beginning, he knew. “The damage that it can cause to a career, or in this case, to the very existence of Poseidon.”
Giving up his spot behind the podium, Savino paced in front of it as he continued the briefing.
“Funds for the chemical weapons sale were traced to an account under Ramsey’s name as well as a civilian. The account is still in active use despite his supposed death. Further investigation cleared the civilian.” His gaze cut to Torres, who’d led that investigation and was now engaged to marry the civilian. “But it resulted in the kidnapping of Ramsey’s son. A team retrieved the child and detained Petty Officer Dane Adams, who while implicating himself and Ramsey, indicates that there are others still involved.”
Who?
Savino’s fists clenched behind his back as he paced, wondering for the hundredth time since this had begun what the hell NI had on Poseidon that made them so sure his team was dirty. He’d dug deep himself, but he hadn’t come up with a damned thing.
“While we do not have confirmation that Ramsey is still alive, NI assumes that he is.” Savino paused, taking the time to look from man to man, meeting each of their eyes, deepening their connection.
“I want him found. I want him taken down and made answerable for his crimes. Crimes against his country, against his uniform and, yes, against this team. He tried to set up one of our own. He tried to take down Poseidon.” He leaned back against the podium now, his usually unreadable face a study of icy fury. “Somehow, he got past us. He not only carried out treasonous actions under our very noses, but he thinks that he got away with them. We need to correct that, gentlemen.”
“What’s the plan?” Torres asked. Rightfully, as far as Savino was concerned, since he was the one who’d been specifically framed to take the fall a few months back.
“In addition to continuing with your current assignment, each of you will be taking on additional tasks. These tasks are Code Red, gentlemen.” Meaning they didn’t disclose them, not even to one another. They reported directly to Savino, and everything was done in person. No emails, no phone calls, no handwritten notes. “Poseidon has one goal now, gentlemen. To take down Ramsey and whoever else is involved. As of now, Operation Fuck Up is in effect.”
* * *
ONE THING ABOUT SEALS, they were hell on multitasking. Operation Fuck Up might be in effect, but members of Poseidon and SEAL Team 7 had other missions to carry out. So while time was devoted to tracking their treasonous teammate, the rest of their focus was on the current assignment.
When breaking into another country’s embassy on foreign soil, stealth was the keyword. When breaking in with the objective of covertly extracting a man slated for execution, a sticky layer of diplomacy was wrapped around the stealth. The priority was retrieving the hostage. Secondary was doing so without taking lives.
Using the moonless sky to their advantage, six men rappelled down from the roof. Infrared confirmed the hostage was held on the eighth floor, two guards in the room with him, four more stationed outside the door. Bars on the windows, men stationed at the end of each hallway and on the exits.
So they went in through one of the empty offices two doors down from where the hostage was being held. Working in concert, their moves as coordinated as they were automatic, the team used a silent explosive on the window bars, sliding inside as quietly as smoke.
They stunned the guards outside the door just as quietly, tucking them into the empty office, neatly bound and gagged. Elijah and Torres took their place outside the door while the other four slid into the hostage’s room.
Eyes sharp, senses on full alert, even as he kept watch, Elijah wanted to grin. Stupid reaction, but, man, it felt good to be back on track. To do what he was trained to do.
Not that he’d worried about it. Much. But he was glad to see it wasn’t an issue. Sure, his leg was a little tight, the puckered skin protesting over screaming muscles. But that wasn’t slowing him down.
As if proving his point, the signal came from inside the room. He moved with easy stealth down the hall to the left, Torres to the right, then returned the all clear.
Powers’s voice came through the comm in Elijah’s helmet, giving them the green light that he’d shut down operation of the security cameras on the rest of their floor.
Ready to rock and roll.
They moved exactly as planned. Two on point, two escorting the hostage—a Humpty Dumpty–looking guy in a three-piece suit and little round glasses—Elijah and Torres at the rear. The guy wasn’t in any shape to take out the window, but they just had to get him down one hall and over to the next to make their escape route.
Elijah scanned, his gaze always moving, his ears on full alert as he tapped into their surroundings, listening, watching as they proceeded down the antiques-filled hall, their booted feet silent on the glossy marble floor.
Quite a step-up given that his last mission had taken place in a desert cave.
Then it all went to hell.
Elijah saw it going down a second before it actually did. The ambassador slipped, his slick dress shoes losing traction on the marble floor. Despite Lansky’s hold on him, the man still flailed out, his hand slapping the wall. Just a tap.
And he screamed like a scared little girl. He might as well have sounded a Klaxon.
The team angled to the right, taking the secondary, longer route just before they heard the sound of boots quick-marching down the hall. A shout of alarm went up, voices called out, running footsteps of what sounded like an entire platoon ricocheted off the walls.
The team tightened their circle around the hostage, stepping up their pace to an easy run. Torres and Elijah automatically slowed, covering the rear as Loudon signaled a warning to the men in the air.
The voices came closer. This way, Elijah translated the Arabic shouts. “They know where we are,” he warned the others calmly. “Company’s coming.”
Then company was there.
The bullets didn’t dent his calm. Not until one of them ripped through an ornately framed painting on the wall next to him.
“The sonovabitch shot a Monet,” he swore. “What the fuck is wrong with some people?”
“Guess they aren’t much for flowers,” Torres returned, grinning even as he ran. “Too bad we don’t have time to educate them on art appreciation.”
As he marveled at the sacrilege, hoping like hell it had been a reproduction, Elijah moved. A small metal canister flew from his hand, landing smack-dab between the feet of the lead guard with a loud clang. A heartbeat later, the end of the hall exploded in smoke.
A quick glance assured him that Lansky and Loudon had the hostage covered. As sweat poured off the man’s pale, bald head, they angled him into the air duct. As soon as the ornate, man-size grill was back in place, Masters and Rengel cocked their heads to the left, indicating they’d lead the guards that way while Elijah and Torres waited ten seconds, then took the right to distract the guards on the other side.
“I’ve been ordered to remind you of the preference that your ammo stays in your rifle,” Powers said through the comm, his tight voice making it clear just how he felt about being ordered to share Jarrett’s preferences.
