Chapter 18 #2
Trace and Juice were sitting close together at the far end, heads bent over a tablet, probably already sorting logistics.
Kaze was circling like a hungry wolf. Zero had somehow acquired both a carving board and a loaf of bread and was slicing with surgical precision.
Reaper stood behind the stove, steak spatula in one hand, a meat thermometer in the other, wearing the kind of expression usually reserved for demolitions and fine bourbon.
Ward sat, and before he could ask for anything, Viper slid a full plate in front of him—steak, root vegetables, thick slabs of crusty bread, and a scoop of something creamy that might have been mashed parsnips.
“You cooked this?”
“No,” Viper said with a smirk. “I know my strengths, and cooking isn’t one of them.”
“It’s amazing,” Ward said after the first bite, flavor exploding on his tongue like an ambush. “Seriously, Reaper. If the Navy ever fires you, you could run a restaurant.”
“I like blowing things up too much,” Reaper replied gruffly, but the corner of his mouth twitched like the compliment had landed where it counted.
For a little while, the world narrowed to food and warmth and the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic. Ward ate until his plate was empty, then leaned back and let the weight of everything finally settle into his muscles.
Juice looked up from the tablet, eyes tired but sharp. “Trace says the Dolmen’s stable. We’re good for one more jump, if needed, but the door needs to rest after that.”
“Rest?” Viper asked.
“Recharge, I think,” Juice said. “Whatever Ward and the Fianna did to open it, it’s not endless. They’ve tied it to natural ley lines, so it can refuel over time, but if we push it, it might fracture.”
Ward nodded slowly. “We planned it that way. It’s a bridge, not a revolving door.”
Viper must have caught the slump of his shoulders because the next thing Ward knew, his hand was being gently tugged.
“Come on, Grá Croí,” Viper murmured near his ear. “You’re done for today.”
Ward stood, mostly on autopilot, and let himself be led through the den toward one of the guest rooms. Viper opened the door, pulled back the covers, and coaxed him into bed with the kind of quiet efficiency that made Ward’s chest ache.
“I’ll be in soon,” Viper promised, brushing a kiss to his temple. “Sleep now. I’ll watch your six.”
Ward was asleep before he could respond.
***
Viper shut the door to his and Ward’s room and exhaled through his nose, the tenderness of the moment evaporating the instant he turned back toward the living area.
When he stepped into the den again, the temperature felt different.
No one said a word, but postures shifted.
Kaze straightened from where he’d been lounging.
Zero looked up from his sharpening stone.
Trace passed the tablet back to Juice without a word.
“Juice,” Viper said.
The man stood, the look in his eyes sharpening instantly. “Sir.”
“Talk to me.”
“Clean footprint,” Juice reported. “We came through the woods without satellite contact. No civvies. No drones. I did a sweep with the FLIR—thermal’s cold within a ten-mile radius. No air activity. This place is still black.”
“Communication?”
“Off-grid. We’ve been radio silent since the island. I rigged a local loop off Trace’s old HAM rig in case we need shortwave, but nothing that can ping GPS or cellular.”
“Good.” Viper turned. “Reaper.”
The man uncrossed his arms from the corner. “I made contact. Guy I know out of Djibouti. Runs logistics through unofficial channels. No flag, no ID, no questions.”
“He’ll move us?”
“He’ll move ghosts if we need him to.” Reaper nodded once. “Says he can pick us up on the river east of here and run us down to a private slip on the coast. From there, it’s twelve hours to our intercept point off the Horn. He’ll have a skiff and a fabricated rescue plan locked and loaded.”
“What’s the cover?”
“Standard misread. We claim the satellite data was off. Blast radius didn’t hit us directly—we got caught in the outer shockwave, buried under debris, rode it out in a natural lava tube system.
Long trek through hell, found a comms buoy.
Civilian fishing vessel picked us up. They’ll call it dumb luck. ”
Viper rubbed the back of his neck. “Timeframe?”
“Extraction window’s tight. We move at 0500. Intercept hits just before dusk tomorrow. From there, we’ll get tagged and processed back through military channels.”
Juice cut in. “I’ve prepped the comms trail. Spoofed ID transmits for a third-party vessel. Civilian. Records show an emergency pickup logged into the port authority, but no exact coordinates. It’ll hold up long enough for the Navy to buy the story.”
“They’ll want reports,” Viper said flatly. “They’ll want blood work. Debriefs. Questions.”
“We stick to the script,” Reaper replied. “We were underground, on a PD mission. We stayed alive. It’s damn lucky we had a black job, because plausible deniability puts too many questions above most people’s pay grade.”
“And if they dig deeper?”
“Then they get to go ask the DOD for answers,” Juice said. “Or submit a Freedom of Information request. We all know how those go.”
This might work.
It might just fucking work.
Hooyah.
Viper nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Copy that. We walk out of this clean if we all have the same story. We hand any nosey bastards a FOI application and direct them toward the DOD.”
A round of nods moved through the room.
“Burn your notes. Memorize your lines. I want everyone squared away before we move.”
They’d worked together long enough that no one needed to be told twice.
Juice grabbed a marker from the counter and started diagramming the river route across a whiteboard that had been mounted near the back wall—probably once used for grocery lists, now commandeered for exfil planning.
Trace disappeared down a hallway and came back hauling a black duffel the size of a coffin, unzipped it with a grim look, and started pulling out weapons.
“Trace, inventory?” Viper asked, already moving to the island to inspect the shit the wolf was lining up along it.
“Two suppressed M4s, three SIG P320s, one .300 Blackout with a can, two shotguns, and a dozen mags each. Ammo’s boxed in the crate by the staircase. Full metal jacket, no tracers.”
Viper gave a single nod and peeled open the ammo box, inspecting each round like his life depended on it—because it did. “Body armor?”
“Level IIIA soft vests, four sets,” Trace said. “And I’ve got one ceramic plate carrier left over from my last federal contract.”
Viper looked at Reaper. “You take the plate. You’re our forward man. I want you bulletproof if it goes sideways.”
Reaper grunted an acknowledgment and started sorting weapons, double-checking each chamber and inspecting every sight with a surgeon’s patience. Zero wordlessly joined him, cleaning his own gear with a worn cloth he pulled from his back pocket.
“Radio?” Juice asked, flipping through his own kit.
“I’ve got four encrypted Motorola HTs,” Trace said. “Short-range only, but clean. Channel 7 for push-to-talk. Batteries are full.”
Juice caught one midair as Trace tossed it to him. “I’ll rig us up some earpieces. Reaper, you still carry that tactical glue?”
Reaper reached into his duffel and pulled out a small tube of epoxy. “Never leave home without it.”
“Good. We’ll seal the PTT cords to the mics. I don’t want ocean water or static screwing us mid-exfil.”
Kaze came up behind them and cracked open another crate, this one filled with old tactical gear, belts, sheaths, and gloves. “You’ve been sitting on a damn armory, Trace. What the hell did you do out here before we showed up?”
Trace gave a dry smile. “Contractor work. Some domestic, some not. I keep my exit plans loaded.”
“Appreciated,” Viper muttered, grabbing a roll of black tape to mark mags. “Color code them. Red stripe is blackout rounds, and the white is subsonic. I don’t want to guess if we’re under fire.”
“Done,” Juice said, already halfway through his stack.
The room had fallen into a rhythm as weapons were clicked into place. Gear was laid out, checked, and re-checked. No one talked much. They didn’t need to. His men were Tier One Operators. Every move had a purpose, and every silence was filled with understanding.
Viper paused only once, staring down at his assembled team—his brothers—and feeling, for just a second, the weight of what they were walking into.
He hoped to God the brass were more thrilled to have one of the best teams on the planet back alive than they were about how the hell they managed to survive a volcanic blast.
Whatever happens, we’ll face it like we always have—together, loaded for war and ready for anything.
He glanced at the clock on the far wall. “We step off at 0500. That gives us six hours. Check your kits, hydrate, and get your heads right. This next phase is where the real war starts.”
A chorus of ‘yes Sir’s followed his directive, and he knew they’d follow it because each and every one of them had a stake in the outcome.
Kaze cracked his neck. “I’m taking the bunk near the stairwell. If anyone steals my boots, I will kill you.”
“You’re the only one who wears a size clown.” Juice was already walking out. “You’re safe.”
Reaper followed, nodding once to Viper. “See you at zero-dark.”
Trace clapped a hand over Viper’s shoulder before disappearing with Juice down the corridor.
Within minutes, the den was quiet again, and Viper exhaled slowly, then looked toward the room where he’d left Ward hours earlier.
The warmth from the fire still lingered, but the edge of reality was creeping back in.
His men were ready. The weapons were checked.
The plan was solid. Now came the hard part—rest.
He grabbed the last bottle of water off the table, slung his sidearm, and followed the quiet path toward his and Ward’s room.
He stepped into the dim room and closed the door quietly behind him.
Ward lay curled beneath the covers, one arm thrown over his head, breathing soft and steady.
Moonlight spilled through the window, silvering the shadows across his bare throat and cheek, and Viper stood there for a long beat, just watching the man who owned his heart, body, and soul.
After the last few days they’d had, his man, his love, his Grá Croí was utterly wrecked by exhaustion.
I still can’t believe that I’m yours and you’re mine.
He moved quietly, unbuckling his shoulder rig and setting the weapon down with care. He pulled his boots off and stripped out of his shirt. A sigh slipped through his chest like a pressure valve loosening after too many hours sealed shut.
He padded barefoot across the wooden floor and slid into bed behind Ward, curling his body around him. Ward stirred instantly, a soft sound catching in his throat as he rolled back into him, their legs tangling like they’d done it a thousand times before.
“Hey,” Ward murmured, voice low and sleep-rough.
“Hey.” Viper pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, his arm wrapping low around Ward’s waist. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Ward whispered, thumb brushing Viper’s knuckles. “Been half-awake waiting for you.”
Viper held him tighter, grounding himself in the familiar rhythm of Ward’s heartbeat and the pulse of their mate bond. “Everything’s in motion. We move at five.”
Ward didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, he asked, “Scared?”
He could’ve lied. Could’ve said ‘nah,’ or ‘I’ve got this,’ or ‘SEALs don’t get scared .
’ But this wasn’t a debrief with the commanding officer.
This was Ward asking him a question, and he, of all people, deserved an honest answer.
“Yeah,” he admitted, burying his face into the curve of Ward’s shoulder.
“Not of the op. Not of what’s waiting on the other side. I’m scared of losing this. Losing you.”
“You won’t,” Ward said without hesitation. “Not unless you run, and I know damn well you don’t run from anything.”
Viper gave a broken laugh. “Only into fire.”
“Exactly.” Ward twisted to face him in the dark and placed his hand flat to his chest over the warrior symbol that illustrated what they were to each other. “You never have to run alone again.”
Their eyes met, and Viper cupped Ward’s jaw.
His thumb brushed over the spot just beneath his cheekbone.
“I’ve fought wars.” He almost didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.
“I’ve watched men die for our flag and country.
But I’ve never once looked at a battlefield and thought, ‘I’d stay here forever if it meant keeping someone I loved safe.
’” His voice cracked just slightly. “Until you.”
Ward blinked fast, breath catching. “You mean that?”
“Every goddamn syllable.” Viper pressed their foreheads together. “I love you. Not just in the I’d-die-for-you way. In the I-want-all-the-years-we-can-get way. The Sunday-morning-slow kind. The every-breath-you-take-is-mine kind.”
Ward swallowed hard. “You just said I love you like you mean it.”
“I do mean it. I love you.” He crossed drew his finger across his heart in the shape of a cross. “I vow it.”
Ward’s hands found his face, and his fingers threaded into his hair. “Then here’s mine.” His voice shook, but his gaze didn’t waver. “I love you. In the I’d-cross-worlds-for-you kind of way. In the I-wake-up-because-you’re-beside-me way. In the I’ll-fight-like-hell-to-keep-this way.”
Viper kissed him—slow, deep, and unhurried. When they finally parted, Ward was smiling, eyes glassy, breath tangled with his.
“Night, baby,” Ward whispered. “I love you.”
Viper didn’t even blink. “I love you, too. Night.”