Lansky for a decade now. Elijah had never realized the guy could cook like this. Goes to show you could know someone for years, train and serve and bleed with them, drink until sick together, but they could still surprise you.
Elijah used to like surprises.
“I figured you could use a hot breakfast today,” Lansky said, his words light and friendly. But there was a deep well of concern in the man’s eyes. “First day back and all that.”
Elijah’s shoulders jerked, his spine stiffening. He knew the concern was heartfelt, brother to brother. Just as he knew it was justified. But damned if he wanted it. Concern like that, it was a heartbeat from pity. And he’d had enough of that in the past few months to last a lifetime.
Enough to put doubts in the corners of his mind. Doubts that tried to creep out in his dreams. Doubts that, if left unchecked, could destroy him.
“All I need is a great breakfast to kick today’s ass,” he said, biting into the burrito and grinning as the heat and spice hit his tongue. “This is damned good.”
“You need anything else? Fruit or oatmeal or something?”
Oatmeal? Elijah had to swallow quickly to avoid choking on the second half of the burrito.
“Dude, you think I’m so pathetic that you need to stick me with oatmeal?”
“Sorry. It was my mom’s go-to for big mornings. You know, first day of school, finals week, the day I enlisted, the day of my dad’s funeral.” Looking embarrassed—something Lansky never was—the other man gave a good-natured shrug. “Guess it’s one of those crazy kid things that we never lose, ya know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
And he appreciated it. The offer. That Lansky cared enough to make it. And the guy’s insight. The idea of oatmeal itself? That he didn’t appreciate so much.
“Pretty sure this burrito and coffee are all I need to handle going back on duty.”
He’d handle it.
He would. He had to.
Because he was a SEAL.
Being a SEAL, it’s all he had. It’s all he was. He’d protect that, hold that, to his dying breath.
While Lansky scooped up another burrito for each of them, Elijah poured coffee and pondered how he’d gone from the classic skinny kid growing up in a small town outside Napa to become a supposedly badass SEAL.
He’d spent his childhood in Yountville, a dreamer more interested in drawing pictures and scoring with girls than taking on bad guys. When he’d learned that bad guys—or rather, the hard-ass jocks who’d run the school like gangs ran the streets—didn’t check interest before they kicked ass, he’d figured he’d better reconsider his thinking.
He’d joined the service fresh out of high school, eager to serve, sure he could make a difference. That choice had taken him the world over, had shown him man’s highs and lows and had netted him a fistful of commendations. Trained first in linguistics, then in cryptology, he’d put his skill with words and his talent with puzzles to good use.
He’d learned to fight. He’d developed strategic skills. He’d found himself.
But true credit for making him the man he was came down to his being a SEAL. A SEAL and, more to the point, a member of the elite group of SEALs that formed Poseidon.
Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together ten years back, and thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons. That meant they were able to continue training together, studying together, excelling together.
And when called up, to serve together. They were an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose: to be the best of the best. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than anyone else. They focused on strategy; they specialized in everything.
They were, Elijah knew, the reason he was the man he was, and they were the reason he was alive today. They’d pulled him from the flaming bowels of hell, he admitted to himself as he and Lansky finished their breakfast.
“I cook—you clean. Since I hate dishpan hands, I figure this works fine,” the other man said with an easy smile at odds with his bloodshot eyes. As the sun rose, washing color into the jut of space deemed the kitchen, Elijah studied his roommate. You’d think Lansky’d been the one having the crap dreams from the drawn-out lines on his narrow face.
“Works for me. Don’t wanna do anything to hurt your pretty looks.” Elijah gave him another once-over. The guy resembled one of those cherubs his mother had painted on little china dishes, only all grown up. Blond hair, blue eyes and a sweet-cheeked innocence combined with a body sculpted by military training were just a few of the many tools Lansky put to use in his never-ending quest to bag as many chicks as he could.
And speaking of...
“I didn’t figure I’d see you this morning,” Elijah said, dumping the pans into the sink with a squirt of soap before adding hot water. “Thought you had plans last night that’d keep you in someone else’s bed until reveille. What happened? You strike out?”
“I never strike out, my man. I simply move on.”
Didn’t look like he’d moved on. Looked more like he’d spent the night suffering, brooding and hating life.
But as members of Poseidon, Elijah and Lansky had worked enough missions together, and yeah, cruised enough bars, that he knew the other man’s style. Lansky would give a friend—hell, an enemy—the shirt off his back if he needed it, but he didn’t share diddly unless he wanted to. And the man hated giving up to the point where stubborn tiptoed toward stupidity.
Come to think of it, they probably had all those things in common.
“What’s her name?”
Lansky’s scowl deepened as he refilled his own mug; the way the rich brown liquid sloshed against the white crockery made it clear this wasn’t a breakfast conversation he wanted to have.
“Her, who? It’d be a waste to limit myself to just one woman, Rembrandt. You know that.”
“Right.”
That was Lansky’s usual MO. Love ’em and leave ’em smiling was his motto. But if Elijah wasn’t mistaken, that motto had taken a nosedive since the other man had met a sexy brunette a few months back. With the skill of a man who enjoyed beauty in all its forms, Elijah brought the face to mind. A lush brunette with the face of a Greek goddess and the body to match.
Although Lansky had gotten to know her a lot better—along the lines of biblical knowing—they’d both met Andrianna Stamos months ago on a covert op run by Poseidon in search of a rogue SEAL. One who’d dirtied the team, who’d betrayed his country, who’d jeopardized a critical mission. A man who’d hidden treason behind a friendly smile and lied his way up the ranks about who he was, about what he’d done, about everything from deserting his child to where he’d hidden the riches reaped from treason.
They hadn’t found Brandon Ramsey. Still didn’t know if he was dead or alive. All they knew for sure was that he’d stolen classified information under the guise of an explosion.
