Eyes On

by Zoë Normandie

  Mason stopped in his tracks and looked back. A wave of nausea crashed over him as he watched the lieutenant commander of the troop and Senior Chief Blackshot talking as casually as if they were sipping gin at a garden party. The commander pointed at one of the rebel fighters who was still twitching, and Blackshot grabbed his knife and pushed it into the man.

  Mason stumbled and grabbed the side of a burnt-out car. Holding onto the metal, he swung himself around the back, out of sight. He let his body slide down the back of the car and loosened the gear on his face and neck. He was going to puke.

  He’d always looked up to Blackshot as a mentor, a seasoned veteran of the squadron. There was no man more committed to fighting for his country. Where had their values diverged?

  Mason started to question if he was still capable of discerning right from wrong. What the hell was he supposed to do? His hands trembled, and he retched, vomiting up whatever they’d served at lunch. He felt a heavy hand on his back and looked up.

  Master Chief Special Warfare Operator Ryder Luciano, second in command of the troop, knelt beside him behind the car.

  “Hey, bud.” He spoke softly and handed him a bottle of water. Mason chugged half of it. “Put your head down.” Ryder held the back of his neck down.

  Ryder was Blackshot’s boss. He reported directly to Fuller and managed all the sailors on the deployment.

  “It’s a fucking disgrace,” Ryder grumbled.

  Mason nodded. He’d lost his words.

  He heard voices. Blackshot was calling for Ryder.

  Ryder gave Mason another firm pat on the back and stood up. “Buddy.” He nodded and added quietly, “Be careful.”

  With that, Ryder turned and headed in the direction of the big boss. Mason heard the sounds of his heavy boots walking away, crunching over stone and burnt matter.

  As Mason finished the water and composed himself, he saw his friend Jake Wilder standing on the horizon, watching everything.

  They made eye contact, and neither was willing to look away or show just how disturbed they were by what they’d seen. What they’d been a part of.

  Mason let the memory wash over him as he thumbed the hole in his dirty utility pants, recalling the operation that changed everything. That was when he’d learned everything he needed to know about the men he worked with. Who was to be trusted, and who wasn’t.

  It was hard being an operator when you didn’t trust your boss, or the big boss. It was hard putting your life on the line when you felt like you had no voice. When the team made you feel like you were just meat and muscle.

  Mason stood stiffly. He had lost his voice too long ago, somewhere in northern Mali. He had lost the will to speak out.

  Returning to his task, he knelt down to retrieve the rest of his kit. The same nausea lingered. He couldn’t shake the memory of that teenage rebel with a slit throat, and Blackshot cleaning his knife.

  Somewhere in the middle of unpacking his rucksack, Mason saw the edge a foreign object that didn’t belong there. Rifling down to the bottom, Mason stopped.

  “Clever girl,” he said to himself, grinning.

  There was a bottle of Japanese whisky in his bag. The same type of Japanese whisky that Avery had plied him with at her villa, which was nearly as delicious as her mouth when it crashed on his.

  Stirring with the heated memory, he noticed a note taped to the bottle.

  “Avery.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You know, this speaks volumes about what you do for a living.”

  Unfolding the note, he read to himself. I’m on your side, the note said in beautiful handwriting. He held the note delicately and read it three more times. For her next parlor trick, he hoped she would appear out of thin air. He even looked around.

  Sadly, she didn’t materialize—but her note was evidence that they had unfinished business.

  After stuffing it in his pocket, he cracked open the bottle and inhaled the sweet notes of the whisky. He knew he was imagining it, but it was as though he could smell her delicious, wet, dripping pussy along with the whisky. Laughing in self-pity, he didn’t allow himself the luxury of finishing the thought. He took a drink instead. It was every bit as sweet and intense as he remembered her being, and it burned a line right down to his belly. He placed it on his kitchen counter and prison-shuffled his way to the couch—his soft, endlessly comfortable couch.

  The whole saga had been both emotionally exhausting and invigorating. The trip back home had left him beat, and it was the middle of the night. Squeezing a pillow against his chest, he closed his eyes for a minute, remembering every detail he could about his birthday with Avery: the beach, the waves, her smile, her hair, that lotion, that dinner, her laugh, her heart, the sake, the boardwalk, her villa, her body, her warmth, her love…

  Before long, he was fast asleep, jet-lagged and exhausted.

  13

  Mason woke up six hours later, completely absorbed by his couch. The morning birds chirped outside his window, apparently feeling much happier than he did.

  He was groggy and cranky and sore. And still fucking tired.

  His phone buzzed with a text, and he growled.

  It was Ryder, the master chief. Hey, bud. Reporting in?

  It was Ryder’s job to manage, and he’d remained friends with Mason since that day he’d handed him a water bottle during their operation gone wrong. He was the type of guy who always protected the men, always looked out for them. He was the only reason Mason hadn’t quit.

  I’m on vacation, Mason replied.

  You still need to work out. Work off the booze. Don’t get soft, Ryder wrote. See you at gym?

  Mason groaned, looking at the time. It was nine in the morning. Gym went until eleven. Most guys started working out at eight. He was already late.

  He wasn’t even supposed to see his trainer that week, and physio was canceled too.

  Blackshot himself had ordered him on leave. Wouldn’t he want Mason to take full advantage? Mason didn’t want to see anyone.

  Blackshot knows you’re back, Ryder added. He’s been asking everyone if you’re coming in.

  Why? Mason found himself typing. Why wouldn’t he just call? Text? He was Mason’s team lead. They had direct comms when necessary.

  It was fucking odd.

  Mason suspected things were still awkward between him and Blackshot. He’d had a rough exit from the tour, and was the only guy to be sent out on decompression instead of going home. He was beginning to feel like it was more of a punishment than a prize… especially after learning about Avery’s purpose.

  No idea. Blackshot’s been doing weird shit lately, Ryder responded.

  Mason analyzed the text. Things were adding up in a way that didn’t look good.

  Another message popped in. Watch your back, man. Shit’s been going around that isn’t good.

  Mason froze when he read it.

  He felt a shadow rising in his mind. First Avery. Now this. Something was happening to him. He felt a wave of unease. Threat. He wished Jake were around.

  Mason got off the couch quickly, glancing over to the kitchen. Breakfast? He had nothing except the whisky. Avery’s whisky.

  His stomach dropped.

  Stumbling over, he reached for the bottle and took a quick swig just to remember her. The whisky burned his mouth, leaving fire on his tongue. The sweet aftertaste was exactly Avery. He’d sip that whisky every day if it reminded him of her delicious taste.

  His chest ached. He wished she were with him. Wished she were naked in his kitchen, making him pancakes. A guy could dream.

  But she wasn’t there. And he had to show up to work and put on a good face. Start sorting things out. No one could question him. He needed to look and act normal. Blackshot needed to see that he hadn’t lost it. He was still strong. He wasn’t a bitch. He could handle the gore of war. He wasn’t going to freak out over a few dead fighters.

  I’ll be there, he texted to Ryder, straightening up.

  Mason found his way into
fresh clothes and was out the door… to begin his battle at work.

  14

  Senior Chief Liam Blackshot sat back in his leather office chair on the SEAL base in Virginia Beach.

  “Glad to see you back.” Blackshot gave him a snakelike grin. “But isn’t this early? I gave you a week, and last I checked, a week had seven days.”

  Mason sat stiffly in the metal chair in front of Blackshot’s desk, trying to not show his unease. He’d come back early, but he wasn’t willing to get into it.

  “It was enough vacation for me,” he replied in a tone of sheer ice.

  “Is that so?” Blackshot said lazily.

  Mason replied with a half nod. “Roger. Reporting for duty.” He’d settled back into numbness and the robotic demeanor that he had cultivated over the years.

  “You enjoyed your decompression?” Blackshot asked lightly, rolling and unrolling a twenty-dollar bill. “But you missed us too much?”

  The thought made Mason’s skin crawl.

  “There’s no place like home, sir,” Mason stated. He had learned how to be what they wanted. And he had lost himself in the process. He was no longer an easygoing surfer who loved music festivals and dancing. Whatever Avery had brought out in him was long gone. He was a hard sailor with no opinion who did everything he was told.

  Blackshot nodded, assessing Mason with a long, slow gaze. It seemed that the senior chief approved of Mason’s obedient replies. “Ten-four,” he confirmed.

  “I’d better get to gym,” Mason said, standing. But Blackshot waved his hand for him to stop.

  “Seems like our work in the Sahel is not quite done,” he began with malice in his tone. “We need to get warm bodies back to the base. I need you on that plane.” He said the last words with specific spite, anticipating Mason’s reaction.

  Mason’s throat thickened. Back? Blackshot couldn’t be sending him back. He just got home, for fuck’s sake.

  Noticing Mason’s silence, Blackshot said, “Is that a problem, Ajax?” He sat back, smiling like a poisonous snake.

  “Not a problem at all. When do I deploy?” He spoke the words through gritted teeth, but he used every ounce of willpower to avoid reacting. He wouldn’t give his senior chief the pleasure of seeing his discomfort.

  “A week,” Blackshot said, throwing the rolled-up twenty to the side with a motion of finality. It was done. There was no use fighting it.

  Mason nodded and stood up. His stomach had dropped. He felt completely empty. Hollow. Depressed as shit.

  Blackshot extended his hand, motioning him to halt once again. Mason stood as still as an iceberg in front of the desk.

  “Do you have anything to say?” Blackshot hissed. The insinuation was clear.

  Mason didn’t even blink. He shook his head. He had nothing to say. Ever.

  “It’s good to remember what your job is. Where your place is,” the senior chief pressed. “I’ve got a job, and you’ve got a job.” Intense stares punctuated a long pause between the pair. “Now, do you have anything to say?” Blackshot asked again, his voice more threatening than before.

  “No, sir,” Mason replied. No good would come from talking back. He didn’t doubt Blackshot’s resolve in charging sailors with insubordination.

  “Good,” Blackshot growled. “Dismissed.”

  As Mason turned to leave, Blackshot said in low tones, “They were terrorists, Ajax. They may have looked like teenagers to you, but in their world, they were grown-ass men with guns and a purpose. They kill women and children. They’d have killed you, given the chance. We don’t take prisoners. Don’t forget that. There are things the media can handle, but they’re a reality of war. A reality of our jobs.”

  Mason didn’t acknowledge him. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Would the teens have killed him? They didn’t have the chance, because they were fucking tied up. He bit his lip. The memory made Mason feel sick again. He’d seen a lot of shit as a SEAL, and he couldn’t explain exactly why, but some deaths stuck with him.

  He walked down the hallway of the naval building, absently heading toward the gym. He’d just been simultaneously threatened and manipulated, and he was in a lot more trouble than he’d imagined. But one thing was damn clear: Blackshot demanded his silence, and was doing everything he could to flush him out—to see if he’d snitch.

  Mason wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but deploy in one week back to Mali.

  He was fucked.

  Mason wished more than anything that he could speak up instead of being such a coward. The only thing worse than the realization that he was indefinitely censored was the reality that Avery was not with him. That she was never going to be with him.

  The thought of her shot a single fireball through his chest, and it was enough to shake him momentarily. He could say something. He didn’t have to take it laying down. Mason gritted his teeth and marched forward, away from the gym. At the front of the building, outside the secure gates, Mason grabbed his phone from the lockbox and unlocked it. He shot Ryder a text informing him of his orders. Ryder seemed to be the only guy left to whom Mason could turn. But he outranked Blackshot.

  Ryder replied immediately. Brutal, man. This is extortion. You don’t deserve this. I’ll see what I can do.

  15

  Avery found herself sitting inside a very gray and very small rented boardroom in the middle of a nondescript office park in Washington, DC. By design, there was no insignia on the wall and no identifiers in the rented office where agents could plug into the secure network. They were ghosts—even the cleaning staff thought that they were a boat recovering company.

  Just a few hours from Virginia Beach, all she could think about was jumping in the car, finding her way down to Mason, and escaping together to that desert island.

  If he’d have her again.

  A tall man with gray hair and a navy-blue suit walked into the room, and for the first time since she’d known him, her reaction was visceral repulsion.

  “Avery.”

  “Rook,” she said, using his preferred call sign.

  “What have you brought for me?” he asked, sitting across from her at the conference table. “Something good?”

  “Not what you want,” she said bluntly. Unapologetically.

  “What do you mean?” He furrowed his brow. “No games, now. We need to get this file done with. Did you finish him?” Rook rested his hands on the table and crossed his fingers, his gaze expectant. This was how it always went. He sat and waited for her briefing, and then he took the information away, never telling her what would happen as a result of her intelligence.

  She exhaled slowly and clutched her rental car keys in her pocket. She didn’t own a car, or a property. Just a giant bank account and a few rentals.

  Rook had been everything to her once. He’d recruited her. He’d trained her. He’d raised her in the organization. But through all of it, she’d never learned what Rook did after work. Where he went. What he thought. And the same was true in reverse. For all the time they’d spent together over the years, he didn’t know her at all. She had never been more than a warm body to him.

  Now, sitting face-to-face with Rook, she had to get real for the first time. Her assignment was in direct conflict with Mason’s best interest.

  Mason: the man she’d spent a few days with but felt like she’d known a thousand years. Rook: the man she spent years with but felt like she barely knew at all. Curious.

  “I wish to tender my resignation.”

  Rook’s mouth dropped. He didn’t bother feigning a polite reaction. “You’ve got to be joking,” he snarled. “After all of this? After everything we’ve been through? You can’t. I don’t accept.”

  That only made Avery more certain. He doesn’t accept? The audacity. Fuck him. Fuck it all.

  She leaned in, and in her most severe voice, she said, “Look, I don’t know what you are after with Mason. I don’t know what you think you have. But I can tell you right now that he’s one
of the good guys. Any time you spend trying to nail him will be a waste of your time.”

  He looked at her like she was the last unicorn on Earth. “Why would I spend any time trying to nail him when you clearly already have?” he asked, vicious hatred in his voice. “I warned you.”

  She gasped. “How dare you. How long have we worked together? How long have you known me?”

  “Clearly not long enough. Should I be revoking your clearance now? What have you said to him?”

  She stood up in a fit of fury and outrage. Things were not going well. “Nothing. Just like I’m saying nothing to you. But as someone who used to be your protégée, trust me when I tell you this: I’ve worked in this industry long enough to read people. That is exactly why you hired me. A sixth sense, you said. And this guy is a good guy. Don’t fuck him.”

  He stood up. “Don’t fuck him? I’d say the same to you. I knew I shouldn’t have sent you on this. You, like every other woman, got completed absorbed by his looks and SEAL bullshit. He’s compromised you.”

  As he spoke, Avery stood up as well. “You’ve crossed the line.”

  “Have I? These SEALs—do you realize what they get away with?”

  “They have a hard job,” she said bluntly. “Wars aren’t fought how they used to be. Terrorists don’t wear uniforms, and you can be damn sure they don’t follow the same rules as we do. We can’t send our guys out there and expect them to be fucking pincushions.”

  Rook smacked the desk in front of him. Avery had never seen the man lose it before. “Development Group? The whole fucking team has some seriously entrenched problems. How many SEALs do you think are using drugs? This month alone, we’ve nabbed three for cocaine use—in combat,” Rook spat out. “They must be disbanded.”

  And there it was. Avery realized that Rook’s anger had a goal.

  “Not Mason. I can’t speak for anyone else.” She stood firmly and eyed Rook down. “If this is about drugs, he’s good. But that’s not what this is about.”