “If I go back with nothing, he’ll—” She broke off abruptly.

  “What, Cassie? Who will do what?”

  Her thin, drawn face with dark smudges under the wide, scared eyes reminded Slice of a frightened rabbit. “Nothing,” she said, turning her head away. “Nobody.”

  “Look at me, Cassie. Please?” Slice placed his hand gently under Cassie’s chin and turned her face back towards his. When he saw the bruises on her neck, his eyes narrowed to sharp slits. Dark blue and green blotches formed an almost a perfect ring around her throat. “Who did this to you?” He couldn’t conceal the smoldering anger in his belly.

  She shrugged and pushed his hand away, then reached for the pouch. �
�Take it.” She tossed it at Slice’s feet. “But don’t turn me over to the cops, please, mister?”

  “I asked you a question,” Slice said, taking the pouch and shoving it into the waistband of his pants. “Look, I just to want to help you, okay?”

  “It’s none of your business!” Cassie screamed into Slice’s face. Her entire body trembled, and her wide eyes shone with the approach of tears.

  Slice held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “Okay. We’re cool, Cassie. No harm, no foul, right?” He stood up, took a step backwards, and glanced around the alley.

  Pedestrians were passing by both ends of the alley, but no one stopped or even turned their heads to look. If they did notice, no one wanted to get involved; nothing in it for them. It was as if he and the girl were in another world, another space and time. Slice shivered. “Come on,” he said softly. “Get up.” Again, he held out his hand.

  Cassie brushed it away, got to her feet slowly, like she was already old, and immediately tried to run.

  Slice had expected the move. Lightning fast, he reached out and caught her wrist.

  “Ouch! Let go, you’re hurting me!” Cassie writhed and squirmed and glared up at Slice with the hostile stare of a trapped animal.

  “I will,” Slice said calmly. “If you promise not to run.”

  “Okay. I won’t. I promise. Let go of me, please!” She stopped wriggling and stood still.

  With his free hand, Slice reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. The wad of green sticking out of the leather caught Cassie’s attention immediately. Slice let go of her wrist, and this time, she did not try to run. He handed her several bills.

  “Buy some food,” he said. “You hear me? Food. No drugs, no booze. You need to eat something.”

  Cassie snatched the money and stuffed it into her pants pocket, but when she saw the stern look on Slice’s face, she mumbled a reluctant, “Thanks, mister.”

  “Good manners don’t cost, huh?”

  “Guess not.” She sounded embarrassed.

  “Take this, too.” Slice handed her his business card. “You ever need help, you call me first, okay?”

  “Okay,” Cassie said, nodding and studying the card. “You’re a SEAL?” she asked, surprised.

  “I was. Long time ago.” Or so it seemed. He shrugged.

  Cassie’s eyes lit up, and a sloppy grin completely transformed her face. “Wow! So cool!”

  For the first time, Slice caught a glimpse of the child inside her, and a pang of recognition stirred in his chest. He knew what it was like to have to steal to eat. He knew what it was like to do a lot worse than steal. Slice felt the urge to take Cassie somewhere safe, do something normal like buy her a milkshake and a hot dog, talk to her, find out how her life got so screwed up, and then figure out a way to get her back on track. He pushed the thought from his head. Cassie wasn’t looking for a mentor. It was too soon to offer too much help; she’d just be scared off, and he’d probably never see her again. She had his card; she’d call when she was ready.

  “Go that way.” He pointed to the far end of the alley. “Cops will be all over the place by now, so stay off the main streets.”

  Cassie nodded and stuffed Slice’s card into her pocket with the money. She turned to go but stopped, spun about, and surprised him by wrapping her arms tight around his waist. She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Eww, wet!” Slice groaned, pretending to push her way.

  Cassie giggled. She let go and ran down the alley, but before disappearing out of sight, she paused and turned to wave.

  Slice waved back, and then she was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Stella’s on the Strand had a closed sign on the door. Slice rapped with his knuckles and smiled when a fortyish woman with blond curls peeked out through the glass.

  “We’re closed,” she mimed, pointing at the sign. Slice held up the black pouch, and the woman’s face lit up. She unlocked the door.

  “Slice Taylor, ma’am. Zuma SEALs Investigations. I believe this belongs to you?” He handed her the pouch. “Also, we have an appointment.”

  Using his last name felt weird to him, and he only did so for business. As for his nickname, he let people think what they wanted, and they invariably asked if his parents were hippies. “Weed smokers?” went unasked, but hung in the air.

  “In all the chaos, I’d forgotten.” She stepped back, inviting him into the store with a coy tilt of her head. She closed the door and led Slice a few paces inside, then stopped and shook hands. “Stella,” she said, smiling. “Stella Smith. Thank you so much, Mr. Taylor. I really don’t know what to say. The detectives said I’d probably never see the jewelry again. I was just on the phone to the insurance company. You’ve saved me a huge amount of trouble. And it raises your company to the top of my list.”

  Slice accepted the praise, nodded politely, and tried his best to look modest. It was nice to be appreciated, even if she was laying it on a bit thick. But that was okay, he thought. Let her gush; a gushing woman was hot, especially when she looked and sounded like Stella. Dark and husky, Stella’s voice came from deep in her throat, making her sound ripe and sexy, the way only women of a certain maturity could sound.

  Stella realized they were still holding hands and let go, laughing, a faint scarlet stain running up her neck to her cheeks. She took the pouch to a showcase and emptied the contents onto the glass top.

  Slice watched her go, admiring the curve of her hips and her slim calves in the seam-lined stockings. He liked women who took pride in looking their best, and he appreciated Stella’s expensive high heels and the snug fit of her skirt. Her meticulous makeup complemented her pale complexion, the pout of her full lips shone wet and ruby red, and her sultry green eyes twinkled back at him.

  Slice felt the first stirrings of lust and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Stella called from the glass showcase, “Yes. It’s all here. Thank you so much, Mr. Taylor.” Her tone did nothing to alleviate the storm brewing inside Slice. “May I offer you some tea? I have some excellent Earl Grey, hand-blended and shipped special from England.”

  Slice couldn’t stop his eyes from raking over Stella from head to toe. From her blond hair, the coquettish tilt of her head, and the expertly manicured hand resting lightly on her hip all the way down to her petite feet in shiny, patent leather shoes. His throat had turned dry.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Stella?” His voice hitched, and he cleared his throat with a polite cough into the ball of his fist.

  Stella paused and her eyes flickered to the sign on the door. It was still turned to closed. “Possibly,” she said, the corners of her mouth rising into a smile. “Would you like some tea first, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Tea sounds wonderful,” he said. Gotcha.

  Stella led him into the back office with a come-hither tilt of her head, all pretense of business forgotten. The room was small: a desk, a chair, and a small table for making coffee and tea. She switched on an old-fashioned electric kettle and spooned tea into a silver teapot.

  Slice stood in the doorway and watched, admiring the grace and elegance of her every move.

  “Do you like what you see, Mr. Taylor?” she asked without turning around.

  Slice felt the atmosphere in the tiny room become electric. “Very much,” he said. The water boiled, and the kettle switched itself off.

  Stella poured hot water into the teapot. “We have to wait five minutes for it to brew,” she said, not looking at him, still showing Slice the firm, plump curves of her ass. “Would you like to fuck me while we wait?”

  Slice’s breath caught in his throat. “Pardon me?”

  “I’ve never had a real SEAL before.” She leaned forward over the desk.

  Slice didn’t need to be asked twice. He stepped up behind her and raised the back of her skirt up over her hips. Stella was not wearing panties. He ran his hands over her smooth, pale buttocks, and she began to sigh. H
er skin was soft and cool to the touch. He bent down and kissed her.

  *

  “Thank you for the tea, Stella,” Slice said as they stood at the street door of the store.

  Stella reached up to the sign on the back of the door and turned it to read open. “You are very welcome, Mr. Taylor. Pop in any time.” She smiled.

  Slice was amazed at how calm and collected she looked, with not a smudge in her makeup or a hair out of place.

  “You know,” Stella continued, “I’ll have to phone the insurance company again. Tell them the goods have been returned. There might be a reward.”

  Slice laughed. “I think I’ve been rewarded enough already.”

  They both smiled, and she gave Slice a conspiratorial wink. He looked across the street and saw Cassie pacing up and down and checking her watch. She looked pretty pissed off. Stella caught the direction of his gaze.

  “Who is that?” she asked, her immaculately plucked eyebrows raised in curiosity.

  “Someone I met earlier,” Slice replied with a shrug. Someone he was worried about.

  “Ah. Well, have fun, Mr. Taylor. I have your card; I’ll be in touch. I might require a second meeting before deciding which security company to hire.” She held out her hand, and Slice took it in his and shook. “Goodbye,” Stella purred. She turned briskly and disappeared back into the store. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two.”

  Slice watched her go, once more admiring the rhythmic sway of her hips and the pert, round shape of her ass in the tight skirt. He sighed and turned to make his way across the street to the girl, only to find that Cassie had vanished.

  Chapter Three

  Lark hitched the picnic basket higher in the crook of her elbow, tucked the rolled-up blanket tighter into her armpit, and walked onto the Santa Monica Pier. It was another beautiful day with the sun glittering off the cobalt blue water. There were a handful of fishermen lined up along the pier in hopes of catching dinner, but most of the people had walked to the far end where the carnival rides and junk food were.

  A sign reading SAVE BUFO BAXTERI in hastily hand-painted letters leaned upside down against a low railing. Lark had to tilt her head to the right as far as she could to read it. She straightened up, looked at the young man who sat on the bench beside the sign, and smiled, recognizing his type. Lark had been just like him back in the good old days. He was even wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt identical to one she’d worn in college and occasionally still wore, but only as a pajama top.