Call To Engage. Tawny Weber
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course you could. You’re a SEAL, man. More than that, you’re Poseidon.”
The men who served as SEALs were diverse, their reasons and motivations as varied as they were. But their goal, as one, was to be the best and to serve their country, the Navy, their team.
Poseidon, on the other hand, was a group of twelve men whose numbers and names never varied. Their team was built on years of trust. The men knew one another inside out, knew what made the others tick, how each man’s tick meshed with their own. Their goal was bigger than to simply be the best. Their goal was stronger than one man’s hopes. They trained beyond what the others did; they studied further than the rest. Every man on the Poseidon team held multiple ratings—including Special Ops Combat Medic—each qualified to handle everything from EODs to aviation to intelligence.
They did it because they knew that’s what it’d take to achieve their mission of absolute cohesion. They did it because their leader asked them to.
“Just remember... We are Poseidon, king of the sea. Better than best is what we be. We rule by day, we rule by night. We kick every ass that’s in our sight.”
“My favorite cadence. By the time I was done with the workouts, I was grunting it,” Elijah confessed with a laugh as they continued toward a series of low-slung buildings. There were more bodies here, uniforms crisp and faces fresh as the base made ready for the day.
He’d missed this, Elijah realized. The never-changing change that was life on a military base.
“You know you could have tapped me to work out with you. I don’t mind the extra PT, and there’s no reason you had to go it alone.”
Just like that. Chest burning with words he couldn’t say, Elijah’s laugh faded. “I appreciate it, man.”
Then, because he could see Lansky was just as uncomfortable as he at the sentiment in the air, he shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered if I did, though. You were on leave last week and nowhere to be seen. What’d you do? Fall off the face of the earth? Torres said he tried to reach you a couple of times to no avail.”
Something flashed over Lansky’s face—a different kind of discomfort—before the guy offered his own shrug. “I had things to do, my friend.”
“Female things?”
“Always.” With that and a shake of his head to indicate he didn’t want to talk about it, Lansky changed the subject. “Hell of a long break between missions. You looking forward to getting back in the game?”
“Ready and able.” To serve, and to prove himself.
Elijah had never been big on caring what other people thought about him. He’d lived his life pretty much on his terms. They were easygoing, go-with-the-flow terms that fit with the credo his father had handed down.
If he lived life to the fullest, he could live with his regrets. If he listened to his heart, he could overcome any doubts. If he walked the honest line, he could always hold his head high.
He had to admit, he’d racked up a few regrets in his thirty years. He’d lived through pain, heartbreak and a loss he didn’t expect to ever recover from. He’d listened to his heart, and, yeah, it had ended up crushed like a week-old cookie left in someone’s pocket. But had no doubt that he’d done his best.
He knew a few people—CIA, Naval Investigation, even other SEALs—wondered if Brandon Ramsey had tried to blow Elijah to hell in a clean-sweep effort to eliminate his cohorts. But the people who mattered knew better.
At least that was what he told himself.
He’d taken a hit and he’d gone down in the line of duty. But now he was back in shape. He was back on duty. And, dammit, he’d get his reputation back on track.
He wanted to believe that.
He needed to believe that.
But it wasn’t easy. Not when he had to take a slower pace than the usual double-time to cross the base. Not when he saw the looks cast his way. The speculation in people’s eyes. Without comment, Lansky matched his steps, chatting instead about random crap like box scores and the hot blonde working the PX. When they stepped into the sparse briefing room five minutes later, Elijah breathed the familiar in deeply.
Shoving both hands into the front pockets of his digies, he ignored the sudden tightness across his shoulders, the raw feeling in his gut.
It was time to report for duty.
There was no room for any of that other crap.
“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