Chapter 16
DUKE STARED at his commanding officer, pretending he wasn’t grinding down his back molars in an effort to refrain from killing the man. Lieutenant Carter lounged behind his desk, the epitome of a staff puke. Oh, wait. The asshole was a staff puke. The men on Duke’s team were SEALs. The LT? Some shit-for-brains the Pentagon shuffled in here to handle paperwork and pretend like he was actually in charge. Duke didn’t stand at attention, but his body vibrated with anger, holding him so stiff it appeared he followed Navy protocols when called into a CO’s office.
“We have an assignment, Chief.”
“I heard you the first time…sir.” Duke added that last bit in a flat voice to let the asshole know he recognized the attempted slight. Duke was a Master Chief Petty Officer. He had more time in grade than the fuckin’ lieutenant trying to glare him down from the other side of the desk.
“Do you have a problem with that?”
Yeah, Duke had a problem with the assignment and this whole bullshit power game the LT insisted on playing. Carter was human. Totally, completely, insipidly human. And a snob, especially where the men under his alleged command were concerned. Duke knew how the LT really felt about them. Freaks of nature. A fucking science project gone horribly wrong. Except the men of SEAL Team Atlantis were the best the Navy had—the best the Navy would ever have. And Carter couldn’t get past that, nor would his ego let him. This was a plum assignment—orders coming directly from the Joint Chiefs and Carter wasn’t about to ask for a transfer. Dammit.
The man pissed Duke off simply by breathing. And he didn’t care if Carter knew it. Today, though, he held onto his last shred of diplomacy. “I read the file, sir.”
“And?” Carter arched a patrician brow and Duke wanted to slap the smirk off the prick’s face.
“When do we leave, sir?”
Surprise, evidenced by the man’s furrowed brows and suspicious frown, replaced Carter’s smirk and Duke fist-pumped internally. That was not the response the LT expected and Duke lived for keeping the sonavabitch off balance.
“Oh-four hundred. Full battle packs and equipment for an inland insertion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed, Reagan.”
Duke started to toss off his normal half-hearted salute but changed his mind. He came to full attention, chin up, shoulders back and squared, feet together. He snapped off a regulation-perfect salute, once again surprising the asshole calling the shots. Keeping Carter guessing as to his motives made Duke’s day. Hell, it made his whole week when he could pull it off. After the LT returned the salute with a half-hearted gesture, Duke pivoted and marched out, making sure to softly close the door behind him.
The team waited for him in the long beach hut they called their barracks. It was more like a bivouac—spartan accommodations, especially since they’d been on this god-forsaken Florida key for almost fifteen years. Duke scrubbed his hand over his head. His hair ruffled beneath his fingers and he made a mental note to clip it down high and tight before morning. He and the others had arrived here as youngsters. Twenty-two, he’d been the old man in the group. They’d all been accepted for SEAL training—against all odds given their baby status in the service. Fresh-faced and totally naive, they’d signed up for a secret operation. Which included a real fucking operation—of the surgical variety. And gene therapy. And a whole shit-load of scientific bullshit that turned them from green sailors into freaks of nature.
“Wassup, boss?” Dalton was waxing his surf board in a “wax on, wax off” motion that reminded Duke far too much of the Karate Kid.
Duke ignored the flamboyant board shorts the guy wore and surveyed the rest of the team. Wayne “Poison” Ivey, the team’s corpsman and Cop Coppala, their explosives guru, slouched on the two beat-up couches. Dan “Cookie Monster” Baker, their combat engineer, sprawled across his bunk reading the latest issue of Architectural Digest, while communications specialist, Wilco Wright, snored on his bunk. Tank Russell, the team’s heavy weapons expert was field stripping a grenade launcher on the scarred wooden table in the center of the room.
“We have a mission.” He spoke quietly, but every eye, including the now-wide-awake Wilco, lasered in on him.
Tank finished putting the launcher back together and moved it off the table, taking his tools with him. The guy was a hellava armorer on top of shooting at the expert level on every heavy weapon available to the team—and some that weren’t. Everyone gathered around the table as excited energy filled the room.
“Where we goin’, boss?” Dalton plopped into the chair nearest his right hand, reminding Duke of an overeager puppy that hadn’t grown into his feet yet.
“Western Virginia. There’s a militia group up there. Chatter has them plotting a terrorist attack on DC.” Mutters filled the silence as he tossed the file onto the table. His gut clenched, unhappy with the information contained on the printed pages. “This isn’t a run-of-the-mill redneck militia. These guys were us—sort of—once upon a time.”
Tank stabbed the file with his index finger and dragged it across the table until he could open the front and read the info contained in it. “Motherfucker. Says here these guys had some special ops training in the Army.”
The file got passed from one to another, some skimming the sheets, some reading word for word. Dalton read it last. “Ha. These guys are just Army. They won’t be any match for us.”
Duke and Tank exchanged looks. “You are an idiot child,” Tank drawled. “I just can’t figure out why yer momma didn’t drown you at birth.”
Cop stirred the sheets of paper before tapping one photo with the tip of his middle finger. “This guy? He looks familiar. I think we might have had joint training. If it’s the same guy, he has a hellava touch with small things that make big bangs. What the hell is going on, boss? We don’t do domestic.”
“I don’t know, Cop. But I got a bad feelin’ about this.”
Dalton snagged the file and read closer, eventually letting out a low whistle. “Did you see who signed our orders?” He flipped the folder up so everyone could read the ornate signature: Harry Reed Jarrett
Tank once again caught Duke’s gaze. “Since when did we start working for Homeland Security?”
“Good question. But General Bradshaw’s name is on there, too. He’s the special liaison to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.” The skin between Duke’s shoulder blades itched. He resisted the urge to see if some assassin had painted a red dot there. Acting nonchalant, he shifted slightly to the left. No tell-tale laser pointer appeared on the table. He was just getting even more paranoid in his old age. Ever since that situation with the girl Dalton dragged home a couple of years ago, Duke had been watching things closer—weighing pros and cons of their assignments with a more…discerning eye, so to speak. And this mission was not passing the smell test. Not even close.
“When do we go?” Poison, ever practical, had a notebook out making a list.
“Helo jumps off at oh-four hundred. We shove off from Norfolk mid-afternoon for a night incursion.”
“I do love me some butt crack of dawn.” Tank smirked as he pushed back from the table and sauntered over to a massive metal locker. He pulled out a pack and a large duffel bag. Moments later, he started loading it with weapons and ammunition. “Y’all better get a move on or you pussies won’t get your beauty sleep.”