Cliff's Edge (3 page)

Looking straight through the scope at the man he now thought of as target one, Rhino, tightened his grip on his weapon, his finger just a whisper away from taking his shot. From the periphery of his vision, he watched and waited for the others.

Step outside
…
step outside…

Then the man next to the cage raised his weapon, turning it to point at Rufus, and they were out of time.

Target acquired
, Rhino thought as he pressed his finger to the trigger.

Target down
.

Panning left, Rhino caught the second man in the throat as he raised his weapon. Number three was a fast little fucker. The man spun at the sound of gunfire, diving for the relative safety of the cinder block as he fired his gun in the direction of the swamp. Rhino caught him in the back of the shoulder and he went down hard, but still moving—for about twenty more seconds. To his right, Mad Max emerged from the swamp like some special effects movie monster. Rhino covered him all the way in, until he received the hand signal that said he was needed to help with Rufus.

It took them less than three minutes to get the skeletal foul-smelling man from the cage, and into the water, heading for home.

Eight hours later, Ryan leaned his head against the vibrating tin can of a transport plane, and closed his eyes. The doc would call him over soon enough, but he’d catch some shut-eye while they worked to stabilize Rufus. He and Marco had done what they could while running through the jungle, taking turns with the man draped over their shoulders. Had they known before the mission how bad his condition was, they might have tried to do things differently…but different took longer, and in this case…longer would have meant dead.

Now, the only thing Ryan wanted was to survive the debrief and the ten days of decompression R and R with the team in Honolulu before they headed back to the unit. Something about this last mission had felt…sour. The trouble wasn’t with his team. They were the fucking best…like family. Maybe not quite as much like family as they used to be, but—maybe that was his problem. It just wasn’t as much fucking fun with Cliff on shore duty. He gave a little snort. Or maybe he was just pissy after finding a leech on his balls.

“Goddamn bugs,” Marco said, digging at his calf. “I want a shower, a twenty-ounce medium rare T-bone from Chow House, and a tight ass riding my cock.”

“All at the same time?” Ryan teased.

“Nope. But in that fucking order. How about you?”

“Sorry to break your heart again, Marco, but I keep telling you—I just don’t swing that way.”

Marco snorted. “As good as. You and Snides are like an old married couple—no wait. I take that back. My parents have been married for thirty years and you two are nothing like them—you guys actually like each other.” Marco shifted on the bench, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

It wasn’t the first time someone commented on his friendship with Cliff Snyder, wondering—or assuming—they were a couple. Their friendship went back twenty years, to BUDs training. The class started with one hundred twenty-four candidates and finished with nineteen. Without a doubt the two of them had spurred each other to success, often side-by-side in the sub-sixty degree water off the coast of San Diego, reminding each other that failure to reach or maintain standards in training meant getting wet—failure on a mission meant death.

For the first few years after qualifying as SEALs, the two of them served on different SEAL teams out of Coronado, but eventually they’d been assigned to the same team and landed on the same platoon many times since.

God…BUDs was forever ago. I’m getting to be an old man in this business.

They’d formed a competitive bond that extended far beyond the already tight connections that SEAL teams develop. The only area their lives didn’t intersect was in the bedroom. They each had their own interests there.

“Heard from Snides lately? Man, I thought they’d never get him out of the field. How’s he doing at the schoolhouse?” Marco asked, pulling Ryan from his memories.

Ryan laughed and shook his head. “Haven’t talked him for a couple weeks, but he wasn’t looking forward to this tour of duty. He says it’s where old SEALs go to retire.”

“He ain’t wrong about that,” Marco agreed. His mouth quirked up on one side. “So…they cutting you orders there next, old man?”

“Fuck you,” Ryan said, laughing. He paused to unwrap a piece of Big Red and folded it into thirds before popping it in his mouth. “All respect to those who teach at BUDs, but, man…I don’t think I’m cut out for that training shit. Besides, I don’t think they could handle both me and Snides.”

Marco punched him on the shoulder before standing as his name was called for his turn with the medical crew. His smile faded. “I hear what you’re saying—but don’t sell yourself short, Rhino. Despite all the drills, and that invincible feeling you get when you’re finished with the training pipeline, you and Cliff got me through the probation period and made sure I stayed alive.”

Marco disappeared behind the blue curtain where the medics would conduct their preliminary assessment, and Ryan resumed his head-back-eyes-closed position. Goddamn Marco had called him an old man—and he had the right of it. At least to the kids going through BUDs right now. Only thirty-seven, but twenty years seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. Now he was in the enviable position of having his reenlistment coincide with negotiating for his next set of orders. Not that there was a lot of wiggle room among their ranks. With less than twenty-five hundred SEALs, the billets were manned with intricate precision. Pay grade, skills, and experience all had to align to meet the mission of the special warfare community. Twenty years also meant he could go home…but other than his Coronado condo, what exactly was home?

Maybe he could skip the mandatory R and R and head straight back to base to talk to the captain and the detailer about his reenlistment options. The powers that be would probably still insist he take some downtime after the mission, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He and Snides had the final season of
Sons of Anarchy
on the DVR. The sonofabitch better not have cheated and watched it without him.

*

Ryan eyed the bowl of matchsticks Captain Ross kept on his desk and wondered what the old man would think if he took two to prop up his eyelids. Sure he could function on no sleep for days on end when he was in the field, but for the last—he glanced at the loudly-ticking government-issued Skilcraft clock on the wall—fifty-seven hours, he’d been deloused, debriefed, and determined fit to travel. Returning to San Diego via Yokota, Japan, and Pearl Harbor could take a lot out of a man. He popped in another piece of gum, then leaned back in the chair and concentrated on remaining conscious.

The door clicked open. “Senior Chief Matthews, welcome back,” the commanding officer said, stepping through the doorway. Ryan immediately popped to attention and remained in that position. “Carry on, carry on,” Captain Ross said absently as he closed the door behind himself and crossed the room to his desk.

Ryan stood until the old man was seated, then resumed his position in the visitor chair situated in front of the flight-deck-sized desk.

“Tell me about the mission, Rhino. Any surprises? Anything we should have done differently?”

Ryan went through the mission, avoiding doing a runaround on his LT by outlining the same key points he’d made during the debrief. The captain listened carefully and made a few notes. Finally, Ross leaned back in his chair and studied Ryan under brows that nearly met over the bridge of his nose.

“Now, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Everything worked like clockwork, sir.”

“Senior Chief Matthews, I’m not asking you to blow smoke up my skirt—”

“You wear it well, Skipper.”

“Smartass. I want to hear the opinion of the senior enlisted man on the mission. How did the platoon respond to Lieutenant Pendergast?”

“You’ve got a good man—a good leader. I’d go into another mission with him at the helm.”

“Good to know. Now what about you? You’re here to talk with Petty Officer Harris about orders?”

Ryan weighed his words. “I’m interested in seeing what’s available.”

The captain nodded. “You’re eligible for retirement. You and me have something in common. We’ve both only got one tour left…”

Deciding to be brutally honest with the man, Ryan shook his head. “I’m not so sure, Skipper. I’m eligible to retire now. I know I stand a good shot at making master chief in the next year or two, but that would mean another three-year enlistment from the date of the promotion—in other words, four or five more years before I could retire. I came to see what kind of orders are available, but it’d have to be something pretty special.”

“How about SEAL Team Six?” The captain held out the premier Navy SEAL assignment like some sort of prime bait.

“Is that a genuine offer or are we speculating over what it would take?”

Kincaid smiled. “I think I can manage to drag along one of my best—”

“Hey, congrats, Skipper! You’re going to Six—that’s a serious honor.”

“Yes, it is. It’s not my first tour with them, but this one means something special. Senior Chief—if you want those orders, the clock is ticking. All I can do is get you in front of the vetting board—you still have to pass all the interviews and training—and all that takes time. Now, I understand you turned down the decompression R and R at Pearl, which means you have two weeks of mandatory leave starting”—he checked his clock—“in fifteen minutes.”

“If you’re going to tell me I have fifteen minutes to decide—” His temper rose.

“Hold that thought. What I was going to say is you have until next Friday to decide, and given how short your string is right now, I’d say you need it. If you don’t want this DEVGRU special assignment, then I hope you’ll consider orders to the Training Command here in Coronado. We need you for one more tour, Senior Chief.”

Recognizing dismissal in the captain’s tone, Ryan stood. “Sir,” he said with a nod.

“Carry on.”

Ryan made it to the door, before turning to ask, “Are you taking any others with you, Skipper?”

“I might be considering one or two others. It generally has to be someone within the transfer window. You have me curious, Senior Chief. Is there someone in particular you have in mind?”

“Master Chief Snyder. I know he hasn’t been at BUDs that long, but I can give you my unqualified recommendation. He’s someone you want on your team.”

Captain Ross looked at him for such a long time Ryan began to feel uncomfortable. Did the old man know Snides was gay? Would it really make a difference? Because if so, that was complete bullshit. Gay or straight didn’t matter anymore than black or white when it came to someone having your back on an op. The time came in every career when you needed to consider whether you were willing to do what it took to move up or if you needed to move on…and if the skipper felt that way about a man like Cliff, he could kiss Ryan’s ass. He was just about to tell the captain exactly that when the old man heaved a sigh.

“I take it you haven’t talk to Snyder since you’ve been back?”

“No, sir,” Ryan answered as the meatball sub he’d had for lunch threatened to make an appearance. He’d been trying to reach Cliff for over forty-eight hours, ever since he’d reach civilization and had his phone back. The asshole wasn’t answering his cell or his callback code—which never happened unless he was dark. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the situation, Senior Chief. Leave it to say the master chief used poor judgment. As much as SEALs look after each other, this isn’t something any of us can fix. I suggest you step back and let things run their course. Your leave has officially started. I’ll expect to hear from you next Friday. Dismissed.”

Cliff dragged a hand over his hair, not sure he cared for the way it lay smooth across his head instead of brushing flat across the top. Thanks to missions and deployment, he didn’t always get to wear his favorite high and tight, but for the better part of twenty-two years—two in the Marines, twenty in the Navy—his cut of choice was shorter than this. With a shrug, he jammed on an old straw hat he’d found last week hanging in the back of the barn and headed out into the pre-dawn morning.

Even at this early hour of the day, his boot heels kicked up dust with every stride. Men spilled from the bunkhouse, making him feel vaguely guilty about taking one of the nicer casitas, but Ty had insisted—and god knew—he was in no position to piss Ty off. The man had provided shelter from the storm, no questions asked.

Despite the circumstances of his being here, there was a bounce in his step as he headed to the barn. As soon as he opened the big door and flipped on the overhead lights, the six or so horses in the barn nickered a greeting from their stalls. “Morning, boys and girls, and uh…” Well, fuck. How exactly did you greet a neutered animal? “Eunuchs…” he finished lamely, then laughed at himself.

First things first. He strolled past each of the horses and scratched a head, rubbed a nose, or tickled an ear, and received several soft horsey snorts of thanks in return. Then for the next little while he busied himself with the routine of the morning. He grabbed the thick hose from the hook on the wall and a feed bucket. Dragging the hose to the first stall, he dropped the pail, opened the latch, and stepped inside. The roan gelding with a white blaze on his nose took a step backward, shaking his head with a snort.

“Morning, Killian.” Cliff spent a minute rubbing the horse between his ears then shoved the hose nozzle into the water bucket and turned it on. When it was filled, he turned off the water, stepped out, and latched the stall. “I'll be back with your breakfast in just a minute.” The horse nickered as if he understood and Cliff chuckled.

After he repeated the process for all seven stalls on the starboard side of the barn, Cliff went to the feed locker and filled up the bucket. He'd done this job all week. This was a life so different than anything he’d ever known before, and it gave him a small thrill of accomplishment spending an hour with the horses each morning before the other men came in. He’d spent the last two decades either training to kill someone, planning to kill someone, or…well, killing someone. As corny as it sounded…horses didn’t judge.