we are so going to get laid. Nothing like a commendation to impress the ladies.”
“Thanks for the perspective. Is there anything you don’t bring down to sex?”
“Hmm, let me think.” The other man tugged on his bottom lip, looking as if he were considering the weight of the world, before shaking his head. “Nope. I’m pretty sure the day I’m not thinking about sex will be the day you’re tossing dirt on my grave.”
Since the man hadn’t shifted focus in the ten years he’d known him, Diego had to figure Lansky was in no danger of imminent burial.
“You look like a combination of choirboy and Boy Scout. It always blows me away to realize what a complete horndog you are.”
“My looks are my secret weapon.” Lansky beamed his pearly whites, those baby blues pure innocence. “A woman looks at you, all dark and brooding, and she knows she’s looking at trouble. Me, I’m—”
“What?” Diego interrupted. “Stealth trouble?”
“Yes, sir. That I am.” Jared tapped his knuckle on the brim of his cap, then tilted his head toward the Officers’ Club. “Celebration time. On base or off?”
“Off, for sure.” But as Diego’s gaze swept over the dispersing crowd, he knew the team leader, Commander Savino, would want to offer up thanks to those who hadn’t been onstage. The rest of the team—the ones who weren’t a part of Poseidon, the support personnel. He’d give a little speech, buy a round of drinks. Public relations, Savino would call it. Pure hell, in Diego’s opinion.
“We’ve got a meeting first.” Diego jerked his head toward the long white building that held the offices of command.
Jared’s gaze swept over Savino’s back as he and a few others accompanied Admiral Cree in that general direction.
“Good times.” Jared watched two more COs join the group and muttered, “Wish the plane had been a little later.”
They headed for duty, making their way toward the low-slung offices instead of joining the crowd heading toward the freedom of the O Club. Diego loved what he did. Every damned thing about it. Except the politics. Meetings like this, with all the glad-handing and posturing, they ranked right up there with dress shoes on his list of things that sucked.
But twenty minutes later he had to admit that politics went down pretty easy when served with whiskey.
“To Poseidon.” The admiral lifted his glass, light gleaming in his steady blue gaze as it swept around the circle of men crowded into the pomp and polish of his office. “You do justice to my vision.”
They were all well trained enough to keep from smirking as they lifted their glasses in response.
“And to Lieutenant Torres for leading the latest mission to prove Poseidon’s might,” Savino added, his dark eyes assessing, his expression satisfied. Which was about as close to a grin as he got while in uniform.
A little weirded out at being toasted, Diego knocked back the rest of his drink. As the heat slid down his throat, he realized that while this might not be the pinnacle of his career, it was a pretty high peak.
As if cementing that realization, Savino aimed a finger at Diego. The admiral nodded, setting his glass on the desk before giving Diego a sharp look.
“Torres. My office, oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning. You’ll be leading Operation Hammerhead.”
With that, the admiral headed for the door, apparently leaving his office—and his bottle of Jameson—to the men.
“Gentlemen,” he said in dismissal as he swung through the door, his two aides trailing in his wake.
“Check you,” Elijah Prescott said, tossing his cap aside now that the brass had cleared out. Green eyes amused, the man leaned one hip on the desk while lifting the decanter to offer refills. “Leading another mission. A big one, from the sound of it. Hot damn, El Gato. Way to kiss brass ass.”
El Gato. The cat. That was the call sign his BUD/S team had given Diego back in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training because he moved with stealth and grace. Prescott was called Rembrandt owing to his habit of sketching his way through every spare minute. Lansky’s skills had earned him the name MacGyver. The rest of the team was similarly nicknamed, with Savino in the lead as Kahuna.
“Brass-kissing is Savino’s job,” Diego reminded them, giving his commander a grin. The man carried enough weight to put Diego in charge of higher-ranking SEALs on his recommendation alone. Fast-tracking him, Diego knew, toward that pinnacle. “Thanks, man.”
“You’ve led plenty of missions.” Savino refilled his glass, then passed the bottle to the left. “But this one can make your career.”
Diego’s gut clenched. Nerves or anticipation, one or the other. He was silent as they all waited until the bottle made it back to Savino.
“Some things in life are worth fighting for.” The commander raised his glass.
“Some things in life are worth dying for.” Lansky raised his.
“And some things,” Prescott said, giving his glass a frown before raising it high, “are better to simply walk away from.”
“The trick, of course, is knowing which is which,” Savino pointed out before jerking his chin to indicate that Diego drink up.
Formalities over, the seven men relaxed. Some refilled their glass; others said their goodbyes. Diego couldn’t get his curiosity about the upcoming mission out of his head. Knowing he’d get no details from Savino before the briefing, he decided to find a few distractions in the form of a crowd and, taking his cue from Lansky, a willing woman.
“Heading out,” he said. “Thanks for the recommendation.”
Savino simply nodded, his dark eyes inscrutable.
“Next step, DEVGRU.” Lansky smacked Diego on the back.
“Next step is leading Operation Hammerhead,” Diego corrected. But damned if that wouldn’t be sweet. DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, was the stuff of legends—like SEAL Team 6. Serving on the highest elite Special Ops team in the country was Diego’s dream. Each mission, each operation, each commendation was a step in that direction.
And he was getting closer.
“One step at a time,” Savino said as if reading his thoughts. The light bounced off his silver oak leaf as he gestured toward the door. “C’mon. We’ll buy the rest of the team a round before you all head out to debauch in the name of celebrating.”
That it was only fourteen-thirty hours didn’t much matter. The team, SEALs, sailors, were skilled at many things, including drinking at any time, day or night. And the support crew, the rest of SEAL Team 7, deserved a drink.
They headed for the O Club by way of the barracks, where they ditched the misery of dress whites. Diego, Jared and the others went for digies—blue tees and camouflage fatigues—while Savino kept to his khaki uniform.
The whole time all Diego could think was that he’d come a long way. Riding the wave of success,
