Elijah glanced at his tablemate, then back at the sketch pad and grimaced. It was a page full of Ramsey. Full face, side view, body shots, action images. In some he’d drawn the guy to look like a movie star, in others like the devil himself. Which was the true face of the man? Did any of them show the lies? The hideous betrayal?
Elijah would have to look closer later. For now...
“Sorry.” He flipped to a blank page.
Yeah. Brandon Ramsey had given the entire team a gut ache, but Diego had special reason to hate the guy. Before he could explain the drawings, the room went silent.
“Gentlemen.”
Commander Nic Savino’s single word was quiet, his steps easy as he strode into the room. Tall and lean despite the powerful breadth of his shoulders, Savino was a man who demanded attention without ever having to force the issue. Elijah had seen him bloody; he’d seen him drunk. He’d seen him pissed, and he’d seen him thrilled. What he’d never seen was Savino out of control.
Savino didn’t command the entire SEAL Team 7, but he was in charge of this unit. And he was the leader of Poseidon.
As soon as he reached the front of the room, Savino slanted Jarrett a nod. With automatic deference, the other man stepped away from the podium and took his own seat. The captain booted up his computer, the information on it flashing on the screen behind the podium with the familiar trident insignia.
“If everyone’s ready?” Savino’s dark eyes scanned the room. Knowing he was taking in every detail, Elijah wouldn’t be surprised to find out the guy was checking their souls along with inspecting the team. “We have a mission.”
As one the men came to attention, each using his own method of recording data. To Elijah’s right, Lansky whipped out a computer tablet and gave it a snap to release its keyboard. To his left, Torres pulled out an encrypted recording device and, being a big believer in backup, a notebook. Elijah’s own notebook was actually a sketch pad. It was filled with drawings, encrypted notes and, if he did say so himself, clever doodles.
As he listened to his commander outline the objective, detail the plan and delineate strategy, Elijah drew. He sketched his impressions from the buildings Savino showed on the view screen. He added a helicopter in the sky, then as he considered, a few bodies in the water. Savino hadn’t mentioned a water approach yet, but given that the water was there, he would.
That’s how Savino preferred to work his missions. He outlined, he detailed and he delineated. Then he opened the floor for input. It was one of the many reasons the man was a great leader. He inspired trust and elicited loyalty because he offered his team exactly that.
So it was a piss-off that that trust had been betrayed by one of their own. That the team had landed under investigation because a decorated SEAL played dirty, faking his own death after stealing top secret intel to sell to enemy militants.
Elijah jabbed the paper hard enough to snap his pencil lead. He drew air through his teeth, but it didn’t much cool the fury of his thoughts, so he tried a couple more.
A few months back, Savino had led a small covert team in an attempt to locate and detail the traitor. They’d apprehended his coconspirator, but as far as Elijah knew, the target was still in the wind.
Fucker.
“Yo,” Lansky murmured, rapping Elijah on the arm with a fresh pencil. He lifted it and one brow, warning Elijah to pull his head out and focus.
With a grimace and a nod of thanks, Elijah took the pencil and a deep breath. Using every iota of training garnered in his years of service and the determined focus that’d gotten him out of the hospital and back on duty eight months ahead of schedule, he gave all his concentration to the briefing.
Though his specialty was cryptology, or deciphering code, Elijah had still taken part in dozens of similar missions in his ten years as a SEAL, so the basics were ingrained and as familiar as his own name.
However, hostage extraction was always a delicate undertaking, and he’d been out of the game for a few months, so he took special care in his notes. He crafted suggestions, backup scenarios. After eyeing the schematics of the embassy they’d be infiltrating, he sketched alternate escape routes.
Chances were he’d be on the copter, monitoring communications. He knew the wisdom of such an assignment. He’d been sidelined for a while; others had earned the privilege of boots on the ground. And his specialty was, after all, communications.
Still, he chafed at the restriction.
He wanted—needed—action.
He had to prove he had what it took. That he was still a SEAL in top form. One of the elite. The best, dammit. He needed to prove it to the team. To Savino.
And, yeah, to himself.
Elijah’s pencil flew over the page, lead scratching out a list of reasons to offer his commander to convince the man that Elijah should be part of the ground team. Then Savino began assigning roles.
“Lansky, Torres, Prescott, Loudon, Masters, Rengel. You’re on the extraction. Lansky and Masters will enter here and here.” He tapped the blueprint of the embassy with his stylus so the screen lit with red dots. Then he tapped again to light four green dots near the delivery docks. “Prescott, Torres, Rengel and Loudon, you’ll come in from the water.”
He finished with, “Danby, Ward, Powers, you’re in the air with Jarrett.”
He was on the ground? Not in the air? Hell, yeah, his mind celebrated. His first mission back on active duty since he’d damn near exploded into a few hundred painful pieces, and he wasn’t holed up in the back seat. Nope, he’d be right there in the thick of the action. Right there, where it was all going down, he thought, rubbing a hand over his thigh.
Elijah’s other hand gripped his pencil so tightly that he flattened the wood, destroying it with a resounding crack. Yeah, he’d smile. Just as soon as his gut unclenched.
“Any questions?”
A few men shook their heads. Others silently gathered their notes. A couple simply waited.
“Torres, Lansky, Loudon, Prescott and Ward, remain. Everyone else, dismissed,” Savino barked, releasing all the men except the members of Poseidon.
* * *
NIC SAVINO GLANCED at the clock, confirming that he was right on schedule. He patiently waited for the room to clear of everyone but his elite team. Even as some men moved out, others moved in until there were thirteen of them in all.
He glanced at Jarrett, who clung to the chair as if he knew they all wanted him gone. He looked like a grumpy bulldog guarding his favorite bone.
“Comfy, Captain?” Savino asked, his words calm and his expression pleasant.
“Orders are orders, Savino,” Jarrett said, rising to speak in Savino’s ear. The man kept his words pitched low, as if trying to keep them from the rest of the room. Ridiculous, since Poseidon heard everything.
From the expression on the men’s faces, they definitely heard. And didn’t like. Savino could relate.
But, as Jarrett said, orders were orders. And Admiral Cree had decreed that until Ramsey was in the brig and Poseidon in the clear, they’d have company. So Savino gestured to the chair and suggested the man sit back down. After all, it wasn’t Jarrett’s fault that the team was under supervision.
Savino was a man who epitomized control. Some would say it was his trademark. He’d used it, and rigid focus, to form a team of special operatives, skilled assets, into even more. Poseidon was the elite among the elite. Unlike DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, Poseidon wasn’t open for applications. It was composed of men he’d handpicked ten years before. Men who had, over the course of a decade, trained together, fought together, bled together, until they were, essentially, one.
And