Page 20 of Luck Be Mine (The Defenders #3)

? One Year Anniversary – You’re Not Alone ?

Cait pulled the blinds in her office at QM and let the sunshine in, trying hard for an attitude shift, but struggling. The day rose with the perfectness of warm, inviting San Diego weather, but the loveliness couldn’t pierce her mood.

Words flooded her mind, sharp, swearing ones.

She hated Hunt’s bat phone with a passion.

The thing had a sixth sense for the worst possible moment, buzzing in the dark just as she’d tucked herself into his arms after incredible sex – and without fail, killing the rare weekend they managed to plan together.

It was a victory to reach this day, still standing, married, and in love.

Then the damn phone rang.

A knock on her office door made her jump, and she shoved her emotions aside and put on her doctor’s face. Turning, she saw who it was and gave up on hiding anything.

Elizabeth Greer stood in the doorway. Since Cait started at QM, she’d become a trusted ally.

Always impeccably dressed, today she wore a steel gray sheath dress with a matching jacket, her hair in a sleek ponytail, makeup refined, and nails a soft gray.

Was it camouflage to hide the grief of a Gold Star Mother?

Maybe. But she could raise a brow and move mountains without saying a word.

“Liz, what do you need? Somebody hurt?” Cait smoothed her olive camp shirt over her gray pencil skirt.

Elizabeth grabbed the doorknob. “No, I threatened them after last time. It’s not what I need. Come with me.”

Curiosity pricked through Cait’s sadness. She followed her into the hall. Elizabeth shut her office door behind them. They passed the clinic’s double doors and the closed med bay before stepping into the day room.

Muted carpet hushed their steps, but the murmur of voices leaked through. The big space held a small kitchen, a cluster of sofas and recliners around a TV, and two big tables for meals, meetings, and poker nights. The scent of food sealed the deal. Something was going on.

Elizabeth stepped aside revealing tables set with tablecloths, dinnerware, and a small cake with a card propped in front.

Ten men lounged on the sofas, a muted Hawaii Five-O rerun playing. She knew them all, bantered with them, patched them up, played poker beside them. They rose as one, the TV snapping off. From the opposite door came Quaid, Mackey, and Harrison

Harrison crossed to her side and patted her shoulder. “Happy anniversary. I’m sorry the Navy has such bad timing.”

She laughed quietly. “They really do, don’t they?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s why I’m divorced. Come.”

In the kitchen, Niles Benton, Quaid’s silver-haired butler, moved with the precision of a boot camp sergeant. Rumor had him retired from MI6, and Cait suspected he had other talents she’d rather not confirm.

Elizabeth followed behind. She always tried to stay in the background. Cait grabbed her hand and pulled her forward.

Her friend put an arm around her. “It’s not the five-star chef from the Regency Patton, but Niles gets close.”

“I can’t believe you did this. Thank you.” Cait moved to the table.

Harrison pulled out a chair to seat Elizabeth.

Mackey slid out her chair. “Happy anniversary, Doc. Not quite as fun as ‘glad you’re not dead’ day, but it’ll do until your husband gets home.” She read the note propped in front of the cake.

He might be gone, but you’re not alone.

Overwhelmed, she touched Mackey’s arm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the job, the friendship, and your protection.”

Mackey pulled out her chair. “You’re welcome. Sit.” The other men sat, too.

Cait took a deep whiff. “It smells wonderful.”

Quaid joined them. “Let’s eat, my friends. It’s a good day for a celebration.”

Niles moved through the room with understated elegance, serving seared salmon with a light dill sauce, roasted asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes, and warm bread that made the room smell like a bakery.

When he cleared plates at the end of the meal, he stopped at her side. “Should you need assistance in your house search, I am, of course, at your disposal. Please call.

“Thank you, Niles. We might need help. Our schedules suck, as you can tell. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re most welcome.” He returned to the kitchen.

“Thanks, everyone,” she called to the room, debating the need to rise and give a speech.

Her phone rang.

Frogman.

She broke records grabbing her phone.

§§§§§§§§§§

December 16, 2020

Persian Gulf

Midnight GMT/Zulu

Hunt’s affinity for deep night and the shifting moods of the sea had only grown over his thirteen years of naval service.

Tonight, the view from the command deck carried a new weight, leading from a distance, not from the front.

The darkness was an old comrade – deeply familiar, ingrained in muscle memory, and workable, yet the role still felt foreign.

The deck’s slow roll matched the calm water.

Warm air carried the sharp tang of the ocean, stirring memories of a quiet San Diego beach where he and his wife walked in rare moments of peace.

He let those memories soften the sting of a ruined anniversary, then shut them away with a ruthless twist, mind snapping to mission focus.

Intel confirmed two dhows, the traditional sailing vessels in the Persian Gulf, were moving weapons through the Gulf of Aden to Yemen.

Hunt’s teams would board both vessels, control and search, and confiscate the weapons.

The vessels cut a steady path in the water with harmless silhouettes, unaware of the impending threat.

The U.S.S. Michael Murphy provided their base of operations in black water that stretched all directions.

Hunt’s teams launched in RHIBs, and those boats raced across the water.

He would keep his binoculars trained on their targets and monitor mission progress before leaving the job to the yeoman beside him.

Then he would return inside to their satellite imagery and the cameras mounted on Doogie and Riaz’s gear.

As this was his first time in the lieutenant commander position on a mission, Hunt could finally understand the issues Harrison Scott had remaining behind.

This mission type covered everything that could go wrong.

But he trusted the exhaustive, brutal training they had for this maneuver.

The teams were rested, briefed, and ready with shit-factor solutions discussed and practiced.

Team 1 and Team 2 – just as they’d perfected months ago – we’re in sync and clocking on schedule.

At mission point, he focused on the Visit, Board, Search and Seizure (VBSS) procedures.

Dark night, cold water, and no matter what weather and ocean conditions, the sides of the boats would be slippery, especially to men carrying heavy gear.

The next few moments would be tense with places for accidents and errors.

The men moved into position, gear blending with silhouettes. With image enhancing technology, he counted the beats until ropes went up and over the side on one vessel, then the other. The fast, quiet scaling of the hull was a thing of beauty.

Precise. Silent. Prepared. No hesitation.

He moved inside. Monitors up, cameras active, he took shallow breaths through the quick silent takedowns, the muffled struggles, and the takeover of the bridge and engine room.

“Idaho,” Hernandez hissed in his mic. Baxter echoed the code word for Team 2. They had control of the bridges and engine rooms.

Hunt kept his response brief. “Good copy. Idaho confirmed.” Both ships slid to a clean stop in the water. The RHIBs remained aft of the ships, waiting.

Minutes passed. Hunt went through the steps in his head and monitored the time. Operations personnel remained silent and glued to monitors.

The radio clicked. “Illinois accomplished,” Brennan confirmed. Stemmons reported the same seconds later. The code word meant both hostile crews were secured.

“Copy, Illinois,” he said in his mic. Still on mission clock, Hunt stayed attentive to the monitor showing Doogie’s search beginning on the first vessel. Riaz was on point on the second vessel.

Doogie’s camera jostled as he went below deck, but it was only seconds before he settled and transmitted a view of crates crammed in the hold.

The crates were marked with foreign script. That much Hunt could see. But they could be rice for all they knew. He waited for Doogie to translate the writings and open a crate or two. He moved to the next row and repeated.

Dozens of crates opened, Doogie stopped.

“Indiana,” Doogie uttered. “Confirming fucking Indiana. We’ve got assault rifles, dozens of them, sniper rifles and machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenade launchers.” He patted one crate on the side. “This mother is anti-tank missiles. It’s the trifecta of violence.”

“Indiana, verified,” Riaz reported. He’d moved much like Doogie through the hold of the second ship. “Same here. Camouflaged in food but packed with weapons underneath, mostly Russian assault weapons. Guessing there are five hundred here.”

Unsurprised, Hunt leaned into the mic. “Indiana confirmed. Secure cargo. Then exfil. Good job. It’s the Navy’s problem now,” he ordered, an internal sigh releasing.

Another destroyer waited in the wings and between the two ships, the dhows would be boarded by Marine security detachments who would handle the weapons and offload the captured crew. A NATO team would join the party.

No joy for Yemen today.

The Michael Murphy turned closer and launched two boats with the marines.

A half-hour later, he returned to the deck and raised his binoculars. They were closer to the renegade dhows.

The yeoman briefed him. “All team members accounted for and waiting to exfil, sir.”

He found their positions. Exfil began. The teams slipped off the side, one at a time, and into the water with a quick extraction from the sea to the rubber boats.

No wasted movement, no rookie mistakes. He counted until all men were aboard and the rafts were on the way to homebase.