With the scarf-and-veil combo in disarray on the curb beside her, he’d been given a clear view of the woman’s long, brown hair and beautiful face. Streaks of silver had lightened the hairline at her temples, her olive complexion aged a bit beyond her years.
Though the glimpse Logan had gotten of her that day lasted mere seconds, he’d seen enough to know the woman had probably been stunning back in her day.
And now she was dead.
Don’t go there, Hayes. What’s done is done. You need to focus on the present, and put that shit in the past, where it belongs.
The voice in his head was right. What happened that day two weeks ago wasn’t his fault, and there wasn’t a damn thing he or the others could’ve done to stop it. It was Jamal Hassan Muhammad’s last-minute change of plans that had fucked them all.
“Bossman’s right, Boyer,” Hunter Garrison continued the conversation regarding Chase’s disdain for their newest op. “SECNAV doesn’t give two shits about our feelings or our sweaty balls. The man says jump, the only question we ask is—”
“How high,” Chase drawled. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” With his TAC-338 sniper rifle held securely in his gloved hands, he shook his helmeted head and blew out a breath. “Just burns my ass that we had to come back here because we missed gettin’ the son of a bitch two weeks ago.”
“We didn’t miss a fucking thing.” Donovan Braddock’s deep, gruff voice came out like a growl. “Muhammad didn’t show. That’s not on us.”
Van’s short black hair, dark, stoic demeanor, and a lethal gaze gave the six-six beast of a man his well-earnedkeep the fuck away from mevibe. And when it came to combat, Van—who held the same Chief Petty Officer ranking as Logan—was a man of many talents.
Whether through the crosshairs of his rifle or with his bare hands, the human wall of muscle was as deadly as they came. Just like every other member of Black Squadron One.
“Damn straight, it’s not on us,” Hunter spoke up again. “Besides, none of that shit matters anymore. SECNAV doesn’t care why Jamal Muhammad was M.I.A. last time, and so what if we got our first mission failure in our jackets? We’re here now, and we’ve got our orders. So let’s just do what we came to do, so we can get our asses back home, yeah?”
Logan slid his gaze in the other man’s direction. The blond haired, blue-eyed bastard looked more like he belonged in a Barbie movie than on a field of battle. But his perfect hair and preppy looks were as deceptive as the man’s friendly smile.
As the team’s Corpsman, and Logan’s Number Two, Hunt wasn’t just a vital part of Black Squadron One. He was also Logan’s closest friend.
“You know, that’s all well and good, Hunt…” Archer Nash joined in the fun. “But I’m pretty sure our last op proved it ain’t always that easy.”
“Maybe not, but it will be this time,” Hunter countered with a confident grin. “Wanna know how I know?”
“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell us anyway,” Van sighed.
Rather than play into Donovan’s typical grumpy ass mood, an overly cheerful Hunter simply flashed the other man a toothy grin and addressed the group as a whole.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” The optimistic bastard commanded everyone’s attention. “Listen up, boys. Now, I realize some of you may be doubting whether or not we’re gonna get our man this time. And to be fair, after the clusterfuck that was our last op, I can understand why. But I’m here to tell ya… it’sgonnahappen.” When no one responded right away, Hunter prompted them with, “How do I know this?” He chuckled. “Well, I am so glad that you asked.”
“No one fucking asked.”
Donovan wasted no time in pointing that fact out, but Hunt ignored the surly bastard and kept right on talking.
“I know for a fact we’re gonna take out Jamal Muhammad and the rest of the terrorist fucks coming to this little party. And I know this because God isn’t cruel enough to make me leave my gorgeous wife—naked and alone in our bed, mind you—for athirddamn time just so we can come back to this hellhole to take out the same son of a bitch again.”
Since Logan and the others weren’t quite sure how to respond to that, the next few booted steps passed in awkward silence. When a member of the team finallydidrespond to Hunter’s revealing prediction, Jason “Lucky” Lucas threw in the first two cents.
“Seriously?” The clean-shaven PO1 shot Hunter an incredulous stare. “That’swhat you’re basing your prediction of the job’s outcome on? Damn, brother. I thought maybe you actually knew something we didn’t.”
“I do know something.” Hunter turned his shaded gaze back to the path ahead. With his hands clutching the sniper rifle hanging from its thick shoulder strap, he elaborated by adding, “I know I had to leave Natalie tangled in the sheets and looking like an angel to come hike through an Afghani hillside with you ugly fuckers. So I don’t carewhatwe have to do, we’re making whatever positive IDs we’ve gotta make, and we’re getting our asses back home.” A slight pause and then, “Did I mention Nat was naked when I left?”
Several deep chuckles later, and Lucky and Hunter began debating the odds of Muhammad showing his murdering face this time around. Archer and Chase struck up an entirely different conversation involving last week’s pro football games and a bunch of stats Logan couldn’t care less about, and Donovan remained locked away in his own head.
With the two separate conversations going on around him, Logan tried to ignore the way his chest had tightened when Hunter had uttered Nat’s name aloud.
Natalie Baker—now Natalie Garrison—was Hunter’s wife of nearly a year. Five-three, petite, brunette, and slightly freckled, the corporate bookkeeper had the wholegirl next doorthing going on.
She was smart as a whip when it came to numbers, funny in an almost innocent way, and one of the sweetest and prettiest women Logan had ever known. And if he’d gotten to that bar ten minutes earlier, she wouldn’t belong to Hunt.
She’d be mine.
As if he were fearful his thoughts could somehow be heard by the others, Logan blinked, his shadowed gaze flying to the man walking on his right. But rather than Hunter’s fiery glare, the other man just tossed his head back with a boisterous laugh at something Lucky had just said.