Hot Target Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Also by Suzanne Brockmann

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATION

  To my fabulous son, Jason:

  Even as a tiny child, your smile could outshine the sun, and your cheerful disposition and kind nature made you countless friends. Everyone who met you loved you!

  At three, walking became too mundane for you. Instead, wherever you went, you danced. And occasionally you swished! One of the first times you did that, your dad looked at me. “Where did he learn that?” I shrugged. We didn’t let you watch TV. “Got me. It’s just . . . Jason being Jason,” I said, and went off to play with you and your vast collection of cars and action figures.

  At eight, you discovered musical theater. You wanted to sing and dance onstage, so you auditioned for a semipro production. You were just a little too young, but you charmed the director and became the tiniest pickpocket in an eight-week run of Oliver!

  Your dad loved Stevie Wonder, and I, a former rock-and-roller, was in my country music phase. “What’s with all the show tunes?” your grandmother asked me when you played the soundtrack to Secret Garden over and over again. I smiled. “It’s just Jason being Jason.”

  At nine, you had a class project—write a letter to someone you admire. “Why Bette Midler?” I asked when you told me your choice. “She’s my favorite actor in the world,” you proclaimed after watching Ruthless People thirty times in a row. She wrote back, and you framed her signed picture, putting it in a place of honor on your dresser.

  “Wow, that’s interesting,” I said to your dad, after we once again agreed that Jason was truly unique. “I wonder if he likes Cher, too?”

  (You did! Along with Bernadette Peters and Debbie Reynolds and . . .)

  At ten, you went to see a show that featured an actor friend you’d made while appearing as Winthrop Paroo in The Music Man. On the ride home, you asked me, “Did you know Charley Dude is gay?” “Yeah,” I said. “Wasn’t his performance excellent tonight?” You agreed, but were unusually quiet for the rest of the drive.

  A few days later, we had friends over to watch a movie, and as Eric and Bill sat together on the couch, they started their usual banter. “Raising the homo-shield!” Bill announced, invoking the invisible force field that would supposedly allow him to sit so close to Eric without anyone making gay comments.

  It was all supposed to be funny, but how, I wondered, would those jokes sound to someone who was gay?

  That night, after everyone went home and you were in bed, your dad and I discussed it, and we agreed. We gathered all of our friends together and announced that from this moment on, there would be no more gay jokes in our house. No more inadvertent gay bashing.

  Because if you were gay—and I was pretty sure even then that this was, indeed, the way God made you—you were not going to grow up thinking there was anything wrong with you.

  Years later, when you were fifteen, you still wanted me to tuck you in at night. So I’d stand by your bunk bed and we’d talk a bit about the day. I’d also gather up your dirty clothes. You were supposed to put them in a laundry basket, but sometimes your aim was off.

  One night, you took a deep breath and said to me, “Mom, I think I’m gay.”

  “I know that,” I told you, giving you a hug and a kiss. “I love you. I’ll always love you. Where did you put your dirty socks?”

  A day or two later we sat down and talked about safe sex and personal safety. I have to confess that it made my heart ache to have to tell you that there were people out there, people who didn’t even know you but who hated you anyway—people who might try to hurt you because you were gay. Because you were simply being you. And it was your turn to give me a hug and say, “I know that. But, Mom, the world is changing.”

  Today, as I write this, you are eighteen. You are a grown man, and I am so proud of you.

  Yes, the world is changing, but it’s not happening quickly enough for me. I was outraged when we went to the Gay Pride parade last June and you saw that hateful, ignorant sign that read, “God hates you.”

  I wish the person carrying that sign had seen you at three, at eight, at nine, at ten. If he had, then he would know that you are a true child of God. If he had, then he would know that by being gay, you are just being Jason.

  God loves you, I love you, Dad loves you. Unconditionally. You know that.

  And I know that you love and accept yourself. You are confident and strong. Just like when you were three years old, you allow Jason to be Jason.

  Shine on, my son!

  This story is for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, first off, to my wonderful readers, especially those who clamored to see more of Jules Cassidy.

  I love writing this ongoing series of books about SEAL Team Sixteen, Troubleshooters Incorporated, and Max Bhagat’s FBI Counterterrorist Team. These characters have become my dear friends. It’s beyond cool that so many readers feel the same way!

  (FYI, I’m currently writing Max and Gina’s story, Breaking Point, due out next summer. Watch my website, www.SuzanneBrockmann.com for details!)

  A shout out to my early draft readers: Lee Brockmann (Hi, Mom!), Deede Bergeron, Patricia McMahon, and Scott Lutz. Thank you so much for your input!

  Thanks, also, to the team at Ballantine: Linda Marrow, Gilly Hailparn, Arielle Zibrak . . . As for my editor, Shauna Summers . . . Thank you, THANK YOU, thank you, thank you!!!

  A ton of appreciation goes to Those Who Help Keep Me Sane: Eric Ruben, Christina Trevaskis (aka Tina Fabulous!), and my terrific agent, Steve Axelrod! Thanks also to fellow writers, Pat White and Alesia Holliday.

  A special note to Donovan and Betsy Trevaskis: Thank you for sharing your wonderful daughter with me. I know how hard it must be for you, with her so far away. I promise she will visit you often!

  Thank you to my own precious daughter and son, Melanie and Jason. I love you guys!

  Thank you to Michael Holland for providing musical inspiration. As I wrote Hot Target, I listened repeatedly to “Everything in the Whole Wide World,” “(It Came As) No Surprise,” and “Firefly IX” from Michael’s latest CD, Beach Toys Won’t Save You. (Michael’s CDs are available at www.CDBaby.com.)

  A huge HOO-YAH to Capt. Josh Roots of the United States Marines for being my contact in Iraq, and for distributing dozens of care packages to the young men and women in his unit. Thank you, too, to the readers who contributed to those packages during my Flashpoint tour—especially those who helped us out by bringing the boxes to their local post offices!

  Thank you to my relentlessly patient husband and best friend, Ed Gaffney. (Ed’s first book, a legal thriller called Premeditated Murder will be published in June! I’m so proud!)

  Last but not least, thank you to PFLAG—Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays—an organization dedicated to changing attitudes and creating an environment of understanding so that gay family members and friends can live with dignity and respect. For more information, go to www.pflag.org.

  As always, any mistakes I’ve made or liberties I’ve taken are completely my own.

  PROLOGUE

  Every now and then, a SEAL Team was handed a silver bullet assignment.

  Rescuing a dozen kidnapped supermodels.

  Working extra security, blending with the crowd in the stands at the Olympics.

  A training op in Honolulu during spring break.

  But no matter how Chief Cosmo Richter looked at it, jamming his six-foot-four-inch body up the shaft of a thirty-five-year-old garbage chute in a terrorist-ridden country in the middle of the night was not on his top-ten list of dream assignments.

  Nope, whoever labeled Special Operations as the most glamorous branch of the U.S. Military didn’t have this in mind.

  As Cosmo led his men farther up the chute and into the building that was an alleged orphanage, he could hear Tony Vlachic, SEAL Team Sixteen’s newest and youngest member, working hard not to gag at the overpowering stench.

  He could also hear the gunfire from the street, as a second squad of SEALs—Mikey Muldoon and seven men—was led directly into an enemy ambush.

  Of course, it wasn’t really an ambush. Not anymore.

  The SEAL leader of this op, Lieutenant Mike Muldoon, had guessed correctly that Ziya, their informant, had terrorist ties. It was true that Ziya had revealed that the civilian hostages were being held in this building—information that was verified by U.S. intelligence. And, for sure, the Big Z was all “Please allow me to help.”

  But he was never quite specific enough about exactly how he wanted to help.