by Aiden Bates
Mal's laptop was out, as always. His fingertips flew across the keyboard. "The hotel's website says it was closed for repairs after a fire, but you're right. I didn't see any inkling that a fire had occurred."
Trent snapped his fingers. "That's a huge clue right there. Who owns that hotel?"
DeWitt narrowed his eyes, but Mal was already typing. "Shell corporation one, shell corporation two, shell corporation three, and here we go. Smolak Enterprises, Inc."
"Wait, you mean like the American company, Smolak Enterprises?" Van Heel scoffed. "Come on. Why would they own a hotel someplace on the back of beyond like this?"
"And why would they let it stay closed if it were in good working order?" Buelen shook his head. He'd probably had dinner with Buelen a time or two, considering his background. "Smolak is a better businessman than that. Trust me."
"Is he so involved with the day to day operations of each individual aspect of his organization that he'd notice if a hotel like this were behaving oddly?" Robson scratched his nose.
"Believe it." Buelen's delivery was flat, and Trent grimaced. If Buelen knew Smolak from his time before the Navy, his memories weren't good ones.
"Huh." DeWitt steepled his fingers in front of his face. "There could be a whole host of explanations," he said after a moment. "At the end of the day, we're sailors, not detectives. We can pass on the information and let Interpol, the FBI, or whoever take care of it. I'm a little concerned that no one in the town seems to care that they've got a bunch of white supremacists taking up space in a hotel that used to provide jobs, but whatever. Greece isn't my country. It's not my job to police their responses to what happens in their backyard."
DeWitt dismissed them, and they all headed back to their respective tasks. Trent sought Mal, who had returned to his out-of-the-way location on deck.
He looked around and smiled. "This spot looks different in the daylight."
Mal's cheeks got pink, at least where Trent could see them over the top of his beard. "Good Lord, man. It's broad daylight."
Trent laughed. "True. And that wouldn't be an issue for me, except I'm on ship and well…"
"Your teammates don't want to see your bare arse?" Mal hugged his knees to his chest and raised an eyebrow at him.
Trent waved a hand. "They've seen it plenty of times. We all have to live pretty close, you know?" He sat down beside Mal. "What's eating you?"
Mal bit his lip. "Maybe you're all not cops, and technically I'm not either."
"I sense a huge 'but' coming in there." Trent wrapped an arm around Mal's shoulders.
"But," Mal said, with a little grin, "I do have to wonder how this didn't get more chatter. Are the locals keeping quiet because they agree with the bad guys? I mean it's been hard for Greece, what with having to deal with economic collapse and then being the reception center for so many refugees on top of it. A lot of people turn to that sort of ideology when they're dealing with that sort of crisis."
Mal worried at his fingernail for a second. "Of course, it's possible they're not keeping quiet voluntarily. From what I've seen so far, these White Dawn people are extremely violent. It's easy for someone like me, who doesn't have a husband or children or anything like that, to say, 'Over my dead body.' It's not so easy when you have something to lose."
Trent curled his lip. "Some people fight precisely because they have something to lose, you know."
"Oh, sure." Mal waved a hand. "Everyone has to decide for themselves the extent to which they're capable of fighting. It's about circumstance. A lone townsman — say the local cheesemaker. If no one else is willing to stand up and fight with him, is it really worth it to just go out and get himself killed? All I'm saying is, I don't know their circumstances and maybe I shouldn't sit here and judge them."
Mal sighed and rubbed at his temples. "And then maybe they're keeping quiet about these people that came in and took over a hotel that used to give them jobs because the hotel still gives them jobs."
Trent pursed his lips. "That's a little uncomfortable, don't you think?"
"Not really. You saw that place. It's still clean as a whistle. Someone's feeding those men, and if the way they treat women in those videos I had to see is any indication, then it's probably not the men themselves.” He rested his head on Trent's shoulder, and Trent's heart sped up. "Like I said, the economy pretty much tanked a while ago. That's going to affect everyone, and it's going to affect the way people think. If you're worried about how you're going to eat or buy medicine, you can't afford to be too picky about your employer."
Trent sighed and kissed the top of Mal's head, through his tousled hair. "At the end of the day, I guess it doesn't matter why. Someone's going to have to take these White Dawn fuckers down. They're working with terrorists. They're terrorists themselves."
"Oh, yeah." Mal nodded. "I'm not disputing that." He paused for a moment. "I'm curious about the link to Smolak Enterprises, though. I know that's not something you guys work on. It's a law enforcement thing, not a war thing."
Trent sagged back against the bulkhead in relief. "I know you're not a big fan of the States, but I'm glad you get that. And I'm glad you get the difference."
Mal laughed. "Are you kidding? That difference is vital to us. We're pretty opposed to militarized policing, as a general rule. Seriously, though, this Smolak Enterprises thing is nagging at me."
"It's probably not a big deal. How hard would it be for you, for example, to get into the Smolak Enterprises system and convince it that a hotel is running smoothly when it's closed? Or that a hotel is closed when it's running just fine and reroute the profits to your own bank account?"
"I'm doing that right now, with three different hotel chains."
Trent burst out laughing. "Seriously? Just like that, like it's nothing?"
"Well, yes. One's helping to fund me and Morna, one's helping to fund an HIV clinic in Botswana, and one's going to an LGBTQ crisis center in Atlanta. That one's a Smolak hotel, now that I think about it. I did that one after he gave a speech to a homophobic conference." Mal tensed, just a little. "It's not hard, really, once you know what you're doing."
"Isn't it difficult to keep up the appearance? I mean, they've got employees who need to get paid and everything." Trent shook his head.
"Sure, and those employees get paid. The profits just go to, you know, me. Or wherever. So I do suppose that this Smolak fellow could be the victim of someone like me, only working for the bad guys. I don't like Smolak, he's everything I hate, but I don't want to just assume that he's backing terrorism just because he's a misogynistic homophobe and casual racist." Mal snuggled into Trent's side. "I do kind of feel like I need to know, though."
"Why? There's not a lot you can do about it if he is." Trent stared out at the ocean.
Mal snorted. "Watch me."
Trent laughed. "That's what I love about you, Mal. You just don't stay down. I haven't known you long, but I don't think you've ever seen a barrier you couldn't overcome." He froze as the enormity of what he'd just said hit him.
Mal patted his leg. "Yeah, okay. You certainly didn't feel that way when Morna and I slipped away from you back in Spain." He stood up. "I'm going to go see what else I can find about these bastards. If nothing else, the women in those recordings deserve to get some justice."
Trent watched him go, and then he stared off at the Mediterranean again.
Mal either hadn't really picked up on Trent's words, or hadn't believed them. It was probably for the best, really. Trent could feel whatever he wanted for Mal, but that didn't mean there was a future for them.
Was what he felt for Mal really love, anyway? Mal was handsome, beautiful even. Mal was warm. Plenty of men, plenty of omegas, were beautiful and warm. Trent had enjoyed himself with more than a few of them.
None of them had drawn the word "love" out of his mouth the way Mal had.
Mal was handsome and warm, but Mal was also competent. Trent had been with a number of omegas, but the thought of bringing any of t
hem into the field with him was laughable. He still didn't like the idea of bringing Mal into the field, but Mal made it clear time and time again he could more than hold his own with the SEALs. Mal could do things the SEALs couldn't, like casually fund himself from a hotel chain's profits without them ever noticing. Mal and his sister could swoop in and rescue a team of SEALs like it was a day at the damn beach.
What would it be like to spend his life with a man like that?
Trent would never know. Mal might be the perfect guy for Trent, but he wasn't just a European. He was a European vigilante — a criminal, really, and Trent couldn't exactly bring him back to the States as his lover. He could get away with some things while he was here in the field, but there was no way he could get away with allowing a known hacker on base.
Then, there was the fact that Mal hadn't said it back.
Mal seemed affectionate enough, but there was a world of difference between affection and love. Mal had work of his own to do. He wasn't likely to be ready to throw it all over for an American SEAL, not when he had a grudge against American ideals and the American government. Maybe Mal didn't want to be tied down. Maybe he liked his freedom.
Maybe Trent needed to stop thinking about the what-ifs and start enjoying what he had.
Chapter Seven
The Navy put Mal and Morna up in a small apartment in Souda, near the base. Lieutenant Dewitt made it clear they were putting a lot of trust in the siblings. "I don't like it," he said, with a sigh. "I'd rather have you on base with the SEALs, closer to us, where you can be watched. But there isn't enough housing on base as it is, and command didn't want to have people without security clearances running around on base."
"Probably a wise decision." Mal gave DeWitt a broad and entirely false smile. "We are who and what we are, after all."
DeWitt's face darkened, but he kept speaking. "We're politely requesting that you remain in the area during the course of our discussions with command and with local authorities."
The idea of local authorities gave Mal pause, but he and Morna could always get away if they had to. "Of course. We'll be around if you need us. You have our mobiles, correct?"
"Were you planning on taking any day trips?" DeWitt affected nonchalance, but Mal could see the way his body coiled like a spring.
"No." Mal scoffed. "It's been a challenging job, and we're more than happy to lie low for a few days, or weeks. However long you might need us. That said, we're hardly prisoners. We'll want to go out and get things like food."
"Of course." DeWitt relaxed. "I hadn't thought of that."
Of course he hadn't.
The apartment wasn't big, but Mal hadn't expected it to be. He didn't need it to be either. It had a kitchen, a small common area, two bedrooms, and a roof deck with a view of the port. That was all they needed. It wasn't like they traveled with much stuff, after all.
Mal decided he quite liked Souda. Its status as a port, with its military flavor, gave it a slightly seedy air that most of the Greek towns he visited managed to avoid. Mal dealt with the seedy side of life more often than not, and he found that all of the whitewashing tended to grate on his nerves after a little while. It was a safe enough town, and he and Morna were better able to protect themselves than most, so that wasn't an issue.
Mal hadn't been lying when he spoke to DeWitt. This mission had been physically and mentally grueling for both siblings. They spent their first day on shore sleeping. Morna ventured forth long enough to buy bread and wine, and that was their meal for the day. They would find something healthier when they had more energy.
Trent called the next day with leave to come over after work. He brought fresh vegetables with him, so all Mal and Morna had to do was to get dressed and clean up a little. They used the little grill that came with the apartment to grill the vegetables, ate them with more bread and wine, and enjoyed the view.
Mal brought Trent inside after they ate and gave him a different kind of view to enjoy. The room might not have been large, but it was big enough for the two of them, and that was all that mattered.
Trent stayed on base to train and work. He had to sleep on base as well, but he had a few hours to do with as he would every evening. He spent that time with Mal, every night, and Mal ate it up. It was all new for him. He'd never been in a position to see so much of someone for so long, whether they wanted to or not.
Mal read about relationships, and he'd known people who had them. They'd always been kind of superfluous to the mission, and he hadn't minded that. The mission was everything to him. Now, at twenty-five, he could finally see what he'd been missing out on, and he wasn't thrilled about it.
Sure, it felt incredible to know his hard work had stopped terrorists from blowing up a mosque in Brixton. It felt just as good to have a handsome, heroic man paying attention to him. Maybe it was stupid. It was definitely selfish, and Mal would have to come to terms with that eventually. In the short term it felt incredible, and he never wanted it to end.
For the first two weeks, his life settled into an idyll of rest and happy time with Trent. A few clouds popped up here and there to remind him all was not perfect in Souda, even if he wanted to pretend it was. His father called on Sunday, just after Mal and Morna enjoyed a leisurely brunch in the sun on their roof deck.
"Mal. I've got a job for you and your sister."
Dad's voice was rough and a little hoarse. It had always been rough. Mal couldn't remember a time when Dad's voice had been soft or gentle. He was always gruff, always curt. There was nothing extra about him, nothing superfluous. Mal resented it once. He'd run off for days when Dad threw away his precious book about butterflies, but now he was grateful. It kept him focused on the mission.
Unfortunately, even staying focused on their family fight for justice couldn't please Dad all of the time. "We're still working on the last job, Da." He picked up his coffee cup and sipped from it.
"Oh, really? How long can it take for you to take out a couple of terrorists, Malachi? Hm?" Dad growled at him. "Is this another situation like what came up with your sister a few years ago?"
Mal sighed. Dad still wouldn't speak Morna's name after that. "No, Da. It's nothing like that. The case was a Daesh cell, but it was more complicated than just a missile launcher on the back of a truck. The Americans got involved, and there was this bunch of Neo-Nazis —"
"Americans and Neo-Nazis?" Dad snorted. "You'd better lay off of that one. We've got no business in America."
Mal bit his lip. "Maybe not, Da. But we've surely got business in Europe, and I'd think when a bunch of white supremacists start working with Daesh to stage terror attacks in Europe it's the kind of thing we'd want to put an end to, yeah?"
Dad let out another little growl. "I don't like it. Those Americans are up to no good."
"You're not wrong." Mal looked over toward the naval base. He could see the ship that brought him to Souda, gray and imposing in the distance. "Right now, they're proving useful."
"You worked with them?" Dad let out a stream of profanity, in English and Gaelic, that curled Mal's hair. "You've completely lost your mind, boy. Are you fucking one of them? More of them?"
"My God, Da, you make me sound like a damn nymphomaniac." Mal glared toward the west, since his father wasn't in front of him. He had no idea where his father was, physically, so he glared in Ireland's general direction and hoped it counted. "We get information from them, and we get to pass along whatever information we deem useful. Not that we have much information on White Dawn."
"White Dawn?" Dad snickered. "It sounds like a dish soap."
"Right!" Mal forced a little laugh of his own. Morna made a face and went downstairs. She'd given up on getting back into Dad's good graces. She wouldn't wait around to talk to him.
"Aren't those the bastards that sit around in their underwear in their parents' basements, sending nasty comments to girls on the internet, and ranting about how they can't get a job because they've been laid low by the matriarchy or some such shite?"
Dad scoffed. "They don't sound like something that should involve people of our caliber, or the Americans for that matter."
"Yeah, well, that's their public face. If you happen to hear more about them, I think it's probably worth our while to keep an ear out for them. They killed those migrants back at Sete."
"Oh, I remember that." Disgust laced Dad's tone. "That's more the kind of thing we should be looking into. I'll see what I can find out for you. Just you watch yourself with those Americans, yeah? Nothing good comes from messing around with them."
"I'll behave, Da." He licked his lips. "So. Do you want to talk to Morna or no?"
"I'm busy. I've got to find someone else to take this job up in Norway, haven't I?" Dad hung up the phone without any other salutation.
