But others . . .
Fuck. He swallowed hard, his gut twisting as the familiar image flashed before his eyes. He couldn’t stop seeing the kid’s—Brian’s—shocked expression right before the missile had struck and he’d been engulfed in the fireball of the explosion.
Dean could still feel the blistering heat from the explosion that had sent him flying and turned the camp into a wasteland. Everything had been leveled. Erased. Lieutenant White’s squad . . . half the platoon . . . gone in an instant.
There was nothing he could have done to help White and the rest of Navy Squad, but Brian’s death was on him. Dean had ignored a direct order and the kid had paid for it.
He owed Brian and the rest of the men who’d been killed an answer. But he sure as hell didn’t think he was going to find it in Stornoway chartering scuba divers—and sexy protesters.
“For once just follow a fucking command, Baylor!”
Dean’s mouth tightened in a grim line as Lieutenant Commander Taylor’s voice came back to him. He would do so, damn it. But he didn’t like it.
Digging his hands in his sweatshirt pockets, he headed toward his temporary home. He’d let a room in a flat not far from the port, which required him to pass by the protester camp. From the noise and light coming from that direction, they were apparently still going strong.
He caught a whiff of another familiar memory from his childhood as he walked by. How many times had he returned from school to the skunk smell of weed?
Whenever his mom could afford it.
He wondered if she had any idea that he was dead. He doubted it; he hadn’t seen her in years. Not since she’d come looking for money when she found out he’d made the Teams.
The memory still pissed him off.
Dean was about to turn up his street when a woman darted past him. She was so preoccupied with whatever was bothering her that she didn’t notice him.
But he noticed her. The sexy brunette had been the focus of too many of his sex-starved thoughts for him not to have recognized that shadowed figure right away.
His thoughts immediately turned to anger. What the hell was she doing out here alone at this time of night?
Granted Stornoway wasn’t exactly the mean streets of name-your-favorite American inner city, but it had its share of illegal activity—especially along the waterfront—and it wasn’t a place where a young woman should be walking alone in the middle of the night.
He went after her without thinking. Proving his point, she took way too long to realize he was behind her.
He could tell by the way she jumped when she turned around that he’d startled her.
But it didn’t last. As soon as she recognized him, her eyes narrowed angrily. “Why are you following me? You scared me!”
“Good. You shouldn’t be out here alone—” He stopped suddenly, seeing her expression. She looked about ready to burst into tears. “What’s wrong?”
Unconsciously he’d reached for her arm. Why the hell he’d done that he had no clue. He didn’t go around touching women without an invitation.
He released her before she could protest. But if she’d noticed the too-personal gesture, she didn’t let on.
“Nothing,” she replied, her expression too blank.
He held her gaze long enough for her to see that he knew she was lying. It must not be something she did often, because a guilty blush rose to her cheeks.
She was so damned cute. He wanted to . . .
Fuck.
He took a step back.
Go dark. Don’t do anything to risk your cover.
He heard the warnings loud and clear. But he couldn’t very well let her walk around alone. What if something happened?
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
The tightening around her mouth before she responded gave a big hint of what might be bothering her. Trouble in paradise? Now, that was a cryin’ shame.
“He’s still at camp. He’s hanging around for the music. Julien plays guitar.”
Dean didn’t care if he was Jimmy Hendrix returning from the dead for one last show. “And he let you walk back alone?”
She immediately stiffened, giving him a scathing look. “He didn’t let me do anything. I make my own decisions.”
From the way she said it, it was clear she thought he was some kind of medieval misogynistic pig.
One of those, was she? He should have guessed. That kind of oversensitive feminist crap drove him crazy—not everything was a “microaggression.” Being a strong woman didn’t mean you could be stupid about personal safety. And all he’d meant was that the douche bag should have cared enough about her safety to insist on accompanying her.
Although admittedly Julien probably wasn’t much of a defense.
“Then your decision was a shitty one.”
She looked stunned. “You just say whatever you think, don’t you? I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”
“Well, you got it.” He gave her a long look, taking in the Tulane sweatshirt, tight jeans that left no room to hide anything, and flip-flops. “And unless you are a black belt jujitsu specialist or trained in self-defense and carrying some kind of weapon, I’m walking you to the guest house.”
She looked up at him half outraged and half bemused, as if she couldn’t quite believe someone like him actually existed. It was a look he’d been on the receiving end of more than once.
Eventually her mouth twisted with a smile. “How do you know I’m not?”
“Because if you had any secret ninja skills, from the way you were looking at me a few minutes ago, I’d be on my ass right now.”
• • •
Annie couldn’t help it. She laughed.
The Canadian captain was outrageous and yet oddly charming at the same time.
She had to admit that walking back alone might not have been her best decision. She’d reacted so defensively only because he’d been blunt enough to call her on it.
If she was tempted to argue with him, the group of men who’d just poured out onto the sidewalk ahead of them made her think again. The pub must have just closed, and by the level of boisterousness and general weaving, they’d been in there awhile. More than one didn’t look likely to be scared off by a look-into-the-eyes “hello.”
“Alas,” she said, turning back to Dan. “No secret ninja skills, but I’m definitely wishing otherwise right about now.” She looked him up and down as he’d done her. The flood of warmth that poured through her told her that might not have been a good idea. Despite the bulky sweatshirt and loose jeans, the guy was built. Built. She pulled her eyes away before she was caught staring—again—and looked back up at him. “Although something tells me that you wouldn’t be so easy to put on your ass even if I were.”
He grinned and the effect was startling. It felt as if she’d been struck square in the solar plexus.
He was good-looking. Even with the stupid beard. What would he look like without it?
That probably wasn’t something she should be thinking about.
“You might be right,” he said. “But let me know if you ever want to try.”
Was he flirting with her? It was hard to tell. The words were mildly provocative, but they’d been said matter-of-factly and without any innuendo.
That was him, she realized. Matter-of-fact and without innuendo. What you saw was what you got. He wasn’t the type to sugarcoat. He would tell it like it was—or at least how he saw it—whether she liked it or not. She suspected there was quite a lot of my way or the highway with him. She couldn’t decide whether he was overbearing or old-fashioned. Probably a little of both.
Still, she might not agree with him—and she guessed she wouldn’t on many things—but there was something refreshing about his no-BS straightforwardness.
She supposed she wouldn’t lose her feminist card if she
went along with it this one time.
When he made an “after you” gesture with his hand, she didn’t object and moved to the right enough for him to walk beside her.
She peered up at him from under her lashes, taking the opportunity to observe him. Strong “don’t mess with me” jaw, razor-sharp eyes that didn’t miss anything, squared “ready to take on the world” shoulders. Confident. Tough. Smart.
But defensive. There was a wall up around him that seemed to warn her not to get too close, and there was that grim shadow that she’d sensed earlier.
What was his story? There was something about him that didn’t quite fit, but she couldn’t figure out what. He didn’t seem the type to be involved in something illegal or disreputable as she’d first assumed. He was too solid and principled. But there was definitely something off about him; something that made her think he was trying to fly under the radar. The beard, the hat, the baggy clothes, the job with the not-quite-on-the-up-and-up charter company.
She probably should just let him walk her back and leave it at that, but curiosity got the better of her. It was a downfall. “How did a Canadian boat captain end up on the Isle of Lewis?”
She thought he might have stiffened slightly, but he answered the question so unhesitatingly that she realized she must have been mistaken. “I visited here once as a kid. I was looking for a change of pace when I saw the job opening posted on the Internet.” Seeing her expression, he quirked a smile. She wished he’d stop doing that. She liked it too much. “They do have the Internet here, you know.”
She laughed. “I’m not sure I’d call it that. The Wi-Fi at the guest house is painfully slow, and my phone seems to work in about a two-block radius.” She frowned, wrinkling her nose at something in his voice. The tempo was slow and very deliberate. “Where are you from in Canada? I can’t quite make out the accent. It’s not French, and I haven’t heard one ‘eh’ yet.”
“Vancouver,” he said. “What about you?” He glanced meaningfully at her sweatshirt. “From your lack of accent, I’m guessing not New Orleans.”
She was surprised that he knew where Tulane was. A lot of Americans didn’t even know that.
She shook her head. “I’ve been in school there for the past eight years, but I was raised in different parts of the South.” She guessed his next question. “I was born in Florida, which is why I don’t have an accent.”
“Eight years?”
She nodded. “I just finished my PhD.”
“Congratulations. I think I heard your boyfriend mention that. What field was it in?”
“Marine ecology.”
He nodded as if something suddenly made sense. “So that is how you became involved with the protest?”
She shrugged. “Sort of. It was Julien who told me about it.” She went on to explain how she had met Julien at a fund-raiser for the BP oil disaster a couple of months ago, and how they’d bonded over the devastation and wanting to make sure something like that never happened again. “But these are mainly his friends. I didn’t know many of them before I came.”
She didn’t know why she’d just made the disclaimer.
Or maybe she did. Maybe the situation with Jean Paul was bothering her more than she wanted to admit. So much so that she didn’t want Dan associating her with him.
And what about Julien? Was he bothering her, too?
She knew the answer.
She was tempted to say something more. Tempted to voice her concerns that her boyfriend had been acting strangely, and she was having second thoughts about their plans.
Why she thought she could confide in Dan, she didn’t know. But not since her father—in the old days—had she been around someone who gave off that “you can count on me” vibe.
Of course when it mattered, she hadn’t been able to count on her father at all.
But she sensed Dan would be a good sounding board. He had to wonder—probably even suspect—what they were planning to do, didn’t he?
They’d reached the guest house and stopped. She turned slightly and realized how close they were standing, from the blast of body heat that engulfed her. There wouldn’t be any cold winter nights with him. He smelled good. Not like the colognes that Julien wore, but fresh and bracing like the wind on the sea.
Was that where he’d come from? She’d been so startled by his sudden appearance that she hadn’t even thought about why he’d been out so late. “Where were you tonight? It’s a little late for a charter, isn’t it?”
He stepped back, and it was as if that wall she’d imagined before came slamming back down. There was nothing remotely welcoming or inviting about his expression—had there ever been? It was as blank and hard as stone.
“Fishing.”
She didn’t believe him, but neither was she going to argue with him. His tone left no room for challenge. The conversation was clearly over.
The easygoing conversation we had going? Forget it. We aren’t going to be friends.
Got it.
She couldn’t explain why it stung. Why his sudden withdrawal upset her so badly. Why she felt even more alone than she had before.
Their eyes met in the semidarkness. She wanted . . .
Nothing.
She barely knew him. She didn’t even like him. Why would she want to confide in him about anything? “I—” Her voice caught. She shook herself and drew a deep breath. “Thank you for walking me. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
He nodded, and then seemed to hesitate as if he were grappling with saying more. He turned to leave and even took a few steps before turning back again. “Go home, Miss Henderson. You don’t belong here.”
Miss Henderson.
The ominous warning dissipated in the cool night air as he disappeared into the shadows.
She was tempted to listen to him.
Six
SPECIAL WARFARE COMMAND CENTER NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE, CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
The three officers rose from the table in their matching khakis, differing only in the number of bars of ribbons on each man’s chest, as Colt Wesson entered the room.
Pressed, professional, and polished, the officers’ appearance was in stark contrast to Colt’s long hair, ten (not five) o’clock shadow, motorcycle jacket, faded jeans, and T-shirt picked up from the pile off the floor. It had been so long since Colt dressed regulation he wasn’t sure he remembered how.
Commander Mark Ryan, the skipper of SEAL Team Nine and Colt’s onetime platoon commander, spoke first. “You shouldn’t be here.”
That was true for many reasons, none of which mattered. Colt was going to find out the truth. Whether it would be their way or his was up to them.
He eyed them coolly from behind the mirrored lenses of his glasses. The three men opposite him were Retiarius Platoon’s direct chain of command, and among the handful of people who would know what the fuck was going on.
“So arrest me.” It was an idle threat. To arrest him, they’d have to acknowledge his existence, and no one wanted to do that. It—he—was too dangerous. Which was probably why they’d agreed to this meeting.
Rear Admiral Ronald Morrison, the highest-ranking officer in the room and the man in charge of naval special operations in the United States, frowned at him forbiddingly, which would have scared the shit out of Colt when he was twenty, but at thirty-eight he barely noticed. “I’m going to have the badge of whoever let you through customs.”
Colt’s mouth curved with rare amusement. “What makes you think I went through customs? Maybe I swam from Mexico? Or Canada? I’m a pretty good swimmer.” No one cracked a smile. Hard-asses. “I had some time off coming,” Colt said with a shrug. “I decided to take it.”
Captain Trevor Moore, the commander of Naval Special Warfare Group One, who reported directly to the admiral, had always been a straight shooter. He’d never liked Colt, which only s
howed his good sense. “Don’t be an ass, Colt—or more of an ass than usual. You shouldn’t have left wherever the hell it is you’ve been assigned.” Crimea—the latest shit heap. “This has nothing to do with you.”
There he was wrong; this had everything to do with him.
The admiral was obviously getting impatient. “Cut the crap, Wesson, and tell us what you want. And take off those damned glasses.”
The thin veneer of civility snapped. Colt removed the Oakleys—the only thing that had been hiding his rage—and tossed them down on the table. They skidded halfway down the glass-topped polished cherry veneer that was ubiquitous in military conference rooms. He leaned forward, no longer holding back the hostility and menace. “I want the fucking truth, and I want to know why I had to pick up a paper to find out that my men were missing.”
Only Moore didn’t seem taken aback. He’d known Colt for too long.
The admiral mumbled something about shutting up that damned reporter, and then said, “They weren’t your men. And as Trevor said before, this has nothing to do with you.”
As a SEAL, the admiral should know better—even if his operational time had been minimal. Plenty of officers had years of boots-on-the-ground time—Rear Admiral Ronald Morrison wasn’t one of them. He’d spent most of his thirty years at Fort Fumble—aka the Pentagon.
“Bullshit,” Colt said. “I trained most of them.” Until he’d left three years ago, he’d been the senior enlisted petty officer in Retiarius Platoon. Colt was actually a plankowner, one of the founding members of Nine, recruited for the secret team not long after the disestablishment of Special Delivery Vehicle Team-2 (SDVT-2) and merger into team SDVT-1 in 2008. The two SDVTs had been established specifically for covert water operations in subs. But Team Nine had never been limited to underwater operations—what the guys called “one foot in the water” ops—and they were deployed all over the globe. The old paperwork connection to the SDVT was the reason Team Nine was based in Honolulu and had fourteen men in a platoon rather than the typical sixteen. It was also why Colt was at Coronado and not Fort Bragg. For now, the team was still under Naval Special Warfare Command and not JSOC, which had operational control over other Special Mission Units like DEVGRU, aka the other SEAL team that didn’t exist, Team Six. JSOC didn’t like it, but that was the way it was for now.
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