Tawny Weber - Call To Honor

“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 look in his eyes.

Seated with Prescott was another SEAL and one of the team’s support members. Petty Officer Dane Adams kicked back with his feet on the table and gestured with a dart, making as if he were aiming it at Diego. Next to him, Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey just smiled and murmured something under his breath that made the other man laugh.

Both IP officers, or Information Professionals, they specialized in tech. Adams had a solid rep as a Special Warfare Combatant Crewman, while Ramsey was on his third tour as a SEAL. They’d transferred to Coronado eight or so months ago after deployment in Afghanistan. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of weeks to realize that Ramsey was used to being top dog and not only expected to stay on top but expected everyone to kiss his ass while he was there. Since SEALs didn’t kiss ass, he’d had a little trouble adjusting at first. But Prescott had taken the guy under his wing, showed him the ropes. And made him one of the team.

“How about a few games of pool,” Ramsey suggested with a wink as Diego and Lansky drew near. “We’ll play for shots.”

“I hear you’re good with the cue,” Diego said.

“I hear the same about you,” Ramsey acknowledged with an assessing look. Even in digies, the guy came across as a movie star with his blond hair spiked in casual disarray, intense blue eyes and his perfect smile. “Why don’t we see who’s better?”

“Ego still bruised over Torres busting up your record on the range?” Lansky asked, a sneer creasing his face. “I warned you he would.”

Something ugly flashed over Ramsey’s eyes, but it was gone just as fast. As a man with a temper of his own, Diego had to respect a guy who could reel it back that quickly.

“Then it’s only right that you give me a shot at redeeming my rep,” Ramsey suggested mildly, his hands spread wide in invitation. “What do you say, Torres? You willing to go head-to-head on a universal field? Say, a pool table?”

The taunt “Or are you afraid?” went unspoken, but they all heard it. Insults like that went hand in hand with the dog tags the men all wore. Years of training, both as a SEAL and as a man, had taught Diego to think before he reacted.

“You think I need to stack the deck to win, you don’t know me.” Diego rocked back on his heels to offer a smile. A very small, very effective smile that mocked the idea. And, of course, the man asking it.

From the way his face tightened, Ramsey understood just fine. Not surprising. He was a smart guy. He was also after Diego’s spot on Poseidon. A useless goal, since it was known that Poseidon was made up entirely of graduates of BUD/S class 260. But like everything else, Ramsey apparently figured that he’d be the exception to that rule. It had to be the rich boy in him, used to being number one, always the top of everything. From his rich parents to his perfect son, according to Brandon Ramsey, he had it all and expected more.

Not a problem for Diego, since he respected someone who aimed high. Except Ramsey was going to have to get whatever he was looking for from someone else. Because Diego was keeping his share.

“I’ve already got plans, so pool is out. But I’m happy to buy you a beer instead.” Diego ignored Lansky’s look of disgust. Ramsey wasn’t all that bad. And any time spent with Prescott was time well spent. Besides, for all they knew, it was Ramsey’s relentless focus on competition that’d pushed Diego to step it up and do better. To be better. He definitely had to push past 100 percent to beat the guy. As far as Diego was concerned, that made Ramsey a good man to have on the team.

“You’d rather share a beer than go head-to-head?” Ramsey laughed. “Sure. Why not? You might as well toast my success, too.”