“Good. Freya should be read in too. She has details on another oligarch associated with Laskin. There’s more with the CIA that she’s looking into, but as far as I know, Freya knows nothing about Laskin.”

“Got it. I’ll make my calls, and one of us will get back to you ASAP.”

Chris hit the End button and met Diana’s gaze. They’d been lounging in bed enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning now that she was mostly recovered from surgery.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

He kissed her. “I’ll tell you if I get permission. It has to do with Kira, but it probably doesn’t have anything to do with you or last December. Kira can tell you her part when she gets back if it comes to that.”

“Damn. Sounds serious.”

“Very.” He ran a hand over his face. The desire to tell her burned deep, but he had to honor his oath, just as Rand was doing in Malta.

He kissed her, gentle and soft, mindful that she was still recovering, then climbed from the bed. “I need to call Commander Gleeson, then head to the base. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“If everyone is called in, I can give Steph a hand with the kids. Lily’s birthday party is today.”

“You sure you’re up for that?”

“Yes. And I’ll be bored without you home today.”

“If you could help Steph, it would be amazing. Tell her I’m sorry to ruin Lily’s day, but Kramer is needed.”

“She knows the drill.”

Stephanie Kramer did know the drill, and Diana was getting used to it. But then, she had her own work for Friday Morning Valkyries that had her versed in national security and intelligence gathering. She got it.

Chris left her and went to his office to make the calls. It was going to be a long day, and probably even longer night.

Grigory Laskin.

Holy fuck.

He wished he could call Xavier, but there wasn’t time.

Teague Collins settled in the seat next to Chris Flyte—at once familiar, but also new. He’d been glad to end up on Lieutenant Flyte’s team again after more than a year of recovery and rebuilding strength. Different base, different team, but same Assistant Officer in Charge.

Today his AOIC had called him personally before the meeting. After saying he had no time to explain, Flyte instructed Teague to take Fallon’s place at the table. He braced himself, knowing Flyte wouldn’t have given those instructions lightly. If anyone should have a seat at the table in Rand’s absence, it should be the team’s new junior lieutenant, Jacob Burns, not a mere Petty Officer Second Class like him.

He and Flyte had very different experiences when it came to the training exercise that had stolen a year from Teague’s service in the SEALs. He’d watched Flyte make his HALO jump into the storm and followed with the others, splashing down in a frigid lake and swimming to the designated spot with his Fire Team. 

Twenty minutes later, Teague was injured and the other three men on his team were dead. He went in and out of consciousness for what he was told was a few hours, then sank into total oblivion until he woke in a Navy hospital a few days later.

During that time, Flyte and the rest of the platoon had been in a fight for their lives against an unexpected enemy, armed only with guns that fired paint pellets.

Teague was lucky to be alive. Even luckier that his injury hadn’t prevented him from returning to active duty and reclaiming a spot on a SEAL team. He felt stronger than ever and was determined to prove he deserved this second chance to be a special operator.

He’d failed his Fire Team. He knew it wasn’t his fault, understood that the training had been jacked before he jumped from the plane. But there was knowing and there was believing.

Every day was an exercise in trying to be worthy of being the one who’d survived. Of figuring out how he could best represent the three men who’d died.

The room quickly filled with the rest of his new team, along with brass and the specialists who kept NSWC operational. It was a replay of last Tuesday, after the shooting, with the base commander near the head of the table and representatives from base security pushing the room to full capacity.

Another SEAL platoon had responded to the shooting, and Teague nodded to them as they filled the standing-room-only space along the back wall beside other members of Teague’s new team who didn’t have the AOIC save a seat for them.

He wanted to ask Flyte exactly why he’d received this special treatment, but then an admiral entered the room, and they all stood at attention until the man took his seat at the head of the table.

The admiral began the meeting without preamble. “Captain Huang, I understand we have an update from Lieutenant Commander Fallon regarding the shooting on base last Tuesday.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Huang said. “Two days after the shooting, we authorized Fallon to go to Malta—on personal leave—because the shooter had information on his computer regarding Dr. Kira Hanson’s trip. His role in seeing to Dr. Hanson’s safety in Malta was unofficial and only agreed to in an abundance of caution until we could determine if Hanson was the target or the shooting on base was a direct attack on military personnel made to look like a personal attack on a civilian. Today, Lieutenant Commander Fallon contacted the AOIC of his SEAL team with intel that warrants calling this meeting for a full debrief.”

Huang nodded in Flyte’s direction. The lieutenant stood and walked to the front of the room. “Fallon called me because I have history with an individual he met today in Malta at approximately 1330 Malta time, 0730 Eastern. This is going to require some background to bring everyone up to speed. The admiral has authorized Dr. Hanson to be read in on this, as it directly relates to her. Lieutenant Commander Fallon says she has relevant intel. Right now, I have no context for how the meeting today came to be. We determined for expediency, we would all be briefed at the same time.”

The screen at the front of the room lit up, and Fallon and Hanson were there, sitting on a sofa with a backdrop of a window overlooking the deep blue Mediterranean Sea.

Fallon wore an Aloha shirt and Hanson was in a fancy tank top—probably a sundress of some kind. Both sported skin that had more color than they’d had last Tuesday. Fallon’s blond hair looked to be a shade lighter. Dr. Hanson’s freckles had come out in the sun like stars come out at night.

Even though they dressed like a couple on vacation, their faces were deadly serious, and any envy Teague might have felt for his OIC enjoying a Maltese vacation with the pretty Dr. Hanson evaporated.

Fallon’s lips moved, and it took a moment to get the sound to emit through the speaker. “—got the encryption to work.”

“Can you hear us now?” Commander Gleeson asked.

“Yes,” Hanson said.

“Good. I was just about to give background to the team,” Flyte addressed both the couple in Malta and the room. “Nearly eighteen months ago, my SEAL platoon was sent on a training exercise in Olympic National Park in Washington state.”

Teague sat up straighter. He’d been expecting this, but somehow, it still managed to hit him in the gut.

Flyte nodded in his direction and continued. “Petty Officer Teague Collins was on that team and participated in the exercise.”

He wanted to grunt a denial. That was only true if participated meant he watched his Fire Team get murdered and was nearly killed himself just minutes in and spent the rest of the time unconscious and a liability.

If Hobbs hadn’t run, Teague would have been finished off immediately. His life was saved by the other man’s failed escape. His new team knew he’d been injured, but they and others in the room didn’t necessarily know when and where. They’d find out today.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Flyte continued. “I’m sure many of you know about the LOLE—Lake Olympus Lodge Exercise—that resulted in a direct assault on a SEAL platoon on US soil, when we were isolated and armed only with Simunition.”

There were murmurs of agreement. “The motive behind the attack wasn’t as simple as it appeared, and the details remain classified, but I can share this much: my team was targeted in the assault because Russian oligarch Grigory Laskin was dissatisfied with an attempted rescue of his kidnapped daughter three years ago. The SEAL who ran the training exercise, Chief Warrant Officer Xavier Rivera, and I were the only survivors of the four-man Fire Team that tried to rescue Katerina Grigoryovna Laskina. The attack on the training was revenge on Rivera and me because we failed to rescue his daughter, who was killed along with two SEALs in the failed rescue.”

Collins knew these details. As a victim of Laskin’s revenge, he’d sought to learn everything he could about the man and done further research on his own when he’d exhausted what the Navy was willing to share or what the internet could tell him.

“The Defense Intelligence Agency has been monitoring Laskin for the last eighteen months, but legally, we can’t prove his guilt nor seek sanctions against him, not without revealing operational intelligence that would put informants and our agents at risk.” 

Flyte looked at the screen where Fallon and Hanson sat side by side on a couch in front of a vast sea. “Today, Lieutenant Commander Fallon and Dr. Hanson were in the villa of Russian oligarch Luka Kulik. Kulik or his son, Reuben, might be behind the attack on Little Creek last Tuesday. While they were there, Reuben Kulik arrived with a guest who introduced himself to Fallon as Grigory Laskin.”