Page 6 of Single Mom’s Navy Seals (Claimed by the Alphas #2)

LIAM

M y office is silent except for the low hum of computers lining the far wall, screens filled with encrypted files and surveillance feeds blinking in muted colors.

Each one represents a mission, a client, a life either preserved or ended.

I lean back in my chair, my fingers steepled under my chin, eyes tracing the routes mapped out across the screens.

Precision matters. Control matters more.

Every detail accounted for, every scenario planned.

That’s how we survive. That’s how we thrive.

And thrive we have.

It wasn’t always like this. When Cole, Jax, and I first left the SEALs, we had nothing but our skills and the unspoken trust that bonded us through blood and fire. The government trained us to be lethal, but it never trained us to survive after they discarded us. So, we built this life ourselves.

When we first started, it was about taking any job we could find to pay the bills.

But that was over ten years ago. What we have now is nothing short of a multi-billion-dollar business.

These days, we have the privilege of choosing our missions.

We no longer have to chase paychecks. We can chase purpose.

The kind of purpose the military hinted at but never delivered.

We still haven’t quite found it, but each job gives us a taste, if only for a while.

My gaze drifts to the window, reinforced glass tinted dark enough to keep prying eyes out and secrets in.

Our warehouse sits in a nondescript corner of New York, converted into an impenetrable fortress beneath the veneer of industrial normalcy.

The upper floors are our condo, a secure and unassuming space designed for discretion as much as comfort.

It’s our base of operations, our safe house, and the closest thing to a home any of us has ever had.

The glass reflects a vague silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black from collar to boots. My short-cropped dark hair and square jaw blend into the shadows, but the cold edge in my eyes is always there. Years of war carved it into me, and nothing I do can soften it now.

My phone buzzes against the polished wood desk, pulling me from my thoughts.

An encrypted message flashes onto the screen, listing new job requests.

I scroll, considering each line with practiced detachment.

Political blackmail, corporate espionage, and a high-profile escort extraction.

Easy jobs, quick money, but they hold no appeal.

Our team specializes in protection, the quiet extraction of innocents, and clean hits against scum who evade justice.

We’re fixers, men who operate in gray spaces—never criminals for hire, but not exactly saints either.

The money is obscene, but morality matters. Even killers have principles. And ours are ironclad.

A knock at my door interrupts the silence, short and sharp. “Enter.”

Cole steps in, closing the door behind him with quiet efficiency.

His dark skin and military buzz cut give him a statuesque quality, as if he’s carved from discipline and purpose.

He moves like a man born into danger, his massive frame filling the space comfortably.

His face is unreadable as usual, but I see the slight crease between his brows, the quiet tension in his stance. Something’s on his mind.

“We need to finalize the schedule for next month,” he says, voice deep and steady, matching my own calm precision. “Any standouts?”

“Nothing worth our attention yet,” I say, scrolling again through the list. “We can afford to wait.”

Cole nods, shifting his weight. “Jax thinks we should take a breather anyway. Claims we’re working too damn hard.”

I snort, humorless. “Jax always thinks we need a vacation.”

“He's restless,” Cole acknowledges, folding his arms. “The quiet gets to him.”

Jax hates downtime, always has. Growing up in foster care taught him to fear silence, to expect disaster when things seemed calm.

I get it. My own upbringing under the iron fist of my father, a decorated general who demanded perfection at any cost, left me wary of complacency.

Relaxation isn’t something we do well. Hell, it isn’t something we do at all.

“I’ll find us something worthy soon enough,” I assure him, leaning forward and tapping the screen thoughtfully. “Until then, remind Jax he can use the gun range downstairs if he’s bored.”

“Already told him twice,” Cole grumbles, irritation mild but clear. “He says it’s no fun without a moving target.”

“Tell him to put your ass downrange then,” I say dryly, lips twitching despite myself.

Cole’s mouth quirks in a rare half-smile. “And lose the best part of this trio? No fucking way.”

I shake my head, amusement brief and fading quickly.

Our team works because each of us is essential, bonded by more than just shared training.

We survived hell together, watched our team splinter apart after that last mission went sideways, taking Morales’s career and nearly our own.

Cole’s father taught him stoicism, Jax learned survival in isolation, and I mastered control under a tyrant.

Together, we’re unstoppable. But together is the only way we work.

Any woman trying to step into our world would need to accept two extra assholes in the package.

That kind of life? Not exactly what you’d call husband material.

Cole clears his throat, shifting back to business. “You still sure about passing on that diplomat’s daughter extraction?”

“Too political,” I say flatly, fingers tightening on my phone. “We get involved in shit like that, we end up on government radars. We’ve stayed alive by staying invisible.”

“Fair enough,” Cole agrees, stepping toward the door. “Just make sure the next one’s interesting, yeah?”

“When aren’t they?” I ask rhetorically, glancing up to meet his eyes. His answering grunt is all the acknowledgment I get before he slips out, leaving me alone again in the silence of my office.

I lean back again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at the screens.

The next mission will come. It always does.

And when it does, we’ll handle it as we always have—with ruthless precision, loyalty to each other above all else, and an unwavering determination to protect those who can’t protect themselves.

My phone rings, cutting through the dense silence of my office. I glance at the caller ID, and my jaw tightens. The number isn’t one that calls often, and when it does, it always means trouble.

“Hello,” I answer curtly, my tone measured.

“Williams,” Morales’s voice comes through, strained, urgent. “I need your help.”

Straight to the point. He hasn’t changed much since our days together in the SEALs, except now his missions happen behind closed doors instead of enemy lines. Still, I recognize the tension in his voice—it's familiar, unsettlingly so.

“I assumed as much,” I say evenly, leaning back in my chair, eyes narrowing at the ceiling. “What kind of trouble are we talking about?”

Morales lets out a sharp breath. “Witness protection’s compromised. I’ve got a woman and a child exposed. Someone very dangerous wants them, and I need you and your guys to extract them. Safely. Quickly.”

A wave of caution sweeps through me. Morales never reaches out unless shit has truly hit the fan.

And if he’s calling my team in, the threat level is severe.

Still, today of all days, the anniversary of our worst loss, his call feels heavier.

I glance briefly at the date blinking on the corner of my computer screen.

Eight years. Eight fucking years since everything went sideways and half our team didn’t make it home.

Eight years since Morales nearly died because of my call.

“Why not let your own people handle it?” I ask, deliberately casual. Morales doesn’t like being questioned, but I’m past the point of courtesy when it comes to my team’s safety. “You’ve got access to an entire government agency.”

“Because the agency’s not secure.” Morales’s voice tightens, clipped with frustration. “I’ve got reason to believe there’s a mole. I can’t trust anyone on this one—not even my own team. I trust you. I trust Jax and Cole. That’s it.”

A mole in Witness Protection. Fucking fantastic. I pinch the bridge of my nose, the dull ache behind my eyes growing sharper. “And the target?”

“Ava Haynes, previously Avalina Guerri, aged twenty-seven. She’s got a five-year-old son named Eli. She fled her ex-husband years ago. Name’s Randal Guerri.”

“As in the Capacelli Don’s reported right hand?”

“That’s the one,” he responds. “We’ve had her hidden for half a decade from him while he was serving for the small charge I could get that fucker on. But now Guerri’s out, and he’s already after her and the boy, according to my reports.”

“Where is she now?” I pull a notebook closer, flipping open a fresh page and jotting down the details he’d already given me. “And where am I taking her?”

“She’s headed to a small town on the edge of Pennsylvania,” Morales explains, rattling off an address. I jot it down meticulously, handwriting sharp and precise. “You’ll take her and the boy west, to a location I have secured in Nevada.”

I tap the pen against the desk once, twice, my mind calculating. Of course, we’re taking the job. If it weren’t for the innocent mom and kid, we still would have said so because Morales asked. I personally owe him too much to admit.