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“You need anything else? Fruit or oatmeal or something?”
Oatmeal? Elijah had to swallow quickly to avoid choking on the second half of the burrito.
“Dude, you think I’m so pathetic that you need to stick me with oatmeal?”
“Sorry. It was my mom’s go-to for big mornings. You know, first day of school, finals week, the day I enlisted, the day of my dad’s funeral.” Looking embarrassed—something Lansky never was—the other man gave a good-natured shrug. “Guess it’s one of those crazy kid things that we never lose, ya know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
And he appreciated it. The offer. That Lansky cared enough to make it. And the guy’s insight. The idea of oatmeal itself? That he didn’t appreciate so much.
“Pretty sure this burrito and coffee are all I need to handle going back on duty.”
He’d handle it.
He would. He had to.
Because he was a SEAL.
Being a SEAL, it’s all he had. It’s all he was. He’d protect that, hold that, to his dying breath.
While Lansky scooped up another burrito for each of them, Elijah poured coffee and pondered how he’d gone from the classic skinny kid growing up in a small town outside Napa to become a supposedly badass SEAL.
He’d spent his childhood in Yountville, a dreamer more interested in drawing pictures and scoring with girls than taking on bad guys. When he’d learned that bad guys—or rather, the hard-ass jocks who’d run the school like gangs ran the streets—didn’t check interest before they kicked ass, he’d figured he’d better reconsider his thinking.
He’d joined the service fresh out of high school, eager to serve, sure he could make a difference. That choice had taken him the world over, had shown him man’s highs and lows and had netted him a fistful of commendations. Trained first in linguistics, then in cryptology, he’d put his skill with words and his talent with puzzles to good use.
He’d learned to fight. He’d developed strategic skills. He’d found himself.
But true credit for making him the man he was came down to his being a SEAL. A SEAL and, more to the point, a member of the elite group of SEALs that formed Poseidon.
Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together ten years back, and thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons. That meant they were able to continue training together, studying together, excelling together.
And when called up, to serve together. They were an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose: to be the best of the best. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than anyone else. They focused on strategy; they specialized in everything.
They were, Elijah knew, the reason he was the man he was, and they were the reason he was alive today. They’d pulled him from the flaming bowels of hell, he admitted to himself as he and Lansky finished their breakfast.
“I cook—you clean. Since I hate dishpan hands, I figure this works fine,” the other man said with an easy smile at odds with his bloodshot eyes. As the sun rose, washing color into the jut of space deemed the kitchen, Elijah studied his roommate. You’d think Lansky’d been the one having the crap dreams from the drawn-out lines on his narrow face.
“Works for me. Don’t wanna do anything to hurt your pretty looks.” Elijah gave him another once-over. The guy resembled one of those cherubs his mother had painted on little china dishes, only all grown up. Blond hair, blue eyes and a sweet-cheeked innocence combined with a body sculpted by military training were just a few of the many tools Lansky put to use in his never-ending quest to bag as many chicks as he could.
And speaking of...
“I didn’t figure I’d see you this morning,” Elijah said, dumping the pans into the sink with a squirt of soap before adding hot water. “Thought you had plans last night that’d keep you in someone else’s bed until reveille. What happened? You strike out?”
“I never strike out, my man. I simply move on.”
Didn’t look like he’d moved on. Looked more like he’d spent the night suffering, brooding and hating life.
But as members of Poseidon, Elijah and Lansky had worked enough missions together, and yeah, cruised enough bars, that he knew the other man’s style. Lansky would give a friend—hell, an enemy—the shirt off his back if he needed it, but he didn’t share diddly unless he wanted to. And the man hated giving up to the point where stubborn tiptoed toward stupidity.
Come to think of it, they probably had all those things in common.
“What’s her name?”
Lansky’s scowl deepened as he refilled his own mug; the way the rich brown liquid sloshed against the white crockery made it clear this wasn’t a breakfast conversation he wanted to have.
“Her, who? It’d be a waste to limit myself to just one woman, Rembrandt. You know that.”
“Right.”
That was Lansky’s usual MO. Love ’em and leave ’em smiling was his motto. But if Elijah wasn’t mistaken, that motto had taken a nosedive since the other man had met a sexy brunette a few months back. With the skill of a man who enjoyed beauty in all its forms, Elijah brought the face to mind. A lush brunette with the face of a Greek goddess and the body to match.
Although Lansky had gotten to know her a lot better—along the lines of biblical knowing—they’d both met Andrianna Stamos months ago on a covert op run by Poseidon in search of a rogue SEAL. One who’d dirtied the team, who’d betrayed his country, who’d jeopardized a critical mission. A man who’d hidden treason behind a friendly smile and lied his way up the ranks about who he was, about what he’d done, about everything from deserting his child to where he’d hidden the riches reaped from treason.
They hadn’t found Brandon Ramsey. Still didn’t know if he was dead or alive. All they knew for sure was that he’d stolen classified information under the guise of an explosion.
Elijah rubbed his fingers over the puckered scars discernible even through the fabric of his slacks and hid his grimace with his cup.
“You ever had it hot for a woman who didn’t want jack to do with you?” Lansky asked with a shrug. “You know, the kind of woman you can’t shake from your mind?”
The swallow of coffee turned to vinegar in Elijah’s mouth.
Damn.
The memory of big brown eyes and the sexiest smile ever to curve a Cupid’s-bow mouth flashed through his mind. Just as quickly as that memory appeared, it was followed by those eyes filled with tears, brimming with accusation, and that mouth trembling as it said goodbye.
The vicious, cutting pain hit all the harder because it was unexpected. He knew exactly how it felt to have a woman rip his heart out of his chest and crush it to dust while he watched, helpless on the sidelines. Recovery in the burn ward was easier, and it hurt a hell of a lot less.
Elijah dumped what was left of his coffee in the sink. Looked like the scars on his leg weren’t the only ones being poked at this morning.
“Yeah. I know what it’s like. Rejection is fucked, my friend. Rejection when the heart’s involved? Fucked beyond words.” Wanting to put it from his mind, he started on another dish.
“Pretty much the worst,” Lansky muttered, his tone making it clear he was looking for assurance that he was wrong. But Elijah didn’t have any to give him. Not when it came to heartache and women.
“I’m pretty sure I’d rather take on a dirty bomb and a cell of urban terrorists single-handed than give a woman my heart again,” Elijah confessed, naming two of the threats the team hated most. Urban environments usually meant higher collateral damage, bigger rebuilding costs and, worse, playing nice with locals. “I figure there’s a better chance of beating the terrorists. Women? That’s a no-win game.”
“That is not a comfort,” Lansky said with a bitter laugh, holding out his empty cup for Elijah to add to KP.
“Even at the best of times, relationships are never easy, ” Elijah shot back. He didn’t know if it mattered if the relationship had lasted two weeks, two years or two decades. The other party ending it sucked hard.
“Good thing we’re not in the business of easy,” he added as he stacked the dishes in the cupboard, hoping to make up for the dismal morning pep talk.
“So why do we play?”
“Best game in town.”
“True that,” Lansky agreed, grabbing his cap from the closet before tossing Elijah his own.
They both gave one last, automatic look around before stepping outside. They lived on base in the apartment, and while an inspection might be unlikely, it could still happen. But it was habit more than concern that had both men tidying on their way out the door.
Even as he welcomed the cool air of a Southern California morning, Elijah’s gut tightened. Excitement, he figured. He’d been on inactive duty for way too long. This was his first day back in the trenches, his first op since the mission gone wrong.
He was ready, he vowed, ignoring the twinge in his thigh as they made their way down the stairs.
More than ready, dammit.
As if reading his mind, Lansky slid a glance sideways and asked, “You looking forward to getting back to it?”
“Yep. Nothing like a few hours of ass-breaking PT, target shooting and some dive practice to let me know I’m alive.” He grinned.
“You know, most guys go for kinky sex as proof of life. Gotta wonder at one who’s looking forward to physical training, which’ll consist of a crapload of push-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups, followed by a sweaty run and ice-cold swim.”
“Did all that yesterday, and every day last week,” Elijah said with a shrug. At Lansky’s look, he admitted, “I had to make sure I could.”
“Of course you could. You’re a SEAL, man. More than that, you’re Poseidon.”
The men who served as SEALs were diverse, their reasons and motivations as varied as they were. But their goal, as one, was to be the best and to serve their country, the Navy, their team.
Poseidon, on the other hand, was a group of twelve men whose numbers and names never varied. Their team was built on years of trust. The men knew one another inside out, knew what made the others tick, how each man’s tick meshed with their own. Their goal was bigger than to simply be the best. Their goal was stronger than one man’s hopes. They trained beyond what the others did; they studied further than the rest. Every man on the Poseidon team held multiple ratings—including Special Ops Combat Medic—each qualified to handle everything from EODs to aviation to intelligence.
They did it because they knew that’s what it’d take to achieve their mission of absolute cohesion. They did it because their leader asked them to.
“Just remember... We are Poseidon, king of the sea. Better than best is what we be. We rule by day, we rule by night. We kick every ass that’s in our sight.”
“My favorite cadence. By the time I was done with the workouts, I was grunting it,” Elijah confessed with a laugh as they continued toward a series of low-slung buildings. There were more bodies here, uniforms crisp and faces fresh as the base made ready for the day.
He’d missed this, Elijah realized. The never-changing change that was life on a military base.
“You know you could have tapped me to work out with you. I don’t mind the extra PT, and there’s no reason you had to go it alone.”
Just like that. Chest burning with words he couldn’t say, Elijah’s laugh faded. “I appreciate it, man.”
Then, because he could see Lansky was just as uncomfortable as he at the sentiment in the air, he shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered if I did, though. You were on leave last week and nowhere to be seen. What’d you do? Fall off the face of the earth? Torres said he tried to reach you a couple of times to no avail.”
Something flashed over Lansky’s face—a different kind of discomfort—before the guy offered his own shrug. “I had things to do, my friend.”
“Female things?”
“Always.” With that and a shake of his head to indicate he didn’t want to talk about it, Lansky changed the subject. “Hell of a long break between missions. You looking forward to getting back in the game?”
“Ready and able.” To serve, and to prove himself.
Elijah had never been big on caring what other people thought about him. He’d lived his life pretty much on his terms. They were easygoing, go-with-the-flow terms that fit with the credo his father had handed down.
If he lived life to the fullest, he could live with his regrets. If he listened to his heart, he could overcome any doubts. If he walked the honest line, he could always hold his head high.
He had to admit, he’d racked up a few regrets in his thirty years. He’d lived through pain, heartbreak and a loss he didn’t expect to ever recover from. He’d listened to his heart, and, yeah, it had ended up crushed like a week-old cookie left in someone’s pocket. But had no doubt that he’d done his best.
He knew a few people—CIA, Naval Investigation, even other SEALs—wondered if Brandon Ramsey had tried to blow Elijah to hell in a clean-sweep effort to eliminate his cohorts. But the people who mattered knew better.
At least that was what he told himself.
He’d taken a hit and he’d gone down in the line of duty. But now he was back in shape. He was back on duty. And, dammit, he’d get his reputation back on track.
He wanted to believe that.
He needed to believe that.
But it wasn’t easy. Not when he had to take a slower pace than the usual double-time to cross the base. Not when he saw the looks cast his way. The speculation in people’s eyes. Without comment, Lansky matched his steps, chatting instead about random crap like box scores and the hot blonde working the PX. When they stepped into the sparse briefing room five minutes later, Elijah breathed the familiar in deeply.
Shoving both hands into the front pockets of his digies, he ignored the sudden tightness across his shoulders, the raw feeling in his gut.
It was time to report for duty.
There was no room for any of that other crap.
CHAPTER TWO (#uf63ac0cd-5c08-5192-8be1-c50ba8d263db)
“YOU BOYS ARE LATE.”
Neither Elijah nor Lansky bothered checking the time. They knew it was T minus five. If they were late, Savino would already be there. And instead of milling about the room, the men would be in their seats.
Captain Milt Jarrett was the military version of a worrywart, though. It was his job to keep them on track, to keep things tidy and—something beyond Elijah’s ken—to keep their missions on budget.
“My fault. I was whining about heartbreak,” Lansky said, pulling a face. “You know how that is, right, Jarrett? The way I hear it, every woman you’ve been with has dumped you.”
Jarrett laughed along with the rest of the room. Lansky just grinned. Since the ribbing had put him at ease, Elijah started to pull his hands from his pockets and noticed a slip of paper in one. Weird. He hadn’t been in uniform in months. He pulled it out to see what he’d left there that’d made it through laundry detail while Jarrett returned fire.
“The way I heard it, Lansky, you don’t have a heart to break. Bummer, that. The rest of you, if you’ve finished gossiping and aren’t planning to do each other’s nails, maybe we can get down to business,” Captain Jarrett called as he strode to the front of the room. He had an equal-opportunity scowl, spreading it among everyone whether they’d been late or not, were simply standing or already seated at their desks.
The men still on their feet began moving at a leisurely pace toward the remaining empty seats. Nobody rushed. Jarrett had asshole tendencies that rubbed most of the team wrong. The only thing saving the guy was his rank and the fact that he was a brilliant strategist.
Elijah noted that his accustomed seat to the right front of the podium was available. Whether by design or luck, he didn’t know, but he made his way over, sinking gratefully into the questionable comfort of the wooden chair. As Lansky started chatting with Diego Torres, another teammate, Elijah unfolded the paper to see what’d been left in his pocket. Scrawled in black ink over the torn corner of college-ruled notepaper was a handwritten note.
A real friend listens until he hears the truth.
Shit.
What was with this morning and painful reminders? If Elijah was a man who believed in omens—and he constantly told himself that he definitely was not—he’d be having some serious worries.
Because he recognized the handwriting as that of a former—and supposedly dead—teammate. One who’d caused intense pain to a lot of people, himself included. Jaw clenched against the memories, Elijah started to crush the paper in his fist, then thought better of it. How the hell had it gotten into his pocket? He’d roomed with Ramsey before the mission that had sent Elijah to the burn ward and Ramsey into an ash can. But he’d never seen that paper before, and he and Ramsey had never been note-sharing, or pants-sharing, kind of guys.
Pulling his sketch pad out of his satchel, Elijah tucked the paper into the back of the pad and snagged a pencil. Then, in his usual way of working through something that puzzled him, he ran his fingers over the thick blank page, letting his mind clear and his pencil fly.
The sounds, the chatter, the varied scents of colognes and soap all faded into the background as he sketched. Impressions, memories, imagined scenarios.
“Dude, I missed breakfast,” Diego muttered next to him. “That’s a whole lot of ugly to offer up to an empty stomach.”
