by Tawny Weber
He looked at it. Frowned, shook his head. Him and Ramsey?
Tents were pitched behind them on a lush carpet of grass, trees dotting the background and the sun shining high enough to cast shadows over their faces. But shadows or not, that was definitely him and Ramsey standing, arms around each other like they were buddies or something. He flipped it over. Written on the back was a note.
Got your back.
What the hell?
Elijah rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d used this backpack. Not for missions, not on duty. Maybe the camping trip he and a few members of the team had taken a year or so ago? He tried to bring it to mind.
They’d hit the Sierras, a three-day hike into the mountains before they’d made camp. Elijah, along with Diego, Ty, Jared and Nic, had spent a week partying among green trees that speared high into the heavens, listening to the roaring power of the river. They’d spent their days climbing, their nights gathered around the campfire, bullshitting one another with tall tales of their prowess at fighting, their exceptional talents at holding their booze and their infamous skills with wild women.
Their laughter had lightened the load each of them carried, their sharing had deepened the bond among them. Those, as Nic liked to say, were the times that gave light to the shadows they too often lived in.
Shadows so strong that Elijah felt engulfed. The misty-gray whispers reminding him of the horrors he’d lived, the pain he’d endured, the misery he’d inflicted. His fists clenched, teeth gritted. He closed his eyes against the heaviness, told himself to ignore it. To push it aside. He wasn’t giving in to the lure of the dark.
But the dark engulfed him anyway.
It wrapped around him, grasping fingers of misery holding tight, smothering the light.
He wanted to crawl into that bed, to lose himself in sleep. But his sleep was haunted, torment filling his mind when his guard was down.
Training took over.
Deep breaths.
First one. Then another. Then more.
Long, deep breaths pulled through the nose, down the throat, past the chest and into the belly. Cleansing breaths to drive away the dark, to release the pain, to energize the body.
Only when he was clear again did he look at the photo once more. He pushed his mind back further. He’d camped with Poseidon several times but rarely with other teammates. A number of team missions involved tents and campfires, of course, but most were in desert regions. He couldn’t recall a single one where they’d pitched tents in verdant green.
And none with Ramsey.
Which meant that the photo was doctored.
Someone was sending a message, playing games, digging for intel. Fucking with him.
Whatever it was, Elijah had to know.
He dumped the contents of the backpack, started tearing through it all piece by piece. Then he turned the pack itself inside out, inspecting the lining, each scrap of fabric.
Nothing.
He grabbed his duffel, did the same. Every item of clothing was methodically inspected. He ran his fingers along hemlines, dug into pockets, even shook the damn fabric in case something would fly free.
Nothing.
No. He refused to accept nothing.
His clearheaded calm starting to fray, he went through it all again, holding each piece up to the light. First sunlight through the window, then a bare bulb. It was only when he found himself considering how to get his hands on a laser that he stopped and took a breath.
And looked around the room.
Holy shit.
Talk about a mess. The room appeared to belong to a teenager. Clothes, toiletries, personal belongings, they were strewn everywhere. His reheated pizza, long forgotten, congealed on a plate on the nightstand. All that was missing were a few science experiments under the bed and he’d believe he’d gone back in time.
Back in time.
His eyes landed on the cardboard box shoved in the corner, folded flaps covered with a pair of jeans and rolled-up socks. He’d forgotten to take it to his mom’s to store.
Crawling across the clothes-strewn carpet, he ripped the flaps open and dug in. He went through all the notebooks, every sketch pad, each page one by one. Then he went through them again.
And again.
He ended up with five stacked on the floor next to him, pages marked with strips of paper.
Numbers.
Someone had worked numbers into various drawings. Had tried to incorporate them so they were hidden, so they looked like part of the image. But the pencil stroke was just a little harder, the lines just a little wider.
Four letters. Twenty-one digits.
IBAN. A Swiss bank account.
Sonovabitch.
He grabbed his cell, dialed Savino.
Nothing.
Not bothering with a message, he tried Torres. After getting Diego’s voice mail, he tried Lansky. Nothing.
Holding back the feeling of being cut off from his team, Elijah forced himself to dial Savino again. This time, he left a message for his commander. Priority One, SOS.
Only then did Elijah let himself lie back on the bed. One arm over his eyes to block the light, he forced himself to relax inch by inch.
Okay. Maybe he wasn’t going insane.
Maybe.
But damned if he liked whatever was going on in his head.
Because for a man who’d spent his life courting control, his was all shot to hell.
* * *
SOME MEN WERE innately suited to desks, office work and delving into the mysteries of the world through technology.
Nic Savino wasn’t one of them.
But he wasn’t about to let his lack of natural skill stop him. Like every other block in his life, Nic worked around it, plowed through it, climbed over it. Or, if necessary, flat out ignored it until he turned it his way.
Damned if his current block wasn’t causing a serious pain in his ass, though.
Betrayal. Suspicion. Treason.
Quite the wicked triad.
Nic reread Prescott’s forwarded message. He hadn’t bothered running through cryptology. Prescott would handle it, and if his man couldn’t pull anything from it, nobody could. Even facing a new version of his own personal hell, Prescott was the best.
Good enough to misdirect the investigation if he wanted.
That was what NI would say.
And Nic was sure—damned sure—despite their assurance that the case was closed and Poseidon cleared of all suspicion—that they were still watching. Still investigating.
Too many whispers, and a couple of low rumbles, had reached his ears. Naval Investigation was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. Someone was pushing to keep the eagle eye on Poseidon. Someone was focused on taking the team down.
Nic planned to take them down first.
With that in mind, he dived back into the drudgery and eyestrain of the internet. He delved into the history of each of his men, tracing their family connections, looking for anything that sparked.
When a knock hit his door an hour later, the only thing he’d managed to spark was a headache.
“Enter,” he barked when the knock repeated.
“Yo,” Diego greeted him as he stepped into the office. As per protocol, he shut the door behind him, engaging the lock. It didn’t matter if they were talking mission details, training or sports, Nic insisted on privacy.
While Nic worked out in his head how to approach the situation, Diego kicked back in a chair opposite him.
“You heard from Lansky lately?”
“Not a word.” Never one to sit still for long, Diego tapped his fingers on the desk while considering Nic’s expression. “You worried about MacGyver?”
“Not worried.” Per se. Nic leaned back in his chair, considering the latest developments. “Just wondering how he’s doing. He hasn’t been around much.”
“Neither have I.” Diego’s brow furrowed into a considering expression. “What with moving Harper here to San Diego and all the craziness with getting a place off base, I’ve been pretty tied up. I haven’t seen much of anyone except on duty.”
“How’s that going? The lifestyle changes, I mean.”
Nic wanted to laugh at the expression of baffled discomfort on Diego’s face. Wanted to but didn’t. He’d never seen the guy look so confused.
“I’m down with the relationship stuff—that’s oddly easy,” Diego said slowly, as if he was considering each word before using it. “I never thought about it before, but wouldn’t have figured a woman could fit into my life, into my lifestyle, the way Harper did.”
“Yeah, we haven’t seen a lot of successful relationships on the team. I always figured that was due to our high standards, though.” Nic grinned. “Not that we’re difficult to live with.”
“Of course not. We’re pussycats.”
Nic snickered at Diego’s reference to his call sign, El Gato.
“How’s almost married life going for you? You and Harper having fun playing house?”
Diego’s fiancée had recently moved from Santa Barbara, settling herself, her son and her business into a cozy little place in Coronado.
“Getting used to it. Weird to shift from living on base for the last dozen years to living in an actual house. I think I’m actually supposed to use a lawn mower.”
Laughing at the pained look on his friend’s face, Nic leaned back in the chair as if he were relaxing.
“How about Nathan?” he asked, referring to Harper’s seven-year-old son.
The boy was Ramsey’s son, as well, but the man had skipped out when Harper was pregnant, never seeing or supporting her or the kid.
She and Nathan had been unwittingly caught in Ramsey’s games, with the guy tracking their movements and keeping tabs until—as far as Nic could tell—he’d deemed Nathan old enough to steal custody away from Harper. Not out of any sentiment, but because the boy was a Ramsey, a trophy to present to the family patriarch. The dirty SEAL had also used their names to hide funds he’d garnered selling top secret information.
“Nathan’s doing okay. The kid’s rubber, totally bounced back like nothing ever happened.”
That said a great deal about the child’s resilience, Nic thought. The boy had been kidnapped, stolen from camp in an attempt by Ramsey’s wingman to lure his friend out of hiding. Dane Adams was in the brig awaiting trial, but so far had offered nothing helpful in tracking Ramsey down.
“He’s a good kid,” Nic said. “Have you given him a tour of the base yet? Of the ships?”
While Diego described the things he’d done with his new son, Nic calculated his timing.
He’d wanted to give Harper and Nathan a chance to settle into their new home. To find their footing. And more important, to get used to him and the team.
They’d been used before by Ramsey. Now Nic was going to use them again. He didn’t like it. But he’d use them all the same.
“So what’s with all the small talk?” Diego wondered after describing the kid’s reaction to a submarine. Tilting his head toward Nic, the other man arched one brow. “You going to ask about Harper’s decorating plans next or just get to the point?”
Nic gave a soft laugh. Nobody ever said Diego was big on subtle social niceties.
“There’s activity in Operation Fuck Up.”
“Specifically?”
“Money is moving, files being accessed. Very few people know of the existence of either.”
“Very few meaning Poseidon and Ramsey and/or his partner.”
Nic inclined his head.
“We have to find out who is involved. We have to know if it’s one of our own, if it’s one of Poseidon.”
“Or if it’s Ramsey himself. You keep ignoring that possibility, Nic.”
“Not ignoring it. It’s simply low on the probability list.”
“Why?” His eyes boring deep, Diego pinned Nic with a look. “What happened that has you looking so hard at your own men?”
Nic’s expression didn’t change.
“Like I said, money is moving and files are being accessed.” The only sign of agitation Nic allowed himself was to give his desk a few taps with his pen. “Money in accounts with limited access, files that only the team should know about.”
A man who chose action and movement whenever possible, Diego pushed to his feet and started pacing the office. Given that it was the size of a walk-in closet, Nic knew his steps weren’t shaking off much in the way of frustration.
“What else? There’s got to be more.” Diego shot him an exasperated expression when Nic paused to consider how much to divulge. “You’ve told me this much—that means you know I’m loyal. To you, to the team, to my rank. So why don’t you give me something to work with.”
Good point. Nic’s only concern was whether or not Torres’s sense of loyalty might get in the way of his ability to carry out his duty. Trust was integral to the work they did, but in this instance, trust was the hardest thing to give.
So Nic went with his instincts. He opened one of the thick folders on his desk and handed Diego the sheaf of papers containing the printed texts Prescott had forwarded, along with the tracking codes.
After a glance, Diego took his seat again and focused on reading. He let out a silent whistle when he got to the balance of the Swiss bank account accessed through the code Prescott had sent earlier that day.
“This was sent to Rembrandt?” Diego confirmed, glancing up once before flipping back to the beginning to read the pages again. “He’s being used?”
“Maybe.”
“You can’t think he’s involved.” The words were firm, as solid and determined as the look on Diego’s face. That was one of the man’s strongest traits, his loyalty to any and all he deemed worthy. “Rembrandt wouldn’t betray the team. He wouldn’t betray us.”
Nic wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that every man in the brotherhood, every member of Poseidon, every SEAL was loyal to his oath. He didn’t want to question that any man he served with might not be worthy of the trust he’d been charged with.
But his wants weren’t a priority. Reality and truth were. And the reality was that people lied, even good people. Bad people lied better. The truth was that teams were made up of men, and every man had his own agenda. Sometimes that agenda aligned with the mission.
Sometimes it didn’t.
Right now Nic’s mission was to find out who was on which side, and to eliminate the conflict before it caused any further harm. So he chose his words with care. “This message indicates someone is playing a game. What isn’t clear is how many levels have already been played, and who is in the lead.”
“I read it as someone fucking with Rembrandt.” His expression set, Diego tossed the paper on the desk. “If he was dirty, why would he forward the message? Why would he have taken fire? Why would he have stepped up and helped take down Adams a few months ago?”
All good questions. Ones Nic was glad were being asked. “Could be that forwarding the message has a purpose. Could be that the fire was revenge, an accident or carefully planned. Could be that Adams was in the way.” Nic shrugged. “Could be that’s all bullshit and he’s being used. Again. But the question has to be asked.”
“Ask all you want. I said it before, I believe it now. Nobody on Poseidon is dirty.”
Nic simply inclined his head again.
His face a study of fury, Diego looked like he was going to explode. It took only a few seconds for his expression to clear, which was no more than Nic expected. The man had on
e hell of a temper, but his control was legendary.
“So what’s the plan?”
“The plan is to set a trap.” Nic leaned back in his chair, forcing his body to appear at ease in hope that Diego would follow suit. “A very risky, multifaceted trap.”
“What’s my assignment?”
Nic knew some leaders made a point of offering their team the choice to opt out when a mission came with the guarantee of great personal cost. But Nic didn’t work that way. He expected 100 percent from his men, whether the cost was minimal or extreme.
But this mission, this trap...the cost would go beyond Diego. So Nic leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and folding his hands together over the stacked folders. He met his man’s eyes with a level look and inclined his head.
“As I said, this is a multifaceted trap. One that carries great risk to everyone involved. So before I lay it out, I’ll tell you that this comes with a get-out-of-serving-free card. After hearing the mission outline, you’ll have twenty-four hours to decide whether you’re in or not.”
Diego’s head jerked as if he’d just taken a hit to the chin. But the man stayed silent, coming to visible attention for the briefing.
As Nic laid it out, he could see Diego’s struggle; the resistance was visible in his furious gaze, in the fists clenched at his sides. But he didn’t say a word until Savino was finished. His eyes never left his commander’s.
“Anyone else would merit a fist to the face and an offer to help shove that plan where the sun don’t shine. But given that it came from you, and knowing what’s at stake, I’ll refrain.”
“I appreciate it.”
Diego shoved to his feet, towering over Nic’s desk like a bomb waiting to explode.
“Like I said before, there’s no way anyone in Poseidon is involved. It’d be impossible.”
“Sometimes we have to consider the impossible.” Nic waited a beat. “I’ll need your commitment within twenty-four hours. No less.”
“Yes, sir.” With an expression of fury on his face, Diego yanked open the door and stormed out. Nic didn’t take it personally. He understood the man’s objections. He shared them.
But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let them stand in his way.