Chapter 2 #2
“Move along!” The command came from right behind him. Aberlour was tempted to obey that authoritative voice. He didn’t, of course.
Turning casually, the throwing knives still in his hands, Aberlour came face-to-face with O’Reilly, his team in tow. So, the lions had come to hunt. Let the games begin, Aberlour thought, swallowing his sigh of annoyance.
Naval vessels were not equipped with shooting ranges, despite their size and the need for personnel to maintain their marksmanship skills.
But what every ship did have was a makeshift one.
Some out-of-the-way corner of a ship where a desperate sailor would set up a wooden board and draw a target on it.
Guns were not allowed, of course, but throwing knives and darts were.
It wouldn’t help much in perfecting one’s aim in a gun battle, but it worked to let off steam.
This particular makeshift shooting range was in a larger space than most and had three targets. Aberlour’s team was currently occupying the space and had started target practice just a few minutes before O’Reilly had come storming in like he owned the fucking place.
“We’ll be done in about 30 minutes,” Aberlour replied in a mildly bored voice. He threw one of the knives up in the air and caught it smoothly without looking at it. His gaze remained trained on the SEAL captain as he repeated the motion, which served to prove the first time was no accident.
“We need the room.” O’Reilly’s gaze swept over Aberlour’s team condescendingly, and he grimaced with disgust as if Team Specter had the plague. “Move.”
Aberlour glanced at Oliver, pleased to see him standing behind him to his right, shoulders back and chin raised defiantly.
“And like I said, we’ll be done in about 30 minutes,” Aberlour repeated, enunciating slowly and carefully as if insinuating O’Reilly was mentally impaired. He wasn’t. No SEAL was, but it was fun to taunt him like this.
“And like I said, move!” O’Reilly nostrils flared with anger as he walked right up to Aberlour to stand toe-to-toe with him.
Aberlour wasn’t an idiot. In O’Reilly’s eyes, he was nothing but a pimply-faced newbie.
He knew that. He also knew that he couldn’t fight the SEAL captain without getting his ass handed to him.
Force Recon training was extensive and difficult, but they weren’t killing machines.
They were reconnaissance men. Stealthy, invisible, ghost-like.
If he engaged in a physical fight with O’Reilly, he’d lose all credibility.
Aberlour knew that too, and so did everyone else.
The SEAL team’s second-in-command—the same man who’d argued earlier with Oliver—was smirking again, appearing to enjoy their heated face-off. Aberlour hated him almost as much as he did O’Reilly.
“How about a contest?” Aberlour suggested with a deceptively innocent smile.
Captain O’Reilly snorted, looking him up and down with open skepticism.
“You win, my men and I move. You lose, you come back in 30 minutes.” Aberlour decided he’d best jump in first to set his own terms.
The terms seemed simple enough and perfectly harmless, ensuring that whether they won or lost, the SEAL team would not lose face. If Aberlour won, the SEALs would have to acknowledge that he wasn’t just a wet-behind-the-ears, insignificant recruit.
“What kind of contest?” the second-in-command asked, squinting suspiciously at Aberlour.
“Four knives each. Best score wins. From the 15-foot line.” Aberlour held up the four knives he’d been about to throw.
O’Reilly’s gaze shifted from Aberlour’s to the knives, as if trying to sniff out any possible tricks.
“If you’re that eager to humiliate yourself,” O’Reilly replied with a quick shrug.
Oliver snorted and rolled his eyes.
O’Reilly’s second-in-command growled.
He’d thrown down the gauntlet, feeling completely confident as he offered his knives to O’Reilly.
“Elders first!” he declared with a sunny smile, because he knew half of this cock fight was about Aberlour’s age. The SEAL was only about five or six years older than him, but he couldn’t resist taking a dig at him.
O’Reilly’s laugh told Aberlour he’d been right.
After giving O’Reilly the knives, Aberlour was surprised to see him turn around and hand them to a slender, Middle Eastern man standing behind him. His name tag read Dajar.
“Gunner is our best marksman with 150 confirmed kills,” Captain O’Reilly explained, sounding perfectly relaxed as he watched Dajar walk up to the shooting line.
Had Abe encountered this man on the street, he would not have noticed him.
Maybe 5’9” at most, average build, unremarkable features with thick, dark brows and dark brown eyes.
Dajar had not made any eye contact with Abe in the meeting, as he focused entirely on their commanding officer.
Discreet, deadly, precise—as a marksman should be.
No, Aberlour wasn’t nervous. He didn’t doubt his own aim, but watching Petty Officer Dajar—or Gunner—walk up to the line and test out the knives like a pro made it obvious that Dajar didn’t doubt his own skills either.
The SEAL marksman handled the knives with deadly accuracy. He spun one around in his hand and weighed it carefully, testing its rate of spin both at a half spin and a whole spin, just as Aberlour would have done.
The thing was, throwing knives wasn’t the same as shooting a gun.
Bullets went in a straight line. The bullet always exited the chamber the same way, and though it was important to get used to firing a gun, knives were a whole other ball game.
No two knives were the same. Some were heavy in the hilt; some were heavy in the blade.
Some spun like tops, while others barely got one or two rotations in before sinking into the target.
The key wasn’t in the aim. It was judging the amount of force necessary to have it stick in the target.
Obviously, Dajar was no stranger to knives.
He took a short step back, shifted his weight from his back to his front foot, then sent the blade flying. It spun two times before finding purchase in the target, landing half a centimeter from the bullseye. It was a textbook throw.
There was a low chuckle from the SEAL team. They were happily anticipating a victory as Dajar prepared his second throw.
This one landed perfectly in the middle of the bullseye, as did the third.
With only one throw remaining, the SEAL team looked very confident. They grew rowdy, shoving each other with brutal, almost animalistic excitement. Aberlour’s crew watched patiently while Oliver was vibrating with anticipation behind him.
Dajar threw his last knife, and it sunk deep, the sound familiar and satisfying, another hit to the center of the bullseye.
The SEAL boys hollered with victorious glee. A few crowded Dajar, who cracked a shy smile for the first time. Unlike his captain, his expression was humble and deferential as he faced Aberlour.
“Impressive,” Aberlour admitted. His manhood was not so fragile that he couldn’t acknowledge a brilliant performance.
Dajar gave a sharp nod of thanks before letting himself be pulled away by the other men who were still hollering with excitement.
“Please kick their asses,” Oliver whispered next to him, his expression furious.
Aberlour rolled his eyes and shot his best friend a smile.
“You ever see me miss?” he asked.
“No,” Oliver replied, though he was looking at the SEAL captain with murderous intent rather than at Aberlour.
“Then leave it to me.”
Aberlour played with the knives, flipping them back and forth as he stepped up to the line.
A few of the SEALs shouted thinly veiled insults at him but Aberlour merely rolled his eyes.
He caught Marcus’ glance before he threw his first knife.
Marcus was leaning back against the wall, smiling smugly, completely unconcerned. Just as Aberlour was.
With a smirk, Aberlour let the first knife fly with little fanfare.
As expected, it sank firmly in the bullseye.
The SEAL boys quieted suddenly.
They remained silent as Aberlour threw his next knife and watched it spin perfectly, sinking into the target right next to the first one.
“I’m running out of space,” Abe told Ghost, gesturing to the target. Wordlessly, Ghost cast a smug look at the SEAL team before pulling the knives out of the target and then stepping to the side. Aberlour readied himself once again, but as he went to throw his third knife, he paused for a moment.
It wasn’t going to be enough. Even if he sunk every knife in the bullseye—and he would—it wouldn’t be enough to impress the SEAL team and get them off his back.
He needed to do more than this. So, Aberlour took four steps back, and held up both remaining knives.
He felt their weights in his hands, quickly gauging their balance, and then, turning to face Captain O’Reilly, he threw them one right after the other.
Two solid thumps. Perfectly timed, and perfectly aimed.
As they always were. His team’s reaction was perfect.
As it always was. The members of Team Specter did not yell or rejoice.
They didn’t need to. Their superiority was implied, so it was entirely unnecessary to celebrate.
They merely closed ranks behind Aberlour silently.
“Thirty minutes,” Aberlour told O’Reilly. “Then we’ll let you frogmen get some practice time.”
Much needed went unsaid, but not unheard.
Captain O’Reilly scowled for a second, then his expression shifted to something far more familiar and comforting.
Respect and—God—was that humour? He’d seen it before—as he’d left the briefing room, but Abe hadn’t been certain then.
He was now. There was almost an edge of pride there too, as if he enjoyed getting bested.
Or maybe like he’d set a trap for Aberlour and had just watched him fall right into it.