The credits were rolling, indicating that the next episode would start in a minute, while Oliver stared at his profile searchingly like a puppy who’d lost his ball under the sofa.
Chapter 2
August 2012
Peace and quiet lasted for only a month. They were supposed to have a six-month break, reporting back to duty after Christmas, but somehow, they’d gotten roped into a one-off operation. There had been very little time for arguing. Aberlour had gotten the call in the middle of the night. He was to report to base immediately. From there, his team would be deployed for a short mission. That was all he’d been told on the phone. Aberlour should have mounted a protest against their going on this mission, but he’d been too sleepy to pull the words together. Besides, it wouldn’t have mattered. At the end of the day, they were weapons to be deployed at the whims of the federal government. That’s who he’d signed his life away to when he was 18. Perhaps it was time to face that simple fact. He’d once heard a tale of men trapped dancing to the devil’s violin until their feet were bloodied stumps—as he laced on his boots that cold morning, it appeared to be a fitting metaphor.
None of the other boys had been too thrilled either. Two months wasn’t enough time to get their feet under them. They were still reeling from their first deployment, it felt—cruel to send them back so soon. Yet, no one had said a word as they’d stepped aboard the cargo plane and taken their seats.
From the cargo plane, they’d been shuffled to a Navy ship. There again, all they’d gotten was as a series of barked orders to follow. And follow they had.
The first real answers to their questions emerged several hours later, as they’d sat in a briefing room with SEAL Team 2 and Major General Dockland.
Special Forces branches of the US military, like the Navy SEALs and the Marine Corps’ Force Recon, were often confused and chucked together under a large umbrella of bad-assery. And while both branches were certainly bad ass in their own right, their roles were distinctly different. Joint operations were rare, at least in Aberlour’s experience. The fact that his own team had been selected, knowing how new and untested the group was, was concerning to Aberlour as they sat in the briefing room.
The mission itself was simple enough. Well—as simple as raiding a cargo ship in the middle of the Pacific at night could be, anyway. Force Recon Marines were reconnaissance experts. They were dropped behind enemy lines and expected to survive. There were no communications with the outside world. No extraction teams operating out of a safe zone, and no outside help. They were the “figure it out” branch of the military, and they took pride in their ability to navigate shit storms. Navy SEALs, on the other hand, were extreme tacticians. They came in like a hurricane, swept everything out of their way, and left no one behind to attest to what they’d done. Their every move was tracked by cameras, and extractions were quick and efficient. These two teams were two sides of the same military coin basically, and oddly enough, both were needed for this particular operation.
The cargo ship they were raiding had fallen off the radar. The ship had been overtaken by what appeared to be pirates a few nights ago, and the Coast Guard had lost contact with the ship and crew almost immediately. They’d traced its approximate location through satellite imagery but couldn’t pin it down exactly. The real problem was that the US military was carrying important weapons and data on the cargo ship, so its loss was an unacceptable risk. They’d lost communications with the ship shortly after it sailed into the North Pacific. Team Specter’s mission was to locate the missing ship, board it,and re-establish communications with the Navy. Once that was accomplished, SEAL Team 2 would be deployed to raid the ship and return control to its legitimate captain and crew.
Aberlour sat silently, memorizing the information provided, while under the steady, intense regard of SEAL Team 2’s leader, Captain Shawn O’Reilly. Occasionally, Aberlour looked over at him, and each time O’Reilly seemed to be daring Aberlour to hold his stare. Aberlour would merely lift an eyebrow, showing that he was unimpressed and not at all intimidated by the SEAL. He was, of course. At least a little. The man looked the part of a team leader in ways Aberlour never would. Impossible to read, remarkably distinguished, and with an edge to his smile that spoke of a keen intelligence and fearlessness. He had the good looks of a Cane Corso Mastiff, with that crossly cropped red hair, piercing blue eyes, and a many-times-over broken nose. Built like a brick house, with a thick neck, he wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had a commanding presence and an aura of danger. The kind that drew your eye—voluntarily or otherwise. Aberlour had no trouble understanding why men would follow him into battle. But whether faking-or-feeling-it, Aberlour squared his shoulders with confidence and held Captain O’Reilly’s stare impassively. He could not afford to let this man intimidate him. Not when his own team was counting on him to stay calm and see them through this mission, despite the tension that had been building steadily between the two Special Forces teams.
The briefing had gotten off on the wrong foot from the very first minute. The SEALs had been seated and introduced before Team Specter. Shit had gone south from there. The part of the operation assigned to Team Specter had been described as a “simple” and “preliminary” step in the process of setting the stage for the SEAL Team 2’s raid. Aberlour had refused to show any outward reaction to this intentionally insulting downplayregarding Team Specter’s role in this mission. Let the higher ups brown nose the SEALs. He’d been in the Corps long enough to know his place. Marines were the brave, the few, the fucking expendable. He didn’t need any of their bullshit validation. His men failed to share his general air of nonchalance, but they’d all made a solid effort to follow his lead. Their clenched jaws had not, however, gone unnoticed. Nor had their increasing frustration as the SEALs had shared their two cents at every opportunity, going as far as arguing with Oliver about the best method to board the pirated ship. The whole exchange had ended with Oliver leaping to his feet, eyes narrowed, both hands on the table, staring down the smirking SEAL.
“When you decide to grow a pair of balls and board an enemy-infested ship without the oversight of Uncle Sam, you’ll get a fucking say, alright?” Oliver snapped.
To which the SEAL—Captain O’Reilly’s second-in-command—had fully intended to answer but had been cut off before he’d gotten the chance. O’Reilly grabbed his forearm and shook his head, indicating he should keep quiet. The man had cast a dark look in O’Reilly’s direction but backed down. Tensions had only escalated from there. Everyone had remained perfectly civil, but no one had been fooled into thinking that this rivalry was anywhere near over. As soon as they were dismissed from the briefing, the two teams had parted ways as quickly as possible.
Aberlour decided to hang back so he could catch Captain O’Reilly on his way out. O’Reilly’s second-in-command who’d confronted Oli paused at the door, as if waiting on his captain, but O’Reilly dismissed him quickly before turning back to Abe. He wore a peculiar expression that conveyed both curiosity and annoyance.
Aberlour didn’t wait for him to ask why he’d been stopped at the door.
“This is a small ship, and we’re all big men. I suggest that we stay as far away from each other as possible—”
“Are we?” the SEAL asked with a twisted smile.
Aberlour’s perpetual frown merely deepened.
“Seemed to me there were a few children in that room—” O’Reilly scoffed.
It was a trap. Laid out like a personal landmine. Aberlour refused to fall for it, but he couldn’t control the urge to roll his eyes at the team leader.
“We’ll be off the ship within 48 hours. Keep your guys on a leash, and I’ll do the same with mine,” Abe said, wanting to cut to the chase. He wasn’t overly fond of that assessing, intelligent gaze watching him so intently. As if he knew something Abe didn’t.
“So much for fighting dogs—” O’Reilly said, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark blue gaze appraised Aberlour like one might cattle at an auction.
Aberlour fought an instinctive need to squirm under that laser-focused gaze. Instead, he threw his shoulders back in an effort to appear larger. They were about the same size, but Captain O’Reilly seemed infinitely bigger.
“Here I thought Force Recon guys were supposed to be brave. Are you intimidated, Staff Sergeant? Would you like me to hold your hand to provide reassurance? Or should I get your assistant team leader Staff Sergeant Darling to do it for you?” Humor danced in his eyes.
“I’dlikenot to end up with a man overboard and my foot shoved up someone’s ass,” Abe said, voice rough, hoping his tone would convey just the right amount of professional courtesy with a hint of serious intent.
O’Reilly’s gaze changed then. From assessment to a more relaxed look of—was that appreciation? Fuck, maybe even respect.
“We’ll see,” he said, and Aberlour was suddenly worried he’d issued a dare rather than a warning. “As you said—it’s a small ship—some things can’t be avoided forever."
Abe silently cursed himself for dangling that morsel of appetizing bait in front of O’Reilly. He’d thought they could reach an understanding, but maybe he’d just laid the groundwork for a game of chase or cat and mouse instead. Light entertainment for a SEAL team in the shape of trapped Marines. Or maybe more like lions licking their chops as they crouch in the long, tall grass of the savanna—eyes riveted on the herd of antelopes, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.
O’Reilly smiled ruefully, then turned and walked out.
