Cowboy
Book 1 of Delta Security - Opening Scene
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Authors love all our book babies, but sometimes we do have a favorite or two that standout. Jesse and Tinsley's story is one of those books for me. I loved writing Cowboy so much so, not only will we see him and Tin throughout the series, but we will get to read about their life together in book 2.5 of Delta Security .
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One
Cowboy
August 12th
Seattle, Washington
SWEAT DRIPPED ONTO my Under Armour shirt from the ends of my hair as a thousand stinging hornets attacked the muscles in my legs. I was on the last of my three-mile run, and my knee was beginning to protest.
“Push past it,” I panted, listening to Godsmack in my wireless earbuds.
The well-worn runners on my feet slapped the oil-black pavement and joined into the symphony of my rapidly beating heart.
With a glance at my upheld wrist, I marked my time. Better than the week before, I considered. However, that knowledge didn’t slow me down. I crossed to the other side of the quiet street, heading in the direction of my condo.
Three, two, one.
Like clockwork, the massive barrel-chested Rottweiler lunged for the chain-link fence that secured the construction site, rattling the metal upon impact with his giant paws. His disgruntled deep rumbling grrrr transformed into a vicious aar-aar-ar, aar-aar-ar...
Not bothering to look his way, I gave the guard dog the finger when I passed.
Just a couple of blocks from my building, I weaved around a trashcan. The first gleaming rays of the sun shot multiple shafts of light through the clouds as I took the familiar path. Waving to the sanitation truck driver I met almost every morning, I rounded the corner.
My overworked knee felt ready to snap, but I ran harder, lungs working overtime, sprinting past the ache.
No pain, no gain!
That haunting voice of Crew Compton was an ever-present motivator. He’d been the kind of man others aspired to become—a successful high-profile district attorney who never backed down—a dad who made time for me no matter how large his caseload was. When I was a kid, my father never missed a holiday, birthday, or any of my sporting events. He loved his family, adored my mother, and was there for her in good times and bad, but the bad often came after her twin sister lost the battle she’d been entrenched in for two years with breast cancer.
With my aunt Sasha gone, Mom tumbled into a severe depression, quit going into the pottery shop she and her sister owned, stopped taking care of everyone, and cried all the time. Dad used personal leave from work to be with her, took us on weekend trips, and showered my mother in affection. A couple of months later, we thought she was getting better. She said she was, had returned somewhat close to her old self, and smiled again. We were wrong. The horror of how wrong revealed itself when I came home from school a few days after my father returned to his office. My mom had been sprawled out, lifeless, face down on their bed.
Samira Compton took her life by downing a bottle of pills when I was thirteen.
That time is sort of a hazy blur for me, but standing by my father’s side, beneath a cloudless sky while they lowered my mother’s burnished bronze coffin into the ground, I shut down. I became the walking definition of a living zombie. He tried to help me, even took me once a week to see some Ivy League-educated shrink. That was a complete waste of time, and ultimately, I made things worse in a misguided attempt to fix my malfunction, trying to feel something other than numb. Dad went to war to save me from myself when he found out what was going on, refusing to lose another person he loved. It hadn’t been easy, but I guess nothing worth fighting for ever is.
My father was the reason I never surrendered, no matter the odds I’d face.
Eventually, I found focus and joined the Navy, finding I excelled at aspects suited for the Seals. My brothers, combat, and covert missions became my life. When my time as a soldier ended, I kept pushing, not taking the grim doctor’s predictions about my knee being blown as fact. My dad backed me every step of the way, telling me I’d return to the top of my game. And I did, only instead of working for Uncle Sam, my best friend, Cooper Kane and I, rounded up our former team, opening Delta Security. But when violence took my father’s life nine months ago on the steps of an L.A. courthouse, after seeking an inditement of the biggest crime boss in California, my focus shifted to his killer.
It took me a few weeks, calling in two or three markers, and a trip to a little hole-in-the-wall cantina in Mexico to locate the trigger man. A couple of thousand dollars to pay for alternative transportation, another five grand to cover my tracks, and a few more weeks off the grid with the hitman happened before he gave me the person’s name behind the contract. It was worth it. Though, that information didn’t come voluntarily. Let’s just say my interrogation turned bloody, and I hadn’t been the one bleeding.
The moment I returned to the states, I went to my father’s final resting place alongside my mother and made him a promise. If it were the last thing I ever did, I’d bring the entire Russo syndicate down. Oh, yes. I had no doubt. I wouldn’t stop until I burned their corrupt kingdom to the ground.
From there, things went into a different mode, looking for a way in. I hadn’t found it yet, but I would. And when the opening came, I’d walk through it and never look back.
Slowing to a jog, then coming to a stop, I leaned over, palms resting on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Once I quit sucking air, I straightened, grabbed my elbows and twisted my torso from side to side, then strode to my building.
“Morning, Mr. Compton,” the concierge greeted, holding the door open for me. “How was your time today?”
“Good morning, Martin. Better than last week,” I said, stepping into the foyer.
The older man gave a gap-toothed grin. “Onward and upward.”
“Always.”
Waving a hand over my head on my way to the elevator was my goodbye, ready for a hot shower.
***
Steam wafted from the Starbucks cup in front of me a few hours later as I took my seat at the walnut conference room table with my team.
A thick folder was passed to me.
“We’ve got it—the way in,” Cooper, A.K.A. Ghost announced.
I took the dossier and opened it, removing the photograph someone had paper clipped to the front page, studying the picture of the young woman with long, auburn hair, creamy skin, intriguing light gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, and blushed bee-stung lips.
“Mia Russo,” he said. “The only living child of the recently deceased Emilio Russo and niece to the man who took over as the head of the family, Benny Russo.”
“Is that right,” I stated, glancing up to meet Cooper’s jade gaze.
“And it gets better.”
“Hit me with it.”
“She’s here.”
Everything inside of me stilled. “You don’t say.”
“Will be attending the University of Washington. Transferred in as a senior.”
I cocked a brow. “What are the odds?”
“Usually? I’d say astronomical, but for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Her uncle started a new venture. He’s branching out.”
I dropped the pic. “Get close to her; get close to the uncle.”
Cooper lifted a scarred hand. “Nothing you haven’t done before. Unless you’d rather someone else take the lead.”
“My dad, my case.”
He nodded knowingly.
“Well, Casanova.” Nile ‘Hawkeye’ Hillard picked up the photo, sat back in his chair with that cocky grin on his angular face, and tweaked his chin. “Looks like some cherry pie to me. Should be easy for you.”
Being multilingual was one of my skillsets. I’d always been able to mimic accents perfectly, so I’d learned to fluidly speak, read, and write nine languages allowing me to blend into different personas as needed. Blending was an asset when I was a Seal and, as it turned out, still was.
For Mia, I’d be dusting off the shady version of Jayce Dante—my alter ego who wore tailored suits and had a questionable enough past. Meaning loads of dirty money and the right connections to pass any background check the mafia would run on me.
“You know how I like my pie, Hawkeye.” I gave that million-dollar smile the ladies loved. “Warm and sweet.”
He made a lewd hand gesture.
Low chuckles swirled around the room.
Cooper shook his bald head.
“So, what’s the plan?” I slipped the folder aside to read through later, grabbing the cup I’d left alone for far too long to sip the strong, black brew.
“Mia frequents a club here in Seattle called Exotica,” said Cooper.
“Since a cousin runs the place, we suspect it’s one of the Russo’s many expanded fronts,” Gabe ‘Reaper’ Romero interjected.
Kevin Brighton, or ‘Bones’ added, “Not only for drug trafficking and money laundering but for prostitution and high-stakes gambling.”
“The new venture,” I stated, putting my drink down. “This is why she’s here. To keep a lookout for her uncle’s interests.”
“Think so,” he said.
Glancing around the table, I took in the stern features of my brother’s faces. “Starting tomorrow, I’m frequenting Exotica.”
Cooper met my eyes, agreeing without saying a word.
Slowly tapping my fingers over the file, my mind worked on the details of resurrecting Jayce as my cover. “We need to call in Violet. Get the front for Dante Enterprises up and running today.”
“I figured you’d go with Dante,” Hawkeye said. “Already gave her a call. She’ll get everything in place by this afternoon.”
This is what I loved about our team, our ability to know what each other would do. Being a well-oiled machine saved our bacon more than once when we were forced to shoot from the hip with altered plans during those missions that went awry when we served the red, white, and blue.
I began to slip into the stone-cold dangerous side of myself. “Send in the Siberian for backup.”
“Will do,” he said.
Swinging his attention to Hawkeye, Cooper said, “You run point there.”
The man nodded.
“Reaper. You’re close cover for Cowboy when the time comes.”
“In the shadows?”
“Yep.”
Returning his focus to me, Cooper slid a second file over. “Dig in deep.”
Plucking it up, I didn’t need to think about my response; it was automatic. “Consider it done.”
“Push past it,” I panted, listening to Godsmack in my wireless earbuds.
The well-worn runners on my feet slapped the oil-black pavement and joined into the symphony of my rapidly beating heart.
With a glance at my upheld wrist, I marked my time. Better than the week before, I considered. However, that knowledge didn’t slow me down. I crossed to the other side of the quiet street, heading in the direction of my condo.
Three, two, one.
Like clockwork, the massive barrel-chested Rottweiler lunged for the chain-link fence that secured the construction site, rattling the metal upon impact with his giant paws. His disgruntled deep rumbling grrrr transformed into a vicious aar-aar-ar, aar-aar-ar...
Not bothering to look his way, I gave the guard dog the finger when I passed.
Just a couple of blocks from my building, I weaved around a trashcan. The first gleaming rays of the sun shot multiple shafts of light through the clouds as I took the familiar path. Waving to the sanitation truck driver I met almost every morning, I rounded the corner.
My overworked knee felt ready to snap, but I ran harder, lungs working overtime, sprinting past the ache.
No pain, no gain!
That haunting voice of Crew Compton was an ever-present motivator. He’d been the kind of man others aspired to become—a successful high-profile district attorney who never backed down—a dad who made time for me no matter how large his caseload was. When I was a kid, my father never missed a holiday, birthday, or any of my sporting events. He loved his family, adored my mother, and was there for her in good times and bad, but the bad often came after her twin sister lost the battle she’d been entrenched in for two years with breast cancer.
With my aunt Sasha gone, Mom tumbled into a severe depression, quit going into the pottery shop she and her sister owned, stopped taking care of everyone, and cried all the time. Dad used personal leave from work to be with her, took us on weekend trips, and showered my mother in affection. A couple of months later, we thought she was getting better. She said she was, had returned somewhat close to her old self, and smiled again. We were wrong. The horror of how wrong revealed itself when I came home from school a few days after my father returned to his office. My mom had been sprawled out, lifeless, face down on their bed.
Samira Compton took her life by downing a bottle of pills when I was thirteen.
That time is sort of a hazy blur for me, but standing by my father’s side, beneath a cloudless sky while they lowered my mother’s burnished bronze coffin into the ground, I shut down. I became the walking definition of a living zombie. He tried to help me, even took me once a week to see some Ivy League-educated shrink. That was a complete waste of time, and ultimately, I made things worse in a misguided attempt to fix my malfunction, trying to feel something other than numb. Dad went to war to save me from myself when he found out what was going on, refusing to lose another person he loved. It hadn’t been easy, but I guess nothing worth fighting for ever is.
My father was the reason I never surrendered, no matter the odds I’d face.
Eventually, I found focus and joined the Navy, finding I excelled at aspects suited for the Seals. My brothers, combat, and covert missions became my life. When my time as a soldier ended, I kept pushing, not taking the grim doctor’s predictions about my knee being blown as fact. My dad backed me every step of the way, telling me I’d return to the top of my game. And I did, only instead of working for Uncle Sam, my best friend, Cooper Kane and I, rounded up our former team, opening Delta Security. But when violence took my father’s life nine months ago on the steps of an L.A. courthouse, after seeking an inditement of the biggest crime boss in California, my focus shifted to his killer.
It took me a few weeks, calling in two or three markers, and a trip to a little hole-in-the-wall cantina in Mexico to locate the trigger man. A couple of thousand dollars to pay for alternative transportation, another five grand to cover my tracks, and a few more weeks off the grid with the hitman happened before he gave me the person’s name behind the contract. It was worth it. Though, that information didn’t come voluntarily. Let’s just say my interrogation turned bloody, and I hadn’t been the one bleeding.
The moment I returned to the states, I went to my father’s final resting place alongside my mother and made him a promise. If it were the last thing I ever did, I’d bring the entire Russo syndicate down. Oh, yes. I had no doubt. I wouldn’t stop until I burned their corrupt kingdom to the ground.
From there, things went into a different mode, looking for a way in. I hadn’t found it yet, but I would. And when the opening came, I’d walk through it and never look back.
Slowing to a jog, then coming to a stop, I leaned over, palms resting on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Once I quit sucking air, I straightened, grabbed my elbows and twisted my torso from side to side, then strode to my building.
“Morning, Mr. Compton,” the concierge greeted, holding the door open for me. “How was your time today?”
“Good morning, Martin. Better than last week,” I said, stepping into the foyer.
The older man gave a gap-toothed grin. “Onward and upward.”
“Always.”
Waving a hand over my head on my way to the elevator was my goodbye, ready for a hot shower.
***
Steam wafted from the Starbucks cup in front of me a few hours later as I took my seat at the walnut conference room table with my team.
A thick folder was passed to me.
“We’ve got it—the way in,” Cooper, A.K.A. Ghost announced.
I took the dossier and opened it, removing the photograph someone had paper clipped to the front page, studying the picture of the young woman with long, auburn hair, creamy skin, intriguing light gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, and blushed bee-stung lips.
“Mia Russo,” he said. “The only living child of the recently deceased Emilio Russo and niece to the man who took over as the head of the family, Benny Russo.”
“Is that right,” I stated, glancing up to meet Cooper’s jade gaze.
“And it gets better.”
“Hit me with it.”
“She’s here.”
Everything inside of me stilled. “You don’t say.”
“Will be attending the University of Washington. Transferred in as a senior.”
I cocked a brow. “What are the odds?”
“Usually? I’d say astronomical, but for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Her uncle started a new venture. He’s branching out.”
I dropped the pic. “Get close to her; get close to the uncle.”
Cooper lifted a scarred hand. “Nothing you haven’t done before. Unless you’d rather someone else take the lead.”
“My dad, my case.”
He nodded knowingly.
“Well, Casanova.” Nile ‘Hawkeye’ Hillard picked up the photo, sat back in his chair with that cocky grin on his angular face, and tweaked his chin. “Looks like some cherry pie to me. Should be easy for you.”
Being multilingual was one of my skillsets. I’d always been able to mimic accents perfectly, so I’d learned to fluidly speak, read, and write nine languages allowing me to blend into different personas as needed. Blending was an asset when I was a Seal and, as it turned out, still was.
For Mia, I’d be dusting off the shady version of Jayce Dante—my alter ego who wore tailored suits and had a questionable enough past. Meaning loads of dirty money and the right connections to pass any background check the mafia would run on me.
“You know how I like my pie, Hawkeye.” I gave that million-dollar smile the ladies loved. “Warm and sweet.”
He made a lewd hand gesture.
Low chuckles swirled around the room.
Cooper shook his bald head.
“So, what’s the plan?” I slipped the folder aside to read through later, grabbing the cup I’d left alone for far too long to sip the strong, black brew.
“Mia frequents a club here in Seattle called Exotica,” said Cooper.
“Since a cousin runs the place, we suspect it’s one of the Russo’s many expanded fronts,” Gabe ‘Reaper’ Romero interjected.
Kevin Brighton, or ‘Bones’ added, “Not only for drug trafficking and money laundering but for prostitution and high-stakes gambling.”
“The new venture,” I stated, putting my drink down. “This is why she’s here. To keep a lookout for her uncle’s interests.”
“Think so,” he said.
Glancing around the table, I took in the stern features of my brother’s faces. “Starting tomorrow, I’m frequenting Exotica.”
Cooper met my eyes, agreeing without saying a word.
Slowly tapping my fingers over the file, my mind worked on the details of resurrecting Jayce as my cover. “We need to call in Violet. Get the front for Dante Enterprises up and running today.”
“I figured you’d go with Dante,” Hawkeye said. “Already gave her a call. She’ll get everything in place by this afternoon.”
This is what I loved about our team, our ability to know what each other would do. Being a well-oiled machine saved our bacon more than once when we were forced to shoot from the hip with altered plans during those missions that went awry when we served the red, white, and blue.
I began to slip into the stone-cold dangerous side of myself. “Send in the Siberian for backup.”
“Will do,” he said.
Swinging his attention to Hawkeye, Cooper said, “You run point there.”
The man nodded.
“Reaper. You’re close cover for Cowboy when the time comes.”
“In the shadows?”
“Yep.”
Returning his focus to me, Cooper slid a second file over. “Dig in deep.”
Plucking it up, I didn’t need to think about my response; it was automatic. “Consider it done.”