Call To Engage

At least that was what he told himself.

He’d taken a hit and he’d gone down in the line of duty. But now he was back in shape. He was back on duty. And, dammit, he’d get his reputation back on track.

He wanted to believe that.

He needed to believe that.

But it wasn’t easy. Not when he had to take a slower pace than the usual double-time to cross the base. Not when he saw the looks cast his way. The speculation in people’s eyes. Without comment, Lansky matched his steps, chatting instead about random crap like box scores and the hot blonde working the PX. When they stepped into the sparse briefing room five minutes later, Elijah breathed the familiar in deeply.

Shoving both hands into the front pockets of his digies, he ignored the sudden tightness across his shoulders, the raw feeling in his gut.

It was time to report for duty.

There was no room for any of that other crap.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU BOYS ARE LATE.”

Neither Elijah nor Lansky bothered checking the time. They knew it was T minus five. If they were late, Savino would already be there. And instead of milling about the room, the men would be in their seats.

Captain Milt Jarrett was the military version of a worrywart, though. It was his job to keep them on track, to keep things tidy and—something beyond Elijah’s ken—to keep their missions on budget.

“My fault. I was whining about heartbreak,” Lansky said, pulling a face. “You know how that is, right, Jarrett? The way I hear it, every woman you’ve been with has dumped you.”

Jarrett laughed along with the rest of the room. Lansky just grinned. Since the ribbing had put him at ease, Elijah started to pull his hands from his pockets and noticed a slip of paper in one. Weird. He hadn’t been in uniform in months. He pulled it out to see what he’d left there that’d made it through laundry detail while Jarrett returned fire.

“The way I heard it, Lansky, you don’t have a heart to break. Bummer, that. The rest of you, if you’ve finished gossiping and aren’t planning to do each other’s nails, maybe we can get down to business,” Captain Jarrett called as he strode to the front of the room. He had an equal-opportunity scowl, spreading it among everyone whether they’d been late or not, were simply standing or already seated at their desks.

The men still on their feet began moving at a leisurely pace toward the remaining empty seats. Nobody rushed. Jarrett had asshole tendencies that rubbed most of the team wrong. The only thing saving the guy was his rank and the fact that he was a brilliant strategist.

Elijah noted that his accustomed seat to the right front of the podium was available. Whether by design or luck, he didn’t know, but he made his way over, sinking gratefully into the questionable comfort of the wooden chair. As Lansky started chatting with Diego Torres, another teammate, Elijah unfolded the paper to see what’d been left in his pocket. Scrawled in black ink over the torn corner of college-ruled notepaper was a handwritten note.

A real friend listens until he hears the truth.

Shit.

What was with this morning and painful reminders? If Elijah was a man who believed in omens—and he constantly told himself that he definitely was not—he’d be having some serious worries.

Because he recognized the handwriting as that of a former—and supposedly dead—teammate. One who’d caused intense pain to a lot of people, himself included. Jaw clenched against the memories, Elijah started to crush the paper in his fist, then thought better of it. How the hell had it gotten into his pocket? He’d roomed with Ramsey before the mission that had sent Elijah to the burn ward and Ramsey into an ash can. But he’d never seen that paper before, and he and Ramsey had never been note-sharing, or pants-sharing, kind of guys.

Pulling his sketch pad out of his satchel, Elijah tucked the paper into the back of the pad and snagged a pencil. Then, in his usual way of working through something that puzzled him, he ran his fingers over the thick blank page, letting his mind clear and his pencil fly.

The sounds, the chatter, the varied scents of colognes and soap all faded into the background as he sketched. Impressions, memories, imagined scenarios.

“Dude, I missed breakfast,” Diego muttered next to him. “That’s a whole lot of ugly to offer up to an empty stomach.”

Elijah glanced at his tablemate, then back at the sketch pad and grimaced. It was a page full of Ramsey. Full face, side view, body shots, action images. In some he’d drawn the guy to look like a movie star, in others like the devil himself. Which was the true face of the man? Did any of them show the lies? The hideous betrayal?

Elijah would have to look closer later. For now...

“Sorry.” He flipped to a blank page.

Yeah. Brandon Ramsey had given the entire team a gut ache, but Diego had special reason to hate the guy. Before he could explain the drawings, the room went silent.

“Gentlemen.”

Commander Nic Savino’s single word was quiet, his steps easy as he strode into the room. Tall and lean despite the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Savino was a man who demanded attention without ever having to force the issue. Elijah had seen him bloody; he’d seen him drunk. He’d seen him pissed, and he’d seen him thrilled. What he’d never seen was Savino out of control.

Savino didn’t command the entire SEAL Team 7, but he was in charge of this unit. And he was the leader of Poseidon.

As soon as he reached the front of the room, Savino slanted Jarrett a nod. With automatic deference, the other man stepped away from the podium and took his own seat. The captain booted up his computer, the information on it flashing on the screen behind the podium with the familiar trident insignia.

“If everyone’s ready?” Savino’s dark eyes scanned the room. Knowing he was taking in every detail, Elijah wouldn’t be surprised to find out the guy was checking their souls along with inspecting the team. “We have a mission.”

As one the men came to attention, each using his own method of recording data. To Elijah’s right, Lansky whipped out a computer tablet and gave it a snap to release its keyboard. To his left, Torres pulled out an encrypted recording device and, being a big believer in backup, a notebook. Elijah’s own notebook was actually a sketch pad. It was filled with drawings, encrypted notes and, if he did say so himself, clever doodles.

As he listened to his commander outline the objective, detail the plan and delineate strategy, Elijah drew. He sketched his impressions from the buildings Savino showed on the view screen. He added a helicopter in the sky, then as he considered, a few bodies in the water. Savino hadn’t mentioned a water approach yet, but given that the water was there, he would.

That’s how Savino preferred to work his missions. He outlined, he detailed and he delineated. Then he opened the floor for input. It was one of the many reasons the man was a great leader. He inspired trust and elicited loyalty because he offered his team exactly that.

So it was a piss-off that that trust had been betrayed by one of their own. That the team had landed under investigation because a decorated SEAL played dirty, faking his own death after stealing top secret intel to sell to enemy militants.

Elijah jabbed the paper hard enough to snap his pencil lead. He drew air through his teeth, but it didn’t much cool the fury of his thoughts, so he tried a couple more.

A few months back, Savino had led a small covert team in an attempt to locate and detail the traitor. They’d apprehended his coconspirator, but as far as Elijah knew, the target was still in the wind.

Fucker.

“Yo,” Lansky murmured, rapping Elijah on the arm with a fresh pencil. He lifted it and one brow, warning Elijah to pull his head out and focus.

With a grimace and a nod of thanks, Elijah took the pencil and a deep breath. Using every iota of training garnered in his years of service and the determined focus that’d gotten him out of the hospital and back on duty eight months ahead of schedule, he gave all his concentration to the briefing.

Though his specialty was cryptology, or deciphering code, Elijah had still taken part in dozens of similar missions in his ten years as a SEAL, so the basics were ingrained and as familiar as his own name.

However, hostage extraction was always a delicate undertaking, and he’d been out of the game for a few months, so he took special care in his notes. He crafted suggestions, backup scenarios. After eyeing the schematics of the embassy they’d be infiltrating, he sketched alternate escape routes.

Chances were he’d be on the copter, monitoring communications. He knew the wisdom of such an assignment. He’d been sidelined for a while; others had earned the privilege of boots on the ground. And his specialty was, after all, communications.

Still, he chafed at the restriction.

He wanted—needed—action.

He had to prove he had what it took. That he was still a SEAL in top form. One of the elite. The best, dammit. He needed to prove it to the team. To Savino.

And, yeah, to himself.

Elijah’s pencil flew over the page, lead scratching out a list of reasons to offer his commander to convince the man that Elijah should be part of the ground team. Then Savino began assigning roles.

“Lansky, Torres, Prescott, Loudon, Masters, Rengel. You’re on the extraction. Lansky and Masters will enter here and here.” He tapped the blueprint of the embassy with his stylus so the screen lit with red dots. Then he tapped again to light four green dots near the delivery docks. “Prescott, Torres, Rengel and Loudon, you’ll come in from the water.”

He finished with, “Danby, Ward, Powers, you’re in the air with Jarrett.”

He was on the ground? Not in the air? Hell, yeah, his mind celebrated. His first mission back on active duty since he’d damn near exploded into a few hundred painful pieces, and he wasn’t holed up in the back seat. Nope, he’d be right there in the thick of the action. Right there, where it was all going down, he thought, rubbing a hand over his thigh.

Elijah’s other hand gripped his pencil so tightly that he flattened the wood, destroying it with a resounding crack. Yeah, he’d smile. Just as soon as his gut unclenched.

“Any questions?”

A few men shook their heads. Others silently gathered their notes. A couple simply waited.

“Torres, Lansky, Loudon, Prescott and Ward, remain. Everyone else, dismissed,” Savino barked, releasing all the men except the members of Poseidon.

* * *

NIC SAVINO GLANCED at the clock, confirming that he was right on schedule. He patiently waited for the room to clear of everyone but his elite team. Even as some men moved out, others moved in until there were thirteen of them in all.

He glanced at Jarrett, who clung to the chair as if he knew they all wanted him gone. He looked like a grumpy bulldog guarding his favorite bone.

“Comfy, Captain?” Savino asked, his words calm and his expression pleasant.

“Orders are orders, Savino,” Jarrett said, rising to speak in Savino’s ear. The man kept his words pitched low, as if trying to keep them from the rest of the room. Ridiculous, since Poseidon heard everything.

From the expression on the men’s faces, they definitely heard. And didn’t like. Savino could relate.

But, as Jarrett said, orders were orders. And Admiral Cree had decreed that until Ramsey was in the brig and Poseidon in the clear, they’d have company. So Savino gestured to the chair and suggested the man sit back down. After all, it wasn’t Jarrett’s fault that the team was under supervision.

Savino was a man who epitomized control. Some would say it was his trademark. He’d used it, and rigid focus, to form a team of special operatives, skilled assets, into even more. Poseidon was the elite among the elite. Unlike DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, Poseidon wasn’t open for applications. It was composed of men he’d handpicked ten years before. Men who had, over the course of a decade, trained together, fought together, bled together, until they were, essentially, one.

And now that one was threatened.

“Gentlemen, in case you didn’t notice, we’ve earned ourselves a babysitter.” The room buzzed with mutters and complaints. Savino waited for it to ebb before inclining his head in agreement. “Captain Jarrett will be monitoring missions for the next little while. The team and Poseidon have been officially cleared of wrongdoing in the Ramsey situation, but there are some in Naval Investigation who don’t accept the official stand.”

“I’m not here to interfere or horn in on the workings of Poseidon,” Jarrett said, addressing the entire room. “I’ll do whatever I can to help clear the team, to get you guys back to business as usual.”

Wanting to believe that, Savino nodded. Then, skilled at moving past pain—even when it was a pain in his ass—he got back to the duty at hand.

“To bring everyone up to speed, I’ll recap the details of our current situation. These details are for Poseidon ears only,” he said as the men prepared to take mental notes. Everyone put away their papers, pens and electronics. They’d work from memory on this one.

“As you all know, we encountered an incident last February on a routine mission. During the extraction of a kidnapped scientist, a militant base exploded, the fire severely injuring a SEAL.” He inclined his head toward Prescott, who, according to the doctors, was lucky to be alive. “The explosion was said to destroy the formula for a potential chemical weapon and killed numerous militants, including the jihad leader and, to all appearances, one of our own.”

The words to all appearances caused a stir. Nobody spoke; nobody even moved. But the room came to attention.

“Under CIA orders and pursuant to NI protocols an investigation was launched on SEAL Team 7 and, more specifically, on Poseidon.”

Savino laid it all out. The chemical formula had been coded with a time stamp that’d put its theft at the exact time of their mission, implicating the team when its sale was discovered.

“Sir,” Loudon interrupted. “Why would Naval Investigation be looking at us for the theft? It’d make more sense to look to the militants themselves for the theft and sale of that formula.”

“It would, if not for the fact that the sale was to a tribe that group has been at war with for centuries.” Savino named the tribe, which elicited grimaces from most of his men. Because there was ugly, and there was ugly. And this group of militants had one goal and one goal only: world annihilation.

“To date, five more incidents have been traced back to SEAL missions in which weapons, information or technology was sold. Of those, three missions were led by Poseidon.”

The tension was so tight it was as if the room had turned into a vise. Savino didn’t need to look around to see the men’s reactions. He could feel them. Hell, he had them.

Fury, betrayal and just a hint of worry.

Only a stupid man thought he was invincible. Only an arrogant man thought his mantle of right protected him from persecution. Even Jarrett grimaced, his jowls tight as he shook his head in disgust.

“I don’t have to tell you the ramifications of an NI investigation.” Savino slid a sideways glance at Jarrett. Babysitters were only the beginning, he knew. “The damage that it can cause to a career, or in this case, to the very existence of Poseidon.”

Giving up his spot behind the podium, Savino paced in front of it as he continued the briefing.

“Funds for the chemical weapons sale were traced to an account under Ramsey’s name as well as a civilian. The account is still in active use despite his supposed death. Further investigation cleared the civilian.” His gaze cut to Torres, who’d led that investigation and was now engaged to marry the civilian. “But it resulted in the kidnapping of Ramsey’s son. A team retrieved the child and detained Petty Officer Dane Adams, who while implicating himself and Ramsey, indicates that there are others still involved.”

Who?

Savino’s fists clenched behind his back as he paced, wondering for the hundredth time since this had begun what the hell NI had on Poseidon that made them so sure his team was dirty. He’d dug deep himself, but he hadn’t come up with a damned thing.

“While we do not have confirmation that Ramsey is still alive, NI assumes that he is.” Savino paused, taking the time to look from man to man, meeting each of their eyes, deepening their connection.

“I want him found. I want him taken down and made answerable for his crimes. Crimes against his country, against his uniform and, yes, against this team. He tried to set up one of our own. He tried to take down Poseidon.” He leaned back against the podium now, his usually unreadable face a study of icy fury. “Somehow, he got past us. He not only carried out treasonous actions under our very noses, but he thinks that he got away with them. We need to correct that, gentlemen.”

“What’s the plan?” Torres asked. Rightfully, as far as Savino was concerned, since he was the one who’d been specifically framed to take the fall a few months back.

“In addition to continuing with your current assignment, each of you will be taking on additional tasks. These tasks are Code Red, gentlemen.” Meaning they didn’t disclose them, not even to one another. They reported directly to Savino, and everything was done in person. No emails, no phone calls, no handwritten notes. “Poseidon has one goal now, gentlemen. To take down Ramsey and whoever else is involved. As of now, Operation Fuck Up is in effect.”

* * *

ONE THING ABOUT SEALS, they were hell on multitasking. Operation Fuck Up might be in effect, but members of Poseidon and SEAL Team 7 had other missions to carry out. So while time was devoted to tracking their treasonous teammate, the rest of their focus was on the current assignment.

When breaking into another country’s embassy on foreign soil, stealth was the keyword. When breaking in with the objective of covertly extracting a man slated for execution, a sticky layer of diplomacy was wrapped around the stealth. The priority was retrieving the hostage. Secondary was doing so without taking lives.

Using the moonless sky to their advantage, six men rappelled down from the roof. Infrared confirmed the hostage was held on the eighth floor, two guards in the room with him, four more stationed outside the door. Bars on the windows, men stationed at the end of each hallway and on the exits.

So they went in through one of the empty offices two doors down from where the hostage was being held. Working in concert, their moves as coordinated as they were automatic, the team used a silent explosive on the window bars, sliding inside as quietly as smoke.

They stunned the guards outside the door just as quietly, tucking them into the empty office, neatly bound and gagged. Elijah and Torres took their place outside the door while the other four slid into the hostage’s room.

Eyes sharp, senses on full alert, even as he kept watch, Elijah wanted to grin. Stupid reaction, but, man, it felt good to be back on track. To do what he was trained to do.

Not that he’d worried about it. Much. But he was glad to see it wasn’t an issue. Sure, his leg was a little tight, the puckered skin protesting over screaming muscles. But that wasn’t slowing him down.

As if proving his point, the signal came from inside the room. He moved with easy stealth down the hall to the left, Torres to the right, then returned the all clear.

Powers’s voice came through the comm in Elijah’s helmet, giving them the green light that he’d shut down operation of the security cameras on the rest of their floor.

Ready to rock and roll.

They moved exactly as planned. Two on point, two escorting the hostage—a Humpty Dumpty–looking guy in a three-piece suit and little round glasses—Elijah and Torres at the rear. The guy wasn’t in any shape to take out the window, but they just had to get him down one hall and over to the next to make their escape route.

Elijah scanned, his gaze always moving, his ears on full alert as he tapped into their surroundings, listening, watching as they proceeded down the antiques-filled hall, their booted feet silent on the glossy marble floor.

Quite a step-up given that his last mission had taken place in a desert cave.

Then it all went to hell.

Elijah saw it going down a second before it actually did. The ambassador slipped, his slick dress shoes losing traction on the marble floor. Despite Lansky’s hold on him, the man still flailed out, his hand slapping the wall. Just a tap.

And he screamed like a scared little girl. He might as well have sounded a Klaxon.

The team angled to the right, taking the secondary, longer route just before they heard the sound of boots quick-marching down the hall. A shout of alarm went up, voices called out, running footsteps of what sounded like an entire platoon ricocheted off the walls.

The team tightened their circle around the hostage, stepping up their pace to an easy run. Torres and Elijah automatically slowed, covering the rear as Loudon signaled a warning to the men in the air.

The voices came closer. This way, Elijah translated the Arabic shouts. “They know where we are,” he warned the others calmly. “Company’s coming.”

Then company was there.

The bullets didn’t dent his calm. Not until one of them ripped through an ornately framed painting on the wall next to him.

“The sonovabitch shot a Monet,” he swore. “What the fuck is wrong with some people?”

“Guess they aren’t much for flowers,” Torres returned, grinning even as he ran. “Too bad we don’t have time to educate them on art appreciation.”

As he marveled at the sacrilege, hoping like hell it had been a reproduction, Elijah moved. A small metal canister flew from his hand, landing smack-dab between the feet of the lead guard with a loud clang. A heartbeat later, the end of the hall exploded in smoke.

A quick glance assured him that Lansky and Loudon had the hostage covered. As sweat poured off the man’s pale, bald head, they angled him into the air duct. As soon as the ornate, man-size grill was back in place, Masters and Rengel cocked their heads to the left, indicating they’d lead the guards that way while Elijah and Torres waited ten seconds, then took the right to distract the guards on the other side.

“I’ve been ordered to remind you of the preference that your ammo stays in your rifle,” Powers said through the comm, his tight voice making it clear just how he felt about being ordered to share Jarrett’s preferences.

Hard to blame him. Elijah couldn’t say he much like hearing it, either. Obviously the guards weren’t so particular because they just kept on shooting.

“Out and on our way,” came through the comm as Lansky let them know they’d safely cleared the building with the hostage and were en route to the pickup site.

With the hostage secured, Elijah and Torres moved fast, angling out the doors and into a small garden they knew led to the sea. Torres shifted to the left, heading for the cliffs to secure the lines for their escape while Elijah provided cover.

Something exploded with a jarring crash, sending pieces of a statue flying every which way. Fire flashed, hot and blinding. The roar engulfed him, pulling Elijah into its unspeakable hell. He hit the ground, his leg eaten away by pain as the cries of the dying filled his head. He waited for the flames to eat at his body, to tear at his soul.

“Prescott!”

The dead faces came riding on the flames. Elijah gripped his weapon, finger on the trigger as he tried to aim, tried to stop them from taking his teammate. From killing them both.

“Prescott, snap out of it.”

Strong arms gripped his shoulders with a jarring shake. The flames were gone. The fire out. The dead still circled, though, round and round in his head.

Chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes, Elijah tried to bring the man in front of him into focus.