Chapter 1
July 7th, 2024
Bo Beckett
“O perator Beckett, report to Academic Operations.”
Yeah, in a fucking minute.
I took a swig of my coffee and stepped into the elevator, where Coach stood with his own coffee. Judging by the bed head and sleep lines on his cheek, he’d just had a nap.
“Do you realize we’re about to accept recruits born in 2000?” I asked.
The button for the third floor had already been pushed.
He frowned at me. “I see you woke up and chose violence today. File that under shit I don’t need to be reminded of.”
I chuckled.
“2000,” he muttered into his go-mug. “Damn babies.”
Yup. Too many of the old fuckers were retiring too. Sydney had left the building when the last class had graduated the other week, and we barely saw Mr. Daniels anymore. Quinlan, TJ, and Coach ran Hillcroft these days, and Coach was just a year older than me.
“Happy birthday, by the way,” he said.
I side-eyed him. “I forgot you knew.”
He smirked and clapped me on the shoulder. “I may have told Em and Danny too. I swear it just slipped out.”
Asshole.
The elevator dinged, and he walked out first.
“I don’t think it’s good that our head of field ops is running his fucking mouth,” I told him.
He laughed.
What happened to confidentiality? I didn’t even know that fucker’s first name.
We arrived outside Danny’s office, and Coach knocked before he opened the door.
As expected, Danny sat behind his desk, looking like he hated the world, while sorting through files. Poor guy. Raised up to be out in the field as one of the best operators this agency had ever seen, but a number of injuries and being on the wrong side of fifty had now confined him to more desk work. Luckily for him, it was mostly at the start of each term. And it was his own fault. He was incredibly invested in what our recruits learned.
“Got any more interviews for me?” Coach asked.
Danny picked up a stack of files. “These are all ready for the second round, and these…” He grabbed a smaller stack. “Get these to Doc. They’re ready for med-eval.”
Hey, so was I. I had my appointment with Doc tomorrow morning, and he’d hopefully clear me for more fieldwork. I wasn’t as angry anymore. Or rather, I could control it better.
“Here it fuckin’ is,” Coach muttered, glancing at one file. “Born in 2000. This one, 2001.”
“I don’t wanna hear that shit,” Danny bitched. “Get outta my office.”
“Are you gonna tell me what I’m teaching first?” Coach drawled. “I didn’t come into work on a Sunday because it’s fun to wander the halls.”
“Oh, right.” Danny dug for something underneath all the paper. “You and Beckett will cover the orientation this year and stay on as their mentors, and other than that… Here.” More paperwork. “Intel and communications. You’ll have Paul with you, as usual.”
Fuck me, mentor ? That meant… Goddammit, no more long-term stints overseas. At most, I’d get assigned one week here and there.
“Okay, good. I’ll arrange a meeting with him and River. Adios, buttercups.” Coach was more than happy to walk out.
So it was true? The Tenleys were coming back? River and Reese Tenley had retired five or six years ago, but some shit always went down, and then operators came back for one reason or another.
Those twin brothers were crazy enough to return, though it might have something to do with the guy they were with. I didn’t know what it was called these days—Triad? Throuple? They were in one with another guy who was taking Sydney’s spot as our martial arts instructor.
“Have a seat, birthday boy,” Danny said. “I remember turning forty-three…”
“I’d be worried if you didn’t, buddy.” I sat down in one of the chairs. “You’re not that old.”
He smacked a kiss at me. “Thanks.”
I smiled.
“Since it’s your birthday, I’m giving you first pick,” he said. He pointed at three tall stacks of files and applications. “The first one—government guard dogs in need of the regular shit. Riot control, de-escalation, and communication. Second pile, first-round interviews with applicants—it’s our last batch for the year. Third pile, advancement classes for junior operators.”
I made a face. Where was the fourth option?
I reached forward and reluctantly went with the interviews. At least they’d be over soon. The other two would require committing to months of training.
“Good choice.” Danny leaned back in his seat and threaded his fingers across his stomach. “So, I talked to Em…”
Oh, here we fucking go. I rolled my eyes and slumped back in the chair. That guy—he needed to retire. Emerson fucking Payne had earned his last name. I’d been the last operator he’d mentored before retreating to “consulting,” but he came in an awful lot and always had his nose in other people’s business. He was turning into the resident daddy who worried about everyone.
“I’m here for my schedule, not therapy,” I reminded him.
I cared for Emerson a whole lot, and I’d looked up to him from the moment I’d met him. He had roughly twenty years on me, give or take—definitely give—a few years, and the life he’d led… Fuck. He was a hero. Former operator with the British SAS, senior operator here, experience in training Green Berets—the list went on. But he was done . He should stay at home on the farm he shared with Danny, cuddle their fucking rescue dogs, and wait for the hubby to come home. I couldn’t handle another “friendly reminder” about my mental health from Em.
“They’re not mutually exclusive in your case,” Danny said. “What do you think Doc’s gonna say tomorrow? Be real, Bo.”
I sighed and scrubbed a hand over my face.
Honestly? He’d green-light me for ops again, but he’d probably want me to start off easy. Besides, I couldn’t take on a longer assignment while my old one remained unsolved and collected dust.
“I know I’m good to go,” I said firmly. “But I’m guessing he’ll recommend shorter stints for a while first. And considering I’ll be stuck here full-time with recruits…”
He nodded and opened a drawer. “So what you’re saying is, you’ll be home often enough to take on three…four…classes?”
“With orientation and mentoring, three,” I replied.
“Fair enough.” He had two printouts for me. “I want you to teach your survival class again, with emphasis on wildlife in South America. It looks like we’re sending a lot of operators down there this year too.”
No wonder. A large cartel had practically imploded last year, resulting in power vacuums and gang wars.
I’d found out some of our guys had been involved in the unraveling when the Tenleys had made the evening news. No more undercover work for them.
I checked the second printout and nodded to myself. I’d be in charge of water qual too. That was fine. I was qualified to teach four classes, and I’d taken on the two I liked the most.
“Was there anything else? Otherwise, I’ll get started on the interviews.”
“You’re free to go,” he replied. “Wouldn’t hurt if you brought Alex over for dinner sometime. It’s been a while since we saw her.”
Yeah, I’d get right on that.
* * *
I found a quiet corner in the library on the second floor, an area that wouldn’t be quiet for much longer. This year, we were taking on a whopping sixteen recruits, and they’d spend much of their time in here come August.
Sixteen didn’t sound like a lot based on the number that applied to join us every year, but this would be one of our biggest recruiting years since the early 2000s. War was on the horizon again, and we didn’t have any time to waste.
Wanting to get it over with, I started by removing applications with zero military experience. Step two, remove those who had four or more years left of Reserve commitment. A year or two was no problem; service members who were no longer on active duty weren’t likely to get called back in at this point, aside from a training rotation about once a year?—
I grimaced as I spotted one guy’s birth date. Born in 2002? Fuck no, kid. You can wait another couple of years.
Four of the applicants had only checked domestic work as their preference, so I made a special pile just for them.
After that, I had approximately twenty applications left, and now I could actually start reading them properly. At least their MOS, expertise, and experiences. About ninety percent of our recruits were former Army or USMC, but infantry—despite being the most common type of service member—was not as common among those who wanted to join Hillcroft. And we needed infantry now. Everyone applying for something within intelligence, tech, or logistics was wait-listed.
It’d been like this the past couple of years, since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Service members retired and stayed away, or they simply remained in the service. In 2022, we’d had so few applicants that we’d accepted recruits without military experience.
“Bingo.” Another rare infantry gem. Six years in, two NATO exercises in the Baltics, a nine-month stint in Germany, two years left in the Reserve… You couldn’t ask for more in a peacetime soldier.
Born in 2000. Of-fucking-course.
Name—
“What the…”
Leighton Watts?
As in…?
Was it actually him?
I flipped to the last page, and there it was. A black-and-white webcam shot of Little Mr. “Thank you for talking to me.”
I hadn’t heard from that little shit in three years.
He’d texted me twice during basic training, and then nothing until he’d been promoted. Once more when he’d happily announced, with four exclamation points, that he was officially 5’9”. In all caps, he’d let me know he was finally average height “for real.”
Maybe he’d become too tall to hear his phone going off in his pocket, ’cause he sure hadn’t responded to my last two messages.
Judging by his application, his career in the Army hadn’t been wasted.
I placed his application in the pile of those who were about to get a letter from Hillcroft with the time and date for their first interview.
* * *
July 25th, 2024
Was it River or Reese? No, it was River. Had to be.
I carried my lunch over to the table where he was sitting with Coach, and I set my tray down with a clank.
“As I live and breathe …it’s an OG Tenley.”
River’s mouth twitched, and he narrowed his eyes at me. “Beckett. I see you’re still here.”
“It was touch and go last week when I sparred with Shay downstairs,” I informed him and sat down next to Coach. “I don’t know what kind of Tinder you and Reese found him on, but he’s fuckin’ lethal.”
I could hold my own for the most part, of course, but there was no denying Hillcroft had taken on one hell of a martial arts champion. I didn’t know how old he was, if he’d reached thirty yet. And there was something about him that was both sweet and kind and…and he had an edge that let me know he’d lived a hundred lives already.
River sat a little straighter and nodded with a dip of his chin. “Damn right.”
Coach nudged me. “I was thinkin’ you and Shay could come up with a challenge for water quals. Throw a little self-defense into the deep end of the pool.”
“With full gear?” I smirked. “I’ll talk to him next week.” I cut into my meatloaf and changed the topic. “By the way, are the final sixteen ready?”
“Almost. The last six are seeing Doc on Monday,” Coach replied.
“Do you happen to remember if a Leighton Watts has qualified?” I asked next.
I’d been too busy to conduct any interviews myself. Doc had cleared me for field ops, with the big caveat that I had to wait until my last case had been solved. But nevertheless, I’d dived into preparation for classes and my own training. Hence, my sparring with Shay Tenley.
“Yup, I definitely remember him,” he said. “I had him for the third interview this week. He’s one of those—he’ll either go far as hell, or he’ll crash and burn in a matter of weeks.”
I knitted my brows. “What makes you think that?”
“He’s living on autopilot,” he answered. “He scored too well for me to just dismiss him, but I’m not convinced his head is in the game.”
Hm.
That didn’t sound great. I’d had similar concerns when I’d met him six years ago.
I opened my mouth to respond, only to snap it shut when I saw River observing me.
“No,” I told him. “You keep your psychoanalyzing bullshit to yourself, man.”
He tapped a finger to his temple. “You think I can turn this sweet moneymaker off?”
Fucking hilarious.
Coach wagged his fork at him. “Save it for intel. I’ll need your help with the goddamn King operation.”
I’d heard about that case. We had six operators working in pairs, and they’d been stuck for months with no new leads. Just endless hours of stakeouts and dead ends.
I knew the feeling.
My own case occupied my mind too much for me to care about anything else, so after I finished my lunch, I wished Coach and River a good weekend before I took the elevator, swiped my ID card, and went up to Operations Central on four.
I had five minutes to spare before my weekly session with Doc.
Most floors looked the same with their pale gray walls and black linoleum floors, but the eastern side of the fourth was one of the exceptions. Everything here was locked down behind thicker walls, reinforced steel, and security systems, and the entire floor ran on its own microgrid. Cell service was a pipe dream, only senior operators had clearance—and only to some parts—and the walls were covered in yellow warning signs with protocols for various emergencies.
After swiping my card once more, I walked past one operations room after another, each containing equipment and technology worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, until I reached the end of the corridor where Coach and a few others had their offices.
I knocked on Shira’s door and hoped she was in. She was supposed to be.
We’d gone through recruit training and selection together, and she’d headed straight for Intel, while I’d aimed for a life in the field.
The door unlocked with a mechanical whirr, meaning it was okay to enter.
I poked my head in and spotted her behind her desk.
The past nine, almost ten months…she’d had that sympathetic smile for me.
“Hey,” I said. “Any updates?”
“You’ll be the first to know, hon,” she replied. “Hyatt is flying in two new operators on Monday. They’ll be briefed first thing that morning.”
“Are they back in Mogadishu?” I asked.
“For now,” she said. “We’re making sure we didn’t miss anything.”
I released a breath and clenched my jaw. We were missing something. An entire fucking container ship couldn’t just disappear. We’d tracked it for seven goddamn months following my brother’s death, and now it was gone?
We had to find it. We had to get on board and look through it. My gut was still telling me we’d find clues about the motherfuckers who’d murdered Vince.
* * *