Chapter Two
Back in my SEAL days—before internet streaming and satellite television were readily available—my unit watchedThe Bacheloras a matter of routine. We called it a hazing ritual for the new guys, but it was entertaining in a check-out-that-hot-mess kind of way. Exhausting days of training and rehearsal lived between the missions, and rose ceremonies dominated our dog-tired nights. Being SEALs, we couldn't simply enjoy the commercialization of modern mating rituals, and it was too easy to add some challenge to our viewing.
Shots every time a woman claimed another wasn't "here for the right reasons." Every time a hot tub was illogically integrated into the date. Every time the bachelor was filmed staring off into the distance, ruminating on his women while casually shirtless.
I'd been in Montauk for three hours, and this long weekend already had the makings of an epic drinking game.
In this tonight's iteration of the game, I was drinking every time my business partner pawed at his wife or not-so-quietly whispered something suggestive in her ear. Or every time he tickled his baby daughter's belly and sent her into fits of giggles. Or every time he pressed me on the meetings I took in Riyadh, the details on those out-of-the-blue resignations, or anything related to Venezuela.
Drink, drink, drink.
My glass was halfway to my mouth—scotch with a chunk of ice because room temperature liquid reminded me of deployment, and not in the nostalgic way—when Will cleared his throat.
"About that meeting," he said, his daughter Abby snuggled on his chest. "Do you plan on filling me in, or should I wait for the official memo?"
I ran my hand over the back of my neck. "They weren't sold," I said. "Ultimately, they want us to jump through hoops for the contract. Make us sweat for it."
"Well," he started, his hands lifting and falling, "fuck that."
"I would, but—"
"No," he said. "Fuck that. We have more than enough work. We don't need to bend over backward for a shitty oil field gig that may or may not turn into a long-term asset protection detail. Our teams are too talented for that kind of horseshit. Fuck. That."
"Shitty," I repeated, "but spendy."
"We don't need the money," Will said. "We can expand our training facility in Maryland without it, Kaisall. You know that. You fuckin' know it."
That was where Will Halsted and I differed. We'd come up in the SEAL Teams together, deployed together, and now owned this company together, but our backgrounds couldn't have been more different. He was from sunny Southern California, and had a career military father, sweet-and-spunky mom, and two younger siblings. He was married to the love of his life.
I had none of that.
I grew up in northwestern Mississippi, painfully poor and lonely. Me and Mom, we moved around a lot. I could remember at least seven different apartments, and that didn't include the times we'd stayed in a spare bedroom or garage. Mom did the best she could, but I drank milk by the gallon, ate two pounds of turkey breast for lunch, and outgrew of shoes every three months until leveling off in high school. I hadn't made things easy on her.
I never knew my father. For many years, I'd peppered my mother with questions about him, as well as the occasional suggestion that I'd been adopted. In my mind, it'd been the only explanation that made sense, considering she was fair and blonde, and a tiny little thing, and I was five feet tall before starting the second grade. My hair was jet black, my eyes nearly as dark, and I'd been the first freshman in my high school's football history to take the field as a starting tight end. That I was even related to my mother had seemed unlikely.
I'd pestered her about my father without mercy, and the details leaked out over time. He'd played high school football. He was several years older than her, and their parents hadn't approved. He was Choctaw Indian, and I was the spitting image of him.
When I was an irritable teenager determined to resist all authority, I'd sworn to my mother that I would find my father and live with him instead of putting up with her outrageous rules. That was when she explained that he'd fought in the first Gulf War, and never returned. She'd only learned of his death when she caught sight of his picture on the front page of the local paper, and read about his military burial at Arlington National Cemetery.
I hadn't grown up with any expectation of security or stability. I didn't rest. I didn't know how, and I didn't believe I could or should.
Sure, Mom had a nice little place on the Gulf Coast now and she didn't work three jobs just to keep a roof over our heads or clothes on my back, but I didn't know to slow down. I'd hustled too long, and fuck if I knew what tomorrow would bring.
"I'll do the jumping," I said. It still stung that we were being asked to audition for basic work when we were one of the most skilled shops in the business. We were rarely asked for extended proposals. We didn't have to, not when our reputation preceded us. "I can handle the hoops. You stay in your command center, and go on playingCall of Dutyall day."
Instead of working from our main offices in the Beltway, Will lived outside Boston. The arrangement suited us, somewhat to my surprise. I didn't know how to manage all the moving pieces without being in the thick of it and I didn't think I'd want to try, but Will required none of that. He pulled the strings on dozens of concurrent protection details, military support operations, and covert missions, and did it all from a tricked-out home office.
He stared at me for a long beat before rolling his eyes. "You're a fucking asshole, Kaisall."
It was true. The asshole part, not theCoDpart. He was the best operator I'd ever met, and that I'd convinced him to join this venture with me was still a wonder.
"Don't you have better things to do?" he asked. "Rustle up other business.Betterbusiness. I can think of a handful of international NGOs and embassies that need bug-out plans, and covert-op-trained guys to pull them off the next time shit turns sour."
"And now you're telling me how to pitch? You want to move to D.C. too? Maybe sit in on some Senate Armed Services Committee hearings, or take meetings at the Farm? Oh, yeah, the CIA would be thrilled to have you on site," I said with a scoff. Will couldn't go anywhere in the military and intelligence communities without telling someone how to do their job. "Thanks. I got it."
Will patted Abby's back for a few moments, his brows pinched in thought. "Where's Jocelyn this weekend?"
I rocked back in my patio chair, groaning at the evening sky. "Marriage has turned you into a chick," I said. "Have weevertalked about women before?"
