Bacon was hanging on to life by one index finger. Literally. One sore, overused finger was all that separated him and a plunge down the sheer cliff face. The desert sun had sweat rolling down his face, stinging his eyes.
“Come on, Bake. You’ve got this!” Curly called at him. He was already safely on the ridge, along with several other SEAL team members. This was the last step in a grueling training mission that had tried their stamina with a HALO jump followed by a long run over rough terrain and this final climb.
“Bacon. Haul ass.” The new XO, Lieutenant Buratta, had a permanently clipped voice. Generally seemed like a good guy, but not at all warm, and also not helping right now.
“You can do it!” Shiny’s relentlessly cheerful voice carried from his position below.
Fuck this. Bacon didn’t need a cheering squad.
“Motherfucker.” He did what he had been trying to avoid and swung all his weight on the finger he’d dislocated on their last overseas mission. It hurt like he’d taken a hollow-point right to the hand, but he wasn’t going down like this. He was a good climber, better than Shiny and Curly that was for damn sure. He scrambled for the next handhold, senses tunneling to just him and the rock.
“Hurry up.” It wasn’t one of the guys’ voices he heard next, but a distant memory. For a moment he was fifteen, climbing the water tower, his friend Jamie just out of reach above him, urging him on. And he was nimble and free and fearless and loving the adrenaline rush. Blocking out the pain, blocking everything other than the love of heights and climbing, he scampered up the rock, Jamie’s voice ringing in his ears.
“That’s how you do it. Way to get it.” The XO slapped him on the back as he made it over the ridge, Shiny not far behind him. Trying to catch his breath, he stayed down on his knees.
“Hooyah.” Curly came over. “Knew you could make it. Way to bring the drama, though. You looked like my mom’s laundry out there, swinging back and forth.”
“Fuck you,” Bacon said with no real rancor toward his best friend.
“How’s the hand?” Bullets, their medic, pushed past Shiny to reach him.
Hurts like a bitch. He shook it out, which only made the pain worse. “Fine.”
“Liar. That finger isn’t healed all the way yet. You should let me splint it so it can rest.” Bullets examined his hand with a critical eye.
“We need that trigger finger ready to go when we ship out next.” Their LT joined the group around Bacon, voice as booming as ever, easily carrying over the distant roar of the chopper that would take them back to base. “Let him splint it.”
“Yes, sir.” Bacon knew better than to argue. The LT made no secret that Bacon was on his shit list lately, and any further protest was likely to end up with him in deeper shit. Bacon held out the hand for Bullets to do his thing with a finger splint and gauze and tape. Around them, men were getting ready for the ride back, packing up gear and joking with each other after another successful training mission.
“Actually...” The LT’s eyes narrowed as he considered Bacon. He hadn’t moved on and his continued attention unnerved Bacon. “I know how we’ll get you some rest for that hand.”
Oh fuck. Bacon already knew that he was not going to like this. “I’ll be fine. No rest needed.”
The LT waved his objection away. “I was waiting until our mission here was done to tell the team, but we’re being assigned a reporter. He’ll embed with us for the next few weeks.”
“Why the fuck would they do that to us?” Bacon winced as Bullets straightened his finger and couldn’t be bothered to watch his language around the LT. Bullets’s splint felt like he was wearing a soda can around his finger. Fuck. “Special Forces doesn’t get reporters.”
Embedded reporters weren’t that uncommon in regular army units, especially out in the field in the Middle East, and he’d heard of the occasional reporter out on a ship with the navy. But Special Forces were usually off-limits to the press, and with good reason. What they did was too dangerous, too top secret to have a tagalong.
“Naval Public Relations is eager to get some good press after that helicopter went down last year and that spate of negative articles about SEAL training methods. And this guy is apparently some big deal.” The LT shrugged. “I don’t make these decisions.”
“Yeah, but why us?” Bacon persisted as Bullets finished his torture. They were possibly the worst team to be assigned some outsider. New XO, two new team members, and disunity and distrust issues up the wazoo. They were not functioning like the well-oiled machine the navy expected, and lately, their bonds of brotherhood had been severely tested. Simply off the top of his head, Bacon could name three or four other top-notch teams that would be so much better suited to having some reporter come and hang over their shoulders.
“Because we’re due to go wheels up soon, and the higher-ups thought it would be a good fit for him. Who knows. This is coming down from high up the chain of command. It’s a done deal.” The LT’s tone left no more room for argument. “And you are going to be his official team liaison. We’ll put you on Team Bravo when we’re out there—”
“Aww. Hell no. I’m the best marksman you’ve got, and you know it.” The pain in his hand was making him somewhat punchier than usual, but he’d be indignant no matter what. He’d earned the right to be with the first group of guys out in the field. Their sixteen-member team often operated in groups of four and eight, with others hanging back, ready to move in if additional support was needed. The past few years, Bacon was always one of the first guys out. His work as a sniper gave him a reputation as being one of the elite, and he was damned if he’d let the LT shove him on to babysitting duty.
“You’ve got a bum trigger finger.” The LT pointed at Bacon’s hand. “Now, we could put you on medical, get you a few weeks of PT and—”
“I’m not hurt that bad.” Bacon struggled to his feet because sitting on the hard dirt with the LT looming over him was starting to grate. “I don’t need leave. Just a few days—”
“Exactly.” The LT’s smile said that Bacon had walked right into his snare. “You’re too valuable to put on leave. Which is why I’m putting you on this reporter fellow. He so much as shits out of place, I want to know about it. And keeping him safe is top priority. You’ll ensure that.” He punctuated his words with a hard stare.
“Yes, sir.” Nothing left to do but agree. He didn’t have to like this, but he could tell by the set of the LT’s shoulders that arguing was futile.
“Tomorrow he’s scheduled to join us for PT. You’ll stick with him when he can’t keep up.” The LT said it like it was a given, and honestly, it probably was. No reporter could keep up with a team of hardened SEALs.
“Yes, sir.” Fuck. This was going to be such a drag. “Actually, maybe several of us could take turns—”
“We will all work to ensure Mr. Bryant’s safety, but he’s your responsibility.” The LT leveled him with another glare.
“Bryant? It’s not Spencer Bryant, is it?” He had to shout to be heard over the drone of the chopper, which had landed in a clearing nearby.
“Think that’s the name.” The LT tapped his foot, clearly impatient with Bacon now and ready to board the chopper. “Why?”
Bacon scratched the back of his neck. “Just heard the name before. Got his book for my mom for Christmas.”
“Excellent. You’ll have something to chat about besides classified information we don’t need you sharing.” The LT gave him a smile that could not have been more fake, and done with Bacon, he headed over to the rest of the team.
Spencer Bryant. Fuck. This assignment could not get any worse.
Bacon loaded up with the other guys, taking his place between Shiny and Curly. Everyone was in a good mood, probably because the LT had yet to make his announcement about the journalist. That should be fun to watch. Not. The team was going to eat Bryant alive and laugh over his carcass.
Bacon had been aware of Bryant’s work through regular appearances on the talking-head shows and NPR. He was known for writing deeply moving, heart-wrenching features and had a couple of books under his belt too. It was no wonder he’d been picked to embed—his coauthored book on amputee patients at Walter Reed had won all sorts of awards. And his other book had taken his prize-winning article on poverty in America and turned it into a haunting exposé. That was the one Bacon had given his mom. After he’d read it cover to cover himself.
But it wasn’t the books or the articles or the media appearances or the decidedly choppy ride that had Bacon’s stomach churning on the flight back to base. Spencer Bryant was also hot as fuck for an older guy, and as if that weren’t bad enough, he was Pride magazine’s Bachelor of the Year. They’d put him right on the cover, showing off his silver-fox good looks with an unbuttoned business shirt. That feature was what had really put him on Bacon’s radar and made him buy the books. And Bacon sure as fuck wasn’t confessing to the LT that he had a subscription to Pride. The LT was in no way part of the social circle that knew that Bacon was pan. Further, the LT was decidedly tetchy lately about same-sex relationships, and Spencer Bryant was openly, unapologetically gay. If—when—the guys got whiff of that, shit was going to get real.
Thump. The chopper bounced around as they approached base, making Bacon’s shoulders bump into his friends. Farther down from them, the LT was deep in conversation with the XO and the senior chief. In the back, the new guy, Rooster, said something while flexing his giant biceps that made Donaldson laugh. This was Bacon’s team, and it wasn’t so much that the team was full of homophobic assholes as it was that the team was on edge.
Had been ever since their former XO had resigned his commission and left to go do private security work in DC and then their former enlisted explosives expert had also left to go do private security work in DC, and it didn’t take a street performer to be able to read the tea leaves there and see that they were a couple now. And that made a lot of people—the LT included—uncomfortable, and there had been a marked increase in homophobic insults and other crap since Bacon’s friend Lowe, the explosives guy, had departed.
Throwing a person like Bryant into the mix was like wrapping the whole team in det cord and just waiting for the spark that would make the whole thing go boom. Bryant was gay. And old. And skinny. And no matter how good-looking he was, he was bound to be out of shape and unable to keep up. And the last thing they needed was someone of Bryant’s investigative prowess getting wind of what had gone down with Lowe and the old XO, drawing the wrong set of conclusions.
Bacon’s finger ached right along with his heavy heart. This entire thing was just a snafu waiting to happen. Nothing good could come of Spencer Bryant being a part of their team. Nothing.
* * *
Even though it was just this side of five a.m., Spencer was ready to work. Nothing like the fresh feel of a story about to unfold. He loved research and the actual writing, but few things compared to the rush of being in the field, gathering information, covering a story as it unfolded. Yesterday Naval Public Relations had handed him off to a rear admiral’s office to get an overview of the team he’d be assigned to. And the admiral’s assistant had said he’d meet the team today and then join them for “light PT.”
The team was due to be deployed in the next two weeks, but the admiral’s office couldn’t tell him when or where, other than to say that the Middle East was unlikely for this particular team, which was a bummer. Spencer had embedded with the army a few years back in Afghanistan and had figured that experience could give him a leg up here. Still, he was damn lucky Public Relations had granted his request—it had taken months of paperwork and phone calls and negotiations to get this assignment. He’d even had to get vaccines. And sign waiver after waiver. This wasn’t any ordinary interview, and he was seriously pumped for it to start.
“I’ll take you to the team.” A young lieutenant met him at the security gates for the base and showed him where to park before leading him to a white Jeep. He’d already figured out there was a “Don’t let Bryant be alone a single second” order in effect. The lieutenant had short, blond hair and a firm demeanor that suggested she’d been one of those busy-bee types in school, on every organizing committee possible. She drove as efficiently as she moved and talked. And she had no issues giving Spencer orders on how to act.
“The team is assigning you a SEAL to be your personal team liaison. Do not go anywhere without that person and direct all your questions to him first. Team leadership will also be available to you, but I have to tell you, they were not happy to be given a reporter.” She delivered this news very matter-of-factly as she wound her way through the base, heading toward the beach, and Spencer supposed it was no surprise. He wouldn’t want a reporter if he were in their shoes either.
“I understand,” Spencer said as they parked. On the far edge of the lot, near the path leading to the beach, a group of men were assembled. A shorter man paced back and forth in front of them, and judging by his demeanor and pointed gestures, he was delivering some sort of lecture.
“That’s the team’s officer in charge, Lieutenant Thomas. He’ll want to introduce you to the men,” she said as they walked over to the group.
“Lieutenant Mears, the LT’s just explaining to the team about Mr. Bryant’s presence.” A man with a large barrel chest and ruddy face broke away from the group to stride over to them. “Mr. Bryant, I’m the senior chief for the team. We’re...happy to have you.”
Spencer didn’t miss that pointed pause, but he ignored it, shaking hands. “Happy to be here.”
The LT himself strode over. He carried himself like one of the royal guard Spencer always admired when he visited London—perfect posture, officious attitude, carefully measured strides.
“Bryant.” The LT stuck out his hand. “I’ve handpicked a SEAL to work with you. Petty Officer Bacon will handle everything you need while you’re with us. We’re about to run now, and then after, you can join us for breakfast, get to know the men.”
“Bacon. Get over here,” the senior chief bellowed over his shoulder. A young man who sported a finger splint on his right hand jogged over, resigned expression on his face. Handpicked. Yeah, right. More like this poor injured guy had drawn the short straw for the assignment. Spencer knew the SEALs weren’t likely to want him here, but he was determined to do his job.
Like the rest of the team, Bacon was in a gold T-shirt and blue running shorts. Lieutenant Mears had made sure that Spencer had similar attire and fatigues for when they deployed. He wouldn’t be given a weapon or other specialized gear, but the navy wanted him to blend in with the team, not be a giant “civilian right here” sign when they were in the field. Even with the right clothes, Spencer knew he still stood out. He was taller than the LT but shorter than almost all the rest of the team including this Bacon, who was tall and muscular—the build of an Olympic swimmer, wide shoulders and defined arms with a flat stomach and narrower hips.
Spencer honestly wasn’t sure whether Bacon was one of those ridiculous nicknames the SEALs were famous for or the guy’s given last name. He was young, but not painfully so, maybe somewhere in the twenty-five to twenty-eight range. He had close-cut auburn hair and a face that could grace movie posters even with slightly oversize ears and a nose that had clearly been broken at some point. Both of those things, however, made him that much more endearing and earnest seeming. He had a firm handshake when introductions were made, but no smile. Spencer had his work cut out for him, that was for sure.
“Bacon will run with you. Don’t be afraid to hang back. We don’t want you in medical on your first day,” the LT barked. “Your safety is our top priority, but you will not hinder the workings of my team, understood?”
“Understood.” Spencer nodded. “I appreciate this opportunity. I’ll try hard not to be a burden.”
“Glad to hear it.” The LT motioned him over as he introduced him to the rest of the men. They were a somber crew—lots of frowns, which he’d expected. No one wanted a reporter hanging around, disrupting their work. But Spencer still hoped to win them over. The medic, a young guy who couldn’t be more than twenty-two who everyone called Bullets, walked over as the senior chief announced the plan for the run.
“You sure you up to this? When was the last time you ran?” he demanded with rapid-fire questions, no pause for Spencer to answer. “Did the PR people request a physical from you? I just wanted to be prepared here.”
“I’m up to it. Ran yesterday. And yes, full physical and a stack of waivers. You won’t have to revive me.”
“Good,” chipped in another SEAL, this one seriously muscled even compared to his chiseled teammates. His dark hair was slightly longer than the other guys, more styled, and he had Mediterranean features—maybe Italian. “Would hate to see Bullets here crack your ribs on CPR.”
“Fuck you, Rooster.” Bullets shook his head. “One time I cracked ribs, and the reporter doesn’t need to hear our horror stories.”
“Oh, I’m here to hear all the stories.” Spencer offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. At least it was one that usually worked to disarm interviewees, but these guys were special cases, and no one smiled back.
“Let’s go,” the senior chief called. “Bacon, you stick to Bryant.”
“So, what happened to your finger?” Spencer asked as they started to jog.
Bacon took so long to answer, Spencer started to dread the next few weeks of trying to get information from this guy who clearly didn’t want to be stuck with him. But finally, Bacon spoke in a brisk monotone. “Dislocated it climbing a tree on a mission. Don’t ask where. I aggravated it yesterday training. I’ll be fine.”
“Sounds painful.” Spencer easily kept pace with Bacon, who seemed determined to run at a speed better designed for a junior high track team’s first practice than a group of SEALs, most of whom were far ahead now. “We can go faster.”
“Don’t want to push it. Did you remember to eat something?” Bacon demanded. Even at the slow pace, his body moved fluidly—he’d be a joy to watch if he wasn’t being so combative. “Bullets isn’t joking. He’ll be pissed if you pass out.”
“I ate like I usually do on race days. Stretched too.”
“You race?” There was both grudging respect and utter disbelief in Bacon’s tone.
“Oh yeah.” Spencer was happy to mess with his expectations. “I like having something to train for. It keeps me focused. I’ve done various distances, but I did the LA marathon for my thirty-fifth birthday. Liked it so much that I did an ultra-marathon for my fortieth.”
“Huh. And what are you going to do for fifty?” Bacon finally picked up the pace, probably because he was finally convinced Spencer wasn’t going to keel over on him.
“Seven years away.” Spencer laughed. He didn’t think Bacon meant the question as any kind of fishing expedition. He’d gone gray prematurely in his twenties and never bothered with dyes or other cover-ups, so people always read him as older. And as such, he couldn’t resist messing with the dour Bacon. “But I think for fifty, I’ll learn to swim.”
“What? You can’t swim?” As predicted, Bacon’s mouth fell open, and he lost his rhythm, almost tripping before he righted himself. “F—What the... They gave you to us and you can’t swim?”
“Watch your step,” Spencer said brightly as he jogged ahead.
“Seriously. You can’t swim, like at all?” Bacon easily caught back up to him.
“Chill.” Without breaking stride, Spencer smiled at him. It wasn’t returned. “I can swim. And fire a gun. And I’ve skydived. You think they’d let me embed if I couldn’t keep up?”
“Yep.” Bacon had a world-weary tone. Spencer wanted to know his story, what had made him seem old beyond his years. “PR has different definitions of ‘fit’ then the rest of us. No offense.”
“Well, I made sure to be as ready as I could for this assignment. Feel free to test me.”
“You want to go faster?” Bacon sounded almost eager, which was cute. Not that Spencer needed to go find anything about this guy—this much too young, much too off-limits guy—cute. He was part of the job. He wasn’t allowed to be cute.
“Yeah. Let’s kick it.” Spencer needed the hard pace to push aside any personal curiosity about Bacon. He was a source. He didn’t like Spencer, that much was clear, but Spencer had a job to do, one that he’d waited years to do. This was the chance of a journalistic lifetime and he wasn’t going to blow it.