Thomas Becker, the commanding officer of Team Fifteen, spoke up briskly. “How many tangos in the sub?”
“Eight.”
“How many on the surface?”
“Eight stationed on a fishing boat nearby. Armed with assault rifles and a few other nasty surprises.”
“Any way to approach the red zone by vessel?” Lieutenant Carson Scott asked from his perch against the wall.
“Negative. They’ll have eyes on the water. The op requires a HALO jump and a scuba approach.” Doyle moved away from the chalkboard and headed for the door. “I’ll leave the op specs with Lieutenant Commanders Becker and Walsh. Team Eight, tangos. Team Fifteen, you’re the good guys.”
Dylan and Seth high-fived, while the members of the newly arrived Team Eight let out simultaneous groans.
“Why are we always the bad dudes?” the dark-haired ensign who’d introduced himself as Hunter complained.
“Seriously,” a petty officer named Duke griped.
Miguel Delgado, the team’s tall, balding commander, just grinned. “Have fun,” he said before following Doyle out the door.
As Becker and Walsh, the teams’ respective COs, huddled over the plans left by their superiors, Jackson found himself under the intense scrutiny of a blond man with light-blue eyes. Max, if Jackson remembered correctly.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asked with a cock of his eyebrows.
“Just trying to figure out what all the hype is about,” Max replied thoughtfully.
“The hype?”
“You guys have this huge reputation, but I don’t see what—”
“Wait, what reputation?” Dylan had overheard the comment and was drifting over to them.
Max shrugged. “You know, that you’re all major players.”
“He means whores,” Duke said with a grin.
“And party dudes,” their teammate Hunter added.
“And rumor has it, y’all got arrested for streaking last year.” That came from the enlisted SEAL that Team Eight called “Lancelot”, a tall man with dirty-blond hair.
“How dare you.” Seth usurped the conversation with a smirk. “It was for brawling, thank you very much, and no charges were filed.”
The members of Team Eight hooted. “Sorry, my mistake,” Lancelot said in amusement.
Duke grinned. “Notice they haven’t denied the whore part.”
Seth grinned right back. “I didn’t realize the East Coast teams were a bunch of girly gossips.”
“And FYI,” Dylan said cheerfully, “we were warned about your reputation too, so don’t go all pot-kettle on us.”
“Dude, we’re not judging,” Hunter replied, sounding sincere. “We were just fishing ’cause we want to party with you.”
Jackson chuckled, though he honestly wasn’t surprised by Hunter’s response. From the moment the members of Team Eight had walked into the classroom, he’d known they were the East Coast clones of him and his buddies. Most of the Eighters were young, in their early to midtwenties, and they were rowdier and more outspoken than the majority of soldiers stationed on this base. Team Eight did have its Beckers, though—there were definitely a few stoic faces in the room, all business from moment one—but these four were clearly kindred spirits. Sporting cocky grins, quick to laugh, and giving off party-dude vibes.
“Seriously,” Duke agreed. “We’ve gotta get some beers while we’re here. Exchange war stories.”
“Whore stories, you mean,” Max cracked.
The next round of laughter was interrupted by a sharp whistle from Team Eight’s CO. “I need my tangos over here,” Walsh barked.
The SEALs snapped to attention and marched off without delay, while Jackson and his teammates were ushered to the door by Becker, who needed them in a separate room in order to go over the details of the mission.
“Enough chatting, ladies,” Becker said briskly. “We’ve got a rescue to plan.”
* * *
A little over seven hours later, the training mission was underway. It wasn’t nearly enough time to plan and execute a foolproof extraction, but the hasty timeframe was part of the exercise. The powers that be wanted to evaluate how well the SEALs could carry out a rescue with very little planning.
Jackson and Seth had drawn the short straw and were playing the hostages today. They were currently in the bowels of the USS Hoover, a submarine stationed at the Point Loma Naval Base. Their hands were secured to a pair of pipes with the same painfully tight wires that were also coiled around their feet, while their “guards” watched them closely to hinder any funny business.
It was the kind of training demo Jackson hated. Being left out of the action was frustrating as heck, and he knew Seth shared his dissatisfaction as they sat there on the damp floor while their teammates got to have all the fun.
Shooting the shit wasn’t encouraged during these exercises, but the four of them broke the rules, captors chatting with hostages as they waited for their respective teams to make a move.
“Connor’s gonna smoke your guys,” Duke said smugly, an MP5 submachine gun hanging loosely from the strap on his shoulder.
While Jackson and Seth were completely unarmed, Duke’s and Lancelot’s weapons were equipped with blanks, but all four men wore the same camo gear with high-tech sensors that would register if one of them was “hit”. The sensor emitted a white light for a non-lethal injury, blue for a lethal one, and red meant dead. Both Jackson and Seth sported a couple of white ones already from the “beating” they’d endured during interrogation.
“Which one is Connor again?” Seth asked.
“Black hair, black eyes, didn’t say a word during briefing.” Duke chuckled. “He’s the strong, silent type. Best sniper you’ll ever meet.”
“Not if Evans gets in position like he’s supposed to,” Seth retorted. “Dude can hit a quarter off a man’s head from a thousand yards away.”
Jackson tested his bindings for the hundredth time, but the thin wire didn’t budge. If anything, it dug deeper into his wrists, and the moisture dripping down his forearms told him he’d fussed with the cord so much he’d drawn blood.
“Aw, poor baby,” Lancelot drawled when he saw Jackson shifting around on the floor. “Did we tie those wires too tight?”
He grinned at the other man. “It’s really too bad you can’t see my hands. ’Cause I’m givin’ you the finger right now.”
“That’s a Texan accent, huh? Whereabouts?”
“Little town west of Dallas,” Jackson answered. “You?”
“Charleston.” Lancelot gestured to Duke. “And my man here is from Raleigh.”
“I’m from Vegas,” Seth piped up. “Which means I’m way cooler than all you losers.”
“Oh man, I love Vegas,” Duke declared. “Me and Hunter went there last year on leave and we hooked up with the hottest showgirl on the planet. She was so flexible it was insane.”
Seth smirked. “Beat ya again. I’m married to a former showgirl.”
“No shit.”
“Yes shit. And before you ask, yes, she’s also insanely flexible.”
Lancelot glanced at his watch. “Been almost an hour. I think you boys are SOL.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the sound of gunfire erupted from far above them, prompting both Seth and Jackson to grin widely.
“Gee, guess one of you should go and investigate,” Seth taunted.
Duke and Lancelot had already snapped to action, the former sliding out the steel door while the latter stuck around, his gun trained on his hostages’ foreheads.
Jackson chuckled. “We both know you ain’t gonna kill us. Rebel leader would’ve ordered you to keep us alive for leverage.”
“Fuck off.”
Whatever was going on above them sounded like pure chaos. Shots rang out in quick succession, the ceiling above their heads vibrating as footsteps traveled over it.
Seth joined in Jackson’s laughter, his gray eyes dancing. “Looks like your sniper
didn’t do such a good job keeping ’em off the sub.”
Another round of gunfire erupted from beyond the door, followed by a familiar voice shouting, “Clear!”
“Uh-oh, I think Duke’s out of the game,” Jackson said cheerfully.
A second later, the metal door flew open and more shots exploded in the air.
Lancelot managed to get off two rounds before he was KIA, lowering his weapon in defeat as Dylan and Matt O’Connor stormed the cramped space in strategically sensored wetsuits and armed to the teeth.
“You boys all right?” Matt drawled, his shaved head gleaming beneath the fluorescent light fixture.
“Peachy,” Seth said sarcastically.
Matt touched his earpiece and barked out a report. “The little birdies are back in the nest. I repeat, birdies back in the nest.”
Their comrades wasted no time cutting them free. Jackson rubbed his aching wrists, then cursed when he saw the flash of blue on Dylan’s thigh.
“You’ve been hit. Femoral artery,” he muttered. “You’ve got three minutes before you bleed out, man.”
Dylan sighed. “Do your thing, then.”
Jackson was already ripping off his belt. Same as he would have done if this were a real op, he went through the process of applying direct pressure on Dylan’s “wound” and fashioned a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. No way of knowing if Dylan would lose the leg, but the sooner they got out of there, the better the man’s chances.
“C’mon, let’s jump ship,” Matt said briskly, his eyes and weapon trained on the door. “The corridor is wired with C4 and one of the Eighters managed to detonate half that shit before McCoy took him down. The entire lower level is in flames.”
The four of them raced to the doorway, Dylan playing his part to a T by limping on his “injured” leg. Jackson shouldered the other man’s weight, breathing hard as he lugged nearly two hundred pounds of muscle toward the exit point. Matt took the lead, MP5 locked and loaded, then swore and touched his earpiece.
“Shit. Fishing boat is officially rubble at the bottom of the ocean. That was our ride home.”
“Orders?” Seth asked, holding the weapon he’d taken from Lancelot, whose “dead” body was still in the other room.
“Little Mermaid it to the secondary rendezvous point,” Matt answered. “Looks like you’re swimming with a bum leg, Wade.”
“Wonderful,” Dylan mumbled.
Jackson knew the physical activity was bound to exacerbate Dylan’s injury. He wasn’t wrong—five minutes after diving off the sub and hitting the water, Dylan’s vest buzzed and the sensor over his heart turned red.
“Goddammit!” the blond yelled in aggravation.
Jackson, who’d been dragging his teammate through the cold water, released him with regret. The waves instantly bobbed around the blond man, whose expression conveyed sheer annoyance illuminated in the moonlight.
A speedboat carrying Team Eight’s CO swiftly cut through the water and slowed down beside them to haul Dylan on board.
Jackson kept going, his arms aching as he swam fast and hard, several yards behind Matt and Seth. It was a three-mile swim in the dark ocean, which sucked ass considering his arms had been tied behind his back for the last several hours. And the saltwater stung his scraped-up wrists, which just pissed him off.
By the time he and his teammates reached the rendezvous—a low-lying black Zodiac that had been dropped from the chopper earlier—he was thoroughly exhausted. But at least he was alive. He and Seth exchanged grins as the raft sliced through the waves and the wind slapped their faces.
Seth glanced over at Matt with a nod. “Damn good job,” he shouted over the wind.
“Not good enough,” Matt shouted back. “We lost a man.”
Seth waved a hand. “Ah, it was just Dylan. Nobody’s gonna miss him.”
But when they reached the base a short while later, the deep scowl on their CO’s face told them he agreed with Matt on this one.
“How the fuck did we lose Wade?” Becker demanded as they hopped out of the Zodiac.
The rest of the team was gathered nearby, including Dylan, who seemed to be taking a lot of heckling from the other men about his grisly demise.
Matt shrugged. “Lancelot is damn quick on the trigger. We couldn’t have done anything differently.”
“We’ll see about that,” Becker muttered. “Unload your gear. Debrief in ten minutes.”
As the CO stalked off, Jackson ran a hand over his wet hair and let out a weary breath. He was so dang tired he was ready to crash, but he had plans with Mia tonight and he refused to miss out on the chance of seeing her. He’d definitely have to chug a cup of coffee or two before he left the base.
“I can’t believe I died.” Dylan sidled up beside Jackson on the way into the building. “You suck as a medic, Texas. You fucking suck.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not God, man. Here’s a tip for next time—don’t get shot in your femoral artery.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dylan’s strides were scarily energetic as the two men strode down the hall. “Wanna go out for a beer?” he asked with a hopeful look. “I already asked everyone else but they all pled exhaustion, even the supposed party dudes on Team Eight.”
Jackson stared at his teammate. “How the heck are you not exhausted? I’m frickin’ beat.”
“It’s all the sex I’m not having,” Dylan said gloomily. “Has me wired.”
“Sorry, but I can’t. Mia’s coming over around eleven to hang out.”
“Why so late?”
“She had to go to Chula Vista for her brother’s game, so she won’t be back ’til later.”
“It’s only nine,” Dylan pointed out. “Plenty of time for us to chill and still get you home before Mia shows up.”
He hesitated.
“C’mon, don’t make me go back to my empty condo yet.” Dylan gave a mock pout. “Have some pity, bro.”
After a beat, he surrendered with a tired chuckle. “Fine. I’ll go out for a beer with you.”
* * *
Mia couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a wonderful, stress-free day. She’d spent her morning at the nursery picking up plants for the waterfront park project, her afternoon working out in the sun, and her evening in Chula Vista for Danny’s first away game of the season. She’d watched Danny lead his team to another victory, crushing their opponent and officially putting the Warriors on a three-game winning streak. To top it all off, her boss had phoned during halftime to say she wanted to meet on Monday regarding the possibility of Mia taking over the San Diego location of Color Your Yard.
And now she was on her way to Jackson’s house, about to finish off her day with some incredible sex.
Go, me!
She was smiling like a goofball during the entire drive to Imperial Beach, unable to remember the last time she’d felt this content. The only downside was that she couldn’t stay at Jackson’s for too long because she was working at the sandwich shop tomorrow morning, but not even the thought of waking up early could put a damper on her high spirits.
In fact, she doubted anything could spoil her good mood—or at least that’s what she thought before her cell phone buzzed.
When she read Jackson’s text informing her that Dylan would be hanging out with them tonight, a burst of disappointment went off in her chest.
So much for incredible sex.
She stifled a sigh, forcing herself not to message him back. She was almost at his house, anyway, and she knew she’d look like a total brat if she cancelled their date just because sex was no longer on the table. Besides, she’d really enjoyed Dylan’s company last week, so hanging out with the charming blond SEAL wouldn’t exactly be a chore.
And maybe a sex break wasn’t such a bad thing. It was beginning to trouble her how addicted she’d become to these bedroom games with Jackson. A fun, platonic night might do her some good, clear some of the overpowering lust that had been fogging her brain f
or weeks now.
She arrived at Jackson’s place a few minutes later and discovered that his truck wasn’t in the driveway, but the little house was lit up like a Christmas tree. She wrinkled her forehead. His message had stated that he was home, so where was his pickup?
A minute later, when Jackson opened the front door to let her in, Mia had her answer. He was clearly drunk, or at the very least, tipsy. He wasn’t slurring or stumbling, but his slightly flushed face and bright eyes told her he’d had a few drinks.
“Hey,” she said. “Where’s your truck?”
“I had to leave it at the bar. We cabbed it here because I was too loaded to drive. Guess that’s what happens when you down three beers on an empty stomach.”
She frowned. “When was the last time you ate?”
“We just had some leftover pizza now. Before that…I dunno…since nine a.m. maybe?”
“You didn’t eat a thing all day and night?” she gasped.
“We were a little busy, darlin’.”
She was about to ask what had kept him so busy he’d forgotten to eat, but a voice from the living room interrupted her.
“Is that Mia?” Dylan called in delight. “Get in here, honey! I haven’t seen you in ages!”
She had to laugh as she followed Jackson into the living room. She didn’t bother reminding Dylan that they’d only met a week ago—she just returned the big hug he gave her and then joined him on the couch while Jackson went to the kitchen to grab her a drink.
It wasn’t long before her disappointment about not being alone with Jackson disappeared. Jen was right—Dylan was the most charming man Mia had ever met, and for the next fifteen minutes he chatted away and regaled her with funny anecdotes that had her in fits of laughter. Jackson had returned by then, flopping down beside her, and Mia found herself sandwiched between two drunk SEALs.
Out of Uniform Box Set: Books 4-6 plus 2 Bonus Novellas Page 70
