Call To Engage. Tawny Weber

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       CHAPTER TWO

      “YOU BOYS ARE LATE.”

      Neither Elijah nor Lansky bothered checking the time. They knew it was T minus five. If they were late, Savino would already be there. And instead of milling about the room, the men would be in their seats.

      Captain Milt Jarrett was the military version of a worrywart, though. It was his job to keep them on track, to keep things tidy and—something beyond Elijah’s ken—to keep their missions on budget.

      “My fault. I was whining about heartbreak,” Lansky said, pulling a face. “You know how that is, right, Jarrett? The way I hear it, every woman you’ve been with has dumped you.”

      Jarrett laughed along with the rest of the room. Lansky just grinned. Since the ribbing had put him at ease, Elijah started to pull his hands from his pockets and noticed a slip of paper in one. Weird. He hadn’t been in uniform in months. He pulled it out to see what he’d left there that’d made it through laundry detail while Jarrett returned fire.

      “The way I heard it, Lansky, you don’t have a heart to break. Bummer, that. The rest of you, if you’ve finished gossiping and aren’t planning to do each other’s nails, maybe we can get down to business,” Captain Jarrett called as he strode to the front of the room. He had an equal-opportunity scowl, spreading it among everyone whether they’d been late or not, were simply standing or already seated at their desks.

      The men still on their feet began moving at a leisurely pace toward the remaining empty seats. Nobody rushed. Jarrett had asshole tendencies that rubbed most of the team wrong. The only thing saving the guy was his rank and the fact that he was a brilliant strategist.

      Elijah noted that his accustomed seat to the right front of the podium was available. Whether by design or luck, he didn’t know, but he made his way over, sinking gratefully into the questionable comfort of the wooden chair. As Lansky started chatting with Diego Torres, another teammate, Elijah unfolded the paper to see what’d been left in his pocket. Scrawled in black ink over the torn corner of college-ruled notepaper was a handwritten note.

      A real friend listens until he hears the truth.

      Shit.

      What was with this morning and painful reminders? If Elijah was a man who believed in omens—and he constantly told himself that he definitely was not—he’d be having some serious worries.

      Because he recognized the handwriting as that of a former—and supposedly dead—teammate. One who’d caused intense pain to a lot of people, himself included. Jaw clenched against the memories, Elijah started to crush the paper in his fist, then thought better of it. How the hell had it gotten into his pocket? He’d roomed with Ramsey before the mission that had sent Elijah to the burn ward and Ramsey into an ash can. But he’d never seen that paper before, and he and Ramsey had never been note-sharing, or pants-sharing, kind of guys.

      Pulling his sketch pad out of his satchel, Elijah tucked the paper into the back of the pad and snagged a pencil. Then, in his usual way of working through something that puzzled him, he ran his fingers over the thick blank page, letting his mind clear and his pencil fly.

      The sounds, the chatter, the varied scents of colognes and soap all faded into the background as he sketched. Impressions, memories, imagined scenarios.

      “Dude, I missed breakfast,” Diego muttered next to him. “That’s a whole lot of ugly to offer up to an empty stomach.”

      Elijah glanced at his tablemate, then back at the sketch pad and grimaced. It was a page full of Ramsey. Full face, side view, body shots, action images. In some he’d drawn the guy to look like a movie star, in others like the devil himself. Which was the true face of the man? Did any of them show the lies? The hideous betrayal?

      Elijah would have to look closer later. For now...

      “Sorry.” He flipped to a blank page.

      Yeah. Brandon Ramsey had given the entire team a gut ache, but Diego had special reason to hate the guy. Before he could explain the drawings, the room went silent.

      “Gentlemen.”

      Commander Nic Savino’s single word was quiet, his steps easy as he strode into the room. Tall and lean despite the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Savino was a man who demanded attention without ever having to force the issue. Elijah had seen him bloody; he’d seen him drunk. He’d seen him pissed, and he’d seen him thrilled. What he’d never seen was Savino out of control.

      Savino didn’t command the entire SEAL Team 7, but he was in charge of this unit. And he was the leader of Poseidon.

      As soon as he reached the front of the room, Savino slanted Jarrett a nod. With automatic deference, the other man stepped away from the podium and took his own seat. The captain booted up his computer, the information on it flashing on the screen behind the podium with the familiar trident insignia.

      “If everyone’s ready?” Savino’s dark eyes scanned the room. Knowing he was taking in every detail, Elijah wouldn’t be surprised to find out the guy was checking their souls along with inspecting the team. “We have a mission.”

      As one the men came to attention, each using his own method of recording data. To Elijah’s right, Lansky whipped out a computer tablet and gave it a snap to release its keyboard. To his left, Torres pulled out an encrypted recording device and, being a big believer in backup, a notebook. Elijah’s own notebook was actually a sketch pad. It was filled with drawings, encrypted notes and, if he did say so himself, clever doodles.

      As he listened to his commander outline the objective, detail the plan and delineate strategy, Elijah drew. He sketched his impressions from the buildings Savino showed on the view screen. He added a helicopter in the sky, then as he considered, a few bodies in the water. Savino hadn’t mentioned a water approach yet, but given that the water was there, he would.

      That’s how Savino preferred to work his missions. He outlined, he detailed and he delineated. Then he opened the floor for input. It was one of the many reasons the man was a great leader. He inspired trust and elicited loyalty because he offered his team exactly that.

      So it was a piss-off that that trust had been betrayed by one of their own. That the team had landed under investigation because a decorated SEAL played dirty, faking his own death after stealing top secret intel to sell to enemy militants.

      Elijah jabbed the paper hard enough to snap his pencil lead. He drew air through his teeth, but it didn’t much cool the fury of his thoughts, so he tried a couple more.

      A few months back, Savino had led a small covert team in an attempt to locate and detail the traitor. They’d apprehended his coconspirator, but as far as Elijah knew, the target was still in the wind.

      Fucker.

      “Yo,” Lansky murmured, rapping Elijah on the arm with a fresh pencil. He lifted it and one brow, warning Elijah to pull his head out and focus.

      With a grimace and a nod of thanks, Elijah took the pencil and a deep breath. Using every iota of training garnered in his years of service and the determined focus that’d gotten him out of the hospital and back on duty eight months ahead СКАЧАТЬ