mind. Did I mention the indoor ski resort?”
Only about five times.
The city was amazing. Burj Al Arab. The Jumeirah Emirates Towers hotel. Al Kazim Towers. The artificial island of Palm Jumeirah with its long central avenue. Burj Khalifa, soon to be the world’s tallest building.
The city dripped with wealth—oil dollars and foreign investment. But Javier would rather be putting together a barbecue with his dad in his folks’ backyard in the South Bronx or home in San Diego than wandering around Dubai City in the 105-degree heat staring at architecture. And when it came to the beaches, nothing here could compare to the beaches of Puerto Rico.
Still, being a tourist for a few days wasn’t a bad idea. He could use a little decompression time. It had been a long and rough deployment, one that had seen him and the other men of Delta Platoon caught between the mandate to win hearts and minds and their primary mission as SEALs—to kick ass and take names.
At least they hadn’t lost anyone this time around.
A young man approached him, menu in hand. “Just one tonight?”
Javier nodded.
“This way, please.” The man led him to a vacant table for two in the back of the restaurant not far from the emergency exit.
Javier sat with his back to the wall. It was instinctive for him—taking a defensive position, staying aware of his surroundings. He was no more conscious of doing it than he was of breathing.
He wanted a burger and a Heineken, but finding neither on the menu, he ordered steamed clams, a New York strip, and a pint of Vicaris Tripel instead.
A Filipino server quickly brought his beverage, the sight of the amber liquid and creamy, white head almost making Javier moan. He hadn’t had a beer since before Delta Platoon had deployed last November. He raised the pint glass to his mouth and drank, foam tickling his upper lip, beer sliding, smooth and cold, down his throat.
Oh, hell, yeah.
He lowered the glass, licked the foam off his upper lip, a longing he’d had for months finally satisfied. He looked up—and recognized her the moment he saw her.
Laura Nilsson.
The Baghdad Babe.
That’s what U.S. troops called her. They’d given her the nickname back in 2007 during The Surge, when she’d arrived in Baghdad and begun nightly live broadcasts from outside the Green Zone. Tall and slender with pale blond hair, big ice-blue eyes, a sweet face, and even sweeter curves, she had probably served as the fantasy for a thousand combat jacks, though not Javier’s. He preferred dark-haired women with a bit more meat on their bones, women who had something to shake when they danced bomba .
What Javier did admire about Ms. Nilsson was her reporting. She was absolutely fearless, traveling to places most journalists refused to go, tackling stories that other reporters wouldn’t touch or didn’t see, giving the people back home the big picture on this war, telling it like it was. It helped that she had a security team and knew a half-dozen languages, including Arabic, Farsi, German, and French.
Javier sipped his beer, watching as the host escorted her to a table marked “Reserved” just a few tables away from where he sat. She wore a sleeveless black dress that hinted at the curves beneath and showed off her toned arms and slender legs. Her long blond hair hung down her back, its gentle waves held in place by a barrette, a leather handbag over her shoulder, sandals revealing polished pink toenails.
Did you just look her up and down , cabrón?
Yeah, he had.
He couldn’t blame himself. Back-to-back deployments made it tough to have any kind of sex life. It had been more than a year since he’d gotten laid—something he was suddenly very conscious of.
Ms. Nilsson’s gaze passed over the room, connecting with his. And for one startling moment, he found himself looking into a pair of cool, blue eyes. He felt his body tense ever so slightly, the intelligence behind those eyes seeming to assess him before she
Only about five times.
The city was amazing. Burj Al Arab. The Jumeirah Emirates Towers hotel. Al Kazim Towers. The artificial island of Palm Jumeirah with its long central avenue. Burj Khalifa, soon to be the world’s tallest building.
The city dripped with wealth—oil dollars and foreign investment. But Javier would rather be putting together a barbecue with his dad in his folks’ backyard in the South Bronx or home in San Diego than wandering around Dubai City in the 105-degree heat staring at architecture. And when it came to the beaches, nothing here could compare to the beaches of Puerto Rico.
Still, being a tourist for a few days wasn’t a bad idea. He could use a little decompression time. It had been a long and rough deployment, one that had seen him and the other men of Delta Platoon caught between the mandate to win hearts and minds and their primary mission as SEALs—to kick ass and take names.
At least they hadn’t lost anyone this time around.
A young man approached him, menu in hand. “Just one tonight?”
Javier nodded.
“This way, please.” The man led him to a vacant table for two in the back of the restaurant not far from the emergency exit.
Javier sat with his back to the wall. It was instinctive for him—taking a defensive position, staying aware of his surroundings. He was no more conscious of doing it than he was of breathing.
He wanted a burger and a Heineken, but finding neither on the menu, he ordered steamed clams, a New York strip, and a pint of Vicaris Tripel instead.
A Filipino server quickly brought his beverage, the sight of the amber liquid and creamy, white head almost making Javier moan. He hadn’t had a beer since before Delta Platoon had deployed last November. He raised the pint glass to his mouth and drank, foam tickling his upper lip, beer sliding, smooth and cold, down his throat.
Oh, hell, yeah.
He lowered the glass, licked the foam off his upper lip, a longing he’d had for months finally satisfied. He looked up—and recognized her the moment he saw her.
Laura Nilsson.
The Baghdad Babe.
That’s what U.S. troops called her. They’d given her the nickname back in 2007 during The Surge, when she’d arrived in Baghdad and begun nightly live broadcasts from outside the Green Zone. Tall and slender with pale blond hair, big ice-blue eyes, a sweet face, and even sweeter curves, she had probably served as the fantasy for a thousand combat jacks, though not Javier’s. He preferred dark-haired women with a bit more meat on their bones, women who had something to shake when they danced bomba .
What Javier did admire about Ms. Nilsson was her reporting. She was absolutely fearless, traveling to places most journalists refused to go, tackling stories that other reporters wouldn’t touch or didn’t see, giving the people back home the big picture on this war, telling it like it was. It helped that she had a security team and knew a half-dozen languages, including Arabic, Farsi, German, and French.
Javier sipped his beer, watching as the host escorted her to a table marked “Reserved” just a few tables away from where he sat. She wore a sleeveless black dress that hinted at the curves beneath and showed off her toned arms and slender legs. Her long blond hair hung down her back, its gentle waves held in place by a barrette, a leather handbag over her shoulder, sandals revealing polished pink toenails.
Did you just look her up and down , cabrón?
Yeah, he had.
He couldn’t blame himself. Back-to-back deployments made it tough to have any kind of sex life. It had been more than a year since he’d gotten laid—something he was suddenly very conscious of.
Ms. Nilsson’s gaze passed over the room, connecting with his. And for one startling moment, he found himself looking into a pair of cool, blue eyes. He felt his body tense ever so slightly, the intelligence behind those eyes seeming to assess him before she
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