Beneath the Trident (2/4)
Danny wakes up, his brain muddled with images of tiny boats devoured by the waves. He notices the perfectly made empty bed across from him and glances up in time to see Steve pad inside in his bare feet, fresh from his shower.
Steve rubs his towel quickly over his damp hair, folding it neatly on top of footlocker. Flicking on the lamp, he sits in one of the wooden chairs in the corner. "The shower's yours."
Danny wants to bury himself under the covers but rallies his energy to sit on the edge of the bed all sleep-fuzzy. But he's unable to look away as Steve pulls out a roll of black tape and slowly wraps pieces around his dog tags.
"What are you doing?"
"Taping them," Steve says without looking up.
"I can see that. But why? Don't they have those things?"
"Things?" Steve asks voice quiet. He ghosts a hand over the rubber silencers around the tags. "If you mean noise guards. Yeah."
"So you're taping them..."
Steve cuts another strip of tape with his teeth. "To ensure they're completely hidden."
"Of course," Danny mumbles, not surprised at such paranoia. "You can't be a ninja if every inch of you isn't concealed." He squints in the low light, watching the last bits of silver slowly disappear and grinding his teeth at the wrongness. "Just doesn't seem right."
Steve looks over at him curiously. "Why?"
Danny sucks on his bottom lip, perturbed by his internal conflict. "They seem too important. I mean, they're part of who you are."
Steve avoids eye contact and carefully wraps the last layer of tape. "If they're around my neck, they belong to me," he says, squeezing the pieces between his long fingers. "But to the Navy…" His voice trails off. "They mean something else."
Steve drags his gaze back up, locking eyes with Danny, the two of them staring at each other in silence. Morbid images of a flag-draped coffin enter Danny's mind and he swallows roughly, forcing them away. The sudden anxiety is too much and Danny staggers out of bed to take a shower, unable to bear the weight of Steve's gaze or his own screwed up thoughts anymore.
***
Breakfast isn't horrible and Danny thinks he's succumbed to some type of mental conditioning. He piles in one of several jeeps with his newest best friends for morning exercises on the beach. Instead of walking along with Steve, Danny fiddles with a notepad and pencil and wanders toward Chief Vega.
Danny nods at the IBSs lined along the water's edge. "You guys going out again?"
Vega studies the ocean, resting his hands on his hips. "The commander wants us to tighten up our skills."
"Like rowing more in unison?"
Vega stares at him, his annoyance hidden by the hard lines of his jaw. There's little height difference between the two of them and Danny's broader around the shoulders, so he doesn't allow the man's thousand-yard stare to bother him. He's had a couple of years' practice of ignoring such a thing.
Steve strides over, coming to a stop in front of everyone. He's dressed in full gear like his team, olive shirt covered by a heavy tac vest, gun belt, ammo, and a shouldered rifle.
"We'll break into groups. Lieutenant Mache, you'll lead squad one, Ensign Torres, squad two. Chief, you'll be with me. On the LT's signal, we'll complete ten sprints up and down the beach, load into our rubber ducks, and go five miles out and return. The losing squad will have to double tomorrow morning's PT."
Steve nods at Mache, and the brawny man steps forward, shouting, "All right, knuckleheads, let's go!"
Danny watches all three squads scramble up and down the sand for ten grueling minutes before jumping into their IBSs and taking them to the sea.
He knows what this is, recognizes a test of speed and teamwork, and starts scribbling in his notepad. "And at six in the morning, Steve made his men race boats."
***
Danny doesn't stick around after the race ends. Lt Mache had looked ready to gut someone after his squad hit the beach last. It's hard enough getting these guys to open up to him, let alone when two thirds are pissed off about not winning. No, he knows when to make himself scarce when bruised egos are involved.
***
Danny watches unobtrusively while the NCOs prepare for an inspection of their quarters.
"Hey, Rolling Stone! You just holding up the walls or are you gonna help?"
Petty Officer Hunt is a young kid with a layer of peach fuzz covering his thick arms and head. Danny meets his sharp blue eyes and rolls up his sleeves. "Kick me over a bucket."
Hunt slides over a metal pail with a brush, and Danny wants to grumble about how good old-fashioned mops might prove useful, but he doesn't go off on someone the size of a building.
"Use circular patterns," Hunt grunts, smacking a stick of gum.
"Right. Like in the Karate Kid."
"Never seen that."
"What? You've never seen the…" Danny rolls his eyes. "That's a sacrilege."
"A sacrilege is if the Chief finds any sand we might've dragged in from this morning."
"And I thought you guys were above scut work?" Danny mumbles, dipping the brush into the soapy water.
"Discipline doesn't understand rank, man," Hunt says, focusing on his task with the same intensity of assembling a rifle.
Danny scours along the slab of cement, thinking of Steve as a young shiny new SEAL, one of the highest trained men on the planet, ensuring his CO could eat off the floor. Danny thinks about all of Steve's pristine bathroom sinks, the dust-free bookcases, and the freaking cleaning list, each chore scheduled for a certain day and his puffer fish face when things weren't completed on time.
Vega ambles inside a few seconds later, sporting a slight smirk. "Rolling Stone? You part of this inspection?"
Danny wipes the sweat at his brow with his elbow. "Guess I am."
A few of the other guys actually look over at Danny without giving him the death glare and he thinks this was a good idea. Pantomiming the postures of the rest of the team, he stands up with his hands behind his back and waits for the scrutiny.
***
Steve's not in his office and Danny hasn't seen him in hours and he wanders around their temporary housing, poking his head into a small office he's never been in before.
He finds Vega behind a small desk, soft reggaeton music coming from computer speakers. The squeak of the door makes him lift up his head from his laptop. "Can I help you, Mr. Williams?"
Danny leans inside the door, hooking a thumb behind him. "I was looking for McGarrett."
Vega flicks his eyes back down to his screen and resumes typing. "He's with Commander Stanton going over the mission briefing."
"That got approved?"
"It met with Commander McGarrett's expectations."
Danny forces himself not to smile at the familiarity with Steve's ridiculous ambitions. "I bet they're very high."
"The highest," Vega says as if speaking from experience. "There's no room for error."
Danny debates his next words since they're rooted in logic and common sense. "You know the real world normally doesn't always work according to plan?"
Vega's usual plank of wood expression breaks into real frustration, his scowl emphasizing a fine scar under his right cheek. "No, the real world doesn't." He closes his computer with a snap. "But we're expected to succeed when no one else can. If there's a single doubt, a single moment when we think we might fail - then everything will go to hell. We can do the impossible and it's the strength in our beliefs that allows us to accomplish what is demanded of us."
"Mind over matter regardless of the odds," Danny says, thinking about exploding buildings and ten-mile car chases. "Most sane people would consider such a mentality reckless."
"We're not most people," Vega states, matter of fact, like it's inconceivable to think otherwise. "We take an unattainable goal and break it down into manageable objectives. If a mountain blocks your escape route, climb it, or find a way around it. If you're outnumbered ten to one, find a way to make it five to one. Doubt's the only true enemy."
Vega's passionate conviction is a formidable force and Danny backs down from turning this into an argument. "Sounds like you've been doing this for a long time. Looking after your guys."
"That's my job. I train the green officers and make sure they don't get the rest of the men killed. Then get them ready to lead their own team one day."
Danny recognizes a rare opening and seizes it. "Commander Johnson was the team leader. Did the guys like him? Were there any issues?" Vega glares at him questioningly. "I've got no tape recorders on me right now. I'm just trying to get an idea about team dynamics."
Vega narrows his eyes. "Johnson was the leader of our team. A team who sweats and bleeds on each other, who depends on one another without question. You couldn't understand."
Danny balls up his fists, thinks of the bomb strapped to Chin's neck, of racing after Kono during an undercover heist, of flipping open the tarp to a back of a truck, his heart stuck in throat at locating Steve bloodied and bruised. And he has to stuff everything down, stomp out the fire brewing deep inside.
"I'm sorry," he says, unable to keep his voice steady.
Maybe it's the emotions painted all over Danny's face, or how his voice cracks on the apology, but something gives, and Vega kneads his eyes with his knuckles. "Johnson was a friend. And a damn fine SEAL. He was even up for a promotion."
"Really?" Danny asks, surprised, his adrenaline receding. "Like leading a bigger team?"
"No." Vega cracks open his laptop again, ending the conversation. "Counter terrorism. He was going to oversee Eastern European operations. A desk job."
That's why Johnson frequented the Blue Ocean Bar so often. He was about to lose everything he'd ever known.
***
Danny walks around outside, spotting Steve striding toward him with the darkest frown. Danny prays Steve won't run over someone unlucky enough to cross his path.
"Whoa, hey, hold up," Danny says, stepping in front of Steve. "What's wrong?"
Steve stops, only to start pacing in short jerky strides. Danny gives Steve room to burn off excess energy, checking for Lookie Lous. Thankfully, no one is around when Steve shifts back into neutral.
"It's been a long time since I've seen you so worked up, buddy. Want to talk about it?"
Steve rubs both hands across his face, still looking murderous, and drops his arms to his sides. "No, everything's fine. I...things are fine."
"Fine, he says," Danny snorts. "You don't look fine; you look ready to practice medieval dentistry on some poor schmuck."
"More like I just got two root canals without Novocain."
"You actually require Novocain? You don't drill the holes in yourself?"
Steve rolls his eyes, his pinched expression smoothing away. Danny takes that as a win. "I heard you were meeting with your boss. You get chewed out or something?"
"Or something," Steve mutters, still sulky.
"I bet it's been a while since you've locked horns with anyone with authority over you other than Denning." Steve growls under his breath and Danny knows he hit the bull's-eye. "It's sucks when you're used to being in charge."
"I've lived under the chain of command for most of my life; it's nothing new. You suck it up and listen."
"Except when you think you're right and the other guy's wrong," Danny says knowingly. Steve huffs, looking away, and Danny doesn't act too smug at being right. "You guys argue about your battle plans?"
"We had a difference of opinion over them, yes." Steve looks like he's crunching gravel between his teeth. "Not to mention some choice words over the gun drill and my schedule for the rest of the week."
"Ouch," Danny says in sympathy.
"Some people get itchy when it comes to foreign joint operations. Especially when dealing with a recently reinstated team leader after a two year absence."
There's the rub and it's a bruising one, planting unnecessary seeds of doubt during a tough enough assignment. It makes Danny glad that he's nowhere near Steve's new CO. He might not be able to hold back his temper and ruin their covers.
"People with big egos always have something to gripe about, babe. This prick doesn't know you and he certainly doesn't know anything about your freaky ninja skills."
Steve's mouth curves into a slight grin and it makes Danny feel good he could put it there.
"Thanks, D."
Steve checks his watch and it only takes a split second before his smile vanishes, all signs of relaxation sharpening into corded muscles of his neck.
"You got to be somewhere now?" Danny asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"Battlefield triage drills."
"Battlefield triage." Danny grimaces at the horrific thought. "I can't even say that with a straight face. Tell you what, I'll catch up with you later. I'll see if I can get a hold of Chin or Kono and get an update from their end."
"Good idea," Steve says all business, pulling out a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slipping them on. "I'll meet with you before the jump."
And like a light switch, Steve easily reverts into command mode, without a single sign that 'practicing' stuff involving blood and guts bothers him in the least.
***
Danny pokes around the base, trying to establish patterns of operations and get a better layout of the area. He's familiar with the motor pool, the firing range, and places like the mess hall, but it's still a large extensive maze of buildings requiring a jeep and detailed map to get around.
Feeling slightly lost, he returns to his temporary housing when he feels a familiar vibration buzzing inside his pants' pocket.
Danny checks the hallway before shutting the door to his quarters and pulling out his cell phone. "Chin. Good timing, I was going to give you a ring soon. What's up?"
"I've got some news. Can you talk?"
"Yeah, I'm alone," he says, sitting on the bed.
"Kono and I went over the crash scene yesterday. Since the car accident was staged, we treated it like a body dump and went looking for a possible primary scene for the murder."
"There's nothing but woods between the base and the crash site."
"Exactly. We wanted to rule that area out first and backtracked more than a quarter of a mile to what appears to be some vehicle activity off to the hard shoulder near the second mile marker."
Danny scratches his eyebrow. "What kind of activity?"
"A heavy vehicle was pulled off to the side of the road. A large truck based on the tire impressions."
With a giant military base close by, that could be any type of transport or supply truck.
"Okay. Vehicles pulling off to the side of the road are probably a daily occurrence. Any connection to our victim?'
"Not sure," Chin admits over the phone. "But there were signs of a second vehicle off to the side as well. Looks like a jeep."
"Like Johnson's," Danny says, following Chin's line of thinking. "But everyone drives one around here."
"I know, but it rained the morning of Johnson's death so something happened that night."
"Yeah." Danny gives him that and stands up to pace, trying not to jump to conclusions. "Someone could have pulled over to take a leak or, I dunno, check on a tail light."
"Johnson did exit his jeep before he was killed. Either on the road or at another location. It's possible he could have stopped for some unknown reason and his killer followed him."
They were on the first path of many toward solving this thing.
"Are there any traffic cams we can check out?" Danny asks still pacing. "Any way we can get a glance of this mystery vehicle?"
"Nothing on the highway." And Chin sounds just as frustrated as Danny feels.
"So we may or may not have the possible murder scene?"
"We'll have the lab guys go back over Johnson's vehicle again with a fine tooth comb. See if we can find any evidence that can tie his jeep to this scene off the shoulder. Kono and I had to be discreet collecting evidence, not to raise suspicion."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Once we discovered the site, we drove to the other side of the woods, parked, and hiked our way through."
Danny can't help grinning at the mental image. "How very Steve of you guys."
"Speaking of," Chin teases. "How's the big Kahuna?"
"Oh, you know. It's like summer camp," Danny sighs sarcastically. "He's practicing battlefield triage."
It takes a beat before Chin answers. "Wow, brah. Sounds intense."
"Yeah. You could call it that, or perhaps deranged, gruesome, needless, or any number of synonyms, all meaning the exact same thing," Danny rants, standing and pacing back and forth.
"Things not what you expected?"
"No…yes," Danny slams a hand on the wall and rests his forehead against the smooth plaster. "It's not just the training, it's the not doing anything. I'm a cop, it's my job to investigate, gather evidence, crack some skulls."
"Undercover work is slow and tedious, you know that. The whole point is to earn the trust of those around you before you can gather any info, and that takes time."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Danny pushes off the wall, feeling antsy, like he needs to be in motion. "That's the reason why I hated narcotics."
"Hopefully, we'll wrap up this soon.
Danny glances around the cramped room, feeling as if the walls are closing in. "That would be nice."
***
He needs some fresh air, but Danny settles for splashing water on his face and bang-opens the bathroom door, startling Steve who's standing there, hands braced against the counter.
"Hey," Danny says surprised.
Steve straightens from his lean, staring at Danny's reflection in the mirror. "Hey."
Something about Steve's hollow tone niggles at Danny as he walks over and casually stands next to him. Steve's uniform shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a sweat soaked olive undershirt and dark stains on his BDUs. He washes his hands with a scary type of focus and shuts off the water, the tale-tell tinge of pink swallowed up by the sink.
Danny looks for any cuts or abrasions on Steve's hands. "You hurt yourself?"
"No. I still had blood under my finger nails."
Danny leans against the wall as Steve methodically dries his hands with a paper towel. "And this training involved -"
"Cadavers," Steve says mono-toned. "We practiced clamping down the femoral artery and that's hard to do without using the real thing."
"Last I checked, cadavers were drained of all their fluids."
"Not these. We weren't in a morgue or a lab. We were outside," Steve pauses, oddly examining each fingernail. "And the bodies…the Navy doesn't spare any expense. There was plenty of blood."
Danny has a fantastic imagination and it kicks into overdrive, images of Steve digging his hands into a dead body spurting out crimson, not red dye, but warm, thick blood just so he can practice. It makes him sick to his stomach.
"Let me guess," he says raspy. "You did this while bombs blew up all around you?"
"No, MP5 machine guns," Steve says casually, as if the whole thing isn't the stuff of nightmares. "The circumstances need to be -"
"Realistic," Danny grits out. He really hates how that word has become an excuse for sanctioned psychological trauma. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that."
"Working under such conditions is the only way to adapt and tune everything else out except the goal."
"Like a robot."
Steve turns around and steps closer, his skin hinting of sweat and Formaldehyde. "I'm not a robot, Danno."
Danny's back hits the wall, the light switch digging into his spine. He won't lie to Steve's face, no matter how much it hurts. "But you've learned to turn yourself off like one."
Steve inches closer, and Danny has to cant his neck to meet his gaze, Steve's breath warm against Danny's cheeks. "No, I've learned how to handle things under pressure."
And Steve turns to his and every other SEAL's default excuse, be it self-preservation or too many years of living on the edge to notice the difference between acting human and shutting down all together. Either way, Danny won't argue a losing battle, reeling in his need to rant and rave, finding the idea too exhausting.
"Look. I've talked to Chin; he and Kono have a few slim leads we should discuss," he says.
Steve still doesn't budge from Danny's personal space, his body unyieldingly stiff. He stares at Danny several moments. "We'll go to my office. I learned Johnson had a heated run-in with a supply officer that might be worth checking out."
"Okay, that's sounds good." Danny wiggles uncomfortably against the light switch. "I also heard that Johnson was getting a promotion involving a desk job. Might explain why he went drinking alone."
Steve's eyes darken and he looks away, his voice rough. "It's a tough decision to leave."
"You made it," Danny reminds him.
"Wasn't my plan," Steve says thickly, looking back up. "But I'm glad I did."
Steve just looks at him with such damned haunted, vulnerable eyes that Danny wants to reach over and pull him into a tight embrace. But fate intervenes and Steve's radio squawks loudly, the two of them flinching at the noise.
Steve looks down at his belt, backing away a few steps. "I've got to answer that. The HALO jump is in a couple of hours and we have an equipment check."
Danny pushes off the wall, wiping both hands through his hair. "That's fine. I'll meet you in your office in a few. I'm sure you need to, you know, shower first before you jump into the ocean."
Steve grabs the radio and Danny quickly takes the opportunity to get the hell out of there and actually find some real air to breathe.
***
Danny walks out of his shower, popping his back with a good twist. God, why couldn't this day be over? He and Steve had already gone over the bare bones of the case, discussing various possibilities. He'd called Lieutenant Porter who agreed to locate the supply officer Johnson had a fight with. Chin and Kono would have more facts on the scene soon, so he deserves some sleep, maybe even winding down a little before bed. But can he? No, he has to go on the jump with Steve.
Fuck his life.
Towel drying his hair, he wanders into his room and stares blankly at the black t-shirt and BDUs laid out on his bed.
"What are these?"
"They're called clothes," Steve says from the chair.
He finishes lacing up his boots and looks over at Danny in expectation.
"Yes, yes they are and these look distinctly...SEALish."
"SEALish?"
"Yes, Steven, SEALish. Like I might go break into the governor's mansion or jet off to parts unknown to raise havoc."
Danny turns his head so Steve doesn't see his grin, stepping into the BDUs and slowly tugging them up. He can feel the weight of Steve's gaze on him as he buckles his belt and slips the t-shirt over his head. Danny wonders what Steve sees, what he thinks about Danny dressed all in black, like he's part of Steve's deadly entourage.
When he looks over, Steve is standing right next to him, absurdly too close, smelling of clean, not even a hint of aftershave. "Here," Steve says, his hand brushing up against Danny's arm. "You'll need this."
Danny nibbles on his bottom lip, forcing his gaze at the heavy olive camo jacket gripped in Steve's fingers. "That's overkill, don't you think?"
"It gets near freezing at high altitudes."
"And what about you?"
Steve cracks his 'I've got a super-secret smile.' "I'll be fine. We gear up in five."
***
The locker area is silent except for the rustling and zipping-up of clothing. The tension in the room could crack ice, each SEAL focused and locked away in their own headspace. Danny doesn't have a role in the prep-work and he stays inconspicuously in the corner, eyes roaming around and landing on Steve.
Steve puts on a long sleeved black shirt, followed by a tac vest worthy of Danny's envy. It's an ultra-thin beauty lined with strike plates, the utility pockets stuffed with extra magazines, grenades, a radio, and another pistol.
Steve pulls out a six-inch knife from a leather roll case, giving it a slow twirl until Danny realizes that Steve's caught him staring. And instead of glaring or smirking, Steve perches his left boot on the bench in front of him and meticulously sheathes the blade next to his thigh holster.
Danny should pretend he'd accidentally zoned out, but he can't stop watching Steve out of the corner of his eye.
Steve sits on the bench and retrieves a paint kit from his locker. He flips open a mirrored compact and dips his fingers into a patch of dark green, spreading a wide stripe from the bridge of his nose down his left cheek and under his chin. Lines of black paint follow: streaks across his forehead, around the side of his eyes. Slowly, Steve vanishes under a mask of camouflage and Danny fights down the sudden heat under his skin.
Steve finishes painting-up his face, and he stands, slipping a dump pouch over his vest, carefully filling it with a gas mask and night vision goggles.
"Here, sir." Mache ambles over, holding up Steve's parachute pack, the heat under Danny's veins simmering.
Mache ensures the pack is on securely, handing Steve another rucksack with a small oxygen tank inside. Steve straps it over his chest, his whole body loaded down with equipment.
"How do you guys even move?" Danny blurts. "That's got to be about forty pounds of gear."
"Try fifty," Mache says, Torres walking over to help him suit up.
"We'll shed our chutes and O2 once we hit the water and stash them in our rubber ducks," Steve says. "Don't worry, when we board, we'll go in light and hard."
***
Lieutenant Porter joins them outside, her usual perkiness tempered to match the serious faces of the team. Steve's fast strides separate them a little from the group as Danny fiddles with the strap to his helmet.
"The point of the helmet is to protect your head," Steve says with a sideways glance.
"Really? I thought it was a fashion statement."
"Just leave it alone."
"It's digging into my chin," Danny complains.
Two large helicopters wait for them a few hundred meters away, the team splitting into two platoons for the mission. Steve leads Team One, Mache Team Two. Danny fidgets with his gloves to make sure they fit snugly.
"You'll be fine, Danno," Steve whispers. "She's a safe bird."
"I'm not worried."
"You look worried."
"No, I don't," Danny growls, checking to see if anyone heard him.
But Mache catches up to them, taking one look at Danny and clapping him hard on the back. "Don't fret, Rolling Stone. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy the ride. I know you've never been up in a helo, but -"
"Actually, I have. And that -" He points to the row of helicopters. "- is a MH-60 Seahawk. It's able to deploy aboard any ship and is used in naval special warfare insertions, search and rescue, and medical evacuations."
Mache grunts in admiration and Steve - Steve walks straight ahead, but he's beaming on the inside, the camo paint unable to conceal that from Danny.
***
His heart slams against his breastbone as it tries to jump into his throat. Danny sweats under his heavy coat, the perspiration chilling his skin in the unbelievably frigid air. He balls up his gloved hands, trying to calm his nerves. This isn't flying a few hundred feet on a short hop across the jungle; it's fifteen-thousand feet under the cover of darkness.
All six SEAL members sit quietly on opposite benches, expressions hidden by oxygen masks and goggles. But Danny can taste the adrenaline, can feel the team's energy like an electric charge.
One of the crew chiefs leans toward Steve and yells, "We're at ten thousand feet now, sir."
Steve rises and gestures at the other five. Torres checks Steve's parachute pack while Steve inspects the ensign's, everyone pairing off to test their equipment one final time.
Danny watches them get ready, his blood flooding with endorphins, forcing him to sit on his hands to keep from fidgeting.
The crew chief motions at the SEALs, moves over to the Seahawk's side, and opens the door. A burst of wind rips through the cabin, but the crew chief peers over the drop zone and gives a thumb's up.
All six SEALs creep closer to the metal edge, inches separating them from the helo and a sheer drop. Steve turns around with his back to the open door, grabbing onto Hunt's left and Torres' right wrists, all three of them locking arms in a circle. Methodically, they lower Steve out of the Seahawk backward. Feet planted on the metal ledge, his body hangs out mid-air, gravity tugging on his packs and rifle.
After a few heart pounding seconds, Steve nods, and Hunt and Torres march forward, the three of them disappearing over the ledge. Before Danny can register anything, the last three SEALs kick their rolled up boat out the door and leap after their buddies.
Danny lurches to his feet, Porter and the crew chief springing after him.
"I'm not jumping, too," Danny growls over the radio. "I'm not insane."
But he crawls on his hands and knees, his whole body quaking as he peers over the side, discovering nothing but the night sky.
"You can't see them," Porter says over the comm. "They're plummeting at a terminal velocity over a hundred miles per hour. They'll descend over their target in less than two minutes."
Steve had explained the jump to him, but knowing the details, knowing Steve will wait until the last possible moment to pull his chute and free-fall to escape detection. It's unbelievable.
He searches the rushing clouds, aware he won't see the chute, that Steve and his team are in the ocean. Dumping their oxygen, searching for their boat in complete darkness.
"We hear from them yet?"
"Negative. Give them a few minutes to regroup," Porter says over the radio. "We're all on the same channel."
Okay, good, that's good. He uses the handhelds to return to his seat, his hearing bombarded by the rotor blades and the blood pounding in his ears. He takes a few deep shuddering breaths and pops his ears.
"Holy shit," he mutters.
"Kind of cool, huh?" Porter asks with a smile.
Danny glares at her, but damn it, she's right, it was cool and terrifying, and he can't stop staring at the closed door to the helo. He thinks of Steve, waiting to hear his voice over the radio, verifying that the dope hasn't drowned.
"Bluebird, we've got a splash. We're waiting on Team Two and will proceed to the target," Steve's voice echoes over the noise.
Thank God.
Porter smiles. "Come on, Williams, we're heading back to base. We can monitor the mission from the ground."
Danny straps himself in with trembling hands, unable to calm his overwhelming adrenaline rush.
***
They hit dry land and Danny rips off his helmet and follows Porter into their jeep. His heart hasn't stopped going a thousand miles per hour and he peels off his jacket and gloves, wiping at his sweaty face.
It doesn't take long to pull up to a nondescript building and Danny hops out immediately.
"Hold up, you can't just go running inside," Porter yells, sliding out of her seat.
Danny goes inside, yanks out his credentials, and waves them at people's faces. Undoubtedly, Lieutenant Porter's sudden appearance by his side allows them into a tiny room packed with people and equipment. He stumbles to a halt, breathing hard, everyone glancing up at him oddly for the disruption.
Danny wants to glare back, but over a dozen heads return their workstations, speaking to each over the sporadic radio noise like nothing's happened. Danny's eyes dart between them and the large overhead screens glowing faintly in the room.
"How far do they have until they reach the ship?" Danny whispers.
"Eight miles," Porter answers, keeping her voice quiet. "They'll take the IBSs close enough to board."
"And do what exactly?" Because Danny hasn't had time to keep up with every crazy exercise.
"Gather intelligence and sabotage the ship without being noticed."
Danny turns his head toward a man in his late fifties with dirty blonde close-cropped hair and pale blue eyes. "Sabotage how?"
"By using a sophisticated incendiary device."
Danny will never understand the military's need to complicate things. "You mean a bomb?"
"Yes, but one that won't leave any forensic evidence behind, Mr. Williams."
"You know my name, but I haven't had the pleasure of yours?"
"Commander Stanton," he says, stuffing an unlit cigar between his teeth.
"Red Bird One, this is Joker One, we've got enemy patrol boats. Request satellite imagery, over?" Steve's voice comes over the speakers in the room.
One of the female communication officers looks over at Stanton who shakes his head. "Joker One, that's a negative. We are unable to pull up immediate imagery."
"Wait," Danny huffs. "Were there supposed to be patrol boats?"
"No," Porter answers smoothly.
Danny shivers from the steady blast of air conditioning and he glances around the room, every eye laser-lined on their computers.
"Why can't the Navy give them satellite intel?" Danny asks perturbed.
"Not every mission goes by the numbers," Stanton says, grabbing a headset.
Danny stares at the commander, nostrils flaring. He doesn't like having his own arguments thrown back in his face. Patrol boats use patterns, so all Steve has to do is sit back and-
"Red Bird One, this is Joker One, we're heading into the water."
Danny looks to the ceiling; of course, waiting would require patience. Stanton chews on his cigar, peering over one of the laptops.
Danny sidles toward Porter, bending close to her ear. "They're swimming toward the ship?"
"The IBSs are big enough to be spotted by the patrols. If they stay far enough away, the team can still sneak aboard."
"And what about the rubber boats?" Danny asks. "Won't they float away?"
"A member of the team will remain with the boats, feeding both platoons intel on the patrol locations." Porter glances over at him, confident. "It's a good strategy."
"Ed Harris over there doesn't think so," Danny grumbles at Stanton's deep frown.
Porter quirks her lips. "It's his job to throw wrenches in the works and evaluate."
Stanton scrutinizes the screens like a cranky schoolteacher, calling for the time every few minutes, his frown deepening with every response.
Danny stands there, watching the cogs rotate in some well-oiled machine, his heart slowing to the room's mechanical beat.
"This is Joker One," Steve calls over the radio. "We're boarding now."
"This is Joker Two, boarding as well," Mache's voice comes over the speakers.
Stanton flips his hairy wrist, checking his watch.
"Roger that, Joker One and Two," one of the communication officers replies.
Danny listens closely for more information, but the team goes to radio silence once onboard. He watches everything unfold on the big screens using thermal readings from satellites that work perfectly fine. Flesh and blood reduced to blobs of fuzzy green like a video game. It's disconcerting.
One group descends three decks while the other platoon systemically dodges the crew, searching for secrets. Two pairs of figures on deck three almost cross in front of each other, ten men running around an entire ship undetected. It's astounding. He can't help grinning, but his smile disappears after a look at all the focused blank faces around him.
It's just another day at the office, all the trained little blobs running around as instructed.
And after ten long minutes, both teams scramble toward each other, converging on the top deck before disappearing off the ship.
"The package has been delivered," Steve's harsh voice breathes over the radio.
"They're back in the water," Porter says.
"Okay," Danny says, relaxing. "All that's left is the pick-up?"
"After they find their IBSs and avoid all the patrol boats," Porter says with a smidgen of sarcasm.
"Forget I asked," Danny grumbles, hoping that's soon.
***
He flips over in bed for the hundredth time, nodding off and snapping awake again. Pounding his pillow until it's flat, Danny lies still, listening for sounds, trying to clear his head from too many racing thoughts. He blinks at the clock, groaning at the time. Four in the freaking morning and he's wide awake.
The door creaks open and Danny sits up. "Steve?"
"Hey, sorry. The debriefing ran late."
Steve sounds tired and he shuffles and sits on the side of the bed, groaning under his breath.
"You okay, babe?" Danny asks, flipping on the light to low.
Steve squints, blinking. "I'm fine."
"You just jumped out of a helicopter at a high rate of speed. And I'm sorry, but you're not immune to things like physics no matter how much you want to pretend. Your whole body must feel like hell."
"I'm sore," Steve admits, voice heavy. "But I took a long shower in the locker room and popped some Advil."
Danny nods, his brain still on overdrive. "Tonight was something else."
"All part of the job."
"I admit, it was pretty amazing," Danny says, surprising himself. "Crazy, but amazing." Steve doesn't say a word and Danny stares at Steve's hunched forward posture, like he might fall onto the floor. "We sleeping in tomorrow?"
"I've got a meeting with Stanton at 1100."
"That's not sleeping in."
"It's six hours of shuteye. It's enough."
Screw that.
Steve slowly unlaces and removes his boots and stretches his arms above his head, his back and shoulders popping. Then he rummages through a rucksack Danny hadn't noticed and pulls out a folder.
"This is for you. Slip it under your pillow and give it back after my meeting."
"You want me to sleep on it?" Danny scoffs, accepting it. He squints at the paperwork. "Hey, this looks like -"
"Johnson's final report on their last mission in-country."
Danny strokes his fingers across the sheaves of paper, the scent of black magic marker still fresh. "Thank you, I didn't think I'd get this."
"I said I'd share it with you as soon as I could."
Danny leafs through the stack, laughing a little. "This is actually readable."
"I only redacted the locations and names."
Something stirs in Danny's stomach, because a few months ago, he's not sure if Steve would have done this. "I'll make sure it doesn't leave my sight until I physically return it to you." He doesn't hear a reply and Danny looks up from the file and over at the next bed. "Steve?"
But Steve's sprawled onto his back asleep, all loose limbed, and a fondness sweeps through Danny at the sight of his Steve all conked out. Moving over, he pulls the sheet up, his hand lingering above Steve's tags. "Sleep tight," he whispers.
***
Coffee is a prerequisite for any morning, but the nearest source is the mess hall and Danny doesn't want to take the file outside the room unless he's meeting with Steve. But it's after eleven in the morning and he managed to sleep through Steve slipping out to go to his meeting.
"I need to tie a bell on him."
He moves over to the chair feeling like just like the wrung out towel hanging over it. Tossing the damp thing to the floor, he begins to read, eyes widening after several pages. Johnson's team had been inside Iran, covertly gathering intelligence on the county's nuclear program. It's not a shocking surprise, but he thought that was more the CIA or NSA's bag of tricks.
But apparently satellites and paid informants could only shed light on so much and nothing beats boots on the ground to observe security and map out compounds.
"Jesus," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
Danny couldn't imagine hiding out in the mountains for weeks in such a hostile environment. And if the team been discovered?
He crinkles the file in his hand and forces himself to finish reading.
***
Danny takes his corn on the cob and rubs it back and forth over a slab of butter until every inch is covered. Grabbing the shaker, he sprinkles salt over it, his eyes flicking over at Steve who absently jabs his fork into his meatloaf.
Pausing with the dripping corn near his lips, Danny sighs and drops it on his plate. "What gives?"
Steve frowns cluelessly. "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" Danny can't believe how dense Steve can be. "I've just slathered my corn in butter and you haven't lectured me once about my diet of cholesterol."
But Steve is too wrapped up in whatever he's not talking about to notice Danny's heart attack on a plate. "Been thinking."
"About the case?" Danny prods.
"No. Well, yeah, that too."
There's more than one thing? It's like pulling teeth, but more than that, Steve honestly looks bothered about something.
"You're distracted. You're never distracted."
"Got a lot on my mind," Steve says defensively.
"And would that include the meeting with that hard ass?" Danny asks, fishing.
"Stanton's just doing his job." Steve shoves a forkful of meatloaf into his mouth and chews. "The SBS are top notch; he's ensuring that we're at our best."
No, that's not it. And here Danny thought they'd made some progress when it came to honesty in the last couple of weeks.
"I know you work with the most sophisticated radar in the world, but nothing beats my BS meter and you're lying through your teeth," Danny tells him.
Steve tries giving him one of his hard stares. "Then you might want to check your readings, because you're wrong."
"I'm wrong?"
"Yes, you are."
"Okay." Danny leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Then your meeting with your CO went well."
"It was satisfactory."
"Seriously?" Danny says in disbelief. "Satisfactory means I can read and understand a five-paragraph essay. That's satisfactory."
Steve looks around the mess before speaking in a whisper. "Meeting with your commanding officer doesn't normally include tea and crumpets, okay? It's about receiving constructive criticism and applying it correctly."
Danny closes his eyes, willing calm and serenity because he can't deal with Steve when he's evasive. "Okay. Fine. It was a normal meeting."
"Okay then," Steve says, blinking owlishly.
There's nothing like taking the fight out of a guy who enjoys confrontation.
"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Danny asks.
Steve looks confused at the quick change of topics and he busies himself by soaking up the last of the gravy off his plate with a bit of meatloaf. "We're conducting daylight HALO jumps."
"I see." Danny isn't terribly surprised. Stanton clearly found whatever flaws he'd been looking for. "And would this be over land or the ocean?"
"The ocean."
"And this is to -"
"Tighten our jumps and work on landing in the water so we can improve time."
The words automatically roll out of Steve's mouth like a well-trained sailor. Danny bristles. "And when you say jumps, you mean…?"
"However many it takes until we're perfect."
"Sounds kind of shitty."
"It needs to be done."
"Evidently," Danny mutters.
Steve leans on his elbows, stretching his upper body across the table until his nose nearly touches Danny's. "We never stop training, D. It's not a game or some punishment. It's the only way to remain in top form."
The clattering of utensils and other people's voices suddenly resonates louder as a silence settles between them. Danny hates the fact he can't really talk here, that he has to be constantly aware of prying eyes and ears.
Feeling twitchy, he reaches for his corn, but Steve snags the cob right off his plate. "Hey! What the hell?"
Steve ignores him, taking his napkin, rubbing off all the butter, and putting it back. "That needed to be done, too."
Danny thinks about throwing the corn at Steve's head, but Steve's less sullen than a few minutes ago and Danny knows they have little time to talk.
"By the way, I read the report this morning. I have it with me, so you can shred it or do whatever you're supposed to with classified documents."
Steve takes the file Danny gives him and slides it under his leg.
"Johnson's team didn't have outside contact with anyone. There were no altercations with other teams or locals. Noting that would warrant reprisals." Steve inconspicuously checks the tables around him out of the corner of his eyes. "All photographic and video evidence are accounted for. And I just found out from NCIS that none of the team's bank records show any signs of unusual activity. I don't believe Johnson's death had anything to do with their last mission."
Steve is the master of mentally pivoting and Danny takes his cue, refocusing on the case. "That leads us back to the base."
"Something happened in the three days after Johnson's team reported to Pearl that got him killed."
Danny massages his temples; there are too many what-if's. "And given his work schedule, that doesn't leave very many hours for opportunity. I'm meeting with the supply officer Porter told me had a loud argument with Johnson. I'll see if that leads to anything."
Steve looks equally as frustrated, and given his ratio of sleep to stress, it makes him look exhausted. "Johnson hung out with his team during most off duty hours except for the time he went to the Blue Ocean."
"Which we'll visit tonight," Danny adds.
"Yeah and maybe we'll -" Steve doesn't complete his thought, nodding at someone in the distance.
Danny glances behind him, spotting a few of the team walk inside. Mache the walking Redwood and Torres the Pitbull. Both men wander over and Steve waves a hand at the two empty chairs at their table.
"Sir," Mache says, sitting down. He looks over at Danny and nods cordially. "Food's not bad here. Heard we might get some local flavor later tonight."
Mache's trimmed his beard to something reasonable and he sits there shooting the shit with Steve while Torres sits quietly. Danny supposes this is all part of team bonding, and he looks over at Steve, seemingly relaxed, the wrinkles around his eyes smoothed away. He eats, listening to the conversations, thinking about Steve's face before and after his teammates arrived. And Danny chews way too long with every bite, hoping Steve, the damn expert in almost everything, hasn't committed a fundamental rookie mistake in undercover work.
***
Waiting around to speak to the supply officer reminds Danny of the lines at the DMV. Slow and long. By the time it's his turn at the counter, the guy behind the counter shakes his head at him. "Sorry, it's time for my break."
"Listen Petty Officer Payne, I just need -"
Payne holds up his hand. "I spend all day providing people what they need and as of sixty seconds ago, that ceased being my job until I return. Now you'll need to wait outside."
"Your name actually suits you," Danny mumbles under his breath. He knows when the asshat returns there'll be another line and he'll have wait again. "Hey, hold up," he yells. Danny goes out the door, chasing Payne outside. "How about fifty bucks. Does that buy me a few minutes?"
Payne does an about face. "You should have mentioned money earlier."
***
They stand outside the supply office while Payne lights a cigarette. "You've got five minutes, buddy. So hit me."
Danny waves the smoke away, pulling out a pad and pen. "Did you know Commander Johnson?"
"Commander Johnson?" Payne gives him the blankest look. "The guy that missed the curb?"
Danny grits his teeth. "Yes, the officer who died in a car accident."
Payne takes another drag. "No, I didn't know him."
"You never met him?"
"I meet over a hundred people a day," Payne says, exhaling. "Don't mean I know 'em."
"True," Danny says with a smile. "But didn't you guys have some kind of encounter?"
Payne crushes his cig under his boot. "What the fuck does Rolling Stone care about some pissing match between a bottom feeder and a SEAL?"
"Because your story isn't about how great and amazing SEALs are," Danny says, waving his hands around exaggeratedly. "It's about a loud-mouth going off on a guy just trying to do his job, am I right?"
"Damn straight!" Payne yells, pulling out another smoke. "I spend my whole fucking day approving and rejecting bids on goods. Evaluating usage of ammo and weapons, assessing future provisions, prepping upcoming quality inspection checks, shipping -"
"Exactly," Danny says, cutting him off. "Real nose to the grindstone stuff. Without you -"
"Without me, people like Johnson couldn't get the amount of ammo he needs. Did he think it was easy requesting an additional ten thousand rounds just because his guys use so many?" Payne bitches. "I have budgets, I have -"
"Wait, wait, wait," Danny says, already feeling an impeding aneurysm. "The argument was about ammo?"
Payne glares at him like Danny's a schmuck. "Sure was. He went through my weekly allotment in a day and demanded that I sign the request for more. But he didn't have Commander Stanton's signature and I wasn't about to -"
"You didn't give him the amount of ammo he requested because his paperwork wasn't in order?"
Danny can't believe his ears.
"Do you know how many times I hear that excuse?" Payne demands, offended.
"What happened when you didn't approve his request?"
"He went off on me, threatened he'd go over my head," Payne says, gesturing wildly, spreading ash everywhere. "And you know what I told him?"
Danny doesn't care, but he's too dumbstruck to say otherwise. "What?"
"Go ahead. My tour is up in four weeks. I've already got a real job lined up. What was he going to do? Have me written up? Get me kicked out?"
"Then what did he do?" Danny asks, because there has to be more to it. Why else would Porter or even members of Team Five mention it to Steve?
"Then what did he do?" Payne actually looks confused, lighting another cigarette. "He slammed his hand on the desk and went straight to my supervisor."
"That's it?" Danny blurts.
Payne has the gall to laugh. "Um, yeah. What else did you expect?"
"I don't know," Danny hisses, realizing what a colossal waste of time he's committed. "That's why I'm interviewing you, to get the real story."
"There's nothing else." Payne snorts like Danny's uncle with emphysema. "Dude, you don't know anything about scuttlebutt, do you? It's worse than high school."
Danny's interviewed enough suspects to know when someone is telling the truth and it's annoying as fuck because he's just wasted two hours and a bill on a fat lot of nothing.
"Yeah, so it would appear," he mutters, stuffing his notebook back into his shirt pocket.
***
Danny has a couple of hours before Steve finishes his HALO jumps. It might be work related, but he can't wait until they head out for the bar. But in the meantime, he'll interview some of the mess hall staff, see if they saw or heard anything worth following up on.
"And maybe I'll spin my wheels again," he mumbles annoyed at himself.
***
The Blue Ocean is not the rowdy, swinging-by-the-rafters type of place Danny expects. All the walls are ultramarine and covered with nautical equipment or pictures of ships. The mahogany bar has brass accents and they serve all their drinks in mason jars.
Steve nods at the end and they both take a seat, Steve gingerly lowering himself into the last stool. Danny notices the slow movement but doesn't say anything. Instead, he grabs a bowl of peanuts and snacks on a few, giving Steve a long sideways glance at his black tee. "You know what I don't understand? You've practically lived in cargo pants and t-shirts your whole adult life. Why is it you wear them on your down time?"
"Are you, Mr. I Wore a Tie for a Year, asking me about my wardrobe choice?" Steve mocks.
"Since you were obsessed with mine for so long? Yeah, I'm asking."
"They're comfortable."
A middle-aged woman with wavy blonde hair and large gold loop earrings comes over and gives them both a grin. "What can I get ya fellas?"
Steve holds out a couple of fingers. "Two Longboards."
"Sure thing, sweets." She wipes down the bar with a rag before setting down two ice-cold ones. "Want to start a tab?"
Steve pulls out a credit card. "Sure."
Danny can't stop the laugh that bubbles up from his throat. "Wow, buddy, you remembered your wallet."
Steve gives him a wicked smile. "I'll get a receipt so you can pay your half later."
Danny returns the smile, the tension he unknowingly carried in his shoulders easing. "You're such a cheapskate."
"Didn't want you to confuse the situation," Steve teases.
Danny presses the bottle to his lips, forcing himself to let that drop and take a slow pull, the beer harsh down his throat. Steve takes a large swallow of his own beer, wincing as he flexes his shoulders.
"You still sore?" Danny asks, trying to hide his concern.
"I'm good," Steve dismisses.
"Good, huh?" Danny thinks to last night, at the wind ripping through the helicopter, and watching Steve leap with enough gear to take out a small island. "How many times did you jump out of a helicopter?" Steve doesn't answer, downing the rest of his drink. "Uh-huh. Yeah, you're good."
"Want another one, sweets?"
The bartender has the worst timing ever and Danny takes another swallow of beer.
"Actually, I thought you could pour a buddy of mine's favorite," Steve tells her. "Gin straight up. Tanqueray No. 10."
The bartender's perky mood dissolves into a frown. "You guys were Ryan's friends?"
Danny straightens in his stool, casting a swift glance at Steve.
"Yeah," Steve says in genuine solemnity.
"Sorry to hear what happened," she says with a shake her head. "He was a real doll."
"Did you work when he came in?" Danny asks.
"Yep. I've been covering for a few folks who've been on vacation." She gestures at the stool next to Danny. "He always came in, ordered his Tanker, and sat there all quiet like."
Steve glances at the empty stool, the empathy for Johnson obvious in his downcast expression. "He was trying to work some things out," he murmurs.
"Yeah, you could tell," the bartender says, frowning. "I didn't pry; most of the guys on base come here to get away."
Danny glances around at the décor. "Yeah, I could see how this wouldn't remind them of their day jobs."
Steve shoots him an annoyed look, returning his attention back to their witness.
"Did any of our other buddies ever meet him here? Or did he make friends with anyone at the bar?"
"No. He was kind of the loner type. He even had some local interest if you know what I mean. Girls who like sailors, but he wasn't interested."
"Really?" Steve asks. "You sure? He was a looker."
"Sure was, much like you sweets," she says with a wink. "But he just enjoyed the quiet. People around here know to take a hint." Turning around, she pours a shot of gin and leaves it next to Steve's elbow. "I'm Lydia, by the way. Just holler if you need anything."
Danny swirls his bottle around when Lydia is out of earshot. "Doesn't sound like he ran into any trouble here, and according to my interview with Payne and some of the mess hall staff, Johnson didn't get into a beef with anyone on base."
"No, he didn't." Steve rubs the palm of his hand across his temple, seemingly frustrated by the lack of progress. "And there wasn't any trouble with anyone on the team."
"You sure?" Danny asks. He knows how tunnel-visioned Steve can get regarding SEALs.
"I'm sure," Steve snaps, fingers tight around his beer.
Dealing with Steve in defensive mode is like banging his head against the wall because Steve's loyalty a wonderful thing, but it often leaves him exposed and vulnerable.
Danny sucks on his bottom lip, fumbling for a neutral topic. "Did you get your perfect jump today?"
Steve loses some of the fire behind his eyes. "We improved our time by two minutes."
"In the air?"
"No. We landed in the water in a tighter group and were able to shed our equipment and get into our ducks faster." Steve nods at Lydia for a second round. "We thought Vega injured his ankle, but the docs cleared him."
Lydia plops down two frosty beers and Danny curls his fingers around the new bottle, thoughts straying to the file. Reading Johnson's last mission opened a door to Danny's curiosity, and given the nature of the case, it might be the only time to talk to Steve about it.
"When you were serving," he says his voice gravely. "How many missions did you go on?"
"I didn't keep count." Steve says, taking a long swallow.
Danny highly doubts that. "What about in a year? Ball park?"
"When I was Afghanistan," Steve pauses, thoughtful, his eyes drifting toward the bar. "It was non-stop. Hundreds. When I completed my tour, I switched to special operations."
Danny doesn't pretend to understand the horror of war, but he wants to understand Steve, even if it's like walking across a minefield.
"Special ops. Like counter terrorism stuff?" When Steve doesn't answer, Danny pivots. "How many of those did you do?"
Steve stops burning holes through the bar with his glare and looks up at Danny, lips pressed together. "Maybe a couple dozen a year. Depended on the length. Some missions lasted for weeks, others a few minutes."
Danny honestly didn't want to know about the ones that lasted only minutes.
"And you never went home?" he asks, partially aware of the answer.
Pain flickers behind Steve's eyes, but he locks it away from one blink to another. "I lived on whatever base I was sent to train or where I ran operations from."
"Sounds kind of lonely."
"I didn't have time to be lonely, D."
But it had to be, with no cards or phone calls from loved ones. No one telling Steve they couldn't wait to see him during his leave or the holidays. Danny knows that's where Steve's streak of self-sacrifice stems from; always thinking others had more to lose than he did. It was wrong then and Danny has worked hard to show Steve that it's wrong now.
Danny thinks of Grace. Of sisters and brothers. Matty. Mary. One sibling who can't go home and the other still slowly finding her way back.
"And the guys who had families?" he asks.
"They returned when they could," Steve says, unable to hide the regret in his voice. "I worked with other agencies then; some of the missions only required two or four-man teams."
"That how you met Vega?" Danny blurts. His curiosity still burning.
"I served with him for a few weeks when I was a lieutenant."
Danny thinks again of a young, eager Steve with shorter hair and even a more gung-ho attitude. "Like one of the young officers he had to train?"
"No. I wasn't green." Steve swirls his beer. "I'd been out of platoon training for a couple years, but it was one of my first special assignments."
"One of those two-man jobs?"
"Four."
But Steve's tongue isn't that loose and he drifts off, staring off at nothing, lost inside the steel fortress behind his thoughts.
"You're a good SEAL, Steven, but don't forget you're also a good cop." Danny lays a hand on Steve's shoulder. "And I know what you're doing out there is real. That these exercises are some intense shit and you feel really close to your team. But remember, it's all part of the job."
Steve's muscles tense under Danny's hand. "I'm lying to them."
And there it is, right under Danny's nose. He should have known. Steve's Achilles' heel is painfully susceptible.
"No, you're gathering intel so you can find the person responsible for their CO's murder." Danny squeezes Steve's shoulder, letting his fingers linger. "It's another covert op and these men - they'd want the person responsible for the death of their friend brought to justice."
Steve scans the various pictures on the wall, snapshots in history, moments of honor. Danny drops his hand and Steve looks up at him, the guilt written in the crinkles between his eyes.
"You know deep inside what I'm saying is true," Danny tells him. "It hurts to keep the truth from people, but it's the right thing to do."
"Not always," Steve says, swallowing the last of his beer, staring at him. "But I've done far worse."
Danny isn't sure if he ever wants to know Steve's darkest secrets. "Some stuff you carry around with you until the pain becomes permanent. Either you let it go or you bury it. But this isn't one of those of those times, babe."
Steve nods grim-faced but doesn't say a word.
***
Chapter Three