Page 1 of Married to the SEAL
1
The only thingMason Petrovich liked better than setting a bomb had been fucking the president’s daughter. And that had been setting a bomb, too, if you thought about it. A political one.
Except she took nine months to detonate.
She gave birth already, but they were keeping the explosion under wraps as best they could. He chuckled. You couldn’t keep explosions under wraps for long.
He smiled, looking forward to the culmination of his work. He spliced the ignition wires, twisting in the detonator. They were attacking the president from all sides, and Petrovich couldn’t wait to see the flames.
Voices approached in the distance, echoing off the bridge surface, and he froze, his eyes darting from the unfinished circuit to his planned escape route — a large bush some hundred yards off the walkway. He was deep enough in shadow that he couldn’t be seen, but he had only moments to finish his work and escape before the people walking toward him reached him and the clearly exposed bomb.
It was a race, and he liked races.
Damn, he loved this shit.
He finished the wiring and started the timer on its countdown. “Let’s see you hide this one, Vasile.”
He turned and jogged quickly to the safety of the dark shrubbery, only stopping to turn back when he reached relative safety.
From his vantage point, he could clearly see the presidential mansion illuminated in the distance. Grace was there. Grace and his child.
Bomb number two.
It was time for him to show them he knew they were there. Time to leverage the power that had taken so long to create.
He pulled out his cell phone. “The bridge is all set. I’m going up on the hill next.”
The man’s voice on the other end was firm. “We talked about this. We wait until after the bridge.”
“It’s my kid, and I want to do it now.” He hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket. He pulled out his weapon, the black metal gleaming in the last light of dusk.
Damn, it was good to be back.
The Swiss Alps were beautiful, but nothing to compare to this.
2
President Vasile walkedto his study window and looked out over the city, unseeing.
Evil had been in his house.
It had walked through the door and into the bedrooms of those he loved most.
He’d spent the whole night awake, like a ghost of himself, ambling from room to room as if he could stop it from happening again.
He could see the note in his mind’s eye as clearly as when he held it in his hands.
BASTARD. DROP OUT.
He knew who was responsible without knowing the perpetrator. Victor Trane would stop at nothing to win the presidential election, even threatening the family of his opponent.
You could drop out.
You don’t have to do this.
But he did have to do it. Someone had to keep Trane from power, or the citizens of the country he loved would be the ones to suffer.
Lightning flashed and the view from his window came into focus. It was raining, and people scurried along crowded sidewalks rushing to work or perhaps home after a long day.
