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Prologue
Jaxon
Six Months Ago
"Hayes, what the fuck are you doing?" I yell at our youngest member. We're in the middle of a training exercise, and he's playing around with his gun like he's got all day.
"It keeps jamming," he shouts back to me.
I motion for Jefferson, who catches my eye and nods.
"Stand down! I repeat, everyone, stand down!" he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth so everyone hears him. Not like it's hard. The man has never been anything less than loud since I met him almost a decade ago. We've been on the same SEAL team since.
All around us, activity grinds to a halt. A chorus of restless mutters goes up from our team. They're all irritable as hell. We just got back stateside from a mission in Myanmar and rumor has it that we're heading back out in a matter of days. They're all ready for some downtime. But we go where they tell us to go and do what they tell us to do. No one is better at safely getting civilians out of tough spots than this team.
Jefferson and I jog toward Hayes to try to sort out what's up with his gun. Hayes is young but he's usually got his shit together. The situation we dealt with in Myanmar has everyone rattled though. We've seen a lot of horrific things over the years, but little kids being forced to fight as soldiers is a sort of awful nothing will prepare you to see.
"Archer!"
I turn my head to see Tate Carlisle motioning to me.
"Jefferson, take lead," I shout to him before reversing course and heading toward Carlisle. He's one of our COs. I'm not going to keep him waiting. He's got less patience than I do. Which is saying something because I am one impatient motherfucker most of the time.
"Crutchfield needs to see you," Carlisle says as soon as I'm within earshot. He doesn't wait for me to acknowledge him. He just turns on his heel and heads toward Crutchfield's office, marching like he's preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy alongside his grandfather.
I fall into step behind him, not particularly concerned about what Crutchfield wants with me. I keep my nose clean and get shit done. The job in Myanmar was a little more complicated than we anticipated. The militia had just scooped up a new crop of kids from a local village. We didn't have that intel, but we managed to get all of them out of there. Took out a few militia members while we were at it.
Crutchfield is a grandfather. He's got a soft spot for kids and no tolerance for those who abuse them. If he's pissed about anything, it's that we didn't take out every militia member we came across out there. I wish we had been able to put a bullet in every single one of them. But there's only so much you can do when you've got nineteen traumatized little boys to protect. Getting them out safely was our mission.
Someone else will pick off the militia members who managed to escape. And then the motherfuckers will rot in hell where they belong. I'm not a kid person. Bouncing around foster homes after my mom died when I was thirteen made me anxious as hell about parenthood. There's exactly one woman alive who I'd ever have a kid with, my rabbit. But Crutchfield isn't the only one with no tolerance for men who abuse children.
The guard posted at the entrance to the admin building sees us coming and opens the door. He stands at attention until we pass. Carlisle barely even slows long enough to return his salute before he's stomping down the hall.
The a/c is running in the building, but it's still stifling hot. At this point, the whole building needs to be replaced. Everything is old and worn. Scuff marks are embedded so deeply into the floor no amount of buffing will ever get them out. But aside from Crutchfield and a few career men like him, very few people are actually stationed here. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, and Crutchfield hasn't squeaked in decades. He's old school, expects nothing from his Chain of Command and everything from his men.
"Archer," he says, lifting his head to look at us when Carlisle raps on his open door. Crutchfield is as old as this building. Even his bushy brows have gone gray. Somehow, it makes him even more imposing. He's big, tough, a mean son of a bitch when he needs to be.
We're cut from the same cloth in a lot of ways. We both have no patience for bullshit and say only what needs to be said. We're both more likely to shoot first and ask questions later, not because we're hot headed, but because shooting first tends to save a hell of a lot of time and frustration. We'll both probably be in until they force us out. Him because this is his home. Me because this is what I know. I've been in the Navy since I turned eighteen. There isn't a whole hell of a lot else out there for men like me.
I'm good at the war thing. It's the peace part that gives me issues…leaves me too much time to think about a certain forbidden blonde with legs for days and a smile bright enough to light up the sky. One day, I'll be a man worthy of Jessa Jordan. I'll be able to give her the life she deserves.
I don't know when or how, but that day is coming.
"Come in," Crutchfield says, waving me in.
His office is freakishly neat. Everything has a place and a purpose. The only personal touch in the room is the single photograph of his family on his desk and the two pulwar swords hanging behind his head.
"Your team is being sent out again," he says as soon as I step over the threshold.
"Yes, sir," I say, standing up straight. I'm not about to argue. If they need us, they need us. We knew what we signed up for when we signed up. Teams like ours are in short supply and high demand.
"You won't be accompanying them on this one, Archer," he says, holding my gaze. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, but your father passed away while you were in Myanmar."
"My father died when I was a kid, sir."
"Was his name Charles Concord?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your mother died when you were a teenager?"
"Yes, sir."
