up” was all Savino said before glancing at Lansky. “Make your excuses. Then the two of you take a room nearby. Don’t return to base until you hear from me.”
“What—”
“Sober up,” Savino said again as he got to his feet. Diego was drunk, but not so drunk he didn’t see the flash of concern on his commander’s face as he glanced toward the other room, where their team played a loud game of pool. Diego’s buzz starting to fade, he lowered his feet to the floor, unconsciously coming to attention.
“Let me know where you land. Just me.” He waited until Diego and Lansky nodded. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
He left, calling a friendly goodbye to the rest of the team as he went. Then Lansky looked at Diego. Diego frowned back.
“What the hell?” Lansky muttered.
“I don’t know, but I guess we’re calling it a night.”
His head swimming in whiskey and confusion, Diego could pinpoint only two things.
One, they had their orders.
And two, Savino was worried. So whatever those orders led to, it was going to get ugly.
* * *
TWENTY HOURS LATER, Nic Savino strode through the night-drenched parking lot like a man on a mission.
Which, of course, he was.
The run-down motel was lit by one stingy streetlight; the others looked like they’d been shot out. Trash heaped against the cyclone fence as if it were trying to climb free, and the air smelled of the ocean on a bender, week-old fish, rotten eggs and rust. A bored-looking hooker leaned against the graffitied wall three buildings down, and the sound of an argument heading toward violent rang out over the desperate plea of a car alarm.
He noticed it all.
He gave none of it his attention.
His entire focus was on reeling in the fury pounding through his head before he reached room 207. He was a man known for his control, and he was going to need every shred of it to deal with this situation.
Situation, he thought bitterly. That’s what the admiral was calling it. Savino’s SEAL team was under investigation. Or as the directive from Naval Intelligence had put it, a duly authorized official had been assigned to look into Operation Hammerhead, which had resulted in the death of one team member, the hospitalization of another and the dissemination of classified information to the enemy, possibly for profit.
It hadn’t taken much to read between the lines.
They were looking at his team for treason.
His men.
Him.
Savino climbed the cement stairs to the second floor, stepping around the bum sleeping under a pile of rags in the corner of the landing, breathing through his teeth to avoid the stench.
Three doors down the concrete walkway, he knocked once, then walked in.
“Lansky, you have crap taste in motels,” he said by way of a greeting. The room was wood veneer and orange polyester coated with a thin layer of grilled onions.
“You told me to find a place close to the bar. This is close.” Lansky shrugged from his spot on the floor. His back against the flowered bedspread, he had a notebook on one side of him, a bag of chips on the other and a computer in his lap.
“How’d you get a laptop?”
“Guy on the corner was selling them.” Lansky flashed a boyish grin. “You didn’t think I was just going to sit here watching Kitty Cat work off his drunk, did you?”
In other words, Lansky was trying to figure out what was going on. Good. Savino considered the shiny new MacBook Air. He knew it was hot. But it shouldn’t be traceable.
His gaze shifted to Torres.
He’d installed a rod in the bathroom doorway about three-quarters of the way up from the floor. Shirtless and with one hand tucked behind his back, he used the other to pull himself up, lowered and did it again. And again. His unshaven face was set, blank. Sweat poured and his breath huffed, telling Savino he’d been at it for a while.
Savino took in the man’s mood with a single glance. An IED was less dangerous than Torres right now.
“You get the pull-up bar from the same guy?”
“Found it by the Dumpster,” Lansky said, frowning as he peered at the laptop. “Mood this one’s in, he’d have ripped a pipe from the wall if I hadn’t come up with something.”
Torres’s only response was a grunt as he switched arms.
“He been at it long?”
That got Lansky’s attention. His frown didn’t fade, but he did look from Torres to Savino before shrugging.
“We been here, what? Almost a day, give or take? He’s clocked about two weeks PT in that time, and about two hours sleep.”
The team generally spent between ten and twenty hours a week on physical training, depending on their status. Torres had put that in already? It didn’t bode well.
Savino raked his hand through his hair. Giving in to the stress pounding in his head, he gripped the back of his neck as if he could squeeze the pain away.
Torres was a SEAL. He’d step up and do the duty when Savino assigned it. But the weight of it would be a lot easier to dump on the guy if he wasn’t in a pisser of a mood.
It was rare that Savino worried about that sort of thing. But this was a rare situation. And the duty would be more in the lines of a favor.
“You want a beer?” Lansky offered.
“Thought you were sobering up.”
“I’ve only had three. That is sober.” He tilted his head toward Torres, who’d flipped himself around so his knees were anchored over the bar and his head toward the floor, doing sit-ups. “He’s the one who was drunk anyway.”
“Right.” Though procrastination wasn’t in his nature, Savino had a desperate urge to put this conversation off for a month or five. But the betrayal gnawing at his gut wasn’t going to go away. And this situation was only going to get worse. So...
“Fall in, men.”
As expected, the quiet command had instant results. Lansky closed the laptop, got to his feet and waited with his hands clasped behind his back. Torres grabbed the bar with one hand to free his legs, then flipped to the floor. He didn’t bother to grab a towel but stepped over to match Lansky’s stance, pausing only to wipe a rivulet of sweat from his eyes before coming to parade rest.
“Word has come down through sources I trust that we’re being investigated on the QT. The team in general, Poseidon in particular.”
Lansky’s minuscule flinch made it clear
