broad in a fancy zip code. Me? You’re gonna stick me here, aren’t you. In bumfuck nowhere with orange drapes.” Lansky gave the motel room a sneering look. Ignoring them both, Torres switched from push-ups to sit-ups.
“Nobody knows you’re here, so this is as good as any until we have a direction,” Savino agreed with a nod. The bone-deep tension finally starting to loosen now that he knew things would be handled, he rested one booted foot on the opposite knee.
“Bottom line, Torres is the one whose head is gonna roll farthest if we don’t figure it out. He’s the one I want staking out the ex.”
“You think he’ll go to her?”
Savino glanced at Torres, who’d finally hit his wall and sat, arms draped over his knees, trying to catch a breath.
“Everything I’ve seen indicates that if Ramsey’s our guy, dead or alive, he’d involve her.”
“The way he talked, they were a pretty hot item,” Lansky agreed. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t bring the kid to the memorial. She knew Ramsey wasn’t dead and didn’t want the boy blowing their cover.”
“Or maybe she simply didn’t want to bring her kid to a bar to meet a bunch of strangers for the first time while they share stories of his old man going up in flames,” Torres muttered.
Exactly. Savino knew Torres’s history, knew where the guy had come from. Just another reason he wanted him leading this mission.
If Ramsey was dirty and his girlfriend complicit, the kid’s life was going to be blown all to hell. Torres had been there himself; he’d felt the betrayal of a selfish father who’d put corruption ahead of his family. Who’d put his personal vision of glory over his son.
Torres would take care not to point the finger and put another boy on the same painful path he’d walked.
Which was something Savino was counting on. Not so much to protect the kid, although he wasn’t indifferent. But because that care, that meticulous focus on detail, was what they needed if they were going to present a clean case to NI and clear Poseidon’s name.
Of course, if Ramsey was truly dead and they confirmed that he was whistle clean, SEAL Team 7 was up a creek. That would mean there was a traitor in their midst. That kind of thing was a black mark against the entire team. It could be a major blow to Torres, who’d led the mission. It could result in loss of rank, loss of command, dishonorable discharge and quite possibly imprisonment.
At odds with Savino’s usual cool, fury flamed hot and livid in his gut. NI already had it in for Poseidon, disliking their air of exclusivity and admiral’s auspices. This was all they’d need to disband and destroy the Special Ops group.
Savino wanted to lay that all out. To underscore the severity of this situation.
For each one of the team personally.
But that’d be indulgent.
Stating the obvious would show a lack of faith in his men. And it’d waste time.
“Your orders are to watch, engage if engaged, but don’t give any hint that you believe Ramsey might be alive.”
Mid-sit-up, Torres paused to give Savino a look that was clearly a pledge.
“Watch, engage only if engaged? I specialize in recon and counterterrorism. That sounds like babysitting.”
Distaste and discomfort were both evident in the man’s voice. Sitting and watching, not acting, it was the antithesis of what they were trained for. And a man like Torres, who, as he said, specialized in action, probably thought an assignment like this was next to impossible. But that’s what they were trained to do. The impossible.
“Observe, blend, engage if engaged. Play nice and, if possible, earn their trust. Consider yourself undercover as a nice guy.” Savino almost grinned at Lansky’s snorted amusement. He couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Nailing this guy will put an end to this investigation. Otherwise...”
The end of Poseidon.
“We’re clean. We fight the good fight. We fight the clean fight. Until we have to fight dirty.” Elbows on his knees now, Torres shrugged. “Poseidon is clean. Nothing they find can prove it any other way. But we’ll do their job for them and prove it our way. Prove we’re crystal.”
Exactly what he’d wanted to hear.
And that was why Torres was the best man for the job.
DIEGO HAD BEEN to a lot of places. Stinking slums and baking beaches, crowded cities and ice-crusted mountains. He’d served with people from all walks of life and had gone through most of the states in the union. But he couldn’t recall ever actually bunking down anywhere he fit in less than the exclusive Riviera Enclave in Santa Barbara.
Throttling his Harley back from a roar to a grumbling purr, he prepared to stop as he neared the guardhouse. But for the first time in the three days he’d been here, the orange-and-white-striped gate rose at his approach.
Well, well. How about that, he mused as he rolled right on through. Maybe it was a sign.
His first day he’d had to register both himself and his bike. When he’d come through a couple of hours later with his gear, the same guard had made him show his ID all over again. Same the next day, and the one after that.
A hint of satisfaction worked its way through the fury-filled frustration that had fueled his every waking moment for the last four days.
He’d be happier if it stemmed from, oh, say, hearing that Jared had made a breakthrough in hacking Ramsey’s email accounts. Or better yet, seeing Ramsey himself stroll up the sidewalk, as alive as can be. He’d even settle for the extraction team finding DNA in the dust they’d scooped up from the mission site and proving that Ramsey was well and truly dead.
But Diego had served on enough missions to know that success was built one small triumph at a time. And that he needed to take what he could get.
He kept his speed under twenty. There weren’t any of those signs posted warning that children were playing, probably because they weren’t allowed to. It was that kind of neighborhood. Rich, upscale and exclusive, the lawns were all perfectly maintained, the birds chirped in sync and the few people he’d actually seen looked like something off a movie set. Pretty and Perfect, he decided the film would be titled as he slowed his bike to a crawl.
He didn’t turn his head, but his eyes locked on his target as he pulled into the driveway next door. Sun-pinked adobe and gleaming rod iron were accented by arched windows, a covered front patio and fat clay pots overflowing with jewel-toned flowers. The green sweep of lawn was intersected by a curving walkway decorated with pebbles the same color as the house. Next to the sidewalk and at odds with the picture-perfect landscape a little blue wagon tilted drunkenly to the side, its front wheel missing.
So far Diego’s recon hadn’t done more than confirm the information they had. Ramsey’s ex lived in the house with their son. She worked from home, led a supposedly quiet life and drove an aged Camry.
He needed more.
And he wasn’t going to get it watching from the outside. He just hadn’t found his way in.
Not yet.
His orders were specific.
Watch and wait; engage only if engaged.
Damned if following orders wasn’t a pain in the ass sometimes.
But then, as if someone had decided to cut him a break, a movement swept up the sidewalk in the form of a kid pushing his bicycle.
Diego let himself smile. Why not? He might have just found his angle.
He’d been watching the house and occupants for three days, so he knew at a glance that the slight figure with