Aberlour would have liked to reassure himself with the reminder that they wouldn’t be on the ship for very long. They had departed from the US Navy’s Cooperative Security Location in El Salvador and would only be on the Navy ship for two days before the scheduled launch of Team Specter on a rigid-hull boat to go in search of the missing cargo ship. Yet, he knew that two days was plenty of time to get into serious trouble. Especially when two Special Forces teams were living in close quarters on a naval vessel.
In the end, they didn’t even make it 12 hours.
See, men loved a good pissing contest, regardless of age or circumstance. Men with huge cocks, even more so.
“Move along!” The command came from right behind him. Aberlour was tempted to obey that authoritative voice. He didn’t, of course.
Turning casually, the throwing knives still in his hands, Aberlour came face-to-face with O’Reilly, his team in tow. So, the lions had come to hunt. Let the games begin, Aberlour thought, swallowing his sigh of annoyance.
Naval vessels were not equipped with shooting ranges, despite their size and the need for personnel to maintain their marksmanship skills. But what every ship did have was a makeshift one. Some out-of-the-way corner of a ship where a desperate sailor would set up a wooden board and draw a target on it. Guns were not allowed, of course, but throwing knives and darts were. It wouldn’t help much in perfecting one’s aim in a gun battle, but it worked to let off steam.
This particular makeshift shooting range was in a larger space than most and had three targets. Aberlour’s team was currently occupying the space and had started target practice just a few minutes before O’Reilly had come storming in like he owned the fucking place.
“We’ll be done in about 30 minutes,” Aberlour replied in a mildly bored voice. He threw one of the knives up in the air and caught it smoothly without looking at it. His gaze remained trained on the SEAL captain as he repeated the motion, which served to prove the first time was no accident.
“We need the room.” O’Reilly’s gaze swept over Aberlour’s team condescendingly, and he grimaced with disgust as if Team Specter had the plague. “Move.”
Aberlour glanced at Oliver, pleased to see him standing behind him to his right, shoulders back and chin raised defiantly.
“And like I said, we’ll be done in about 30 minutes,” Aberlour repeated, enunciating slowly and carefully as ifinsinuating O’Reilly was mentally impaired. He wasn’t. No SEAL was, but it was fun to taunt him like this.
“And like I said, move!” O’Reilly nostrils flared with anger as he walked right up to Aberlour to stand toe-to-toe with him.
Aberlour wasn’t an idiot. In O’Reilly’s eyes, he was nothing but a pimply-faced newbie. He knew that. He also knew that he couldn’t fight the SEAL captain without getting his ass handed to him. Force Recon training was extensive and difficult, but they weren’t killing machines. They were reconnaissance men. Stealthy, invisible, ghost-like. If he engaged in a physical fight with O’Reilly, he’d lose all credibility. Aberlour knew that too, and so did everyone else.
The SEAL team’s second-in-command—the same man who’d argued earlier with Oliver—was smirking again, appearing to enjoy their heated face-off. Aberlour hated him almost as much as he did O’Reilly.
“How about a contest?” Aberlour suggested with a deceptively innocent smile.
Captain O’Reilly snorted, looking him up and down with open skepticism.
“You win, my men and I move. You lose, you come back in 30 minutes.” Aberlour decided he’d best jump in first to set his own terms.
The terms seemed simple enough and perfectly harmless, ensuring that whether they won or lost, the SEAL team would not lose face. If Aberlour won, the SEALs would have to acknowledge that he wasn’t just a wet-behind-the-ears, insignificant recruit.
“What kind of contest?” the second-in-command asked, squinting suspiciously at Aberlour.
“Four knives each. Best score wins. From the 15-foot line.” Aberlour held up the four knives he’d been about to throw.
O’Reilly’s gaze shifted from Aberlour’s to the knives, as if trying to sniff out any possible tricks.
“If you’re that eager to humiliate yourself,” O’Reilly replied with a quick shrug.
Oliver snorted and rolled his eyes.
O’Reilly’s second-in-command growled.
He’d thrown down the gauntlet, feeling completely confident as he offered his knives to O’Reilly.
“Elders first!” he declared with a sunny smile, because he knew half of this cock fight was about Aberlour’s age. The SEAL was only about five or six years older than him, but he couldn’t resist taking a dig at him.
O’Reilly’s laugh told Aberlour he’d been right.
After giving O’Reilly the knives, Aberlour was surprised to see him turn around and hand them to a slender, Middle Eastern man standing behind him. His name tag read Dajar.
“Gunner is our best marksman with 150 confirmed kills,” Captain O’Reilly explained, sounding perfectly relaxed as he watched Dajar walk up to the shooting line.
Had Abe encountered this man on the street, he would not have noticed him. Maybe 5’9” at most, average build, unremarkable features with thick, dark brows and dark brown eyes. Dajar had not made any eye contact with Abe in the meeting, as he focused entirely on their commanding officer. Discreet, deadly, precise—as a marksman should be. No, Aberlour wasn’t nervous. He didn’t doubt his own aim, but watching Petty Officer Dajar—or Gunner—walk up to the line and test out the knives like a pro made it obvious that Dajar didn’t doubt his own skills either.
