Tawny Weber
IT PAYS TO be a winner.
And Diego Torres was a big believer in winning.
But it was the winning that he liked.
The competition.
The thrill of testing his skills, pushing his limits. Of knowing he was better than his adversary.
Yeah. He liked knowing he was the best.
He didn’t do it for reward.
Especially not when the reward came by way of the pomp and pageantry of a ceremony like today. Standing onstage in front of the various platoons that made up SEAL Team 7, listening to Admiral Cree pontificate was a pain in the ass. What made it worse wasn’t the couple hundred sets of eyes inspecting him or the discomfort of his dress whites, too tight across the shoulders.
It was the damned shoes. Diego’s toes pinched in the mirror-bright black patent leather, begging him to flex. He didn’t, of course. Not while standing at attention. But damn. Give him a pair of combat boots any day.
As the sun baked through his cap and the heat of the morning swirled around, he wondered what yahoo had decided to hold this ceremony outdoors. And why it felt so much hotter standing in the San Diego sun in whites than it did in the Afghan desert in full combat gear. Probably because combat gear fit him better.
Diego had spent a large portion of his life fighting over the wrong things. He’d fought over turf. He’d fought over gang colors. Hell, if the mood struck, he’d have fought over just how blue the sky was. It’d taken a bullet barely missing his heart to clue him in to the fact that maybe the things he was fighting over simply weren’t worth dying for.
He’d figured that out when he woke in a hospital bed, his mother’s careworn face wet with tears. Wondering if he’d see his eighteenth birthday, Diego had taken stock of his situation. He’d started out a street thug, worked his way up to gangbanger, then into the powerful role of First Lieutenant of the Marauders, an East LA gang determined to claw its way to the top of the food chain.
It wasn’t the bullet that had made him reconsider his chosen lifestyle. Nor, he was still ashamed to admit, was it his mother’s misery. It was the fact that his gang, his sworn brothers, had left him in that filthy alley to bleed out while they ran to save their own asses.
That’d made Diego rethink his definition of brotherhood. Of honor.
Now that he was a Lieutenant in the United States Navy he still fought. But he fought for his country. He was still a badass. But he was a badass SEAL. And if he got shot now, he knew his team would lay their lives on the line to get him out.
And that was key for a man who put loyalty above all else.
As the admiral’s voice boomed out his pride in the elite power of Special Forces, Diego didn’t look toward his superiors on the left, even though he stood shoulder to shoulder with Lieutenant Commander Ty Louden, who stood with Commander Nic Savino on his other side. Diego didn’t look to the right toward his teammate, Lieutenant Elijah Prescott, or beyond him to Petty Officer Aaron Ward.
But in his mind’s eye, he could see them all standing as he did, eyes forward, shoulders back. Basking somewhere between pride and misery at such focused attention, their faces were as familiar to him as his own. Brothers in every way but blood, Diego would—and had—put his life on the line for every one of them and knew they’d do the same for him.
With his mother dead three years past, these men were Diego’s family. They’d helped form him into the man he’d become. They’d been part of shaping him into a SEAL he could be proud of.
And these here onstage? They’d led a raid to capture three high-level militants, doing so in the dead of night without detection. Proving, once again, that Poseidon kicked ass.
Which was pretty much why they were standing up here being recognized.
As SEALs, they were trained to be the best.
As members of Poseidon, they were expected to be better than the best. Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together, each earning his trident a decade ago. Thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons, allowing them to continue to train together, to study together, to excel together. And, when called up, to serve together. Team Leader Savino’s doing, Diego knew. The man had had a vision in BUD/S of an elite force of warriors, all focused on one purpose. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than most.
They made their mark.
And now they were getting awarded for it.
Diego damn near rolled his eyes as the speech eulogizing that award droned on. And on and on and on.
But, thankfully, years of Navy discipline stepped in and kept his eyes still and his discomfort at bay.
Finally, the admiral wound up the ceremony by personally pinning a commendation to each man’s chest. The weight of the man’s congratulations was twice the honor of the bronze Expeditionary Medal.
There was one final salute, a few words of thanks from Captain Jarrett, then the band played, the color guard stepped in and the team was dismissed.
Thank God.
Diego didn’t let his grin show, but he sure felt good as he stepped off the stage. He didn’t rip off his hat, but he mentally tossed it in the air and, hell, why not, did a fist-pumping victory dance in his mind.
Oh, yeah. It paid to win.
“You looked good up there, my friend.” Chief Petty Officer Jared Lansky grinned, his boyish expression pure glee as he met Diego at the bottom of the platform.
“Why the hell wasn’t your pretty face up there, too? The entire Poseidon team was being honored.”
“Special assignment in Sudan. Plane got in late, so I didn’t get here until Cree was winding down. I’ll have to pick my medal up in private.” Lansky pulled a face of fake regret, then grinned again. “But let’s talk about what this is really about. Dude, 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.