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Unless he didn’t know.
Could one of his own team be up to something and on the verge of bringing the rest of them down with a betrayal?
Harper was tucked under his arm, sleeping, and after placing a light kiss against her temple, he looked around the SUV, surreptitiously studying the others. Banshee drove and Bruja sat in the passenger seat beside him. They’d been arguing over the music and flipping back and forth between stations for over an hour. Finally, they’d stumbled upon a song they both approved of and now were currently singing an off-key duet.
To his right, Pharaoh had his large arms crossed and looked deep in thought, most likely prepping for their encounter with Gray. Sometimes, Ryland wondered if the man ever “turned off.” His intense nature could be a bit much, but that’s also what made him such a good leader. If he hadn’t been spec ops of some kind, Ryland would be shocked.
Behind them, Saint lay stretched out on the rear seat. He had ear buds in and was probably listening to one of his podcasts. The man was obsessed with them. Though he hid it well, Saint’s slight accent made Ryland think over the sketchy history he’d shared earlier. The FSS?Fuck.Russian Intelligence was no joke.
Selma Santiago’s final words filled his head and goosebumps broke out over his skin.
“It was determined your team can’t be trusted.”
“Why not?”
“Because one or more of you is a traitor. Tell me, how well do you know the people you work with?”
Two people had warned him against one of his own teammates. And he didn’t fucking like it or want to believe it. But truthfully, the only person he fully trusted with his life right now was Harper.
Squeezing her closer, he pressed a soft kiss to her head and thanked his lucky stars she’d stomped over to his place, demanding answers, after he’d stood her up.
Love you, sweetheart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Grayson “Demon” Ellis
It never rained in Los Angeles in June.
Gray slouched down in the busted-up lawn chair under the torn cloth awning of his trailer. It flapped in the wind above him, and rain like he hadn’t seen in ages pounded down from the heavens, soaking the gravel. If it didn’t let up soon, the flooding and mudslides would inevitably start. The city couldn’t handle massive amounts of rain that fell too fast.
The rainfall made his scar itch and he absently rubbed at the five-inch-long white slash that stretched down his inner forearm. Memories he’d been fighting back all day began to assault him and the only way he knew how to cope was to make himself numb.
Every time it rained like this, he did the only thing he could. He got stinking drunk.
Finishing off his fifth beer, Gray waited for the buzz of indifference to kick in, but it didn’t come. Granted, it usually took quite a few beers because he was a big guy. Far from a lightweight at six foot four and nearly two-hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle, he sometimes was tempted to drown his pain in something stronger like other guys he’d known.
Just crush and snort some hydrocodone and oxycodone. He had a bottle of fentanyl in his cabinet, legally prescribed, but every time he shook out a handful of pills, he ended up putting them back. His buddy died of a fentanyl overdose and Gray didn’t want to go out that way.
If he decided to take his life, he’d do it in a blaze of glory, not convulsing on the floor in a pile of his own vomit and piss.
As a former Navy SEAL, he still had standards to maintain.Yeah, right.He laughed and it sounded rusty, unused. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been genuinely happy. No, wait, that wasn’t true.
It was the day he received his Trident pin.
What a joke. Irony at its best.
If only he knew then what he knew now. How his career choice would give him the highest and lowest points of his life.
There was no denying he was made to be a SEAL. Despite his size, he was fast and nimble. He worked well under pressure and didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. And, most importantly, he was a team player and always had his buddies’ backs.
Until he didn’t.
Gray sighed, doing his best to fight the horrific memories he tried so damn hard to keep locked up. But tonight they were leaking out, soaking his brain in their toxicity, dragging him down to drown in the pain.
Dropping his empty bottle, he threaded his fingers through his slightly graying temples and pulled at the short brown strands, trying to force the suffering, torment and guilt back into the box. His name, like the premature silver in his beard and temples, fit him perfectly. Mr. Doom and Gloom himself. No doubt about it, Gray was a hot mess and he knew it.
He just didn’t know how to fix himself.
