CHAPTER ONE
WYATT
The tide was wrong for drills, but Calder, his boss, liked to make things uncomfortable. Wyatt Boone, nicknamed Roper, stood on the dock at Tidehaven Marina with his boots planted wide and his eyes tracking the chop as it slapped against the pylons. The Atlantic was restless, gray-green water rolling in uneven swells that blasted against the pylons and sent cold spray across the dock, soaking everything that hadn’t already surrendered to the tide. Wyatt heard the security company’s boats rumbling nearby. Salt & Steel Security wasn’t a corporate outfit with polished brochures and liability waivers. It was a repurposed shrimp cannery at the edge of Tidehaven, reinforced with marine-grade steel and stubbornmen who didn’t quit. They handled what the Coast Guard couldn’t always reach fast enough: private coastal protection, disaster extraction, and search and rescue when hurricanes tore the Atlantic open and left civilians stranded in flooded neighborhoods or overturned boats.When things go sideways on the water, Salt & Steel shows up first and leaves last.
Calder Hayes had known of Wyatt Boone through the Teams long before Salt & Steel existed. Cal and Banner Campbell, Wyatt’s commander, had served at the same rank on overlapping deployments, and word traveled easily between platoons about the men who kept their heads when everything went bad. Wyatt’s name had surfaced often enough that Cal remembered it.
He wasn’t surprised when Cal called after he had left the SEALs, but Wyatt hadn’t planned on staying in South Carolina. After his last deployment with the SEALs, he figured he’d drift for a while. The idea of maybe chasing rodeo circuits again, or disappearing somewhere quiet. Instead, Cal had called with a simple offer:You’re good at chaos. I need that.
Cal had been building Salt & Steel with a handful of former operators who preferred action over politics. Wyatt respected that. He respected Cal for not following Banner and Maxim to Dallas when they created Campbell-Petrov Security and Protection. Cal wanted something different near the ocean, so he picked Tidehaven, South Carolina.
Wyatt had come for a temporary contract. He stayed because the ocean felt like the best part of the Navy, and because saving people from drowning seemed like the best part of the SEALs.
He stretched his neck, avoiding thoughts about his past. It was always easier to think about anything else.
Ropes lay coiled at the ready. A SAR dummy, rescue mannequin, bobbed fifty yards out, half-submerged, with its fluorescent vest flashing between waves. Wyatt rolled hisshoulders, feeling the familiar pull along the jagged scar that curved from his ribs toward his spine. He hooked a thumb into his vest and scanned the area. Everything looked ready, not SEAL team ready, but good. He’d run a hundred drills like this since Calder recruited him to Salt & Steel Security Group.
Cal barked into Wyatt’s earpiece. “Hold the line.” Wyatt still heard his former Commander, Banner Campbell’s voice in his head sometimes. He missed the easy banter of Maxim, Banner’s right-hand SEAL team member, cutting through the tension right before things got loud.
“Eyes up, Roper.” Cal’s voice cut through the morning, a command that didn’t need volume.
Wyatt turned as Cal stood on the dock, hands loose at his sides, with his sunglasses hiding whatever he was thinking. He ducked his head to the person beside him.Well, that’s new. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman standing next to Cal at a training.
The woman wore khaki slacks and a Salt & Steel windbreaker that looked too clean for the marina, her dark hair pulled into a thick braid that brushed the center of her back while a clipboard rested beneath one arm like she expected to take notes on everything he did wrong. She wasn’t watching the boat on the water or the mannequin bobbing in the water. She was watching them.
Wyatt studied her for another second longer than necessary before looking back at the water. Something tightened low in his gut, which was inconvenient because he’d spent the last few years making sure nothing did that anymore.
Cal jerked his chin. “Roper. This is Dr. Colette Duval. She’s a consultant overseeing disaster protocol for today’s drill.”
Wyatt offered his hand on reflex. “Morning, Doc.” He was already irritated by the clipboard.I don’t like observers, and I can’t stand civilians cataloguing risk from a safe distance.
Her eyes snapped to his. Chocolate brown with a hint of amber showed irritation. “It’s Dr. Duval,” she corrected, not unkindly. “But I answer to Letty if you earn it.”
Ah,that’s how it is.He let it drop, lips twitching despite his desire to poke her. “Copy that.”
Cal’s mouth twitched into an almost smile before he caught it.Bastard.“Dr. Duval’s here on a hurricane-response research grant,” Cal continued. “She’ll be observing triage times, extraction injuries, and post-rescue stabilization. Treat her like one of ours.”
Wyatt nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
Dr. Duval turned back to her clipboard, already dismissing him before she spoke. “I’ll need access to your med kits and a list of personnel with prior trauma injuries.”
Wyatt blinked with his forehead wrinkling. “You want my…”
She looked up again, eyes flicking over him, lingering just long enough. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
Something sparked with that look.Was it annoyance, interest, or both?
“Roper,” Cal said smoothly. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Wyatt exhaled through his nose. The almost-scolding tone reminded him of his father when Wyatt used to rodeo before he joined the Navy. Thinking about his father made his scar burn, reminding him that Banner had seen the rope burn scars and started calling him Roper. “Copy.”
LETTY
The tall man with the tattoos peeking out of his rolled-up sleeves had her attention as soon as Cal pointed him out. Letty liked men with a build that favored endurance over show, arangy strength that spoke of long hours and hard miles. His movements were economical and controlled. She would have known he was a SEAL even if she hadn’t done her research on each team member.
She watched him on the dock and noticed the subtle alteration in his movement, the small tightening across his shoulders that came when a man carried an old injury he’d long ago decided not to acknowledge. He had a scar on his back. She hadn’t read that anywhere, but she knew the moment he shifted his shoulders. The skin pulled tight as he moved, the tension that comes from an old wound healing deep under the surface. The light caught the scar on his arm. A rope burn scar marked the inside of his forearm like a pale brand. You wouldn’t see it unless he raised his arm.Was that scarring beneath his shirt from his rodeo days or his time as a SEAL?He looked like danger, the way some people looked like trouble, which irritated her more than the ‘Doc’ comment.
Letty finished her notes as the drill kicked off, eyes flicking between the stopwatch and the scene. Extraction was clean, rope deployment was solid, but one of the newer responders misjudged a wave and slammed his forearm against the rail on his way back in.
