Page 23 of False Flag

“You can do that?”

He shrugged. “For a price.”

She narrowed her gaze. “What kind of price?”

“Don’t let Freya bully you into taking the job with Campbell.”

His words startled her. “Why?”

“You know I love my wife with every fiber of my being, but she has a bad habit of not considering the consequences when she wants someone to do something for what she sees as the greater good. She has a deep-seated distrust for Hank Daniels—for good reason, but I can’t ignore this is personal for her—and you’ve got an opportunity to provide real intel. But you need to do it because it’s what you want to do. Not because she pressured you.”

She nodded. “I haven’t decided yet. Freya gave me a lot to think about when we spoke on the bus.”

“Keep thinking. Ninety percent of the time, Freya’s instincts—and even instructions—are spot-on. But that ten percent can bite you in the ass if you aren’t careful. You’re good at what you do, Staci, and you have a bright future ahead of you as an archaeologist. You can go into academia. Work in CRM. Hell, you could join the ranks of the Army’s resurrected Monuments officers after you get your PhD, but a lot of doors will close to you if you take this job with Campbell and it doesn’t end well.”

“Thank you, Cal. I appreciate both your concern and feedback.”

He pointed to the screen. “Delete?”

“Maybe.” Kissing Jake had thrown her off her game. But how much had she affected him? What had been his expression when he emerged from the blind? Smug? Victorious?

Smitten?

“Let me watch it first.”

Jake sipped his beer and leaned on his pool cue. His gaze slid from the pool table to where Anastacia sat sipping wine and chatting with Kira, Diana, and several other women in the center of the room.

The war games had ended an hour ago. He’d gone to his private cabin and showered and shaved, then joined the party in progress at the training ground’s main complex.

Facility construction was new, the work having been completed only eight months ago. According to Keith Hatcher, the development was a pet project of Raptor’s owner after the senator learned how the company’s original CEO had used this property.

Jake’s cabin was also new construction. The one- and two-bedroom units were intended for VIPs—generals, admirals, Gold Star families, or anyone Raptor’s top management took a shine to—and there were plans to build several more cabins in the next year.

The complex had a large kitchen and mess hall, barracks that accommodated up to fifty trainees, and the lounge and gaming room they were in now. It was designed to be a work hard/play hard kind of space.

On one side of the room, there were massive TV screens hooked up to gaming consoles. The other side was filled with pool tables, darts, ping pong, and air hockey. In the center, there were lounge tables and comfortable chairs arranged in groups of four to eight. The back wall had a self-serve beer, wine, and mocktail bar.

The women who occupied the center of the room were a sight to behold. Eight women, all stunning in their own way. Did a group of Valkyries have a name? Clowder of cats? Murder of crows? A slay of Valkyries?

If that wasn’t the name, it should be.

“Your shot, Burns,” Meyers said.

Jake tore his gaze away from the women and turned to the pool table, where he and Jeremy Kramer were stripes versus Sam Meyers and Jeff Dillard playing solids.

“Heads-up about Staci,” Dillard said. “She gets around.”

“Shut your mouth, dumbass,” Kramer said. “Don’t be a prick.”

“I just figured the lieutenant should know. She likes SEALs. Lieutenants in particular.” Dillard smirked. “I’m looking out for a buddy.”

“No.” Kramer said, “You’re being a sexist asshole.”

Dillard ignored Kramer and addressed Jake in a quiet tone. “She screwed Fallon, back when he was OIC. Probably other SEALs too.”

Jake felt his face flush with anger. If they weren’t stranded here—Dillard had been on the bus with the rest of them—he’d drag the guy outside. Not the most mature way to handle him, but the itch to throw a punch burned.

He stepped up to the SEAL and spoke in a whisper so not even Meyers or Kramer would hear. “Keep talking, buddy, and next week is going to be hell for you.”