How did he so easily tear down her professional façade?
“So, a study of culture?” Ryder continued casually, making a turn onto a less-traveled highway and looking in his rearview mirror. “How the teams work? How we do business… in combat?”
“Sure.” Olivia found herself sitting up, stiffening her spine, and getting a second wind as her passion for her work came to the surface. “People are interested in what we have to say about special forces culture. About SEAL culture.” At least Human Resources is, she thought. “They need to reorganize. They need to better support sailors. And they need to know how.”
“Who is ‘they’?” he pressed.
“The people in charge of the Navy.”
“Of course,” he said. “My mistake.”
Olivia didn’t miss the smile that cracked across his face, leading her to believe that he had just trolled her hard. Her blood boiled—was he playing again? He’d baited her down the path so she would reveal… something. What was he looking for?
Gazing at the dark, muscled, tattooed operator, her brows furrowed. His cocky, self-assured grin screamed that he was in control and she was a pawn in his game.
“Do you have any concerns about being in a combat environment?” His tone was light and chatty, leading her further down the path.
Well, she wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand any longer.
“None,” she snapped back. She felt the unabashed need to flex her muscles and bare her teeth at him. She needed to show just how strong she was—and how worried he should be that she was there.
“You should,” he warned again. “It’s dangerous here.”
“Well, it is absolutely essential to see you operate in theater, and not in a clinical setting back in Virginia. That is the only way to see the real culture. To see how things work or don’t work. To observe the systemic problems.” She sat high and tall, knowing that she had put him in his place.
“Maybe this would have been helpful… six months ago,” he shot back, “when the so-called NCIS investigation was underway. They never even fucking came here.”
“Really?” she questioned, nearly leaning forward in her seat. Was he suggesting what she thought he was?
But he fell silent, so she made a note to look into that later. “It took so long for me to get here because I had to get the highest level of clearance,” she explained slowly. “I would have been here six months ago to parallel to the NCIS investigation if I could have been.”
“But you weren’t,” he reminded her. “No one came.”
“They wouldn’t let me!”
“And isn’t that interesting?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “It’s really too bad that your clearance took so long… until well after the criminal investigation was closed.” He made a clucking noise in his mouth, and Olivia knew exactly what he meant.
Silence fell over them, and he shook his head in disgust. She could tell he was trying not to show his emotions. Very few times had Olivia seen any semblance of the real Ryder—but she was seeing it now. He was disgusted and angry at how things had gone down, and he didn’t believe anything could be done.
She stared out the window as the greenery turned to desert, wondering what the hell was going on. The thoughts spiralled in her mind, making her even more tired after her long trip. And as the truck vibrated down the rustic, packed-dirt road, an unwelcome lull of drowsiness suddenly fell over her.
Christ. She couldn’t sleep in front of him. What would he do to her?
She squirmed at the thought and hoped he didn’t notice. But he did—the man missed nothing. Electric sparks ran up her body under his sidelong glances, and she battled the brutal combination of attraction and warning.
“Was this all a test?” she slurred out, trying to perk herself up. “To see how tough I’ll be on you guys?”
The question was met first with a laugh and then with a look of serious consternation. “If it was, you failed,” he said flatly, flipping on the radio for distraction.
The words burned. She never failed. And she wasn’t going to fail any tests on the mission. His toying and torturing and teasing were infuriating. They would have inspired her to tackle him if she wasn’t so tired. He was definitely patient zero of her investigation.
“It’s never too late,” she piped up, trying again to rouse herself.
“Maybe…” Ryder shrugged and then gazed over at her. “For some people.”
Through her own itchy eyes, Olivia recognized a deep weariness in his. A weariness that spoke to endless sleepless nights and far too much battle. The man clearly had carried a lot for a long time. She felt that.
“Isn’t that why I’m here?” she asked through heavy eyelids, leaning back in her seat. Before her eyes could close completely, she saw him shake his head slightly, keeping his eyes on the road. “What?” she whispered.
He didn’t respond, and she was too tired to press on. Too tired to keep her eyes open. So they closed. Somewhere between awake and asleep, she could just barely hear him mutter, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Those last words brought Ryder to the forefront of her sleepy mind: powerful arms, a confident posture, and a body of lean corded muscle. He was exactly—exactly—what she fantasized about at night, when she was alone and had nothing but her toy and her dreams to entertain herself.
The vision took over whatever dream she was slipping into. His mouth was wet and delicious and kissable. He was hard and buff and fuckable, challenging and demanding and sexy.
And she wanted to do terrible things with him.
Rule number four: Fraternization in theater is strictly prohibited. Failure to adhere to the code will result in immediate removal from post, charges, and, in some cases, dismissal from the organization.
Scolded by the fourth rule of her security briefing, the dream slipped away, and her driver disappeared from her fantasy just before she fell into a much deeper sleep. One thing was for sure: she hoped she didn’t encounter any other sailors like him once they arrived on the compound. If she did, she definitely wasn’t going to survive the mission—not without becoming the ethics consultant who suffered a lapse in ethics.
Several Months Earlier
Lieutenant Commander Doug Fuller, in command of a highly elite troop in the US Navy SEAL’s warfare development group known as DEVGRU, stood on a podium in front of a mass of reporters. His SEALs were in trouble again. War crimes? They were starting to make the Rangers look like absolute fucking squares.
Flashing lights and microphones were shoved toward him. Sweat beaded on his bald, misshapen head, and he felt the remnants of nicotine percolating in his body. He stood at attention and with confidence, not betraying the rage roiling inside him.
“Commander, what do you have to say about allegations of war crimes in Mali?” The reporter screeched loudly to get his attention over the buzz of the crowd. “Do these behaviors warrant pulling the whole platoon out of theater?”
“Did you know what the SEALs were doing?” another demanded. “Did you witness any detainee executions?”
Fuller clenched his teeth, unwilling to go off script. Who the fuck were these soy-sipping pansies to question him? While he was fighting for their freedom, they were busy in their liberal arts colleges, debating the challenges of terrorism and combat like they knew something. But they fucking didn’t. They had no idea of the hardships of war. It was never as black-and-white as the libs liked to imagine. It was all fucking shades of gray.
A sharp female voice emanated through the microphone system. “Please hold your questions until the end.” She was instructing the press to shut the fuck up.
Fuller took a deep breath, collecting his deep-seated anger toward the pony show. Behind him, the banner of the US Naval Special Warfare Command hung on the wall of the stage. Big Navy had forced him onto the podium to address the allegations under his command and the subsequent NCIS investigation that had taken place. Hell, even the secretary of defense recognized tha
t the situation was dire: SEALs were gracing the news for more bad shit than the National Guard. And there was a serious rectal pucker factor when the phrase ‘war crimes’ found its way into the headlines.
Needless to say, the top dogs were pretty fucking happy when the resulting NCIS investigation was open and shut damn fast. Anything to quash the bad press and placate the masses.
Without wasting any time, he began speaking into the microphone, addressing ravenous, salivating reporters left and right.
“Six months ago, I stood before you to announce the start of an NCIS investigation into the disturbing allegations regarding the Wolfpack Troop’s behavior on mission in Mali,” he began. He remained still and poised, with as much decorum as any elite commanding officer. “I’m proud to announce today that the NCIS investigation has shown those allegations to be nothing but categorically and unequivocally unsubstantiated.” He felt his own dick lengthen as he said the words, enjoying the taste of every syllable. “The NCIS investigation has shown that our operators have continued to act lawfully in their actions, and we have no incidents of war crimes our hands.”
It felt fucking good to make that announcement. It was a giant fuck-you to everyone who questioned him. And it was a giant nod to his boss, the man who’d orchestrated everything, who had strategized the words coming out of Fuller’s mouth. The boss knew very well that the press release—and its claims of vindicated SEALs and unsubstantiated allegations—wouldn’t go down easy in the media, and he expected the headlines wouldn’t be in his favor. But, really, all they had to do was keep up the façade. That’s all the secretary wanted to see. He didn’t give a fuck what was actually happening as long as they were getting the mission done and there wasn’t bad press.
As Fuller looked left to right, questions were being asked about his leadership. About his ability to keep his men in line. Calming the eruption, he spoke again. “Do not let these lies take away from the honorable work being done by the courageous American men and women in the Sahel. They are protecting the people of Mali from a dangerous terrorist force.”
He continued in an upbeat tone, feeling the momentum of his own deceit. “We are committed to excellence and committed to the well-being of our operators.” He stared down all the reporters who had stood up, ready to jump down his throat. “As a result, the Navy has awarded a contract to a Washington consultancy firm to assist us in determining areas of improvement in our… workplace culture.”
The last two words curdled on his tongue. When had the Navy gotten so fucking soft? Culture. What a joke. Sending some civilian quack into theater to understand DEVGRU culture—SEAL culture—was the stupidest idea he’d ever heard, second only to the concept of almond milk.
And if the Secretary expected him to go out of his way to keep that particular civilian alive, then he was smoking something stronger than even the White House’s typical tomfoolery.
4
Olivia laid out her notebooks and pens on the steel military desk allotted to her bunk. Gazing out through the tiny window, she enjoyed the vision of sailors marching to and fro underneath the smoldering sun.
Marching was perhaps an overstatement. Special forces guys—SEALs, especially those in groups like DEVGRU—didn’t line up and march together like in the movies. They were operators. Assaulters.
Ghosts.
Sure, they had strict, demanding schedules and plans and operations, but they weren’t usual soldiers, and this wasn’t the usual base. Even though she’d been briefed beforehand, the camp was different than she expected. Much different.
And not in a good way.
Olivia would definitely report that the brochure oversold the amenities. Her room was the size of a ham sandwich, without any room for added cheese. That was the tale of the tape for the compound, which was more of a makeshift military camp. Shit was squeezed together everywhere, like they’d appropriated some Malian family’s old goat farm and half-heartedly jazzed it up.
Large stone walls lined the compound, and numerous nondescript metal structures stood inside. Some were offices. Some were sleeping quarters. Some were ‘work stations,’ though Olivia had yet to learn what that meant for an operator. Didn’t they just kill people?
Roughed-in dirt pathways ran in and around the entire compound like a maze. A labyrinth. Shit, you could get lost and die of dehydration in between those little buildings. And one, higher tower had been erected in the middle for looking out.
Overall, there wasn’t much to identify the compound as anything military or, especially, American. She was told they kept a low profile. Secrecy was of the utmost importance. Everything was classified. Platinum-level, top-secret classified.
And that’s why accountability had gotten so bad. All of the eyes on the ground were part of some blood brotherhood, and anyone tempted to snitch would be culled from the herd.
Olivia looked down at her notebook and flipped to the second page. She had written down her first steps on the ethics project. The troop’s officer in charge was a lieutenant commander. Level O-4. She hadn’t met him in person, but he had granted her access to interview the enlisted sailors at her choosing. There were lots of special warfare operators to choose from. E-6s. Some chiefs: E-7s. Two senior chiefs: E-8s. One master chief: E-9.
Just one E-9. The second in command.
She ran her finger down the page through her project’s rough plan.
Learn organizational structure.
Learn policies and mandates.
Learn mandate and deployment structure.
She checked them off. She had done a lot of work before they’d won the contact, and even more after.
Meet commanding officer. O-4.
Unchecked. She had to meet him. Snapping her notebook shut, she checked her watch. Four o’clock. It was time to see if he was available.
As Olivia stepped toward the front door of her sandwich-sized bunk, taking all of the three steps required, she paused in front of the mirror and took a deep breath.
She looked professional. She looked smart. She looked strong.
Dressed in a business outfit that was appropriate for the desert climate of the Sahel, her black slacks and loose-fitting blue blouse were complemented by black boots. No stilettos here. She didn’t want the sailors to think she was an idiot—the rocky pathways on the compound would inhale heels. Her boots were wedge-heeled. Because she couldn’t wear flat shoes with dress pants. It just wasn’t her thing.
Her clothing was non-flirtatious and serious. Appearances were everything, and she knew she was being judged. These early impressions would help cultivate her reputation.
Be too sexy, and they’d think she was just there to mess around.
Be too strict, and they wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to her.
She needed to strike a non-threatening yet respectable balance.
Being a woman was both an asset and a liability. Men tended to be more comfortable talking to women about exactly the topics she needed to question them on. But chances were some sailors would love to see her naked.
Rule number five: Every person is individually accountable for his/her actions, decisions and behavior on deployment, and is responsible for upholding good order and discipline in order to accomplish the mission.
Olivia smoothed out her long, shiny, chocolate-brown ponytail one last time, telling herself that she embodied ethics, responsibility, and accountability. Then she pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and headed out the door.
She was a boss. A bad bitch. No one could fuck with her.
However forced, the self-talk was needed after her driver had left her a little rattled. She was leading the troop by example, she reminded herself. And she couldn’t let her startling desire to kiss dark-haired SEALs compromise that.
Outside her bunk, she navigated her way toward the command building and marched with confidence. Purpose. Meaning. As she turned a corner, she unwillingly slammed into a hard black surface.
Looking up
, she saw two familiar dark eyes bearing down on her, framed by a long, lean, and strong face, tanned, with black scruffy facial hair.
She simultaneously felt a swirl of excitement and a jolt of anxiety.
It was him!
Shit. It was him.
5
Ryder found himself looking down on the pretty little brunette, who stared right back at him through those glasses that made her look like a naughty librarian. Thick black lashes rimmed her thoughtful, if not accusing, eyes as she glared at him.
“Can I help you?” he asked casually, keeping up that same cool façade he’d been playing at since he’d met her.
Olivia’s hands mounted her hips, and her expression grew even less friendly. Bitchy, even. Was it his job to move aside? She’d run into him. The woman was intentionally difficult. She did not step back. In fact, he thought he saw her dig her heels in further.
“Sure. Step aside,” she snapped.
Maybe it was how close they were, or maybe it was her aggressive obstinance, but he just did not want to back off. Not at all.
“No,” he said flatly, unwilling to give up space for her. So Ryder just stood there, forming an immovable wall, and crossed his arms.
“You are unbelievable,” she said in an exasperated tone.
“I’m not the one running around without looking where I’m going.”
Looking down the bridge of his nose under the bright, hot sun, he couldn’t help but notice the supple plumpness of her bottom lip. Soft, pink, and playful. As voices could be heard off in the distance, Ryder took in the sun-kissed bridge of her nose and those intelligent, intransigent eyes.
“Fine.” She took a step to the side, looking elsewhere. He could tell she was about to say something else—it was clearly on the tip of her tongue—but instead she clamped her mouth shut.
Fighting For Olivia Page 3
