“Secretary Webb called me early this morning.” Logan met the gaze of every man in the room. “He hasn’t given me any specifics other than a valuable CIA asset is claiming to have intel regarding our last mission.”
Lucky straightened his spine, as did every man sitting at that table. The air grew thick with tension, the room's energy changing instantly. All signs of their lighthearted ribbing gone as the former team of decorated SEALs waited to hear more.
“Which asset?” Lucky demanded of the man on the screen.
But Chase followed that with an uncharacteristically gruff, “Screw the asset. What’s the intel?”
He understood Chase’s desperation in the matter. The entire team shared that same gnawing, gut-twisting need to uncover the truth about what had happened to them that day.
The what. The how. So many questions left unanswered. So many nights he’d laid awake picturing Hunter’s face.
Lucky’s throat grew tight. Some days it was still hard to believe Hunt was gone. Three years had passed since the team was ambushed by an extremist militia group during what was supposed to be a simple intel-gathering op.
Three damn years, and they were still no closer to uncovering the truth. But that hadn’t stopped them from looking for answers. Lucky and his team wanted—no, theyneeded—to find those responsible for the loss of their fallen brother.
It was the team’s one true mission. To identify the bastards who’d not only cost a good man his life but who’d also tried like hell to send the entire group of SEALs to their deaths. Once they found their target—and they would find them—Lucky and his team would then take the sons of bitches down.
For fucking good.
“His name is Farzad Akimi.” A young Afghan man’s face appeared, the screen splitting into two equal frames.
Chase scooted himself closer to the table. “So…not one of ours.”
Lucky studied Akimi’s image. Early to mid-twenties, a thin layer of scruff covered his narrow jaw. The guy’s dark, wavy hair was unkempt beneath the tan and black paku perched on his head. Nose long and straight, his olive complexion was a bit paler than some, but for the most part, he looked like any other young Afghani man.
“Definitely not ours,” Lucky confirmed.
Like now, he was the team’s technical analyst. That meant any and all direct communication between the team and their assets had gone through him. Three years may have passed since he and the others worked for Uncle Sam, but Lucky still remembered the faces of every asset they’d had.
“Akimi came on board shortly after your team’s departure from the Navy. He’s young, but he’s good. One of the CIA’s most valuable assets, or so I’ve heard.”
“How the hell does he know anything about our last op if he came after us?” Van demanded.
As usual, the guy’s question was valid. Also, as usual, SECNAV was ready with an answer.
“During a recent briefing about a current CIA op, Akimi shared something rather interesting with his handler.”
Logan frowned. Interesting how?”
“He mentioned your team by name.” Webb swallowed. “More specifically, he made reference to, and I quote, ‘the shitstorm that brought the most decorated Navy SEAL team to its knees’.”
Every man in the room stiffened as their attention became laser-focused.
With his fists balling up against the table’s smooth surface, Lucky stared back at the screen and asked, “What does he know?”
“He won’t say.”
“What does he want?” Van asked. “Guy doesn’t spout shit off like that and then clam up unless he wants something.”
Webb’s intelligent brown eyes shifted to where Van sat. “As usual, your instincts are spot on.”
“Let me guess.” Archer leaned his elbows onto the table. “He wants to trade this supposed intel for his walking papers.”
“Got it in one, Nash.” Webb nodded grimly. “From what Akimi’s handler shared, the guy’s spooked. He’s been reported as getting more and more agitated to the point of being paranoia. Not that I can blame him.” The other man huffed a breath. “The group the Agency’s after…they’re bad news.”
“Anything we should be concerned about?”
Logan’s question pulled Webb’s attention. A slow grin lifted one corner of his lips. “Come on, Hayes. You know better than to ask me that.”