Chapter 2 #3
“Impressive,” O’Reilly admitted, with a nod. “You’d have made a great marksman.” He tilted his head and looked puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure why Abe hadn’t become one.
“He’s an even greater team leader,” Oliver snapped as he stepped up next to Abe.
Aberlour wasn’t sure why there was such an angry edge to Oli’s words—nor why he’d felt the need to defend him, but he set those thoughts aside for now.
“I have bad sea legs,” Abe said instead—not quite answering either man, but making it clear he wasn’t interested in getting recruited by the Navy.
“And an attitude problem,” Captain O’Reilly said, making it sound like a compliment. “But a bet’s a bet.” He gestured for his men to head on out the door. “Thirty minutes.”
“Aye,” was Aberlour’s only reply.
O’Reilly led his team out the door and Team Specter waited until the door closed behind them before Carlos jumped on Aberlour, his excitement expressed in rapid fire Spanish.
“Holy shit!” JD shouted, always the loudest guy in the room. “My boy’s got moves!”
“Did you see his fucking face?” Oliver yelled, smiling from ear to ear.
“Yeah, O’Reilly looked legit impressed,” Marcus said, sharing his amazement as he pounded Aberlour’s back enthusiastically.
“No, I meant Lieutenant Clarence, the fucker that serves as second-in-command,” Oliver said, scowling like saying the bastard’s name left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Jeez, Darling, did he piss in your Cheerios or something?” Marcus laughed as he took a few knives from Ghost, who’d pulled them out of the board.
“He accosted Oli outside the bathroom,” Carlos said, taking the remaining knives from Ghost and lining up to throw them.
Out of all of them, Carlos was the worst shot.
The knife spun a couple of times and bounced right off the target when the dull edge hit at an angle.
Ghost quickly stepped to the side to avoid getting hit, cursing softly and shooting Carlos a dark look.
“Careful, Chichi, I still want my nuts,” Ghost muttered.
“You already got one kid,” Carlos pointed out. “Sure you don’t want a free vasectomy?”
Ghost replied but Aberlour couldn’t hear.
“What does he mean he accosted you?” Aberlour asked Oliver while Marcus stood next to him with his arms crossed, as they waited for Oli to answer.
“It’s nothing,” Oli replied, waving it off. “Just Navy assholes being Navy assholes. Nothing we haven’t seen before,” he assured them.
Aberlour didn’t believe a single word.
“Chichi, spill!” Aberlour barked suddenly, startling Carlos as he was about to throw again. The knife arced downward and slipped out of his hand, which sent it sailing to the floor to land mere inches from Ghost’s feet.
“Jesus!” Ghost exclaimed as he jumped to avoid getting stabbed.
Carlos ignored him.
“Fuck off, Abe, I told you it was fine,” Oliver protested, casting a speaking look at Carlos warning him to keep his trap shut.
Carlos shrugged apologetically at Oliver and proceeded to report what happened.
“Clarence was standing outside the bathroom, just—waiting? I was heading in to take a leak and saw him just waiting there. When Oli came out, he grabbed his arm and pushed him against the wall. Don’t know what he said to Darling, but it didn’t look like he was saying hello, if you catch my drift.”
Everyone turned to Oliver, who turned bright scarlet under their scrutiny. He was pissed, that much was obvious. Aberlour just wasn’t sure what or who was the source.
Aberlour, on the other hand, was beyond furious.
He’d known from the start that there was a strong possibility this would turn into a real shit show.
Special Forces teams rarely got along. Too much testosterone, everyone living in tight quarters.
But they hadn’t done anything to provoke the SEAL guys yet.
They’d just sat in a meeting. Where did the asshole get off threatening Oli?
“What did he say?” Aberlour asked, taking a step in Oliver’s direction, eyes narrowed, tone unyielding. He did his best to maintain his composure even though all he could see was red.
Oliver swallowed, and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe this bullshit. His jaw clenched tightly, he straightened his shoulders, and faced Aberlour like he was preparing for an inspection—or a fight.
“That’s a fucking order, Staff Sergeant Darling!” Aberlour rarely had to pull rank on his guys. So that meant that when he did, they were more inclined to respond to his orders.
“Lieutenant Clarence told me the ship was—” he hesitated for a split second, jaw ticking with annoyance, “ —was a little small for pretty boys to be walking around unsupervised, Staff Sergeant Aberlour, sir.”
Aberlour wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but that wasn’t it.
“The fuck?” Carlos gave a surprised snort.
“Did he say anything else?” Aberlour asked, striving for an even tone, despite his growing rage. They’d been threatened by plenty of other military men before. God knew they’d faced their fair share of sociopaths in bootcamp, but this kind of sleezy behavior? It took predation to a whole new level.
“No,” Oliver bit out, clearly still unhappy.
“Did he—” Aberlour swallowed against the bile in his throat.
“Did the lieutenant initiate any other types of physical contact other than the ones Chichi just described?” Aberlour asked, tone cold—professional.
If he lost control now, he’d be hunting down Lieutenant Clarence and feeding him to the fishes.
“Let it go, Abe, it’s not—” Oliver said, shaking his head.
“Answer the fucking question, Staff Sergeant!” he roared, anger seeping out of every pore.
Oliver squared his shoulders, his nostrils flaring in silent fury. He stared Aberlour down.
Briefly, Aberlour feared Oliver would actually refuse to obey a direct command.
“Sir, no, sir!” Darling responded, tone sharp with anger.
Aberlour swallowed hard against the hot rage that had been steadily building and nodded.
It was already too much. If Abe had listened to his inner demons, he’d be out the door and waterboarding the asshole in the Pacific Ocean by now.
The mere idea of that asshole’s slimy hands touching Oliver—pressing against him, taking what wasn’t his.
Fuck. It was enough to make his blood boil, and Aberlour was an impulsive man at the best of times.
“Can’t believe you got hit on by a fucking Navy SEAL,” JD said, completely flabbergasted, but also looking amused. He clearly wasn’t viewing this situation through the same lens as Aberlour was.
“More like sexually harassed if you ask me,” Marcus remarked, thoroughly disgusted.
“He was just trying to get under my skin,” Oliver said dismissively.
“I don’t know man, sounds more like he was trying to get under you,” JD retorted, then barked a laugh that surprised everyone.
Aberlour whipped around, fury in his eyes. “Cut it out!” he barked at JD, who stilled instantly.
Abe took a deep breath and forced himself to unclench his fists.
“Anything like that happens again—hell, if he so much as looks at you the wrong way, you tell me, understood?” He glared at Oliver, making it obvious this was non-negotiable.
Oliver, of course, couldn’t help arguing anyway.
“Honestly, Dumber, it was just—”
“You will tell me!” Aberlour growled back.
Oliver shut up, looking mutinous, but he gave a sharp nod.
“Maybe we should report this,” Marcus suggested.
Aberlour shook his head. He didn’t need to ask Oli to know he’d never accept Aberlour’s sending his report up the chain of command.
Besides, it was the word of a Navy SEAL officer against the word of Oliver.
Aberlour knew his command, as well as that of the SEALs, would not take his report seriously.
“We ignore it. Pretend like nothing happened. We’ll be off this boat in two days, and then, hopefully, we’ll never have to see that asshole again.
In the meantime, you keep your mouths shut.
I don’t want anyone stepping out of line.
We’re not getting reprimanded or kicked off this goddamned ship because of some fucking lowlife SEALs,” he declared, making direct eye contact with each of his men.
All of them gave a curt nod, although several frowned in annoyance.
“If anything else happens involving any of those fuckwads, then report it to me immediately, and I’ll deal with it,” he promised them, fury clawing at his gut.
“Yeah? How you going to do that?” Marcus asked, sounding a little snarky.
“Just report it to me. I told you I’d handle it.”
Marcus was still staring at him, one eyebrow raised, seemingly reluctant to accept Aberlour’s promise.
Without a word, Aberlour snatched one of Marcus’ knives and flung it at the board. He was a good five feet behind the throwing line, but the knife struck the bullseye dead center anyway.
“I’ll deal with it,” he repeated, giving Oli one last look of warning before walking out.
Aberlour’s plan for them to avoid trouble was going well.
The two Special Forces teams were running different missions, so they weren’t required to attend the same meetings, which meant their paths hadn’t crossed over the past day and a half.
The night before they were due to depart the ship, Team Specter was having dinner in the mess hall.
The SEALs sat together on the opposite side of the room, apparently adopting the same plan of keeping their distance.
Of course, it couldn’t last. It was merely the calm before the storm, as it turned out.
“Man, I miss my mom’s mashed potatoes,” JD complained, as the white glob on his fork dropped back to his plate, sending drops of gravy flying.
“Don’t let the mess duty guys hear you say that, or they’ll put rat poison in your porridge,” Marcus warned, nodding towards the Navy cooks serving sailors.
Aberlour snorted as he shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.
They had all the flavor of wallpaper paste, but Aberlour didn’t much care.
His food was warm, and he hadn’t had to cook anything, so that was good enough for him.