Sexy SEAL Box Set: A SEAL's Seduction / A SEAL's Surrender / A SEAL's Salvation / A SEAL's Kiss. Tawny Weber
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Tawny Weber
And they who for their country die shall fill an honored grave, for glory lights the soldier’s tomb, and beauty weeps the brave... —Joseph Drake
A LOUD BLAST FILLED the air as seven guns exploded in succession. Once, twice, thrice. Twenty-one shots. Faces implacable, the honor guard shouldered their guns and stood as tall and rigid as the oaks lining the cemetery.
The echoing silence broke when the bugler sounded taps. Lieutenant Blake Landon stood at attention, his eyes narrowed against the bright morning sun. The chaplain’s words of honor, bravery and sacrifice rolled over him like the gentle breeze, teasing, hinting but not really making an impact.
There was no mention of Phil’s sense of humor, of how he always carried a rubber snake on missions to break the tension. That he’d hit a McDonald’s the minute they were stateside for a bagful of French fries. The chaplain didn’t know that before jumping from a plane, Phil always kissed his mother’s picture, then rubbed a rabbit foot. He wouldn’t mention Phil’s love for the beach. It didn’t matter how godforsaken hot their assignment might have been, the minute he was off duty, he’d hit the beach—sun, surf and girls in bikinis. He’d often said those were his reward for getting shot at on a regular basis.
But that wasn’t the Phil they were honoring right now.
Here, at Arlington National Cemetery, Lieutenant Phil Hawkins was a soldier. Here, the sacred tradition of honoring the noble warrior focused on service, dedication and sacrifice to country.
The entire SEAL platoon in attendance, Blake stood shoulder to shoulder with his team. His squadmates. The men he served with, fought with, trained with. Prepared to offer up the ultimate sacrifice for their country.
Later tonight, they’d all celebrate Phil, the man. Their squadmate, buddy, friend. The Joker.
He clenched his jaw, his eyes glancing off the flag-draped casket, then shifting to the distant trees again when the captain began the ritual of folding the red, white and blue material. As the chaplain offered his final words of comfort, the captain gently placed the folded flag into Mrs. Hawkins’s hands.
Blake’s focus locked on that triangle of fabric and didn’t waver as the funeral finished. The people around him moved, shifted, left. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
They’d gone through BUDS training together. He, Phil and Cade. All cocky as hell, all determined to push their limits, to be superheroes. The Three Amigos, the rest of the team had called them. Inseparable.
Now permanently separated.
A large, beefy man joined him, scattering his thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, Blake directed his attention to the admiral. His hair as white and gleaming as his uniform, the older man topped Blake’s own six feet by at least two inches.
“Lieutenant,” Admiral Pierce greeted quietly. “I know this is a hard loss for you and your team. You have my sympathies.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blake said, his words stiff as he watched Phil’s mom softly smooth her fingers over the folded flag, as if running her fingers over her son’s cheek. Blake cringed when she lost it, her slender shoulders shaking as she sobbed into the triangle.
Desperate for distance, he ripped his gaze away. He looked at the trees. Oaks, mighty and strong, stood tall. Symbolic, probably. But he was having trouble finding solace.
“It never gets easier,” the admiral said.
“Should it?” Blake asked, looking at the older man. His superior. His trainer. His mentor.
“No.” The admiral glanced over at the trees. He sighed, then looked at Blake again. “No. But it’s something you’ll revisit. One way or another. Make sure you don’t let it get in your way.”
Just like that? Blake wanted to protest. To call bullshit on it being that easy to simply push the loss of his comrade, his friend, aside. But years of training, the respect he had for the man who’d recruited him to the SEALs, eliminated that thought almost before it formed. Instead, he inclined his head to indicate he’d handle it.
Clearly expecting exactly that, the admiral nodded. Then he cast an assessing glance around the graveside.
“Lieutenant Commander,” the admiral called, his words carrying over the gentle grasses and soft murmur of the milling crowd.
Cade Sullivan, Blake’s team commander and the third amigo, subtly came to attention. With a quiet word and a brush of his hand over Mrs. Hawkins’s shoulder, he turned and strode across the lawn.
“Sir?”
“I’m assigning your men leave.”
Blake and Cade exchanged looks. All it took was two seconds, a slight furrow of the brow and a shift of their shoulders to know both men were in perfect accord. They didn’t want to go on leave.
“Sir?”
“Two weeks R&R, effective immediately.”
For the second time since joining the navy—and both in the space of the last few minutes—Blake wanted to protest an order. He didn’t want time off. He needed distraction. Work. A mission. Preferably one that included blowing up large buildings and letting loose vast amounts of ammo.
Fury was like a storm, brewing and stewing inside him.
It needed an outlet. The shooting range would work. Or the base gym.
As if reading his thoughts, the admiral inclined his head, offered a stern look and added, “You’ve just finished a tense mission, and lost one of your own. I hope you have places off base to stay, as I’ll be leaving word at the gate that you’re on inactive duty until September seventeenth.”
For a second, Cade’s usual charming facade cracked, the same anger Blake was dealing with showing in the other man’s vivid green eyes. In an instant, it disappeared, and his smile—the one that lulled friend and foe alike into thinking he was a nice guy—flashed.
“Looks like it’s time for a trip home. My father will be thrilled. Thank you, sir. I’m sure the team will be excited about the R&R.”
You had to admire Cade’s talent for lying. The man had a way with sincerity that, when added to that smile, was pure gold. At least it was if you weren’t the one he was conning. The truth was, the team was going to be pissed, Cade hated visiting home and his father hated having him there. Yet the guy still smiled as if he’d just been pinned with the Congressional Medal of Honor.
That’s why Phil had always called Cade Slick. Blake was Boy Scout. By the book, a goody-goody, his whole life was focused on being prepared. On being the best SEAL he could be. And Phil? He’d been the Joker. The last thing he’d said before that bomb had blown him in two? Knock knock.
Knock knock.
Jaw