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CHAPTER ONE

Camp Condor, Santa Barbara, California:

The morning dawned soft and perfect, the sun turning the air warm and the sand hot as it climbed over the blue Pacific.

By six, Tanner was running on the beach, his naked torso gleaming under the rays of the sun. His cotton cargo shorts were soaked with sweat despite the breeze coming in off the ocean. He figured his feet were just as sweaty, tucked as they were in socks and a pair of old combat boots, but what was the point in running if you didn’t ask your body to give all it could possibly give?

That was the same reason he was pounding through the sand high above the surf line, where it was soft enough to give muscles and sinew and bone a real workout, instead of down near the water where it was hard-packed.

A quick check of his watch told him he’d been at it for half an hour.

So far, so good.

His stride was long and even. His breathing was deep and steady.

Everything was perfect.

Or almost perfect, as long as he ignored the dull throb in his calf.

The pain had started a few minutes ago, not bad enough to stop him, just bad enough to make him aware it was there, something he was trying his best not to do.

Been there, done that, he thought grimly.

Acknowledging the pain was a way of letting it take over. It would sharpen. Deepen. It would affect everything, his stride, his speed, his balance. He’d go down on his ass.

A cripple, not a STUD warrior.

Tanner’s hands bunched into fists. He ran faster.

At first, the docs had said he might lose the leg altogether.

“No way,” he’d said, and they’d said okay, if he wanted to try to let it heal, they’d permit it, but only if the wound didn’t get infected again.

They just hadn’t understood that he was not going to let that happen.

He’d taken all their damned pills, endured their needles and surgeries. Once he was on his feet again he had put four months, six days and thirteen hours into recovery, and yeah, he knew the time down to the minutes and seconds, same as he knew that what the docs called fantastic progress wasn’t enough.

He had not been pronounced fit enough to return to his unit.

He might have been, as a regular sailor. Not that he didn’t have anything but respect for those guys, but after almost three years of SEAL training, then deployment to Afghanistan, Iraq and other places where the fighting was ugly and the politics dangerous, then two years as a STUD, he was a hardened, finely trained warrior, and STUD warriors didn’t have to be one hundred percent fit.

STUD demanded two hundred percent.

That had been made clear the day he’d been recruited.

Two years ago, he’d been summoned to his CO’s office, but when he got there, the guy sitting behind the desk, though also a captain, was someone Tanner had never seen before. He was small, wiry-looking, the kind of guy you’d have figured for a desk job, which was pretty funny considering he later learned just how wrong that early assessment had been.

Tanner had snapped to attention.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” the stranger had said. “I’m James Blake.” He’d nodded at the file folder on his desk. It was Tanner’s. “I’ve been going through your records.”

What was Tanner supposed to say to that? “Yes, sir,” had seemed the safest reply.

Captain Blake had pushed the folder aside.

“Actually, I’ve been through these records half a dozen times. They confirm what I’m sure you already know. You’re one hell of a SEAL.”

Another statement that seemed to rate a response, but again, Tanner couldn’t think of any beyond another “Thank you, sir.”