25. Whip ‘Em Out
Chapter twenty-five
Whip ‘Em Out
Matt
The second I step into the briefing room, I know.
This isn’t about threats at home.
We’re deploying.
The air is thick with tension. Bishop sits stiff at the table, arms crossed, jaw locked. Steele, unusually silent, doesn’t bother with his trademark smirk. Demo drums his fingers in a slow, tense rhythm—the only sound in the room.
And then my gaze lands on Mercer. Sitting there like he belongs.
My pulse spikes. Fists clench on instinct.
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck he’s doing in my war room?”
Mercer grins, smug as ever. “Miss me, Mason?”
I move.
Bishop is up in a flash, shoving me back before I can close the distance.
“Jesus Christ,” Steele mutters. “Can we get through one meeting without a homicide attempt?”
“Take a seat, Mason,” Callahan orders.
“I’ll stand.”
Callahan exhales, rubbing his temple like the headache’s already brewing. “Fine. Then shut up and listen.”
He pulls up satellite imagery of Niamey, the capital of Niger in West Africa.
Flat, sunbaked terrain. Streets cutting through the grid.
A zoomed frame locks on the U.S. Embassy compound—high walls, vehicles clustered inside.
Other windows cycle drone sweeps, a street-level CCTV clip, and a thermal overlay showing hot spots moving in convoy toward the gates.
Data scrolls along the edge: timestamps, coordinates, range rings. A countdown in every detail.
“We’re deploying to Niger. Embassy’s been compromised.
We have less than forty-eight hours before the situation turns irrecoverable. We get in, extract the intel, and get out before the entire region collapses.”
Silence settles over the room.
Hale exhales sharply. “Well, fuck.”
Callahan’s expression doesn’t shift. “Brooks is out on medical leave.”
“Don’t blame me,” Brooks says, leaning back in his chair. “Blame the motorcycle.”
Demo snorts. “Yeah, sure. Blame the motorcycle. Not the dumbass riding it, right?”
Brooks flips him off.
Callahan ignores them both. “Bravo and Charlie are both deployed.”
“Hey, boss man,” Demo pipes up. “If Brooks is taking a vacation—”
Brooks flicks a pencil at him.
“—who’s gonna patch up Steele when he gets shot in the ass?”
Steele shoots him a glare. “Not funny, Demo.”
“Not a joke, hermano. Just statistics.”
A few quiet chuckles move around the table. Even Bishop cracks a smirk.
Callahan doesn’t even blink. “Charlie’s medic is being re-called to embed with us for this mission. Make sure he’s briefed when he gets here.”
Then he drops the bomb.
“Brooks is staying behind on security detail with Mercer—watching Melina and the kids.”
The words barely register before my body reacts.“The fuck he is.”
Callahan meets my glare, unshaken. “Problem, Mason?”
I step forward, rage burning through every nerve. “Yeah. I got a fucking problem. There has to be someone else.”
“There isn’t.”
“Find someone.” My voice goes low, dangerous. “You’re not leaving this reckless asshole with my family.”
Mercer chuckles, slow and deliberate, meant to piss me off. “Family?” He tilts his head. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”
I lunge.
Bishop catches me mid-move, his forearm slamming into my chest, shoving me back before I can wrap my hands around his throat.
“Back. The fuck. Up,” Bishop grits, each syllable a warning.
Mercer’s smirks, eyes bright with amusement. “Relax, Mason. I’ll take real good care of your family.”
I rip out of Bishop’s hold and yank Mercer up by his shirt so fast his chair clatters to the floor. I shove him against the wall, my grip tight at his collar so he can’t look away. Close. Dangerous. He’s not laughing now.
“Alright, enough of this bullshit,” Demo growls, standing. His easygoing edge is gone, replaced by hard authority. “Mason’s right. Mercer’s reckless as hell—we all know it. You really want to leave Melina and the kids with him?”
“Agreed,” Bishop adds, voice like stone. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near this detail.”
Mercer’s muscles tense under my grip, hands twitching like he’s weighing whether to push back. I’ve got him pinned, my forearm pressed to his chest. He’s not going anywhere unless I let him.
“Jesus, this is exhausting,” Steele mutters. “Why don’t y’all just whip ’em out and measure already?”
Mercer’s smirk widens. “That would be no contest,” he murmurs. Then he sneers, “Just ask Mason’s girl.”
Red. All I see is red.
I slam him harder into the wall, fist curling, knuckles pulling back, ready to drive into that smug face—
Callahan’s voice cracks like a whip. “Enough!” He slams his fist on the table. “I’m done with your smart-ass mouth, Mercer. Lose it or get the fuck out of my war room. No more demotions, no more suspensions. This is your last chance to be part of this team. You fuck up, you’re gone. Period.”
I’m still breathing hard, still ready to rip Mercer apart. My grip could strangle him. My knuckles are white, pulse so loud I can barely hear.
“Mason! Stand. Down.” Callahan barks.
I don’t move. Not yet.
I can feel everyone watching, waiting for me to snap, to ignore the order and put Mercer through the goddamn wall. But Callahan is my CO. Despite every urge screaming to do otherwise, I follow orders.
I unclench my fists and shove Mercer so hard he stumbles before catching himself.
I let him go. For now.
Then I lean in, tone lethal. “You so much as breathe wrong around her, and I swear to God, suspension will be the least of your fucking worries.”
I step back, muscles still coiled, rage a caged animal inside me. Callahan’s jaw is tight, his patience razor thin. “Sit your ass down, Mason. That’s an order.”
The second Callahan dismisses the meeting, I’m out of my chair, pulse hammering in my skull. Every second I have to share air with Mercer makes me want to put my fist through something—preferably his face.
I make it three steps toward the door before Bishop’s voice stops me. “Matt.”
I exhale, teeth grinding. “Not now.”
“Yeah. Now.” He closes the distance in two strides and plants himself in front of me. “You need to lock it down before we land.”
I laugh, bitter. “You don’t think I know that?”
“You sure as hell aren’t acting like it.”
I turn on him. “He’s reckless, Bishop. You know it. Demo knows it. Hell, Steele would admit it if he actually took anything seriously.”
Steele, to his credit, actually says something useful as he reaches us. “I’m on your side, Mason. But why give him the satisfaction? Don’t let him needle you. Be the better man.”
I ignore him and keep my eyes on Bishop. “We’re leaving Melina and the kids with a guy who’s already proven he can’t handle this detail. If something happens to her—”
Bishop rubs his jaw. “I know, but you heard Callahan. We’re out of options.”
“There’s always another option,” I say, fists clenching at my sides.
“Look,” Bishop says. “Whether you like it or not, he’s a decorated SEAL. He’s got the creds. He’ll step it up because he has to. Losing your head won’t change the fact that we’re wheels up in a few hours. Focus on that.”
My jaw ticks. He’s right.
Steele claps a hand on my shoulder, grinning. “C’mon, Mason. Deep breaths. Maybe try yoga. Find your zen or some shit.”
I glare, and Steele’s grin widens. “Or don’t.”
Bishop isn’t amused, his gaze steady. “She’s going to be fine, Matt. We all made sure of that.”
“Yeah.” I force out a slow breath and roll my shoulders, pushing the tension away. But I’d be damned if I let my guard down.
If Mercer fucks up, I’ll be coming back to bury him.
***
The second I step inside, I hear her voice from the kitchen.
“You're home early,” she calls.
My breath catches at the way she says home. It isn’t really mine, not yet, but damn if I don’t want it to be.
I follow the sound to the sink. She’s rinsing a coffee mug, hair piled up with a few strands loose around her face. She looks up, smiles—then freezes when she sees me.
“What happened?” she asks.
I exhale and drag a hand down my face. “We’re being deployed.”
She swallows. “When?”
“Five hours.”
“Where?” she asks, brow tightening.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” I say, my tone softer. “I wish I could.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t protest. She swallows again and squares her shoulders. “How long?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know, babe. Could be a week, could be longer. These things have a way of taking on a life of their own.”
She breathes in, presses her lips together, and nods once. “Okay.”
Her composure guts me. I reach for her, pull her into my chest, and press my lips into her hair. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
She lets out a soft, shaky laugh. “I try.”
I slide my thumbs over her cheeks. “Brooks and Mercer are staying behind on protection detail.”
“Okay,” she says, immediately steady.
I blink. “Okay?”
She tilts her head, brows knitting. “Yeah. I mean, I hate that you’re leaving, but I knew the risk when I fell in love with you.”
My stomach twists. “Mel, you know I don’t—”
She presses a finger to my lips. “Stop. You’re struggling with this more than I am. I know you want to be here, but I also know you wouldn’t be you if you stayed.”
I let out a long breath and rest my forehead against hers.
She pulls back a fraction, watching me—really watching, like she’s weighing something heavy. “Wait… did you think I was going to lose it over Mercer?”
I hesitate. “…Yes?”
She rolls her eyes, breathes out slow. “Matt, I don’t have a problem with Mercer.”
I frown. “You should.”
She laughs, half-exasperated. “He’s reckless and cocky as hell, but… there’s something about him. Or how about a brokenness—maybe—under all that bravado. You can’t see it because you hate him.”
“I don’t hate him,” I mutter.
She arches a brow.
“Fine. I strongly dislike him,” I admit.
She smirks. “I know you don’t like him, but I trust Callahan. He wouldn’t give him this if he didn’t think he could handle it.”
I let out a short, sharp exhale, my grip tightening at her waist. “I still don’t like it.”
“I know.” She folds her hand into mine, quiet and steady.