Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Summer Breeze (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

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  CHAPTER ONE

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  For Rosemary Summer, the stillness and quiet was unsettling. It had been more than six years since she’d last visited the Summer Breeze Ranch and the guilt was eating away at her. She came to live on the ranch with her grandfather when her parents died in a car accident. She was sixteen at the time.

  The pressures of life had sucked her into a deep void. College, law school, high-pressure job, new city, new condo, new relationships . . . she had lost touch.

  Losing her parents as a teenager was a devastating experience but living on the ranch with her grandfather eased the pain over time as much as could be expected. She had always loved her grandfather dearly and Summer Breeze felt like home. She felt comfort here—it felt like home.

  She remembered the ranch as always being vibrant. There were horses, cattle and chickens. There were hired hands too, many of whom her grandfather had to regularly shoo away from her. Even though it was just the two of them, the house was always filled with music, love and laughter. She moved away to California to go to law school, and then moved straight to Chicago.

  That was nineteen years ago. The horses, cattle and chickens were long gone, as were the hired hands. In her grandfather’s later years, a combination of ill-health, mismanagement and economic conditions had taken them all, leaving him only with the house, the property and a sizeable debt.

  She received the news of her grandfather’s death from his accountant via text, while she was in court, serving as second chair on a civil court case. Her grandfather’s gardener found him in the garden he cherished so much, dead of a heart attack. And now here she was, standing on the porch, alone. The silence was deafening. The stillness was broken only by the sound of the tea kettle, whistling away, affirming the water was ready.

  Rose poured her tea and walked out onto the beautiful porch. She had many fond memories of that porch, and they all involved her grandfather, smoking his pipe, or playing folk songs on his old Harmony flat top guitar—all while slowly creaking back and forth on the antique rocking chair, now sadly conspicuous by its emptiness. She sat on the oversized white glider bench seat, facing the sun, just now beginning to set in the west. She sipped her iced sweet tea and rolled the cool glass across her forehead. The sun’s glow had turned a beautiful shade of amber, announcing the imminent arrival of evening, causing the sky to explode in splashes of yellow, purple, blue and red. Rainclouds had just begun to form in the distant sky, creating dark, billowy patches against the rainbow of colors.

  The day had been hot, over ninety-five degrees, but a mild breeze now complemented the fading sun to bring a soothing relief across her face. The distant hills had begun to glow orange, reflecting the early evening sunlight. The lake pooled at the base of the hills looked eerily calm, almost like a sheet of glass. Crickets slowly began to tune up, preparing to sing their nightly songs. She heard the faint sound of thunder, still miles away, rumbling like a distant avalanche.

  She smiled softly and closed her eyes allowing the final moments of the fading sun and quiet coolness of the breeze to sweep her away from all that had recently happened. Her grandfather’s passing was only the latest in a series of personal and professional events that had caused her stress level to go through the roof. As much as the death in her family had caused her nearly immeasurable heartache, she was glad to leave Chicago behind for a while. Even her boyfriend and her boss had told her that things happen for a reason, and perhaps the break to handle her grandfather’s funeral and personal affairs was just what she needed.

  She saw a tiny plume of dust puffing up in the distance even before she heard the ancient blue truck’s engine. A visitor approached. She did not recognize the truck, nor was she expecting anyone. The old blue truck rumbled up to the front gate, flanked on both sides by a well-maintained white picket fence, which surrounded the house.

  Rose stood as the truck’s single occupant emerged—a young Cheyenne man in his early thirties, and a striking one at that. The very first thing she noticed was his hair, long and shiny, parted in the middle, looking as if it were made of pure silk. He wore brown leather cowboy boots and well-worn jeans that tightly hugged his thick muscular thighs and small waist. His long-sleeved white cotton shirt was unbuttoned to just below his pectorals, revealing a smooth chest. The shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his dark, muscular forearms. He looked up at her and smiled.

  While Rose was no shrinking violet the unannounced visit would have caused many women to pause with concern, but the young Cheyenne’s smile was disarming. It forced her to smile back in kind.

  “You must be Ms. Summer, Old Eli’s granddaughter,” he called out, in perfectly articulated English, without a trace of an accent. He stood at the gate, as if waiting for permission to approach. Her grandfather’s name was Eli Summer but everyone called him ‘Old Eli.’

  “Call me Rose,” she replied, raising her right hand over her brow to block the low evening sun. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

  “I’m Mathias Red Feather, but everyone calls me ‘Red,’” he said. “I am . . . was . . . your grandfather’s gardener here on the Summer Breeze Ranch. I am very sorry about your grandfather’s passing. He was a very good man.”

  “I was under the impression that my grandfather had no employees,” Rose replied.

  He nodded, “Yep, true. I was strictly contract labor, cash under the table,” he said.

  Of course, Rose thought, she should have known. She knew about Red Feather from phone conversations with her grandfather. He liked the young Cheyenne a lot and trusted him. It had been Red Feather who discovered her grandfather’s body just three days ago. He had died in his garden. His love of gardening was something she remembered dating back to the time when she was a little girl. He spent hours upon hours in that garden, she recalled. When she first heard that he died in his garden, Rose took a small amount of comfort in it.

  “Thank you. Please, come on up to the porch,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Red replied, walking slowly up the stone path to the base of the porch steps. “I’m sorry about the lateness of the hour. I tried to get here earlier but was delayed.”

  “That’s ok,” Rose insisted. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I hate to even bother you about such a trivial matter. I was in in the middle of a landscaping project when your grandfather passed,” Red Feather said.

  Rose sighed. And so it begins, she thought to herself. She had only arrived this morning and people were already beginning to come to her with their hand out, asking for money they were owed. The man’s body was barely cold. Do people have no respect at all? She wondered.

  “I see,” Rose replied in a tone that reflected some exasperation. “How much does he owe you?”

  Red’s eyes widened, “No, no, it’s not that,” he insisted. “He paid me in advance, including labor. I’m just wondering if you would like me to continue to finish the job. If it is not a bother, I’d be happy to come
at my regular time tomorrow.”

  A wave of embarrassment flushed over her. He was not asking for money. He already had the money. He was only asking permission to finish the job. There you go again, Rose, she thought, assuming the very worse in people, especially men. The jadedness she felt was a direct reflection of her job. She was an attorney in a high-profile Chicago law firm. She was used to people lying to her, trying to manipulate her.

  She was also a woman in a male dominated firm, and a black woman at that—well, half black, but it still counted toward their minority hiring numbers. Her peers already assumed that she was hired to fill several blanks in the firm’s Equal Opportunity Census, and they treated her as such—dismissively. She remembered her interview process with the HR Manager: female, check; black, check. She remembered the look of disappointment on the HR Manager’s face when Rose told him she was not Muslim. Nope, Mister, you can’t check that box off I’m afraid.

  “I’m so sorry, Red,” Rose said, finally. “That sounded snarky, I know. Tell me about this job he hired you to do.”

  “Your grandfather wanted to spruce up the front of the house,” Red replied. “He paid me to buy some Wintergreen Boxout, some Barberry Concorde, some Holly . . . that sort of thing.”

  “I see,” she said, smiling at the gorgeous Cheyenne male. Landscaping expenses was the very last thing her grandfather needed to be spending money on, she thought. She had only been there a few hours, but her preliminary glances at his finances led her to believe ‘Old Eli,’ was clearly upside down, financially speaking. Just how much, she wasn’t sure, yet.

  “Well, thank you,” Rose continued. I appreciate you coming forward to finish the job.

  Red Feather smiled, revealing a beautiful set of white teeth. Her eyes involuntarily roamed from his eyes to his broad shoulders. She loved the way his gorgeous long hair fell across them. His forearms were as sexy as hell.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to finish the prep really quick. It’s supposed to rain tonight. It will only take me thirty minutes or so and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She smiled at the thought of what it’d be like to have him in her hair. Oh Rose, she thought to herself. You’re a naughty girl. You’re here for a funeral for Christ’s sake.

  “That’s fine,” she replied.

  “It looks like you have more company coming,” Red said, nodding toward the long road leading to the property from the highway.

  Rose looked and saw what appeared to be a black limousine heading toward the house.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Red asked.

  Rose shook her head, “Yes and no,” she replied. “I’ve gotten a lot of calls from my grandfather’s friends and acquaintances but I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight.”

  “Well, I’ll just get out of your way then,” he said. “I’ll finish up and take off. I’ll be here tomorrow, then.”

  She smiled, “Thank you.”

  She watched him walk away, paying special attention when he began to peel off his shirt to work.

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  CHAPTER TWO

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  Rose stood at the doorway of the house watching as the black Lincoln limo pulled up to the gate. The driver exited first, a huge man, large enough to make Rose wonder how he actually fit into the driver’s seat. He wore an all-black blazer with black pants and shiny black shoes. He opened the rear door.

  Emerging from the limo was an impeccably-dressed middle-aged white man, with neatly cropped gray hair combed straight back. His face was covered in a gray beard, neatly trimmed close to his face. He was thin but solidly built. She actually recognized the style of business suit the man wore, a Ermenegildo Zegna Bespoke, single-button navy blue, with a white shirt and paisley tie. Her boss wore one very similar.

  The gentleman made eye contact with her and smiled. From the front passenger side of the vehicle another man, equally as big as the driver but appearing to be in much better physical shape. This man also wore a blue suit, but probably off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse. He was bald with a menacing looking goatee around his mouth and chin. He wore a serious expression on his face. He followed the older man up the stone path leading to the house.

  “Hello,” Rose greeted, without smiling. “Can I help you?”

  The older man smiled again, “Yes, you may,” he replied in perfectly articulated English with a thick accent. Russian, perhaps, she thought, “I am looking for Ms. Rosemary Summer.”

  “I am Rosemary Summer,” she replied.

  The older man paused momentarily, his face forming a look of surprise.

  “Oh . . .” he said finally, the smile returning. “Forgive my reaction. I was expecting someone . . .”

  “Less black,” she finished.

  “Well . . . yes,” he admitted. “I met Mr. Summer twice, and . . . well . . . I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “It’s common. My grandfather was white. My father was white. My mother was black.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “And you are?”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “My name is Vlade Lenkov. I was very saddened to hear the news about your grandfather.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  Rose glanced at the large man standing four feet behind Lenkov, “Who’s the muscle?”

  Lenkov smiled, “This is my personal assistant, Mr. McCoy.”

  She looked at the large man, who made no acknowledgement of his introduction.

  “Does it speak?” Rose asked.

  Lenkov smiled, “When I need him to, yes.”

  “And what can I do for you, Mr. Lenkov?”

  “Right to the point,” he replied, flashing a perfect set of white teeth. “I like it. I am a humble representative of Mr. C.H. Paulson, the CEO of Mission Mining.”

  Rose raised her eyebrows, “A humble representative who wears a five-thousand-dollar suit?”

  His smile widened, “Are you familiar with our company?”

  She nodded. Mission Mining had recently been in the national news as part of an EPA movement to restrict mining in Montana as a way to fight climate change. The Mission Mining company was one of the companies that could be most severely impacted by new legislation if the EPA were to succeed. Increased greenhouse gas emissions and selenium poison in rivers were among the problems the EPA sought to resolve.

  “I am,” Rose replied. “From the news, I thought all the mining companies were being forced to cut back.”

  “Those are politics yet to be resolved,” Lenkov insisted, his smile unwavering. “It is true that if certain legislation were to be passed, our company would have to . . . adjust its business model. Actually, that is why I am here.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. I had been speaking to your grandfather about a proposal prior to his . . . unfortunate demise,” Lenkov continued. “Were you aware of our conversations?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Then perhaps we could go inside to discuss,” he said.

  “It’s getting late, Mr. Lenkov,” Rose replied. “I flew in from Chicago this morning. I’ve had a long day.”

  “What I have to propose is of great importance, Ms. Summer,” he said. “Please. I promise to be brief.”

  “Not tonight,” she insisted.

  Lenkov smiled, “I understand. Perhaps I can come back at an earlier time, tomorrow?”

  “I’m making funeral arrangements, Mr. Lenkov,” Rose stated. “Why don’t you leave me your card and I’ll call you.”

  “Of course,” he replied, producing a card from his jacket pocket. “I can certainly wait until the funeral is over. I will try again at a more appropriate time.”

  “Mr. Lenkov, please call first,” Rose said. “I will give you my number. I don’t like surprise visits.”

  She handed him her business card. It had her personal cell number written on it.

  The smile fade
d from Lenkov’s face for the first time. She thought she saw a hint of anger in his eyes, but it was only for a moment. His smile returned, but only partially so.

  “I understand,” he replied, lowly. “After all, you are way out here, alone, in the middle of nowhere—a woman. You can’t be too careful, right?”

  “I am curious,” Rose said, ignoring what she assumed was implied intimidation, “What is it you wish to discuss?”

  “The Mission Mining Company would like to acquire your grandfather’s property,” he said, plainly.

  “So, you can use it to mine coal?”

  He nodded and smiled, “We are prepared to make a most generous offer.”

  She nodded, holding up his card, “I’ll call you.”

  He smiled again, “Don’t wait too long, Ms. Summer.”

  “Or what?”

  “I become impatient easily.”

  “Is that supposed to be some sort of threat?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he insisted, somewhat unconvincingly. “I look forward to hearing from you . . . very soon.”

  “Mr. Lenkov,” Rose said, looking at the card, “it says here you are the Director of Security for Mission Mining.”

  “That’s right,” he said. For the first time since he arrived, his smile looked forced, fake, almost . . . sinister. It gave Rose chills.

  “Why would someone in charge of . . . security be the one to negotiate a property acquisition?”

  “I perform many services for Mission Mining,” he replied. “I make sure Mission Mining . . . gets what it needs. Whatever it takes. Good evening, Ms. Summer.”

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  CHAPTER THREE

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  “Are you okay?”

  Rose heard the comforting voice, sounding as if it had come to her in a dream, from far off in the distance. The experience with Lenkov had shaken her.