No brothers to bail him out this time. No twin sister to talk him down. No second chances.
Nico, with that steady cop stare, had set him on this path. His chance? Cormac grinned harder. Yeah, well, I’m takin’ it.
A gate guard stepped forward, clipboard tucked under his arm. “You reporting for BUD/S, candidate?”
“Yes, sir.” Cormac handed over his orders, grin widening. “Hell of a day for a little drownin’, aye?”
The guard didn’t so much as blink. He checked the paperwork, then pointed deeper into the base. “Gate two, straight ahead. You’ll get your gear and helmet number there.”
“Cheers,” Cormac said, the word rolling off his tongue, a blend of Boston grit and Irish lilt.
He drove on. The base spread wide and disciplined, the Pacific winking at him through chain-link and barbed wire. A bell gleamed at the edge of a wide expanse of asphalt, the Grinder. Beyond it, the surf crashed in relentless rhythm, a soundtrack to the hell he’d volunteered for.
Cormac parked where he was told, climbed out, and joined the line of men waiting to be processed. Helmets sat in neat rows, each stenciled with a number. No name tapes. No individuality.
A senior chief’s voice split the air. “Pick up your helmets. Get used to that number. Until you earn your Trident, that’s all you are.”
Cormac picked up the one marked 23, the paint still tacky under his fingers.
He looked at the bell again, sunlight flashing off its polished surface. Three rings and you were done.
He smirked. “Not a chance.”
He wasn’t here to quit. He’d take whatever they threw at him, salt, sand, hell itself, and still be standing at the end. Walking away would mean Nico had been right all along.
Cormac Kavanaugh wasn’t giving his brother that satisfaction.
Ahead of him in line, a familiar voice called, “You following me like a lost puppy, Boston?”
Cormac’s grin kicked up. “You found your way home, pretty boy. Impressive for a mouthy smart-ass? Guess miracles happen.”
Petty Officer Indigo Fisher turned, standing a few rows ahead, lean and sun-browned, helmet tucked under one arm, grin pure trouble. The kind that could power a city and piss off every SEAL instructor on that beach. “If they pair us again, we’re both screwed.”
“You love me.”
“Like I love sand in my ass.”
They shared a grin, the kind forged in too many push-ups and late-night laps at Great Lakes. Two loudmouths who’d learned to keep each other from drowning, and maybe from quitting.
A whistle shrilled down the line, snapping the airtight. The instructors were moving in, eyes sharp, voices already cutting through the chatter. Fisher’s grin didn’t fade, and Cormac’s didn’t either.
“Here we go,” Fisher murmured.
“Hell of a day for it,” Cormac replied and slid the helmet onto his head.
Monday dawned with the weight of salt in the air. Coronado shimmered on the horizon; sand and water were his tools today. Bear drove through the gate before the sun had cleared the waterline, silence thick in the cab. His team had spun up without him, and even silence couldn’t settle him.
He wasn’t thinking about Bailee. He told himself that twice, then a third time as the base swallowed him.
Ahead waited the Grinder, blacktop, and the bell.
Days later, his morning began with wind. It came low off the Pacific, carrying the salt of yesterday’s storms and the metallic scent of dawn. The Grinder torture and PT were behind them, the sand now alive with the roar of boots, shouts, and the hollow thud of logs hitting sand. The ocean crashed beyond the berms, relentless and cold, every wave a test, every breath a demand.
Bear walked across the sand in silence. Flint wasn’t with him as the base didn’t allow dogs here unless it was demo day. He missed the rhythm of that weight at his side, the steady counterbalance of breath. Instead, there was only the sea, and the men already sweating under its gaze.
“Class Three Forty-Seven!” Senior Chief Petty Officer Travis “Brick” Hanlon barked, voice cutting through the morning haze. He was the boss of the bosses, the Leading Petty Officer or LPO, and he called the shots. He and Bear had already clashed more than once.
Brick ran his division like a controlled detonation, loud, volatile, and timed to precision. He believed a man only found his strength through impact. His voice was a hammer, his presence a constant test of nerve. Recruits snapped straighter when they heard him coming, prayed their gear passed inspection, and learned fast that mercy wasn’t part of his vocabulary.
