Harvard's Education. Suzanne Brockmann

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      “Renee had a meeting tonight for the state pageant.” Lucky sat down at the table and then kicked out a chair for Harvard to join them. He filled first Bobby’s mug from the pitcher, then poured some beer for Wes. “You want me to get you a glass?” he asked Harvard.

      “No, thanks.” Harvard shook his head as he sat down. “What’s that title Renee just won? Miss Virginia Beach?”

      “Miss East Coast Virginia,” Lucky told him.

      “Pretty girl. Young girl.”

      Lucky flashed his movie-star-perfect grin as if the fact that his girlfriend probably hadn’t yet celebrated her nineteenth birthday was something to be proud of. “Don’t I know it.”

      Harvard had to smile. To each his own. Personally, he liked women with a little more life experience.

      “Hey, Crash,” Wes called in his megaphone voice. “Pull up a chair.”

      William Hawken, Alpha Squad’s newest temporary member, sat across from Harvard, meeting his eyes and nodding briefly. Hawken was one spooky individual, dark and almost unnaturally quiet, seemingly capable of becoming invisible upon demand. At first glance, he was not particularly tall, not particularly well-built, not particularly handsome.

      But Harvard knew better than to go by a first glance. The man had been nicknamed Crash for his ability to move soundlessly in any circumstance, under any condition. Crash was anything but average. On closer examination, his eyes were a steely shade of blue with a sharpness to them that seemed almost to cut. Crash didn’t so much look around a room—he absorbed it, memorized it, recorded it, probably permanently. And beneath his purposely loose-fitting clothes, his body was that of a long-distance runner—lean and muscular, without an extra ounce of fat anywhere.

      “Grab a glass and have a beer,” Lucky told Crash.

      He shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said in his deceptively quiet voice. “Beer’s not my drink. I’ll wait for the waitress.”

      Harvard knew that Crash was part of this FInCOM project at Captain Catalanotto’s special request. He was in charge of organizing all the “terrorist” activities the combined SEAL/ FInCOM team would be running into over the next eight weeks. He’d been the strategical force behind tonight’s paint-ball slaughter. The score so far was Crash—one, CSF team—zero.

      Harvard didn’t know him very well, but Hawken’s reputation was close to legendary. He’d been part of the SEALs’ mysterious Gray Group for years. And apparently he’d been involved in countless black operations—highly covert, hush-hush missions that were as controversial as they were dangerous. SEALs were allegedly sent into other countries to perform tasks that even the U.S. Government claimed to know nothing about—neutralization of drug lords, permanent removal of political and military leaders preaching genocide and so on. The SEALs were forced to play God, or at least take on the roles of judge, jury and hangman combined. It was not a job Harvard would have relished doing.

      If the SEALs on a black op succeeded at their mission, they’d get little or no recognition. And if they failed, they were on their own, possibly facing espionage charges, with no chance of the government stepping forward and accepting the responsibility.

      No wonder Crash didn’t drink beer. He probably had an ulcer the size of an aircraft carrier from the stress.

      He’d no doubt come here tonight in an attempt to better get to know the SEALs who made up Alpha Squad—the men he’d be working with for the next eight weeks.

      Which reminded Harvard of why he’d come here. He glanced at the three FInCOM agents sitting at the bar. Still no sign of P.J. “Has anyone tried to make friends with the finks tonight?”

      “Besides you trying to get close to P. J. Richards, you mean? Trying to hold her hand out in the woods?” Wes Skelly laughed at his miserable joke. “Jeez, Senior Chief, only time in my memory that you were the first man down in a paint-ball fight.”

      “That was my paint ball that hit you, H.,” Lucky drawled. “I hope it didn’t hurt too badly.”

      “Hey, it’s about time he found out what it feels like just being hit,” Bobby countered in his sub-bass-woofer voice.

      “I couldn’t resist,” Lucky continued. “You were such a great, big, perfect target, standing there like that.”

      “I think Harvard let you shoot him. I think he was just trying to score some sympathy from P.J.,” Wes said. “Is she hot or is she hot?”

      “She’s a colleague,” Harvard said. “Show a little respect.”

      “I am,” Wes said. “In fact, there are few things I respect more than an incredibly hot woman. Look me in the eye, H., and tell me that you honestly don’t think this lady is a total babe.”

      Harvard had to laugh. Wes could be like a pit bull when he got hold of an idea like this. He knew if he didn’t admit it now, Wes would be on him all night until he finally caved in. He met Crash’s amused gaze and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “All right. You’re right, Skelly. She’s hot.”

      “See? Harvard was distracted,” Bobby told Lucky. “That’s the only reason you were able to hit him.”

      “Yeah, his focus was definitely not where it should have been,” Lucky agreed. “It was on the lovely Ms. Richards instead.” He grinned at Harvard. “Not that I blame you, Senior Chief. She is a killer.”

      “Are you gonna go for her?” Wes asked. “Inquiring minds want to know. You know, she’s short, but she’s got really great legs.”

      “And a terrific butt.”

      Wes smiled blissfully, closing his eyes. “And an incredible set of—”

      “Well, this is really fun.” Harvard looked up to see P. J. Richards standing directly behind him. “But aren’t we going to talk about Tim and Charlie and Greg’s legs and butts, too?” Her big brown eyes were open extra wide in mock innocence.

      Silence. Dead, total silence.

      Harvard was the first to move, pushing back his chair and standing up. “I have to apologize, ma’am—”

      The feigned curiosity in her eyes shifted to blazing hot anger as she glared at him from her barely five-foot-two-inch height.

      “No,” she said sharply. “You don’t have to apologize, Senior Chief Becker. What you have to do is learn not to make the same disrespectful mistakes over and over and over again. What you as men have to do is learn to stop dissing women by turning them into nothing more than sex objects. Great legs, a terrific butt and an incredible set of what, Mr. Skelly?” She turned her glare to Wesley. “I have to assume you weren’t about to compliment me on my choice of encyclopedias, but were instead commenting on my breasts?”

      Wes actually looked sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry, ma’am.”

      “Well, you get points for honesty, but that’s all you get points for,” P.J. continued tartly. She looked from Wes to Bobby to Lucky. “You were the first three tangos I shot out there tonight, weren’t you?” She turned СКАЧАТЬ