“That’s all?” he scoffed, a low, disbelieving rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers. The sound a gentle chiding, as if her simple statement was the most inadequate summary of an event he’d ever witnessed. He tilted his head just slightly, his steel-blue eyes crinkling at the corners with a wry, burgeoning amusement. “I’m late, too. But I’d say you look like you’re worth waiting for.”
The words were a smooth, effortless volley, delivered with a lazy confidence that was more disarming than a direct compliment. It was an observation, stated as a simple fact of the universe. The way his gaze held hers, the slight curve of his lips, the warmth in his voice all combined to create a moment of such potent, masculine charm that Ayla felt her carefully constructed composure threaten to crumble. He was telling her that her frantic, chaotic entrance was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all day.
“Geezus, Bash, let the girl breathe,” Reck’d said passing them. “She’s our new logistics analyst. So, hands off.”
Her new master chief was hard to miss.
He was a man carved from Montana granite and tempered by command, standing there with the quiet, unshakable presence of a mountain. His dirty-blond hair, slightly tousled as if he’d just come in from the field, framed a face that was all sharp angles and weathered strength. His eyes, cornflower blue, clear and piercing, held hers with an intensity that was utterly assessing, a leader’s gaze that saw through pretense. His jaw was set, the line of it firm, and his mouth, when it moved, was a study in controlled expression. He didn’t smile, not yet, but there was a hint of something in his eyes, a dry, almost imperceptible amusement, as he took in the scene. He looked like an anchor, the steadiness in the chaos, and for a moment, Ayla Locklear, late and flustered, felt the weight of his quiet authority settle over her like a shield.
“Now both of you move.”
Bash. What kind of name was that?
He raised his brows. “He’s kinda bossy, yeah.” He let her go, but slowly, releasing her body from his arms, hands, and hard places she absolutely wasn’t going to comment on. She moved toward the ready room, her heart beating hard. Once inside, more men filed in, some of them threw her curious glances, others assessing ones.
Tier 1 operators, and they lived up to their profession. Her new team.
Reck’d went to the front. “This is Petty Officer Ayla Locklear. She comes to us fresh from a successful mission in Canada, where she and Ice’s team kicked some serious cartel ass. She was invaluable.”
“We like ass-kickers, but can she pull our asses out of the fire when they’re on the line?” The man nodded to her before introducing himself. “Vice, sniper.” He looked like a blade, all lethal lines and cold blue focus beneath silky shoulder-length black hair.
“I’m real attached to posterior,” the broad-shouldered redhead with wicked green eyes said. “Hitch, heavy weapons.”
“Can she handle ISR?” the tall Asian American asked, voice soft but firm. “Kamikaze. K-9 Handler. This is Ghost.”
Ayla’s gaze went to the cream and sable Malinois. “ISR isn’t a problem. I know how to get it up. Do you all?” she responded.
There were a few chuckles, some smirks.
“Ooh, spunky. I like her.”
“You would, Hook,” Hitch said. “Breachers…”
“I like her, too,” a man said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Just as long as you keep my NODS working.” He smiled. “Panda, comms.”
“Performance data will tell us,” the younger operator said calmly. “Halo, medic.” This guy didn’t look old enough to be a SEAL.
“Yeah, it’s sink or die,” Vice said.
“I think sinking is the last thing on her mind,” Bash said. His dark eyes made her shiver.
“What is your role?” she asked.
He smiled. “Scope all the way, love.”
Oh, God, he was a sniper, just like Breakneck. No way in hell, not even if hell froze over would she get involved with another Tier 1 operator, certainly no one like Breakneck.
“Looks like handling cartels well isn’t her only strength, so if you’re all done razzing her, can I get to the op?”
That was her first morning at her new station? What would an actual op look like with these guys? She couldn’t wait to find out. Excitement and caution tangled in her chest. As for Bash? He could kiss his perfect zero goodbye. She’d survived one sniper. She’d survive another.
Breakwater Tavern, Carlsbad Village, Carlsbad, California
They stepped out of Breakwater Tavern into the warm coastal night, the music fading behind them as the door swung shut.
Fly was still wrestling with what had happened at Blacks, wondering if he had dreamed the whole thing, but the buzz in his skull told him he hadn’t. What he had experienced was real, and without an anchor, without information he was floating untethered in a world that was suddenly not making sense.
The street was alive with the usual late night Carlsbad energy, neon signs flickering above surf shops and taco stands, laughter spilling from open patios. Somewhere down the block someone revved a motorcycle. The ocean was only a few streets away, its steady breath threading through the warm coastal air.
