PROLOGUE
“Viper, phone.”
Senior Chief Petty Officer (SEAL) Kelvin *Viper* Dare dropped the football and jogged after his second in command (2IC), John *Juice* O’Leary, and another member of his team, Michael *Reaper* Rodriguez, as they raced toward the stairs that led to the lower levels of Juice’s mate, Taylor *Trace* Reeve’s house.
How the hell did he know the phone was ringing when I couldn’t hear it?
“Freaking wolfie hearing,” Juice grumbled.
Ah, that would be why. Bran told him through that weird ass mind link thing they have going on.
It still blew his mind that shifters were real. Not only were they real, but he knew one well enough that his whole team was spending their downtime after they’d sustained injuries in the Middle East at the shifter’s house.
When you worked in the dark corners of the world and did the dirty jobs no sane man would want to do, you saw a lot of shit.But a CIA Liaison shifting into a massive wolf mid-firefight had more than a little freaked him the hell out.
And Juice mated him.
Didn’t have that one on my what-the-fuck bingo card either, that’s for sure.
“How much you wanna bet that our leave is over?”
Viper winced at Reaper’s question because he knew his teammate was most likely correct.
“Don’t you dare bite down on that phone, Bran,” Juice told the wolf. “Shift back, mate. Because you know command will keep calling.” He snagged the phone from Bran’s mouth and handed it to Reaper, who in turn passed it to Viper.
Viper took the phone from Reaper and didn’t even bother with the pleasantries. “You’ve reached Dare,” Viper answered the phone. “Yes, Sir.”
“Senior Chief Dare.” The familiar clipped voice on the other end came through sharp and direct. “You’re wheels up in twelve. Alert the team. You’ll receive a full briefing en route.” As usual, there was no context and zero explanation, which wasn’t a surprise. Command didn’t like to put classified stuff out over the wire.
“Yes, Sir.” He bit down on the automatic ‘why the hell now?’ response and waited, because there was always more. There was always something.
“You’ll return to Dam Neck. Pack for tropical terrain, forward recon. You’ll be briefed in full after boots hit tarmac.”
Reaper had been correct. Their leave was over.
“Understood.”
“One more thing, Senior Chief,” Command added. “JSOC has assigned a liaison to your team for the foreseeable future. You’ll make room.”
Every nerve in Viper’s neck went tight. If this were someone other than Trace, his men were going to throw a shit fit of epic proportions. He wouldn’t even blame them. Now he had mated with Juice, Trace was family. Period. “Name?”
“Trace Reeves.”
Thank fuck for that.
“Copy.”
“Don’t make it a problem, Dare. This came from above my pay grade. He stays on your team until instructed otherwise. Make it work.”
“Copy that, Sir. It’s not going to be a problem.” The call ended with a click, telling him Command was most likely at his desk in the command center at Dam Neck in Virginia. Viper lowered the phone slowly. “Fucking ace.” He turned back toward the team gathered behind him.
“Well?” Juice asked.
“Pack your gear, wolf.” Viper grinned at his guys. “My request to have you on our CIA liaison has been granted. Your furry butt flies with us from now on.”
“Hooyah.”
“Fuck yeah.”
