Two months later

After the debacle in the Gulf of Oman, Logan and his team were sent stateside for retraining. So much for following orders. Repetitive and constant training was part of a SEAL’s MO, but the reason for the transfer to San Diego bit like Olivia’s ass-whipping.

Today, he’d been summoned to the admiral’s office with no explanation as to why. He suspected it was for another debriefing. That about summed up his life these days, running a gazillion drills he’d already mastered ten-or-so years ago, or sitting in a conference room being asked questions by suits from Washington until his head was ready to explode.

After checking in with the admiral’s secretary, Logan was directed to the east conference room—the same place most of the debriefings had been once he’d reached stateside. He chose a seat placing him at the center of the table with his back to the wall, facing the door. Yeah, he was a little predictable that way, but the Navy had taught Logan always to seek the best ground advantage.

He didn’t wait long until the door opened. He sprang to his feet and saluted.

“At ease,” said the admiral, moving to the head of the table with a folder tucked under his arm.

A suit with gray hair and broad shoulders followed and sat directly across from Logan. He didn’t recognize the man. No surprise there. Suits came and went all the time.

The admiral rubbed his palms together. His eyes shifted sideways. “Well, there’s nothing to do but to get straight to the point.”

Logan’s gut squeezed. Yeah, he knew. A gut squeeze had never been a good sign. He looked between the two men, wondering why the admiral hadn’t introduced the suit.

The admiral scratched his head. “Honestly, this whole thing has me baffled, but there’re times when even an admiral is given no choice but to follow orders.”

“Sir?” The sickly feeling in Logan’s gut fanned out across his skin.

“I have bad news…” The admiral looked to the other man and twisted his mouth. “And I suspect Mr. Lindgren here has good news, but I guess I’m not important enough to be in the know.”

Logan first shot a wary look to Lindgren, then regarded the senior officer with a pinch to his brow. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

The admiral pushed the folder across the table. “This here’s your honorable discharge from the Navy.”

Perspiration sprang across Logan’s forehead and dampened his pits. His skin went clammy. His head spun like he’d been hit with a hammer. He must have heard wrong.

“Excuse me?” he asked, reaching for the folder and trying not to shake.

“You heard me, Commander.”

“Is this because of the Khalil incident?” Logan’s gut squeezed until his throat practically closed.

The admiral stood. “I’ll leave that to Mr. Lindgren to explain.” He opened the door, then turned. “And Rodgers…don’t try to kill the man before you’ve heard what he has to say. That’s what the President told me, anyway.”

The President?

Logan needed a damned drink of water—no, he needed something stronger, like an entire gallon of tequila. Christ. He’d just lost his job? Whatever happened to loyalty? He’d bled for his country. Daily, he’d put his life on the line for goddamned Uncle Sam and, with one botched mission, he was history? What the hell was he going to do? He flipped open the file and stared at a page of numbers, but his head was spinning too fast to make sense of anything.

The man across the table cleared his throat. “Sorry to hit you between the eyes like that. I told the admiral I’d introduce myself.”

Logan stared at the bastard like the man had two heads. Was he even speaking English? Though he understood him, this man had some kind of heavy, Nordic accent.

“I’m Anders Lindgren and I report directly to Oliver Stoltenberg.”

“Stoltenberg?” Logan did a quick file search through his mind. “You mean the Secretary General of NATO?”

“Ja, one and the same.” Lindgren adjusted his tie. “We’ve been watching you.”

“NATO’s watching me? What? Are you offering me a job?” He smirked. “’Cause I’m suddenly in need of one.”

“Ja, that’s why I’m here.” The man’s expression was as stoic as a robot.

Logan slapped his palm on top of his discharge papers. “Soooo…does this have anything to do with getting me fired?”

Lindgren’s bullet-gray eyes didn’t blink. “I have a great many things to tell you, Commander, but first I need your commitment to the job.”

It didn’t slip Logan’s notice that Lindgren had addressed him with his former rank. “Whoa. This is a bit like putting the cart before the horse, don’t you think? How can I commit to something I know nothing about?”

The man’s craggy face continued to be devoid of emotion—unreadable. “Can you pledge your life to stopping international terrorists?” He rolled his Rs, too.

Logan stared back with his own sober frown. “I’ve already done that.”

“Can you leave your family behind and go for long periods without communicating with them?”

He had no family, and something told Logan that Mr. Lindgren already knew it—and a host of other deeply personal details, including his past litany of defunct girlfriends. “Yes.” At the moment, he didn’t even have a girlfriend since the last one decided she couldn’t handle his long stints at sea.

“I need a specialist in military tactics for the most covert operation in the world.”

That piqued his interest. “Which one?”

Lindgren stared. “You’ve never heard of it.”

“Try me.”

“Not without your commitment.” The NATO exec pointed to the folder. “There’s an envelope in the back. Take it out and read.”

Logan swallowed the lump in his throat, removed the envelope and ran his thumb under the seal. He pulled out a letter signed by the President. Jesus...

Dear Commander Rodgers,

Please forgive me for my brash tactics, but your country no longer needs you. At least not as much as the world does. I encourage you to listen to Mr. Lindgren. This is a new path that only a select few will follow. This assignment will come with a substantial financial gain. In addition to a sizeable salary from NATO, after the completion of a successful first year, a sum of $100,000 will be deposited into your bank account tax free. Thereafter, your bonuses will be based on the success of your missions. Should you deny, I regret to inform you that you are out of a job.

Never forget the SEAL motto: The only easy day was yesterday.

I trust you’ll make the right decision.

At the bottom was the scrawling signature of the President of the United States of America

Taking his time, Logan reread the letter, his skin hot like he had a second-degree burn. Of course they weren’t making it easy. He had to perform to get a bonus. And if he didn’t dive in with the sharks, his life savings would last about three months.

Shit.

His hands were tied.

He looked Lindgren in the eye. “You have my attention, sir. I’m ready to commit. You said you need a specialist?”

One corner of the man’s mouth cracked the hint of a smile. “Of military tactics, ja.”

“And the name of this organization?”

Lindgren crossed his arms. “ICE, International Clandestine Enterprise.”

“ICE? I thought that was the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

“Perhaps in the United States. But not to us.”

Logan’s mind clicked with so many questions, he spat out the first one that came to his lips. “So, where is headquarters?”

“Iceland.” Lindgren still wasn’t letting much out of the bag.

“You’re serious? Why Iceland?” Jeez, he’d need a parka.

“It’s out of the way. Close to Europe. Has a small population...” The man shrugged. “Easy access to Russia if things start heating up there.”

“I assume this job will entail field work?”

“Ja.” Anders Lindgren actually smiled. “You will maintain the rank of commander, and will report to Garth Moore—retired Marine colonel, turned spy a decade ago. He’ll oversee your training with another of our new recruits, our espionage specialist.”

Logan rocked back in his chair. “And who might that be?”

“Olivia Hamilton—I believe you’ve met her.”