by Tawny Weber
“Right.” Though procrastination wasn’t in his nature, Savino had a desperate urge to put this conversation off for a month or five. But the betrayal gnawing at his gut wasn’t going to go away. And this situation was only going to get worse. So...
“Fall in, men.”
As expected, the quiet command had instant results. Lansky closed the laptop, got to his feet and waited with his hands clasped behind his back. Torres grabbed the bar with one hand to free his legs, then flipped to the floor. He didn’t bother to grab a towel but stepped over to match Lansky’s stance, pausing only to wipe a rivulet of sweat from his eyes before coming to parade rest.
“Word has come down through sources I trust that we’re being investigated on the QT. The team in general, Poseidon in particular.”
Lansky’s minuscule flinch made it clear that he hadn’t ferreted that much out yet. Good. He was one of the slickest hackers around. If he couldn’t find it, others wouldn’t, either.
“Let me make this clear. I consider this a bogus investigation. But some of the brass are taking it seriously because, if my intel is correct, it’s happening at the behest of the CIA.”
That got a frown from both of them.
Savino gave a satisfied nod. He wouldn’t have to explain just how potentially FUBAR this situation was. The CIA digging its sticky fingers into Navy business was never good. But into Special Ops and the SEALs? Poking at the DOD’s classified protocols? That had the potential to be beyond fucked up.
“It’s been determined that classified information has been sold to the enemy. Information believed to be available only to those participating in Operation Hammerhead.”
“Believed to be?” Lansky asked, his eyes sliding toward his notebook. At Savino’s nod, he leaned over to grab it and started taking notes.
“The information they intercepted could only have come from the compound in Kunar,” he said quietly, referring to the base they’d infiltrated during Operation Hammerhead. “The scientist you rescued had been close to a breakthrough on the formula for a particularly lethal chemical weapon when he was grabbed. Because he is also a member of the Russian government, every piece of information, every byte of data he produced during his capture, he covertly tagged.”
He waited for both men to nod their understanding. Tagging the data didn’t make it traceable. But it did pinpoint and time-stamp its source.
“The chemical weapon formula was discovered in the hands of jihad militants.” He named the faction, a particularly violent extremist group who’d claimed responsibility for three European bombings the previous year, including an amusement park.
“One of the militants could have sold it,” Lansky pointed out, although he didn’t sound very confident.
“The electronic signature pins the data to a specific time frame.” He ignored the clutch in his gut and continued. “The CIA believes it’s unlikely to be one of them given that the militants themselves were under attack and their compound in flames at that time.”
He waited a beat, then arched his brow.
The two men looked at each other, and he could see the messages pass between them. In just a look, they replayed the mission, they explored the options, they reached the same conclusion.
When their gazes met his again, Lansky seemed as if he were going to explode. Torres simply stared.
“You think someone from our team stole the formula? That they betrayed the team, the country, by selling?” Lansky asked, his words two shades from livid. “You think one of us is dirty?”
“No. He’s telling us the damned CIA thinks that,” Torres corrected, speaking for the first time since Savino had entered. There was no surprise in his words, making it clear he’d been expecting something ugly. But the look in his eyes said he hadn’t thought it’d be quite this ugly.
“I think that we have to consider every possibility, no matter how impossible it seems,” Savino said slowly. “It could be that whoever did this targeted this specific information. They could have targeted this specific mission. Or there was no target and it was simply opportunistic.”
“Which is it?” Lansky asked.
Savino arched a brow at Torres. The other man rubbed his thumb over his forehead, took a long breath, then blew it out before meeting Savino’s blank gaze.
“He thinks it was mission specific. That’s why we’re rooming with roaches here in Hotel California. He had us lay low in case he needed us off base and off duty, so whoever is looking can’t tag us if he sends us on special assignment.”
And that was why he’d groomed Torres for higher things. The man was good. Excellent even. That this could take him down, ruin his career, was fucking unreal. Fury reared its head for just a second before Savino slammed the lid again. It didn’t matter. He prided himself on never letting his thoughts show. So his words were calm and his expression neutral.
“In light of various pieces of information that have been filtered my way, I think this mission was targeted for a reason. I just don’t know what it is. Yet. Neither does the CIA.”
“Are they looking at me specifically because I led the mission?” Torres asked quietly. Savino had served with the guy for ten years. He recognized the pain and fury beneath the words.
“The quickest way to put this to bed is to find out who is behind it,” Savino answered. “Who had the most to gain, and how would they pull it off.”
“Ramsey,” Lansky said, the words coming almost faster than Savino finished talking. “That dude thought he was so much better than everyone else on the team—he never tried to fit in. He was Cyber, so he knows computers and could have pulled that formula before the place blew. And he had a major hard-on to take Diego down in any way he could.”
Torres shook his head.
“You’re reaching, man. You just want the guy to be dirty.”
“And you refuse to see reality because you believe in a code of honor that says a SEAL can’t be dirty. Doesn’t mean other SEALs follow that same code.”
“The guy is dead. What’d he do, sell the formula from the great beyond?”
“The guy was slimy as hell. He probably staged that explosion and snuck out of there like the snake he is. Was. Is.”
“Can’t decide?” Torres asked with a smirk.
“Is,” Lansky shot back, his boyish features grim.
“And this is what we have to find out,” Savino interrupted. “Word came down this morning that a large sum of money was deposited in an account attached to Ramsey’s name.”
“That son of a bitch got paid?”
“I didn’t say that,” Savino corrected Lansky. “The account is attached to his name. His and his kid’s, with the mother as guardian. But she’s not a signatory on it, and there’s no record that she’s ever used it. It could be a smoke screen.”
“Whoever did the deed had the money put in Ramsey’s account in case eyes were cast, they’d be cast his way,” Diego summed up.
“Yes.”
Lansky rubbed his fingers over bloodshot eyes, then shook his head.
“So you’re saying it was someone besides Ramsey?” He sounded like a kid who’d just been told Santa had been arrested on Christmas Eve.
“No,” Torres said in a toneless voice before Savino could answer. “He’s saying that’s how the CIA is looking at it. They’re gunning for one of us.”
“The CIA and NI,” Savino confirmed, letting them know that Naval Intelligence was involved.
“You have a plan, right?” Lansky pressed his hands together. “Tell me you have a plan.”
“I have a plan.” He nodded toward the chairs. It was going to take a while and they might as well be comfortable.
“Brilliant,” Lansky said an hour later, his pen tapping a quick beat on his notebook. “Except for one thing.”
“You want the
woman,” Torres said from the floor, where he was doing push-ups.
“I want the woman.”
“Nope.” Now that he’d outlined the situation and given the orders, Savino was finally comfortable enough to step out of command mode. “You’re volatile, MacGyver.”
“Me?” Lansky pressed his hand to his chest and tried for offended. “Kitty Cat is the one with the temper. He’s the one with the rep. I’m the guy next door.”
“Your specialty is tech. We need you on the computer researching, digging. Prescott is our expert in information warfare, but he’s still in the hospital, recovering. Torres trained under him for two years, he’s got solid IW skills. He’s our best bet.”
Savino considered the stakes. A chemical formula in the hands of militants whose mission was mass terrorism spelled every kind of ugly in the book of possibilities. The threat to US security abroad was high. The threat to the SEAL team, and especially Poseidon, was even higher. If they didn’t reel this in and reel it fast, there was going to be blood on the floor. Too much blood to mop up.
So Savino added, “Besides, you’re biased.”
He didn’t add that Lansky was hitting the bottle a little too heavy these days.
“Ramsey was an asshole,” Lansky argued. “He had a grudge against Torres because our boy is the best. Add means and opportunity, and that’s realism. Not bias.”
“Right. You want him to be guilty.”
“So? Better him than one of us.”
“And that’s your bias.” Savino leaned back in his chair. “Torres here is coming from the opposite end. Not neutral, but opposite.”
“Come again?”
“You believe Ramsey’s dirty, so you’ll work to find facts to support that premise. Torres wants Ramsey to be clean. He’ll work to prove the man’s innocence so he can clear the team’s name. The truth lies somewhere in between, and by coming from opposite ends, the two of you will find it.”
“Yeah, but Kitty Cat gets to work his end with a great view chatting up a sexy broad in a fancy zip code. Me? You’re gonna stick me here, aren’t you. In bumfuck nowhere with orange drapes.” Lansky gave the motel room a sneering look. Ignoring them both, Torres switched from push-ups to sit-ups.
“Nobody knows you’re here, so this is as good as any until we have a direction,” Savino agreed with a nod. The bone-deep tension finally starting to loosen now that he knew things would be handled, he rested one booted foot on the opposite knee.
“Bottom line, Torres is the one whose head is gonna roll farthest if we don’t figure it out. He’s the one I want staking out the ex.”
“You think he’ll go to her?”
Savino glanced at Torres, who’d finally hit his wall and sat, arms draped over his knees, trying to catch a breath.
“Everything I’ve seen indicates that if Ramsey’s our guy, dead or alive, he’d involve her.”
“The way he talked, they were a pretty hot item,” Lansky agreed. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t bring the kid to the memorial. She knew Ramsey wasn’t dead and didn’t want the boy blowing their cover.”
“Or maybe she simply didn’t want to bring her kid to a bar to meet a bunch of strangers for the first time while they share stories of his old man going up in flames,” Torres muttered.
Exactly. Savino knew Torres’s history, knew where the guy had come from. Just another reason he wanted him leading this mission.
If Ramsey was dirty and his girlfriend complicit, the kid’s life was going to be blown all to hell. Torres had been there himself; he’d felt the betrayal of a selfish father who’d put corruption ahead of his family. Who’d put his personal vision of glory over his son.
Torres would take care not to point the finger and put another boy on the same painful path he’d walked.
Which was something Savino was counting on. Not so much to protect the kid, although he wasn’t indifferent. But because that care, that meticulous focus on detail, was what they needed if they were going to present a clean case to NI and clear Poseidon’s name.
Of course, if Ramsey was truly dead and they confirmed that he was whistle clean, SEAL Team 7 was up a creek. That would mean there was a traitor in their midst. That kind of thing was a black mark against the entire team. It could be a major blow to Torres, who’d led the mission. It could result in loss of rank, loss of command, dishonorable discharge and quite possibly imprisonment.
At odds with Savino’s usual cool, fury flamed hot and livid in his gut. NI already had it in for Poseidon, disliking their air of exclusivity and admiral’s auspices. This was all they’d need to disband and destroy the Special Ops group.
Savino wanted to lay that all out. To underscore the severity of this situation.
For each one of the team personally.
But that’d be indulgent.
Stating the obvious would show a lack of faith in his men. And it’d waste time.
“Your orders are to watch, engage if engaged, but don’t give any hint that you believe Ramsey might be alive.”
Mid-sit-up, Torres paused to give Savino a look that was clearly a pledge.
“Watch, engage only if engaged? I specialize in recon and counterterrorism. That sounds like babysitting.”
Distaste and discomfort were both evident in the man’s voice. Sitting and watching, not acting, it was the antithesis of what they were trained for. And a man like Torres, who, as he said, specialized in action, probably thought an assignment like this was next to impossible. But that’s what they were trained to do. The impossible.
“Observe, blend, engage if engaged. Play nice and, if possible, earn their trust. Consider yourself undercover as a nice guy.” Savino almost grinned at Lansky’s snorted amusement. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Nailing this guy will put an end to this investigation. Otherwise...”
The end of Poseidon.
“We’re clean. We fight the good fight. We fight the clean fight. Until we have to fight dirty.” Elbows on his knees now, Torres shrugged. “Poseidon is clean. Nothing they find can prove it any other way. But we’ll do their job for them and prove it our way. Prove we’re crystal.”
Exactly what he’d wanted to hear.
And that was why Torres was the best man for the job.
CHAPTER FOUR
DIEGO HAD BEEN to a lot of places. Stinking slums and baking beaches, crowded cities and ice-crusted mountains. He’d served with people from all walks of life and had gone through most of the states in the union. But he couldn’t recall ever actually bunking down anywhere he fit in less than the exclusive Riviera Enclave in Santa Barbara.
Throttling his Harley back from a roar to a grumbling purr, he prepared to stop as he neared the guardhouse. But for the first time in the three days he’d been here, the orange-and-white-striped gate rose at his approach.
Well, well. How about that, he mused as he rolled right on through. Maybe it was a sign.
His first day he’d had to register both himself and his bike. When he’d come through a couple of hours later with his gear, the same guard had made him show his ID all over again. Same the next day, and the one after that.
A hint of satisfaction worked its way through the fury-filled frustration that had fueled his every waking moment for the last four days.
He’d be happier if it stemmed from, oh, say, hearing that Jared had made a breakthrough in hacking Ramsey’s email accounts. Or better yet, seeing Ramsey himself stroll up the sidewalk, as alive as can be. He’d even settle for the extraction team finding DNA in the dust they’d scooped up from the mission site and proving that Ramsey was well and truly dead.
But Diego had served on enough missions to know that success was built one small triumph at a time. And that he needed to take what he could get.
He kept his speed under twenty. There we
ren’t any of those signs posted warning that children were playing, probably because they weren’t allowed to. It was that kind of neighborhood. Rich, upscale and exclusive, the lawns were all perfectly maintained, the birds chirped in sync and the few people he’d actually seen looked like something off a movie set. Pretty and Perfect, he decided the film would be titled as he slowed his bike to a crawl.
He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes locked on his target as he pulled into the driveway next door. Sun-pinked adobe and gleaming rod iron were accented by arched windows, a covered front patio and fat clay pots overflowing with jewel-toned flowers. The green sweep of lawn was intersected by a curving walkway decorated with pebbles the same color as the house. Next to the sidewalk and at odds with the picture-perfect landscape a little blue wagon tilted drunkenly to the side, its front wheel missing.
So far Diego’s recon hadn’t done more than confirm the information they had. Ramsey’s ex lived in the house with their son. She worked from home, led a supposedly quiet life and drove an aged Camry.
He needed more.
And he wasn’t going to get it watching from the outside. He just hadn’t found his way in.
Not yet.
His orders were specific.
Watch and wait; engage only if engaged.
Damned if following orders wasn’t a pain in the ass sometimes.
But then, as if someone had decided to cut him a break, a movement swept up the sidewalk in the form of a kid pushing his bicycle.
Diego let himself smile. Why not? He might have just found his angle.
He’d been watching the house and occupants for three days, so he knew at a glance that the slight figure with tousled blond hair and scuffed orange high-tops belonged to Ramsey’s kid, Nathan. This could be it. His entry to Ramsey’s woman.
Taking it slow, Diego parked his bike and removed his helmet before swinging his leg over the seat. All the while, he kept his eyes on the kid and tried to figure his opening. By the time he removed the keys, he knew the drizzle of sweat skating down his spine had nothing to do with wearing a leather jacket in hotter than usual May sunshine.
