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Chapter One
I’m about to get barreled. Fuck yeah.
Ryland “Rip” Mills knew it was his wave the moment he saw the set rolling in. He was good at reading the waves, knew the ocean like the back of his hand, and this beauty had his name written all over it. The lip feathered briefly in the wind then pitched forward, exploding in a foaming, rushing cloud of water. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as he paddled hard, keeping his chin down, then popped up fast. After a good bottom-turn, he was riding inside the breaking wave, one hand dragging along its silky center.
“Hooyah!” Ryland shouted the Navy cheer as he experienced the ultimate thrill ride. Hell, it was a near-religious experience. Such incredible speed, yet it was totally smooth and eerily quiet inside the tube. A complete paradox and moment of absolute awesomeness. The lip feathered in front of him and he let out another triumphant shout.
Then it was over and he dropped into the ocean.Best feeling ever.Maybe even better than sex. Not that he remembered. Hell, thanks to the chaotic schedule of his new job, he hadn’t been laid in over six months. There might not be time for dating, but he always made time to surf.
The San Diego sunshine sparkled on the waves as he stepped on the shore, turned and lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the bright glare as he looked back over the surf. Moments later, his friend and teammate rode a wave right into shore and slapped Ryland’s hand.
Ryland and Tanner “Mayhem” Stiles weren’t members of just any regular squad, and the rules were made clear the first night they met—keep your true identity secret and no fraternizing outside of work.
But that all went out the window the moment Tanner spotted a surfboard hanging out the back of Ryland’s Jeep after their first meeting six months earlier. It was a bro-at-first-sight moment and the instant bond turned into a solid friendship.
Would The Agency approve?Hell no.But Ryland and Tanner didn’t give a flying fuck. What they did could be too heavy sometimes and surfing was one of the ways they let off steam. Sure, they could surf alone, but they needed to be able to make their own decisions, too. Not just mindlessly follow all of the rules that didn’t always make sense issued by their mysterious employer.
The Agency, a black ops organization, had recruited six of them for their team. They were mostly former military, or so Ryland assumed, with some international flavor courtesy of Saint who had a very slight accent that Ryland pegged as Russian. Since they weren’t supposed to get too personal or even share their real names, he had no idea what anyone’s background was for sure.
But the one thing he did know was his team, dubbed Ex Nihilo by their employer, was the best of the best. And they proved it every single time they went out and hunted down their targets.
One-hundred percent success rate.
“That was bitchin’,” Tanner exclaimed, slicking his wet blond hair back. “I’m jealous.”
Both men were former Navy SEALs and possessed a love for the water that not everyone did. Ryland quickly learned that when it came to his SEAL brothers, it was one extreme or the other. Either a guy enjoyed being wet or they dreaded leaving dry land and bitched every time they had to dip a toe in the water. But, either way, they were highly trained warriors who knew how to operate and excel in any type of situation involving the water.
“Are you going back out?” Ryland asked, shaking his head and sending water droplets flying through the air. He slid a hand through his brown hair lit with golden highlights and the tattoo on his forearm flexed with the movement. The ink, representing DEVGRU’s Red Squadron, his special ops SEAL team, consisted of a tomahawk with red and black feathers.
The tattoo hadn’t just been the result of a drunken dare. It was his only tat and sacred to him. Although he wasn’t opposed to getting more, he’d only do so if there was a significant reason for it. The ink was more than just marking up his body. Like surfing, getting a tattoo was almost a spiritual experience and whatever design he chose next would hold deep meaning.
“Nah. It’s going to start getting crowded.”
“Good point. Let’s go grab some breakfast.”
They’d been riding waves since seven and, as the nine o’clock hour snuck up on them, the tourists would start showing up with their umbrellas, coolers and squawking kids. Time to head out. Besides, he was starving.
They loaded their boards into the back of Ryland’s Jeep, slipped t-shirts over their heads and flip flops on their feet. He enjoyed living in the laid back beach town and knew Big City life would never be for him. Los Angeles could keep its traffic and smog. He much preferred Coronado’s Main Street entertainment and surfside splendor. They hopped inside the Jeep and Ryland headed toward Sunrise Cafe, a local joint a little ways up the road where the food was greasy, cheap and hit the spot.
In less than five minutes, Ryland pulled into a slanted parking space out front, and they ambled inside and sat down in their usual spot on the back patio overlooking the ocean. Ryland couldn’t imagine living in a place where he didn’t always have an ocean view. He needed the salt, sand and crash of waves like he needed the air in his lungs. It was a part of him—always had been—and was one reason he’d been interested in becoming a SEAL. Just like his dad before him.
“Lemme guess. You boys just finished surfing.” Beth grinned as she poured black coffee into their mugs. Their server had worked there long before Ryland started eating there and he had a feeling she’d continue to happily serve plates of bacon and eggs until she retired. She genuinely seemed to love the job and acted like everyone’s long-lost mother.
“I got barreled,” Ryland said proudly, puffing out his chest.
“Good for you,” Beth replied, not impressed in the least. She’d heard all their surf stories. Although they had been known to exaggerate occasionally to keep their tales entertaining, they always found the biggest waves and didn’t hesitate to ride them. “The waves are pretty big today.”
“You ever wanna learn to surf, Beth, you just let us know,” Tanner told her with a grin.
“I’m sixty-two years old,” she announced, “and not looking to land in an early grave much less one of your tubes.”
The guys laughed.
“It’s never too late,” Tanner insisted and Beth shook her head.
“What do you two jokers want to eat?”
“The bacon omelet,” Ryland said without looking at the menu. “With extra bacon.”
