Call to Engage

by Tawny Weber

  And now that one was threatened.

  “Gentlemen, in case you didn’t notice, we’ve earned ourselves a babysitter.” The room buzzed with mutters and complaints. Savino waited for it to ebb before inclining his head in agreement. “Captain Jarrett will be monitoring missions for the next little while. The team and Poseidon have been officially cleared of wrongdoing in the Ramsey situation, but there are some in Naval Investigation who don’t accept the official stand.”

  “I’m not here to interfere or horn in on the workings of Poseidon,” Jarrett said, addressing the entire room. “I’ll do whatever I can to help clear the team, to get you guys back to business as usual.”

  Wanting to believe that, Savino nodded. Then, skilled at moving past pain—even when it was a pain in his ass—he got back to the duty at hand.

  “To bring everyone up to speed, I’ll recap the details of our current situation. These details are for Poseidon ears only,” he said as the men prepared to take mental notes. Everyone put away their papers, pens and electronics. They’d work from memory on this one.

  “As you all know, we encountered an incident last February on a routine mission. During the extraction of a kidnapped scientist, a militant base exploded, the fire severely injuring a SEAL.” He inclined his head toward Prescott, who, according to the doctors, was lucky to be alive. “The explosion was said to destroy the formula for a potential chemical weapon and killed numerous militants, including the jihad leader and, to all appearances, one of our own.”

  The words to all appearances caused a stir. Nobody spoke; nobody even moved. But the room came to attention.

  “Under CIA orders and pursuant to NI protocols an investigation was launched on SEAL Team 7 and, more specifically, on Poseidon.”

  Savino laid it all out. The chemical formula had been coded with a time stamp that’d put its theft at the exact time of their mission, implicating the team when its sale was discovered.

  “Sir,” Loudon interrupted. “Why would Naval Investigation be looking at us for the theft? It’d make more sense to look to the militants themselves for the theft and sale of that formula.”

  “It would, if not for the fact that the sale was to a tribe that group has been at war with for centuries.” Savino named the tribe, which elicited grimaces from most of his men. Because there was ugly, and there was ugly. And this group of militants had one goal and one goal only: world annihilation.

  “To date, five more incidents have been traced back to SEAL missions in which weapons, information or technology was sold. Of those, three missions were led by Poseidon.”

  The tension was so tight it was as if the room had turned into a vise. Savino didn’t need to look around to see the men’s reactions. He could feel them. Hell, he had them.

  Fury, betrayal and just a hint of worry.

  Only a stupid man thought he was invincible. Only an arrogant man thought his mantle of right protected him from persecution. Even Jarrett grimaced, his jowls tight as he shook his head in disgust.

  “I don’t have to tell you the ramifications of an NI investigation.” Savino slid a sideways glance at Jarrett. Babysitters were only the beginning, he knew. “The damage that it can cause to a career, or in this case, to the very existence of Poseidon.”

  Giving up his spot behind the podium, Savino paced in front of it as he continued the briefing.

  “Funds for the chemical weapons sale were traced to an account under Ramsey’s name as well as a civilian. The account is still in active use despite his supposed death. Further investigation cleared the civilian.” His gaze cut to Torres, who’d led that investigation and was now engaged to marry the civilian. “But it resulted in the kidnapping of Ramsey’s son. A team retrieved the child and detained Petty Officer Dane Adams, who while implicating himself and Ramsey, indicates that there are others still involved.”

  Who?

  Savino’s fists clenched behind his back as he paced, wondering for the hundredth time since this had begun what the hell NI had on Poseidon that made them so sure his team was dirty. He’d dug deep himself, but he hadn’t come up with a damned thing.

  “While we do not have confirmation that Ramsey is still alive, NI assumes that he is.” Savino paused, taking the time to look from man to man, meeting each of their eyes, deepening their connection.

  “I want him found. I want him taken down and made answerable for his crimes. Crimes against his country, against his uniform and, yes, against this team. He tried to set up one of our own. He tried to take down Poseidon.” He leaned back against the podium now, his usually unreadable face a study of icy fury. “Somehow, he got past us. He not only carried out treasonous actions under our very noses, but he thinks that he got away with them. We need to correct that, gentlemen.”

  “What’s the plan?” Torres asked. Rightfully, as far as Savino was concerned, since he was the one who’d been specifically framed to take the fall a few months back.

  “In addition to continuing with your current assignment, each of you will be taking on additional tasks. These tasks are Code Red, gentlemen.” Meaning they didn’t disclose them, not even to one another. They reported directly to Savino, and everything was done in person. No emails, no phone calls, no handwritten notes. “Poseidon has one goal now, gentlemen. To take down Ramsey and whoever else is involved. As of now, Operation Fuck Up is in effect.”

  * * *

  ONE THING ABOUT SEALS, they were hell on multitasking. Operation Fuck Up might be in effect, but members of Poseidon and SEAL Team 7 had other missions to carry out. So while time was devoted to tracking their treasonous teammate, the rest of their focus was on the current assignment.

  When breaking into another country’s embassy on foreign soil, stealth was the keyword. When breaking in with the objective of covertly extracting a man slated for execution, a sticky layer of diplomacy was wrapped around the stealth. The priority was retrieving the hostage. Secondary was doing so without taking lives.

  Using the moonless sky to their advantage, six men rappelled down from the roof. Infrared confirmed the hostage was held on the eighth floor, two guards in the room with him, four more stationed outside the door. Bars on the windows, men stationed at the end of each hallway and on the exits.

  So they went in through one of the empty offices two doors down from where the hostage was being held. Working in concert, their moves as coordinated as they were automatic, the team used a silent explosive on the window bars, sliding inside as quietly as smoke.

  They stunned the guards outside the door just as quietly, tucking them into the empty office, neatly bound and gagged. Elijah and Torres took their place outside the door while the other four slid into the hostage’s room.

  Eyes sharp, senses on full alert, even as he kept watch, Elijah wanted to grin. Stupid reaction, but, man, it felt good to be back on track. To do what he was trained to do.

  Not that he’d worried about it. Much. But he was glad to see it wasn’t an issue. Sure, his leg was a little tight, the puckered skin protesting over screaming muscles. But that wasn’t slowing him down.

  As if proving his point, the signal came from inside the room. He moved with easy stealth down the hall to the left, Torres to the right, then returned the all clear.

  Powers’s voice came through the comm in Elijah’s helmet, giving them the green light that he’d shut down operation of the security cameras on the rest of their floor.

  Ready to rock and roll.

  They moved exactly as planned. Two on point, two escorting the hostage—a Humpty Dumpty–looking guy in a three-piece suit and little round glasses—Elijah and Torres at the rear. The guy wasn’t in any shape to take out the window, but they just had to get him down one hall and over to the next to make their escape route.

  Elijah scanned, his gaze always moving, his ears on full alert as he tapped into their surro
undings, listening, watching as they proceeded down the antiques-filled hall, their booted feet silent on the glossy marble floor.

  Quite a step-up given that his last mission had taken place in a desert cave.

  Then it all went to hell.

  Elijah saw it going down a second before it actually did. The ambassador slipped, his slick dress shoes losing traction on the marble floor. Despite Lansky’s hold on him, the man still flailed out, his hand slapping the wall. Just a tap.

  And he screamed like a scared little girl. He might as well have sounded a Klaxon.

  The team angled to the right, taking the secondary, longer route just before they heard the sound of boots quick-marching down the hall. A shout of alarm went up, voices called out, running footsteps of what sounded like an entire platoon ricocheted off the walls.

  The team tightened their circle around the hostage, stepping up their pace to an easy run. Torres and Elijah automatically slowed, covering the rear as Loudon signaled a warning to the men in the air.

  The voices came closer. This way, Elijah translated the Arabic shouts. “They know where we are,” he warned the others calmly. “Company’s coming.”

  Then company was there.

  The bullets didn’t dent his calm. Not until one of them ripped through an ornately framed painting on the wall next to him.

  “The sonovabitch shot a Monet,” he swore. “What the fuck is wrong with some people?”

  “Guess they aren’t much for flowers,” Torres returned, grinning even as he ran. “Too bad we don’t have time to educate them on art appreciation.”

  As he marveled at the sacrilege, hoping like hell it had been a reproduction, Elijah moved. A small metal canister flew from his hand, landing smack-dab between the feet of the lead guard with a loud clang. A heartbeat later, the end of the hall exploded in smoke.

  A quick glance assured him that Lansky and Loudon had the hostage covered. As sweat poured off the man’s pale, bald head, they angled him into the air duct. As soon as the ornate, man-size grill was back in place, Masters and Rengel cocked their heads to the left, indicating they’d lead the guards that way while Elijah and Torres waited ten seconds, then took the right to distract the guards on the other side.

  “I’ve been ordered to remind you of the preference that your ammo stays in your rifle,” Powers said through the comm, his tight voice making it clear just how he felt about being ordered to share Jarrett’s preferences.

  Hard to blame him. Elijah couldn’t say he much like hearing it, either. Obviously the guards weren’t so particular because they just kept on shooting.

  “Out and on our way,” came through the comm as Lansky let them know they’d safely cleared the building with the hostage and were en route to the pickup site.

  With the hostage secured, Elijah and Torres moved fast, angling out the doors and into a small garden they knew led to the sea. Torres shifted to the left, heading for the cliffs to secure the lines for their escape while Elijah provided cover.

  Something exploded with a jarring crash, sending pieces of a statue flying every which way. Fire flashed, hot and blinding. The roar engulfed him, pulling Elijah into its unspeakable hell. He hit the ground, his leg eaten away by pain as the cries of the dying filled his head. He waited for the flames to eat at his body, to tear at his soul.

  “Prescott!”

  The dead faces came riding on the flames. Elijah gripped his weapon, finger on the trigger as he tried to aim, tried to stop them from taking his teammate. From killing them both.

  “Prescott, snap out of it.”

  Strong arms gripped his shoulders with a jarring shake. The flames were gone. The fire out. The dead still circled, though, round and round in his head.

  Chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes, Elijah tried to bring the man in front of him into focus.

  “Rembrandt? You okay?”

  Elijah blinked again.

  “Yeah.” He tried to breathe past the constriction in his chest, but the air barely wheezed through. He managed to nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  “Guess they weren’t big on flowers outside, either,” Torres joked, gesturing with his chin to gutted landscape. Trees were splintered, statuary rubble, bushes leveled.

  Elijah caught sight of the hole on Torres’s flak jacket. “You’re hit.” Alive, not burned to a crisp, was Elijah’s next thought. Then fury rode a wild wave of guilt inside him, overriding that thought with reality. His job had been to cover Torres. Because Elijah had let his personal nightmare distract him, he’d blown his job.

  “Nah, bullet grazed my body armor. C’mon, rendezvous in thirty seconds.”

  Elijah wanted to protest. He wanted to check Torres, to make sure there was no real damage. He wanted to howl at the fucking moon, then go back and kill the already-dead man who’d detonated the bomb.

  But instincts and training, or maybe it was Torres’s steady gaze, did the trick of getting Elijah on his feet and, limping only a little, back on track.

  Twenty minutes later, they were in the helicopter with the hostage secured. Loudon, the medic, sedated the ambassador before he shook to pieces. Jarrett entertained them during takeoff with his version of wringing his hands over their inability to tiptoe their way out of the embassy. The guy looked as if he was going to cry when he mentioned reparation and damage costs.

  Elijah, along with the rest of the team, ignored him. After all, it wasn’t like it was coming out of his pocket.

  “Rembrandt?”

  He lifted tired eyes to Torres.

  “You okay?”

  Was he okay? He wanted to say no. He wanted to know what the hell was wrong with him, why he couldn’t shake the monkey off his back. He wanted to beat the hell against the walls of the helicopter until he punched his way through the metal and out to freedom.

  As he glanced down the line of men leaning against the bulwark of the bird, he saw the same concern reflected in their eyes that was gleaming in Torres’s. Concern for him? a little voice wondered. Or about him?

  Elijah gave up, simply closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against the steel wall. It didn’t shut out those questions, didn’t erase the doubt he saw on the squad’s faces. But after a few seconds focusing on steadying his breath, lowering his heart rate, he could shove that aside.

  He drew a picture in his head, a landscape. The sun setting over water that stretched as far as the eye could see. Add a sandy beach in the back, some trees and scrub for texture and interest. And maybe a rickety hut off to the side, the driftwood walls leaning in on themselves. Yeah. He sighed as peace washed through him. A hut, with a hammock lashed between two palms.

  The sun would be hot and the beach quiet but for the sound of the surf beating its song. Deserted. Away from everyone and everything.

  Except the woman.

  He didn’t picture her face. He wouldn’t let himself. But a part of him recognized her. Knew her body, knew the ring of twisted metal she wore on her finger. A part of him knew she was it.

  Salvation.

  What he didn’t know was whether she’d grant it to him or not. Whether she’d deem his life worth saving.

  Or if she’d simply walk away, leaving him to drown in fiery misery.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TO AVA MONROE, life was all about the simple choices.

  Cardio or strength training.

  Yoga pants or fleece.

  A jog or a bike ride.

  An egg white omelet or a fresh fruit protein shake.

  She’d worked hard to simplify, to bring it down to choices as clean and easy as those.

  She liked it that way.

  Liked, too, that she’d structured her life so that she was answerable pretty much only to herself. She lived alone, with a month-to-month rent. She worked for herse
lf. And she trained for herself—for her own goals, her own purposes.

  It kept her responsibilities to a minimum.

  And it meant that she didn’t need or depend on anyone else’s approval.

  That concept had become her mantra when she’d escaped her old life in Mendocino to start over in Napa three years ago. Not only did Napa offer gorgeous views of green and gold, elegant wineries and ageless architecture; Northern California was familiar enough that she’d felt safe. Best of all, it was far enough away from Ava’s smothering parents that she could breathe easily, yet not so far away that they’d pack up their high-society life and follow her.

  Not that she didn’t love her family. But she’d never again be the princess they expected, and she’d learned the hard way proximity didn’t mean dependability.

  So Ava had simplified. And her life was great. So great that even she was surprised at how many people valued her skills enough to pay good money to attend a kick-ass workout class at seven in the morning.

  Focusing on those people, Ava let the heavy beat of old-fashioned rock and roll pound through her system as she guided a group through a warm-up. She thought they’d use the gym’s smallest workout room for this session, assuming there would be a limited interest in a six-week Hard Rocking Bods course. But ten minutes before they’d kicked off the initial session, she’d had to move it to the largest room and offer sign-ups for a second course at a yet-to-be-determined time.

  “Let’s step it up, folks,” she called out as she assessed the progress of thirty people finishing their warm-up. “Knees high, backs straight. Double time.”

  “How much longer?” gasped one already sweating guy with an enviable tan, tight body and pathetic muscle tone.

  “Warm-up? Another two minutes.” She flashed a wicked smile. “Then the fun starts.”

  The groans filling the room warmed her heart. She figured if they weren’t moaning, she wasn’t doing her job. And that job was to build the best bodies. Through exercise classes, through training, through bodywork and massage.