“Master Chief,” Breakneck said, voice steadier now. “I’m squared away. I’d tell you if I wasn’t. Give me the shot.”
Boomer spoke up from across the room. “The kid never lies, boss.”
Ayla glanced up. Blair’s posture drew tight, the air around her shifting with tension.
Ice studied Breakneck for a long moment, then nodded. “Teams are as follows. Preacher will take overwatch on Tremblay. GQ, Hazard, and Constable Tyler will support him. Marques’s team will be Sergeant Brown, Constable Holmstein, DEA Agents Carver and Jones, and the rest of my unit. Kodiak, Skull, Bones, Boomer, and Break.”
Jackie’s grim voice broke the silence. “Tremblay’s not answering his phone.”
“Preach, go.” He, GQ, Hazard, and Tyler rose and filed out.
Breakneck didn’t react outwardly, but Ayla felt the change in the room. Something cold and lethal settled over him.
For the first time since she’d stepped into the TOC, she wasn’t thinking about the feeds or the threat matrix or the mission. Her mind had snagged on a man who carried guilt like a weapon and loyalty like a creed. A man who walked into danger because he believed he owed it. A man whose pain lived under his skin like a bruise waiting for the slightest touch.
Damn if she didn’t want a closer look at him, closer than was wise for a mission like this and far closer than she had any right to want.
14
United States Naval Academy Dock, Annapolis, Maryland.
Race day dawned sunny and moderate, but he never let the Chesapeake Bay lull him into complacency. She was always an unpredictable bitch.
Fly stepped onto the dock with the rest of the crew, Valor nudging against her lines like she was eager to be let loose. The water near the marina lay flat and bright, sunlight sliding clean across it.
Valor sat low and lean in the water, narrow through the beam, her white hull scuffed where training boats always were. No shine left to impress anyone. Just use. She was a Navy Twenty-Six, twenty-six feet of hull built to move fast and answer immediately, not to coddle mistakes. Her deck was open and spare, lines ran clean and purposeful, hardware placed where hands could find it without looking. The mast rose straight, sails flaked and ready, stiff enough to bite when the wind came up. Light because she was light. Responsive. Unforgiving. In clean wind she was eager, alive under the helm, but in chop she could broach or swamp if you got careless, and Fly never forgot that the wrong angle could wash a person over as easily as a loose line. He trusted Valor because she told the truth. Every shift came straight through the tiller. If something went wrong, it would be because the water demanded it, not because the boat lied.
Mei was already aboard, kneeling near the mast with a coil of line in her lap, fingers quick and precise as she worked the knot loose. She looked up when Fly dropped his bag into the cockpit.
“You’re late,” she said, mild but pleased.
“I was here before you finished that loop,” Fly said. “That counts.” He had been here for an hour, doing his skipper diligence. From a bench further down the dock, he’d watched everyone arrive. Josiah Benitez was still on the dock, passing up gear and double-checking everything like it might vanish if he didn’t keep a hand on it. Second year. Solid sailor. Too respectful sometimes. Joss had good instincts, but he checked them against the rulebook before he trusted them. Fly didn’t mind that. It made him careful, and careful had its place.
On the bow, Bridget Mulvaney crouched low, fingers wrapped around the rail, eyes fixed on the water ahead like she was memorizing it. First year. Sharp as a tack. No fear in her at all, which Fly had already learned to watch for. Bridge saw things early. She just didn’t always know yet which ones mattered.
Five crew. Good balance. No weak links.
She smiled and went back to the line. Than stepped down behind him, steady as always, moving like the deck belonged to him. Fly barely had to look to know where he was. Than had a way of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
“Try not to break anything today,” Fly said to him.
Than’s mouth curved. “No promises.”
Mei snorted, then glanced at Than with a look that was open and affectionate. Than met it with a steady, grounded presence between them.
Whatever they’d found, it had weight, and they weren’t afraid to let people see it. He respected that. More than that, he trusted it. His chest tightened for his friends, and a little envy slipped in. What they had was real, and that was so rare to find.
Fly ran through the boat without thinking, fingers checking tension, eyes tracking lines, weight shifts. Valor felt good. Balanced. Responsive. He trusted her.
“Harvard’s already rigged,” Fly said. “They’re nervous.”
“They should be,” Mei said, with confidence. “I mean. Statistically.”
Than grinned at her. “Trash talk from Harada. That’s new.”
She pushed his shoulder with the back of her hand, gentle. “I can do trash talk. I choose not to.”
Fly glanced between them, smirked. “Save it for after. Let’s not scare the freshmen.”
