The SEAL marksman handled the knives with deadly accuracy. He spun one around in his hand and weighed it carefully, testing its rate of spin both at a half spin and a whole spin, just as Aberlour would have done.
The thing was, throwing knives wasn’t the same as shooting a gun. Bullets went in a straight line. The bullet always exited the chamber the same way, and though it was important to get used to firing a gun, knives were a whole other ball game. No two knives were the same. Some were heavy in the hilt; some were heavy in the blade. Some spun like tops, while others barely got one or two rotations in before sinking into the target. The key wasn’t in the aim. It was judging the amount of force necessary to have it stick in the target.
Obviously, Dajar was no stranger to knives.
He took a short step back, shifted his weight from his back to his front foot, then sent the blade flying. It spun two times before finding purchase in the target, landing half a centimeter from the bullseye. It was a textbook throw.
There was a low chuckle from the SEAL team. They were happily anticipating a victory as Dajar prepared his second throw.
This one landed perfectly in the middle of the bullseye, as did the third.
With only one throw remaining, the SEAL team looked very confident. They grew rowdy, shoving each other with brutal, almost animalistic excitement. Aberlour’s crew watched patiently while Oliver was vibrating with anticipation behind him.
Dajar threw his last knife, and it sunk deep, the sound familiar and satisfying, another hit to the center of the bullseye.
The SEAL boys hollered with victorious glee. A few crowded Dajar, who cracked a shy smile for the first time. Unlike his captain, his expression was humble and deferential as he faced Aberlour.
“Impressive,” Aberlour admitted. His manhood was not so fragile that he couldn’t acknowledge a brilliant performance.
Dajar gave a sharp nod of thanks before letting himself be pulled away by the other men who were still hollering with excitement.
“Please kick their asses,” Oliver whispered next to him, his expression furious.
Aberlour rolled his eyes and shot his best friend a smile.
“You ever see me miss?” he asked.
“No,” Oliver replied, though he was looking at the SEAL captain with murderous intent rather than at Aberlour.
“Then leave it to me.”
Aberlour played with the knives, flipping them back and forth as he stepped up to the line. A few of the SEALs shouted thinly veiled insults at him but Aberlour merely rolled his eyes. He caught Marcus’ glance before he threw his first knife. Marcus was leaning back against the wall, smiling smugly, completely unconcerned. Just as Aberlour was.
With a smirk, Aberlour let the first knife fly with little fanfare.
As expected, it sank firmly in the bullseye.
The SEAL boys quieted suddenly.
They remained silent as Aberlour threw his next knife and watched it spin perfectly, sinking into the target right next to the first one.
“I’m running out of space,” Abe told Ghost, gesturing to the target. Wordlessly, Ghost cast a smug look at the SEAL team before pulling the knives out of the target and then stepping to the side. Aberlour readied himself once again, but as he went to throw his third knife, he paused for a moment.
It wasn’t going to be enough. Even if he sunk every knife in the bullseye—and he would—it wouldn’t be enough to impress the SEAL team and get them off his back. He needed to do more than this. So, Aberlour took four steps back, and held up both remaining knives. He felt their weights in his hands,quickly gauging their balance, and then, turning to face Captain O’Reilly, he threw them one right after the other.
Two solid thumps. Perfectly timed, and perfectly aimed. As they always were. His team’s reaction was perfect. As it always was. The members of Team Specter did not yell or rejoice. They didn’t need to. Their superiority was implied, so it was entirely unnecessary to celebrate. They merely closed ranks behind Aberlour silently.
“Thirty minutes,” Aberlour told O’Reilly. “Then we’ll let you frogmen get some practice time.”
Much neededwent unsaid, but not unheard.
Captain O’Reilly scowled for a second, then his expression shifted to something far more familiar and comforting. Respect and—God—was that humour? He’d seen it before—as he’d left the briefing room, but Abe hadn’t been certain then. He was now. There was almost an edge of pride there too, as if heenjoyedgetting bested. Or maybe like he’d set a trap for Aberlour and had just watched him fall right into it.
“Impressive,” O’Reilly admitted, with a nod. “You’d have made a great marksman.” He tilted his head and looked puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure why Abehadn’tbecome one.
“He’s an even greater team leader,” Oliver snapped as he stepped up next to Abe.
Aberlour wasn’t sure why there was such an angry edge to Oli’s words—nor why he’d felt the need to defend him, but he set those thoughts aside for now.
