Chapter One
The mat was slick withsweat.Not blood, not today—but Dale Ricoh wouldn’t rule that out if these rookies didn’t start paying attention.
He stepped back from the pair currently sparring and crossed his arms, barking, “You’re going to get yourselves killed if you keep leading with your damn chins.You think anyone out there’s going to pull their punches because you’re slow on the uptake?”
The younger of the two—Morales, twenty-two and cocky—scowled, rubbing at his jaw where Dale had demonstrated a textbook redirect with a little more force than strictly necessary.
“Jesus, Ricoh,” came Bateman’s dry voice from the sidelines.“You trying to knock his teeth into next week?This is training, not Fight Club.”
Ricky, arms folded, and one eyebrow lifted, added, “I told you to go easy.Half of these guys are med techs and comms officers, not SEAL dropouts.”
Dale cracked a grin, wolfish and unapologetic.“They want to pass this section of the course?They better learn to hit hard and fall better.I’m not holding their hands when the bullets start flying.”
The trainees staggered off the mat as Dale waved the next two forward.The combat class was part of the Ridge’s advanced curriculum—optional, but not if you were in the field rotation.Dale taught it like his life depended on it.Because once, it had.
“All right, Reiss and Keller—your turn.Same setup.Don’t embarrass yourselves.”
He circled them as they squared off.Keller’s stance was too wide, Reiss looked like he was already planning to lose.Dale clapped his hands once.“Go.”
The two lunged.Keller moved first, overcommitted, and Reiss got inside his guard fast—but Dale saw it coming three beats before it happened.He stepped in, caught Keller’s shoulder before he could stumble, and redirected him.
“You’re too eager.Wait for your opening,” he snapped.He turned to Reiss.“And you—you don’t wait long enough.If you’re going to rush a guy, you finish it.”
Bateman gave a mock sigh behind him.“See?This is why no one wants to spar with you.”
Dale threw a smirk over his shoulder.“That’s because none of you like losing.”
Bateman snorted.“I don’t lose.”He stripped off his shirt, muscles bunching and flexing under skin slick with sweat.“What do you say, Ricoh?Think you’re ready to test that theory?”
Dale arched a brow, his grin turning downright wicked.“Been waiting for you to grow a pair, Bateman.”
The class whooped and stepped back, clearing the center mat.
They circled each other, low and loose.Bateman moved like a brawler, confident, grounded.Dale kept light on his feet, probing, looking for an opening.Their first clash was sharp—Dale’s jab met by Bateman’s deflection, their momentum snapping them apart before either could capitalize.He called out what was happening for the sake of those on the course.
“You always this talkative when you’re about to get your ass handed to you?”Bateman muttered.
“Only when it’s by someone who’s overdue a lesson in humility,” Dale shot back.
They traded blows—kicks, quick punches, elbows that glanced but didn’t land clean.Dale got under Bateman’s guard with a sweeping low kick, but Bateman rolled through it, caught Dale’s arm, and turned the momentum into a takedown.
Dale grunted, twisting out of the pin, scrambling back to his feet.
“Not bad,” Bateman said, circling.
“I work out.”
