Читать книгу Call To Honor - Tawny Weber - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMOURNING THE LOSS of a brother was never easy.
SEALs, support personnel and civilians gathered in the backroom at Olive Oyl’s bar to toast the memory of a warrior and to share their grief. Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey was memorialized with words like honor and skill and dedication. Captain Jarrett had choked giving his toast, and a visibly grieving Petty Officer Dane Adams had to be led out after delivering a eulogy so heartfelt that it was hard to hear over the audience’s sobs.
But when it came time for the men who’d served on that ill-fated mission, the core team, to say goodbye to their brother, they kept it private and took it off the beaten path. Savino chose a bar in Lemon Grove, far enough from base for them to mourn freely. The place was just a few steps up from a dive, and seedy enough that nobody would feel constrained by good behavior.
“Kinda crap that they won’t offer a military funeral for the guy. Decorated SEAL and all that, he’d have liked the fancy send-off.”
“Bet he’d like being alive even more.”
“Shame that none of his family showed. Not even his kid.”
“Sometimes civilians can’t handle it.”
“Dude isn’t officially declared dead—chances are they’re holding on to hope.”
“No point. Even if they didn’t find enough of him to declare him dead, he’s gone. Still, the Navy’ll tie it up in red tape, drag it out as long as they can to avoid paying survivor benefits.”
“I hear he had an in to DEVGRU. Guy went down before he got a chance to snag an elite spot.”
“Poseidon is the real elite.”
“He didn’t get a shot at that, either.”
“Yeah. Totally crap if you ask me.”
All excellent points. Conversation floated around him as Diego kicked back in the corner. Boots propped on the table and his chair tilted back, he considered his next shot of whiskey.
“You’d think I’d be drunk by now,” he said, the words slurring in his ears.
“Dude, you are shit-faced,” Lansky corrected, his bloodshot eyes as round as dinner plates.
“Yeah?” Not sure why he didn’t trust Lansky’s word—after all the guy spent half his time drinking—Diego looked toward Savino. “You think I’m drunk?”
“I think Lansky might be a few ahead of you, but you’re well on your way.”
“I’d better catch up, then.”
“Yo, Torres. There’s a pool table back here. I figure you being three sheets to the wind is the best chance I’ve got to beat you.”
Diego pulled his eyes off his glass to look at Aaron Ward. He tried to return the guy’s smile, but found he could only shake his head.
“You go ahead. It’ll take another fifth before I’m drunk enough for you to beat me.”
Amid laughter and a few crude suggestions, everyone headed for the poolroom except Diego and Lansky. His cell phone chiming, Savino stepped away, too. Diego felt like a jerk, but a part of him was glad to see them go.
“The last guy to ask me to play pool was Ramsey,” Diego realized, feeling like shit all over again. “This sucks.”
Images of the mission played through his head like a movie reel. They’d fast roped from the helo, landing just over the hill from the enemy base. Powers, Lansky and Ward had headed into the compound to rescue the hostage while Ramsey, Prescott and Lee secured the control center to begin downloading secret files. Everyone had been in place; everything had run exactly as planned.
Until it hadn’t.
The explosion had come just as Lee had signaled the all clear. Lee and Prescott both moved with their usual stealth as they exited the building, Diego provided cover. Then it had all blown to hell. The explosion had taken out half the building, the fire burning too hot for any survivors.
Diego had been faced with the choice of going into the flames in search of Ramsey’s remains or getting an injured Prescott, the rest of the team and the extracted hostage the hell out of there.
He’d chosen the unthinkable.
He’d left a man behind.
Eyes hot, he poured more whiskey, knocking it back before pouring again.
“You didn’t fuck it up,” Lansky said quietly.
“Listen to MacGyver,” Savino ordered as he rejoined them from wherever he’d gone to take his call. The guy spent more time on the phone than a teenage girl. Diego figured he’d mention that when he was a little more numb.
“Why should I listen to him?” he muttered.
“Because you didn’t fuck it up. There was no way to retrieve Ramsey. The fire was too intense. When support hit the site the next day, there wasn’t even enough of him to ID. Your orders were explicit. Your first duty was to the hostage. You got him out of there and Prescott to medical care so he didn’t die. That’s enough.”
It wasn’t, though.
It’d never be enough.
“He was a damned good SEAL,” Diego said quietly.
“He was a strong officer,” Savino murmured, his eyes scanning the room.
“He was an asshole.”
“What?” Lansky’s eyes widened when Diego glared at him. “I’m supposed to lie? Like getting himself blown to hell suddenly makes the guy less of an asshole?”
“You never liked him.”
“And he never liked you. The guy wanted to take you down in a bad way. He’d have done anything to screw you over.”
“Would he?” Savino asked. His voice didn’t change. Nor did his expression. So Diego couldn’t tell why Savino’s tone pierced through the alcohol hazing his brain.
“What are you thinking?” he asked his commander, studying Savino’s face. He had to blink a few times to bring it into focus.
“That things aren’t always what they seem.”
Even well on his way to drunk, Diego could see the dots Savino was laying out. But they didn’t connect.
“Ramsey is dead. We saw him go up in flames when that command center blew.”
His throat dry as the images pounded through his brain again, Diego grabbed his glass.
Savino laid a hand on his arm before he could drink.
“What?” His gut clenched when he looked at the other man’s face. Serious as a heart attack didn’t come close.
“Sober 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 that he hadn’t ferreted that much out yet. Good. He was one of the slickest hackers around. If he couldn’t find it, others wouldn’t, either.
“Let me make this clear. I consider this a bogus investigation. But some of the brass are taking it seriously because, if my intel is correct, it’s happening at the behest of the CIA.”
That got a frown from both of them.
Savino gave a satisfied nod. He wouldn’t have to explain just how potentially FUBAR this situation was. The CIA digging its sticky fingers into Navy business was never good. But into Special Ops and the SEALs? Poking at the DOD’s classified protocols? That had the potential to be beyond fucked up.
“It’s been determined that classified information has been sold to the enemy. Information believed to be available only to those participating in Operation Hammerhead.”
“Believed to be?” Lansky asked, his eyes sliding toward his notebook. At Savino’s nod, he leaned over to grab it and started taking notes.
“The information they intercepted could only have come from the compound in Kunar,” he said quietly, referring to the base they’d infiltrated during Operation Hammerhead. “The scientist you rescued had been close to a breakthrough on the formula for a particularly lethal chemical weapon when he was grabbed. Because he is also a member of the Russian government, every piece of information, every byte of data he produced during his capture, he covertly tagged.”
He waited for both men to nod their understanding. Tagging the data didn’t make it traceable. But it did pinpoint and time-stamp its source.
“The chemical weapon formula was discovered in the hands of jihad militants.” He named the faction, a particularly violent extremist group who’d claimed responsibility for three European bombings the previous year, including an amusement park.
“One of the militants could have sold it,” Lansky pointed out, although he didn’t sound very confident.
“The electronic signature pins the data to a specific time frame.” He ignored the clutch in his gut and continued. “The CIA believes it’s unlikely to be one of them given that the militants themselves were under attack and their compound in flames at that time.”
He waited a beat, then arched his brow.
The two men looked at each other, and he could see the messages pass between them. In just a look, they replayed the mission, they explored the options, they reached the same conclusion.
When their gazes met his again, Lansky seemed as if he were going to explode. Torres simply stared.
“You think someone from our team stole the formula? That they betrayed the team, the country, by selling?” Lansky asked, his words two shades from livid. “You think one of us is dirty?”
“No. He’s telling us the damned CIA thinks that,” Torres corrected, speaking for the first time since Savino had entered. There was no surprise in his words, making it clear he’d been expecting something ugly. But the look in his eyes said he hadn’t thought it’d be quite this ugly.
“I think that we have to consider every possibility, no matter how impossible it seems,” Savino said slowly. “It could be that whoever did this targeted this specific information. They could have targeted this specific mission. Or there was no target and it was simply opportunistic.”
“Which is it?” Lansky asked.
Savino arched a brow at Torres. The other man rubbed his thumb over his forehead, took a long breath, then blew it out before meeting Savino’s blank gaze.
“He thinks it was mission specific. That’s why we’re rooming with roaches here in Hotel California. He had us lay low in case he needed us off base and off duty, so whoever is looking can’t tag us if he sends us on special assignment.”
And that was why he’d groomed Torres for higher things. The man was good. Excellent even. That this could take him down, ruin his career, was fucking unreal. Fury reared its head for just a second before Savino slammed the lid again. It didn’t matter. He prided himself on never letting his thoughts show. So his words were calm and his expression neutral.
“In light of various pieces of information that have been filtered my way, I think this mission was targeted for a reason. I just don’t know what it is. Yet. Neither does the CIA.”
“Are they looking at me specifically because I led the mission?” Torres asked quietly. Savino had served with the guy for ten years. He recognized the pain and fury beneath the words.
“The quickest way to put this to bed is to find out who is behind it,” Savino answered. “Who had the most to gain, and how would they pull it off.”
“Ramsey,” Lansky said, the words coming almost faster than Savino finished talking. “That dude thought he was so much better than everyone else on the team—he never tried to fit in. He was Cyber, so he knows computers and could have pulled that formula before the place blew. And he had a major hard-on to take Diego down in any way he could.”
Torres shook his head.
“You’re reaching, man. You just want the guy to be dirty.”
“And you refuse to see reality because you believe in a code of honor that says a SEAL can’t be dirty. Doesn’t mean other SEALs follow that same code.”
“The guy is dead. What’d he do, sell the formula from the great beyond?”
“The guy was slimy as hell. He probably staged that explosion and snuck out of there like the snake he is. Was. Is.”
“Can’t decide?” Torres asked with a smirk.
“Is,” Lansky shot back, his boyish features grim.
“And this is what we have to find out,” Savino interrupted. “Word came down this morning that a large sum of money was deposited in an account attached to Ramsey’s name.”
“That son of a bitch got paid?”
“I didn’t say that,” Savino corrected Lansky. “The account is attached to his name. His and his kid’s, with the mother as guardian. But she’s not a signatory on it, and there’s no record that she’s ever used it. It could be a smoke screen.”
“Whoever did the deed had the money put in Ramsey’s account in case eyes were cast, they’d be cast his way,” Diego summed up.
“Yes.”
Lansky rubbed his fingers over bloodshot eyes, then shook his head.
“So you’re saying it was someone besides Ramsey?” He sounded like a kid who’d just been told Santa had been arrested on Christmas Eve.
“No,” Torres said in a toneless voice before Savino could answer. “He’s saying that’s how the CIA is looking at it. They’re gunning for one of us.”
“The CIA and NI,” Savino confirmed, letting them know that Naval Intelligence was involved.
“You have a plan, right?” Lansky pressed his hands together. “Tell me you have a plan.”
“I have a plan.” He nodded toward the chairs. It was going to take a while and they might as well be comfortable.
“Brilliant,” Lansky said an hour later, his pen tapping a quick beat on his notebook. “Except for one thing.”
“You want the woman,” Torres said from the floor, where he was doing push-ups.
“I want the woman.”
“Nope.” Now that he’d outlined the situation and given the orders, Savino was finally comfortable enough to step out of command mode. “You’re volatile, MacGyver.”
“Me?” Lansky pressed his hand to his chest and tried for offended. “Kitty Cat is the one with the temper. He’s the one with the rep. I’m the guy next door.”
“Your specialty is tech. We need you on the computer researching, digging. Prescott is our expert in information warfare, but he’s still in the hospital, recovering. Torres trained under him for two years, he’s got solid IW skills. He’s our best bet.”
Savino considered the stakes. A chemical formula in the hands of militants whose mission was mass terrorism spelled every kind of ugly in the book of possibilities. The threat to US security abroad was high. The threat to the SEAL team, and especially Poseidon, was even higher. If they didn’t reel this in and reel it fast, there was going to be blood on the floor. Too much blood to mop up.
So Savino added, “Besides, you’re biased.”
He didn’t add that Lansky was hitting the bottle a little too heavy these days.
“Ramsey was an asshole,” Lansky argued. “He had a grudge against Torres because our boy is the best. Add means and opportunity, and that’s realism. Not bias.”
“Right. You want him to be guilty.”
“So? Better him than one of us.”
“And that’s your bias.” Savino leaned back in his chair. “Torres here is coming from the opposite end. Not neutral, but opposite.”
“Come again?”
“You believe Ramsey’s dirty, so you’ll work to find facts to support that premise. Torres wants Ramsey to be clean. He’ll work to prove the man’s innocence so he can clear the team’s name. The truth lies somewhere in between, and by coming from opposite ends, the two of you will find it.”
“Yeah, but Kitty Cat gets to work his end with a great view chatting up a sexy broad in a fancy zip code. Me? You’re gonna stick me here, aren’t you. In bumfuck nowhere with orange drapes.” Lansky gave the motel room a sneering look. Ignoring them both, Torres switched from push-ups to sit-ups.
“Nobody knows you’re here, so this is as good as any until we have a direction,” Savino agreed with a nod. The bone-deep tension finally starting to loosen now that he knew things would be handled, he rested one booted foot on the opposite knee.
“Bottom line, Torres is the one whose head is gonna roll farthest if we don’t figure it out. He’s the one I want staking out the ex.”
“You think he’ll go to her?”
Savino glanced at Torres, who’d finally hit his wall and sat, arms draped over his knees, trying to catch a breath.
“Everything I’ve seen indicates that if Ramsey’s our guy, dead or alive, he’d involve her.”
“The way he talked, they were a pretty hot item,” Lansky agreed. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t bring the kid to the memorial. She knew Ramsey wasn’t dead and didn’t want the boy blowing their cover.”
“Or maybe she simply didn’t want to bring her kid to a bar to meet a bunch of strangers for the first time while they share stories of his old man going up in flames,” Torres muttered.
Exactly. Savino knew Torres’s history, knew where the guy had come from. Just another reason he wanted him leading this mission.
If Ramsey was dirty and his girlfriend complicit, the kid’s life was going to be blown all to hell. Torres had been there himself; he’d felt the betrayal of a selfish father who’d put corruption ahead of his family. Who’d put his personal vision of glory over his son.
Torres would take care not to point the finger and put another boy on the same painful path he’d walked.
Which was something Savino was counting on. Not so much to protect the kid, although he wasn’t indifferent. But because that care, that meticulous focus on detail, was what they needed if they were going to present a clean case to NI and clear Poseidon’s name.
Of course, if Ramsey was truly dead and they confirmed that he was whistle clean, SEAL Team 7 was up a creek. That would mean there was a traitor in their midst. That kind of thing was a black mark against the entire team. It could be a major blow to Torres, who’d led the mission. It could result in loss of rank, loss of command, dishonorable discharge and quite possibly imprisonment.
At odds with Savino’s usual cool, fury flamed hot and livid in his gut. NI already had it in for Poseidon, disliking their air of exclusivity and admiral’s auspices. This was all they’d need to disband and destroy the Special Ops group.
Savino wanted to lay that all out. To underscore the severity of this situation.
For each one of the team personally.
But that’d be indulgent.
Stating the obvious would show a lack of faith in his men. And it’d waste time.
“Your orders are to watch, engage if engaged, but don’t give any hint that you believe Ramsey might be alive.”
Mid-sit-up, Torres paused to give Savino a look that was clearly a pledge.
“Watch, engage only if engaged? I specialize in recon and counterterrorism. That sounds like babysitting.”
Distaste and discomfort were both evident in the man’s voice. Sitting and watching, not acting, it was the antithesis of what they were trained for. And a man like Torres, who, as he said, specialized in action, probably thought an assignment like this was next to impossible. But that’s what they were trained to do. The impossible.
“Observe, blend, engage if engaged. Play nice and, if possible, earn their trust. Consider yourself undercover as a nice guy.” Savino almost grinned at Lansky’s snorted amusement. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Nailing this guy will put an end to this investigation. Otherwise...”
The end of Poseidon.
“We’re clean. We fight the good fight. We fight the clean fight. Until we have to fight dirty.” Elbows on his knees now, Torres shrugged. “Poseidon is clean. Nothing they find can prove it any other way. But we’ll do their job for them and prove it our way. Prove we’re crystal.”
Exactly what he’d wanted to hear.
And that was why Torres was the best man for the job.
