LITMIR.BIZ

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thing about it. Except the politics. Meetings like this, with all the glad-handing and posturing, they ranked right up there with dress shoes on his list of things that sucked.

      But twenty minutes later he had to admit that politics went down pretty easy when served with whiskey.

      “To Poseidon.” The admiral lifted his glass, light gleaming in his steady blue gaze as it swept around the circle of men crowded into the pomp and polish of his office. “You do justice to my vision.”

      They were all well trained enough to keep from smirking as they lifted their glasses in response.

      “And to Lieutenant Torres for leading the latest mission to prove Poseidon’s might,” Savino added, his dark eyes assessing, his expression satisfied. Which was about as close to a grin as he got while in uniform.

      A little weirded out at being toasted, Diego knocked back the rest of his drink. As the heat slid down his throat, he realized that while this might not be the pinnacle of his career, it was a pretty high peak.

      As if cementing that realization, Savino aimed a finger at Diego. The admiral nodded, setting his glass on the desk before giving Diego a sharp look.

      “Torres. My office, oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning. You’ll be leading Operation Hammerhead.”

      With that, the admiral headed for the door, apparently leaving his office—and his bottle of Jameson—to the men.

      “Gentlemen,” he said in dismissal as he swung through the door, his two aides trailing in his wake.

      “Check you,” Elijah Prescott said, tossing his cap aside now that the brass had cleared out. Green eyes amused, the man leaned one hip on the desk while lifting the decanter to offer refills. “Leading another mission. A big one, from the sound of it. Hot damn, El Gato. Way to kiss brass ass.”

      El Gato. The cat. That was the call sign his BUD/S team had given Diego back in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training because he moved with stealth and grace. Prescott was called Rembrandt owing to his habit of sketching his way through every spare minute. Lansky’s skills had earned him the name MacGyver. The rest of the team was similarly nicknamed, with Savino in the lead as Kahuna.

      “Brass-kissing is Savino’s job,” Diego reminded them, giving his commander a grin. The man carried enough weight to put Diego in charge of higher-ranking SEALs on his recommendation alone. Fast-tracking him, Diego knew, toward that pinnacle. “Thanks, man.”

      “You’ve led plenty of missions.” Savino refilled his glass, then passed the bottle to the left. “But this one can make your career.”

      Diego’s gut clenched. Nerves or anticipation, one or the other. He was silent as they all waited until the bottle made it back to Savino.

      “Some things in life are worth fighting for.” The commander raised his glass.

      “Some things in life are worth dying for.” Lansky raised his.

      “And some things,” Prescott said, giving his glass a frown before raising it high, “are better to simply walk away from.”

      “The trick, of course, is knowing which is which,” Savino pointed out before jerking his chin to indicate that Diego drink up.

      Formalities over, the seven men relaxed. Some refilled their glass; others said their goodbyes. Diego couldn’t get his curiosity about the upcoming mission out of his head. Knowing he’d get no details from Savino before the briefing, he decided to find a few distractions in the form of a crowd and, taking his cue from Lansky, a willing woman.

      “Heading out,” he said. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

      Savino simply nodded, his dark eyes inscrutable.

      “Next step, DEVGRU.” Lansky smacked Diego on the back.

      “Next step is leading Operation Hammerhead,” Diego corrected. But damned if that wouldn’t be sweet. DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, was the stuff of legends—like SEAL Team 6. Serving on the highest elite Special Ops team in the country was Diego’s dream. Each mission, each operation, each commendation was a step in that direction.

      And he was getting closer.

      “One step at a time,” Savino said as if reading his thoughts. The light bounced off his silver oak leaf as he gestured toward the door. “C’mon. We’ll buy the rest of the team a round before you all head out to debauch in the name of celebrating.”

      That it was only fourteen-thirty hours didn’t much matter. The team, SEALs, sailors, were skilled at many things, including drinking at any time, day or night. And the support crew, the rest of SEAL Team 7, deserved a drink.

      They headed for the O Club by way of the barracks, where they ditched the misery of dress whites. Diego, Jared and the others went for digies—blue tees and camouflage fatigues—while Savino kept to his khaki uniform.

      The whole time all Diego could think was that he’d come a long way. Riding the wave of success, he barely held back his grin as he followed Nic through the crowded O Club, taking the shouted praise and ribbing with equal grace.

      When he reached the front of the room, he stood to Savino’s right, legs braced and hands clasped behind his back. Like a wave, the conversation rose, then settled as each man gave Savino their full attention. With a few simple words, he thanked everyone for their hard work and contribution. Even though Savino made it look easy, Diego hoped like hell that whatever future pinnacles he climbed didn’t include giving speeches.

      “So that’s that,” Savino wrapped up. “And since you’ve all listened so kindly, the next round of drinks is on me.”

      A few of the men laughed. A handful cheered. The rest raised their glasses in thanks. Lansky tossed his back, then turned to give Savino a fist bump.

      “Nice speech. Short, to the point, rounded out with booze. You’re the man.” After Savino’s nod of thanks, Lansky turned the fist bump toward Diego. “And here’s another man. King o’ the hill, if you ask me. El Gato, the badass kitty cat.”

      “All hail the king,” Savino said with a quiet smile before he slid out of the conversation like smoke from a flue. Quick, silent and barely noticeable. Diego knew he’d leave the room the same way. Hero worship was a sad and pathetic thing in a grown man, but admiring class wasn’t. Nor was appreciation. Everything Diego was he figured was due to Savino. To his drive, his vision and his unswerving loyalty to those he believed in.

      “Dude.” Diego laid a hand on Savino’s shoulder, waiting for the other man to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”

      Savino’s eyes lit with appreciation.

      “Don’t party too hard” was all he said. “You’re going to want to be one hundred percent for the briefing.”

      That was all the warning Diego needed to know he’d be nursing a single beer tonight and heading to bed early. The only thing more important than his gratitude to Savino was the success of his career.

      “C’mon, Kitty Cat,” Lansky said to Diego when Savino turned to leave. “Let’s blow this joint. Find a place where we can be people instead of military machines.”

      “You mean a place where you’re fawned over by civilians who’ll be impressed when you tell them you are a military machine.”

      “Curvy civilians. Sexy ones in short skirts and high heels.” Lansky’s Boy Scout smile flashed, a little blurry around the edges from the back-to-back whiskeys. “Gotta love them all, right?”

      “Couple more drinks and the only thing you’re gonna be loving is the toilet seat.” Shaking his head, Diego headed for the door.

      “Yo, Torres,” a voice beckoned before he’d made the exit.

      Diego glanced over to see Prescott waving from a prime table next to the dart board. As usual when he wasn’t on duty, the man had a pencil in hand and that engrossed

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