Mal had always been more of an earthbound guy. He flew if someone made him. He'd take a ferry if he had to. He wasn't necessarily phobic about flying, or about water, but he didn't seek out those experiences. He tried to stick to larger, more stable vehicles.

 

When he got into the small landing vehicle the SEALs used, which was essentially a large rubber raft, he vowed he'd avoid the sea for the rest of his days.

 

He didn't show his discomfort. After everything he'd had to deal with from Trent, he couldn't let any kind of weakness show at all. At least Trent thought Mal had some redeeming characteristics. Some of these other guys couldn't stop looking at him like a slab of meat, and meat of dubious origin at that.

 

He tried not to take it personally. They didn't know him, and they were used to working with known quantities. Throwing a random person into the dynamic between Mal and Morna could only mess things up for them, too.

 

He could try not to take it personally when he was on the ship and could retreat to the small, private stateroom he shared with Morna. It wasn't as easy to shrug it off when he was alone on a thin rubber raft with five of these guys, all alphas, all wearing balaclavas and grease paint.

 

The sea was calm tonight, but these things were relative in a light craft like the glorified rubber raft. He swallowed down his nausea and pitched in with the rowing. His balaclava itched. Had no one told these men that no one wore balaclavas in the summer? Especially in hot places like Greece. They would stand out even worse if anyone saw them.

 

They're SEALs, Mal. Professionals. This is what they do. Stop trying to control this and just go along with it. They've done this once or twice before.

 

They landed the raft along a quiet, empty section of beach. Mal scanned the horizon for any sign of life or activity, but he didn't see anyone. That didn't mean they weren't there of course, but he knew the SEALs were doing exactly the same thing he was. One of them would surely spot any snipers or lookouts. If they got lucky, they'd probably even spot them before the bad guys started shooting.

 

The remains of the burned out hotel stood three blocks from the beach. Trent aimed the team toward the eastern side of the hotel, which meant they would approach from the side with the pool. Mal wouldn't normally choose to do that. The pool was too much open ground, too much space the bad guys could use to take aim and start firing at them.

 

Mal had also never been part of such a large unit going into a fight. The biggest crew he'd had to coordinate with had been four. Twelve seemed almost impossible.

 

He followed Trent and his buddies up the side of the white wall surrounding the empty pool until they got to the service gate. The gate had a padlock, shiny and silver and new. Mal made short work of it, and they slipped into the hotel without making a sound.

 

The first thing Mal noticed about the compound was that reports of it having been damaged by fire seemed greatly exaggerated. Sure, the fire could have been limited to the interior. In the dark, they certainly wouldn't have seen major damage from smoke around the windows or anything like that. Mal definitely didn't see any boarded up openings, though. The discrepancy made his hackles rise.

 

He kept his hands on his gun, just to be on the safe side.

 

They scurried along the wall toward the building. Mal eyed the full pool with suspicion. The place was supposed to have been shut down. Even if it were in use by squatters, the pool would be empty. Instead it was full, and the filters were running full blast. The chlorine scent threatened to overwhelm Mal's sensitive nose. This was more than a handful of bad guys taking shelter and hiding out.

 

Someone knew about this.

 

He patted Trent's shoulder and jerked his head at the pool. For a second, he thought Trent was going to object. Did he really think Mal was such a useless, lovelorn omega that he'd risk a mission just to put his hands on Trent? Then Trent's eyes refocused, right where Mal wanted them to. He nodded, and Mal got some pictures of the pool. This was evidence.

 

They continued toward the door.

 

The first gunshot split the air with all the sound and fury of a bomb. The concrete near Toledano's feet, at the rear of their team, exploded, but none of the SEALs panicked. They picked up their pace a little bit, but they didn’t jump or otherwise react. They probably got shot at all the time. Mal had to bite down on his tongue to keep from showing his own surprise. Maybe the SEALs did too. Maybe not. Whether or not they were affected, they kept moving toward the hotel entrance, implacable as ever.

 

Mal gripped his gun. The bad guys would have to come down to the door, now that they knew they were being invaded.

 

The team climbed up the hotel's whitewashed exterior. The exertion wasn't much to Mal. He'd done the same thing a thousand times. The only problem he had on that score was forcing himself to move at someone else's pace. No, the issue here was all of the SEALs — and Mal — were dressed in dark blue. The wall was bright white.

 

Anyone could see them, anyone at all. Enemies. Local cops. Little old ladies out gathering herbs by moonlight, if they did that sort of thing around here.

 

Trent was the first one over the wall. He landed on a second floor balcony and turned around to help Mal over the edge.

 

Mal wanted to resist. He was a grown man and had been doing just fine on his own without some alpha to help him through the physical stuff, thank you very much. As soon as Trent's hands gripped Mal's arms, his objections died away. It felt too good to have those hands on him. He just wanted more.

 

He landed on the balcony, and Trent turned to help the next team member over the edge. It hadn't been an "alpha" thing, it had been a team thing. Oh. That, Mal had no experience with at all. He took an arm and helped bring Adami over. Adami slipped into the room attached to the balcony while Mal and Trent helped Floyd, then Van Heel, and finally Toledano.

 

Adami stuck his head out of the room and made a gesture with his hands. Mal had no idea what that gesture might mean, but apparently the others did. Trent nodded, and the others followed him inside.

 

Mal committed the gesture to memory. It might be handy to know when the SEALs had cleared a room.

 

Mal could tell, as soon as he walked into the room, that this hotel was no more derelict or under renovation than the Dublin Hyatt. The bed was freshly made. No dust marred the place, at all. It didn't even smell like smoke. Someone had left a laptop on the desk, and Trent jerked his head toward it.

 

Mal took a memory stick and sat down. It took him all of a minute to crack the password. The laptop owner turned out to be their old buddy Phil, which didn't surprise Mal in the least. Mal didn't go exploring. They didn't have time. He simply copied everything onto his memory stick, checked to make sure there wasn't anything hidden he hadn't copied, and put the machine back to sleep.

 

The SEALs headed out of the room.

 

Mal took his place in the line. Their objective was to gain information, and they hadn't gained much. He wasn't foolish enough to think Phil was any kind of power player for White Dawn. Phil was a dimwit. White Dawn's base was supposed to be in Central Europe somewhere, but they'd stuck around here in Greece for a reason. And there were enough of them to take over a hotel here.

 

Yeah, he needed this information just as badly as the SEALs did. Maybe more.

 

They crept in and out of a few more bedrooms. As near as he could tell, there were about twenty of the bastards staying at this hotel, or at least twenty of them staying on this floor. If their material possessions were anything to go by, this was a strictly White Dawn outpost. No one had any books in Arabic to indicate the presence of allies from Daesh.

 

Mal and his people rarely had access to labs or testing facilities, so he rarely thought in those terms. The SEALs did. They took samples from hairbrushes and toothbrushes, moving methodically while Mal worked on the computers. They catalogued weapons and took pictures, although most of the weapons they found would qualify as someone's sidearm. They hadn't found an armory yet.

 

Mal hesitated and looked up while he waited for someone's hard drive to finish copying itself onto his memory stick. "So," he said in a whisper, "Why exactly are all of these rooms empty anyway? Shouldn't they all be asleep?"

 

The door creaked open, and a heavyset man with thinning blond hair walked in. He froze when he saw the team in the room. "Intruders!" he yelled, and reached for a gun at his side.

 

Mal had to wonder how the blond had missed the gunshot. Did their guards fire randomly into the night? Did they fire at things and hope it scared off intruders? It seemed like a foolish way to run a base to him.

 

"Shit." Trent radioed the other team. "We've been made."

 

Mal's radio crackled to life in his ear. "We kind of figured that, Kelly. It was all the shouting."

 

"Abort mission and retreat.” The Master Chief's voice came through as clear as day. "Do you hear me? Abort mission and retreat."

 

The laptop pinged, and Mal took out the memory stick. At the same time, a bullet went whizzing past his ear. At least this particular White Dawn freak was a poor shot. The others were already heading for the window. The balcony would be a good escape route for them if they didn't have to worry about gunmen on the ground.

 

Trent knocked out the owner of the room with one punch. Mal had to admit it was a little hot.

 

Then Trent grabbed him by the arm. "Going now?"

 

"Right." Mal ran over to the balcony with the rest of the men. It was a long drop onto concrete, but they could almost certainly make it. All of them knew how to take a fall like that.

 

Toledano went first. He landed and came up with his gun at the ready. Van Heel went next and landed the same way. Floyd went third, and while he landed just fine, he took a hit to the chest as he stood up. The enemy figured out where they were and had reacted.

 

Adami went next, and he took a bullet to the arm. This was, arguably, a worse injury than Floyd's. Floyd's vest covered his chest, and while he'd have some impressive bruises he wouldn't have lasting damage. Adami didn't make a sound, he was well trained, but Mal could see how badly he was bleeding even in the dark.

 

Trent pulled out his gun and returned fire. They couldn't see much, but they'd seen the direction from which the bullets came. The assailant couldn't hide the flash from the muzzle. Someone grunted, and Trent nodded to Mal. It was his turn.

 

Mal didn't think about it. He followed orders. Sure, he'd rather make sure Trent got out safely. Mal had two jobs on this trip. Only one involved the computers. He needed to check on Adami and get him patched up. He flung himself over the balcony rail and let himself fall, absorbing the impact a second later when he landed.

 

He rushed over to the others and reached into his medical kit. Now was not the time to go digging around in Adami's arm. The bullet was still lodged inside. He could see that easily. It might be the only thing that kept him from bleeding to death right now, who knew? He pulled out a bandage and wrapped it tightly around the affected arm, even as he heard Trent hit the ground and come running.

 

"Do not try to climb with this on," he directed Adami. "It won't hold, and your arm could well fall right off."

 

Adami's green eyes had already gotten glassy from the blood loss, and that wasn't good. He still managed to nod. "Yes, sir."

 

"Don't call me sir." Mal patted his other shoulder and grinned at him. He felt Trent's arrival more than anything else. He could feel Trent's body heat behind him even through the body armor and thick clothes. "This should hold until we get you back to the boat."

 

"Ship," the SEALs all hissed at him, aghast.

 

Mal grinned and hid a chuckle.

 

They sneaked their way back to the raft. It took longer to get back than it had to get to the hotel, because they had to make sure they weren't followed. Adami's injury slowed them down, too, and Floyd's ribs didn't exactly help.

 

They did make it, though, and the other team made it back at the same time. Chief checked the bandage on Adami and pronounced it "good enough for now," and he and Trent launched the raft. They were back at the ship within hours.

 

Getting back to the ship didn't mean anyone was off duty. Trent and Chief had to go debrief their lieutenant and Mal found himself pressed into service in surgery. He and the ship's doctor had to work hard to pull the bullet out of Adami before he bled to death. Mal's job was mostly to hold a clamp in place while the woman who'd gone to school for such things did the hard work, but he didn't mind. Someone had to do it, and at the end of the day, he was more battle-trained labor than medical professional anyway.

 

Once Mal cleaned up from the surgery, he was able to go get some rest. Morna was already asleep in their little cabin, which freed Mal from having to talk about anything weird. He loved his sister, he truly did, but right now he was exhausted.

 

Not that it was so easy to sleep as putting his head down and closing his eyes. No, Mal was still keyed up. Tonight's mission had been a whole new world for him. He knew why. The difference was the team. He'd never worked as part of such a large group before, and it shook him.

 

He'd helped out in smaller groups, and those groups had been part of a larger plan. They'd been brought together to work one job as a team  and then they'd split apart again. He and Morna had a good rapport, and they'd known each other for twenty-three years of course, since the day Morna was born, but it was different. These guys had a whole practice, a whole system, worked out. They could communicate with one another in silence. They knew one another's pace and could accommodate it.

 

Mal was a competent operative. He got things done, and of course he'd survived a long time by the standards of his profession. In some ways, he was leagues beyond these men.

 

In others, they made him feel like a neophyte. It wasn't a good feeling.

 

He closed his eyes and let sleep claim him at last.

 

~

 

Trent yawned before he went into the briefing room. He would have welcomed more sleep. He would have welcomed even more sleep if it hadn't had to come alone, and no, Hopper's infernal snoring didn't count. Every muscle in his body ached, and his stitches both ached and itched. He wanted them gone.

 

Mal was already in the briefing room, because of course he was. Mal looked like a million bucks, too. That was just Mal. He sat there in his civilian clothes, his jeans and dark shirt, and Trent's stomach rumbled like he hadn't eaten in days. Mal had no right to look that good a few hours after a job went sideways. Mal had no right to look that good on board a ship.

 

Trent wondered how sturdy the table in here was.

 

Other guys filtered into the room, and Trent had to push those thoughts aside. Master Chief Boone and Lt. DeWitt were there, sitting near Mal, and Trent had to swallow his jealousy as well as his lust. He shouldn't let himself get jealous about Mal. He and Mal weren't going to be together long, and he needed to remember that.

 

Once the room filled with the guys who weren't injured, DeWitt cleared his throat. "All right men, we're here to debrief about yesterday's mission. Tomorrow, we'll be pulling in at the naval station in Souda Bay, and I'm going to have to file my report with CENTCOM. I've already spoken with Kelly, and I've spoken briefly with Mr. O'Donnell. Now I want to make sure we're all on the same page, and no one noticed anything that hasn't come up."

 

Trent got started when DeWitt gestured to him. "We took the east side, and went in through the pool area. We made a clean entrance, and found about twenty bedrooms that were made up and in use but not occupied at that particular moment. O'Donnell noticed that the rooms should have been occupied by sleeping people, so maybe we should revise our population estimate to forty — twenty on, twenty off?"

 

Chief nodded. "That seems reasonable. I did see lights coming on up on the third floor when you guys got made."

 

Trent made a face. It hadn't been their fault someone found them, but he still felt like a failure. "Okay. So we got made by sheer dumb luck. The gunshot outside didn’t tip anyone off. I don’t know how. They must have figured we were still outside, but we made it inside.”  He snorted. “They never think we can climb, I guess. We were in someone's room when he came back." He tugged at his collar. The son of a bitch had shot at Mal. He'd missed Mal's head by inches. Trent wanted to go back and kill the guy.

 

Mal hadn't batted an eye, though. He'd just finished what he was doing, like he was used to getting shot at, and gone about his business. Like a professional. Like a SEAL.

 

"Could you find anything about these guys from their effects?" DeWitt sat forward.

 

Toledano chuckled. "They like porn. The gross kind. We had to bring back a few magazines for biological samples."

 

DeWitt made a face. "That's repulsive."

 

"You didn't have to touch the stuff, sir." Tinker shuddered.

 

Mal cleared his throat. "Quite a bit of the stuff on their hard drives was, ah, home movies. And I have to say, I don't think there's enough brain bleach to erase some of that from my head. I'd seriously question whether or not most of that was consensual." He rubbed at his throat. "Anyway. These men seemed to be very fond of certain books that've been banned in most of Europe for a long time. They speak a variety of languages, although the majority of them have their origins in Northern and Central Europe. I didn't find a lot of them from Southern Europe."

 

"I wouldn't expect you to." Chief tapped his fingers on the table. "What was the dominant language?"

 

"English." Mal met Chief's eyes. "Actually, while we're on that subject, whatever language these men speak at home, all of the communication from their organization comes in English."

 

"Hm." DeWitt nodded slowly. "That's certainly interesting."

 

"Sir?" Buelen raised his hand. "That hotel allegedly burned in April, correct?"

 

DeWitt and Chief exchanged glances. "Yeah," Chief told him. "So what?"

 

"There wasn't a hint of smoke in that building. In fact, I didn't see any sign that it had been shut down at all. Sure, maybe it's been closed to tourists, but there was no sign of construction, no sign that it was renovated. The decor was all about right for the last recorded reno ten years ago." Buelen pressed his lips into a little line.

 

Mal's laptop was out, as always. His fingertips flew across the keyboard. "The hotel's website says it was closed for repairs after a fire, but you're right. I didn't see any inkling that a fire had occurred."

 

Trent snapped his fingers. "That's a huge clue right there. Who owns that hotel?"

 

DeWitt narrowed his eyes, but Mal was already typing. "Shell corporation one, shell corporation two, shell corporation three, and here we go. Smolak Enterprises, Inc."

 

"Wait, you mean like the American company, Smolak Enterprises?" Van Heel scoffed. "Come on. Why would they own a hotel someplace on the back of beyond like this?"

 

"And why would they let it stay closed if it were in good working order?" Buelen shook his head. He'd probably had dinner with Buelen a time or two, considering his background. "Smolak is a better businessman than that. Trust me."

 

"Is he so involved with the day to day operations of each individual aspect of his organization that he'd notice if a hotel like this were behaving oddly?" Robson scratched his nose.

 

"Believe it." Buelen's delivery was flat, and Trent grimaced. If Buelen knew Smolak from his time before the Navy, his memories weren't good ones.

 

"Huh." DeWitt steepled his fingers in front of his face. "There could be a whole host of explanations," he said after a moment. "At the end of the day, we're sailors, not detectives. We can pass on the information and let Interpol, the FBI, or whoever take care of it. I'm a little concerned that no one in the town seems to care that they've got a bunch of white supremacists taking up space in a hotel that used to provide jobs, but whatever. Greece isn't my country. It's not my job to police their responses to what happens in their backyard."

 

DeWitt dismissed them, and they all headed back to their respective tasks. Trent sought Mal, who had returned to his out-of-the-way location on deck.

 

He looked around and smiled. "This spot looks different in the daylight."

 

Mal's cheeks got pink, at least where Trent could see them over the top of his beard. "Good Lord, man. It's broad daylight."

 

Trent laughed. "True. And that wouldn't be an issue for me, except I'm on ship and well…"

 

"Your teammates don't want to see your bare arse?" Mal hugged his knees to his chest and raised an eyebrow at him.

 

Trent waved a hand. "They've seen it plenty of times. We all have to live pretty close, you know?" He sat down beside Mal. "What's eating you?"

 

Mal bit his lip. "Maybe you're all not cops, and technically I'm not either."

 

"I sense a huge 'but' coming in there." Trent wrapped an arm around Mal's shoulders.

 

"But," Mal said, with a little grin, "I do have to wonder how this didn't get more chatter. Are the locals keeping quiet because they agree with the bad guys? I mean it's been hard for Greece, what with having to deal with economic collapse and then being the reception center for so many refugees on top of it. A lot of people turn to that sort of ideology when they're dealing with that sort of crisis."

 

Mal worried at his fingernail for a second. "Of course, it's possible they're not keeping quiet voluntarily. From what I've seen so far, these White Dawn people are extremely violent. It's easy for someone like me, who doesn't have a husband or children or anything like that, to say, 'Over my dead body.' It's not so easy when you have something to lose."

 

Trent curled his lip. "Some people fight precisely because they have something to lose, you know."

 

"Oh, sure." Mal waved a hand. "Everyone has to decide for themselves the extent to which they're capable of fighting. It's about circumstance. A lone townsman — say the local cheesemaker. If no one else is willing to stand up and fight with him, is it really worth it to just go out and get himself killed? All I'm saying is, I don't know their circumstances and maybe I shouldn't sit here and judge them."

 

Mal sighed and rubbed at his temples. "And then maybe they're keeping quiet about these people that came in and took over a hotel that used to give them jobs because the hotel still gives them jobs."

 

Trent pursed his lips. "That's a little uncomfortable, don't you think?"

 

"Not really. You saw that place. It's still clean as a whistle. Someone's feeding those men, and if the way they treat women in those videos I had to see is any indication, then it's probably not the men themselves.” He rested his head on Trent's shoulder, and Trent's heart sped up. "Like I said, the economy pretty much tanked a while ago. That's going to affect everyone, and it's going to affect the way people think. If you're worried about how you're going to eat or buy medicine, you can't afford to be too picky about your employer."

 

Trent sighed and kissed the top of Mal's head, through his tousled hair. "At the end of the day, I guess it doesn't matter why. Someone's going to have to take these White Dawn fuckers down. They're working with terrorists. They're terrorists themselves."

 

"Oh, yeah." Mal nodded. "I'm not disputing that." He paused for a moment. "I'm curious about the link to Smolak Enterprises, though. I know that's not something you guys work on. It's a law enforcement thing, not a war thing."

 

Trent sagged back against the bulkhead in relief. "I know you're not a big fan of the States, but I'm glad you get that. And I'm glad you get the difference."

 

Mal laughed. "Are you kidding? That difference is vital to us. We're pretty opposed to militarized policing, as a general rule. Seriously, though, this Smolak Enterprises thing is nagging at me."

 

"It's probably not a big deal. How hard would it be for you, for example, to get into the Smolak Enterprises system and convince it that a hotel is running smoothly when it's closed? Or that a hotel is closed when it's running just fine and reroute the profits to your own bank account?"

 

"I'm doing that right now, with three different hotel chains."

 

Trent burst out laughing. "Seriously? Just like that, like it's nothing?"

 

"Well, yes. One's helping to fund me and Morna, one's helping to fund an HIV clinic in Botswana, and one's going to an LGBTQ crisis center in Atlanta. That one's a Smolak hotel, now that I think about it. I did that one after he gave a speech to a homophobic conference." Mal tensed, just a little. "It's not hard, really, once you know what you're doing."

 

"Isn't it difficult to keep up the appearance? I mean, they've got employees who need to get paid and everything." Trent shook his head.

 

"Sure, and those employees get paid. The profits just go to, you know, me. Or wherever. So I do suppose that this Smolak fellow could be the victim of someone like me, only working for the bad guys. I don't like Smolak, he's everything I hate, but I don't want to just assume that he's backing terrorism just because he's a misogynistic homophobe and casual racist." Mal snuggled into Trent's side. "I do kind of feel like I need to know, though."

 

"Why? There's not a lot you can do about it if he is." Trent stared out at the ocean.

 

Mal snorted. "Watch me."

 

Trent laughed. "That's what I love about you, Mal. You just don't stay down. I haven't known you long, but I don't think you've ever seen a barrier you couldn't overcome." He froze as the enormity of what he'd just said hit him.

 

Mal patted his leg. "Yeah, okay. You certainly didn't feel that way when Morna and I slipped away from you back in Spain." He stood up. "I'm going to go see what else I can find about these bastards. If nothing else, the women in those recordings deserve to get some justice."

 

Trent watched him go, and then he stared off at the Mediterranean again.

 

Mal either hadn't really picked up on Trent's words, or hadn't believed them. It was probably for the best, really. Trent could feel whatever he wanted for Mal, but that didn't mean there was a future for them.

 

Was what he felt for Mal really love, anyway? Mal was handsome, beautiful even. Mal was warm. Plenty of men, plenty of omegas, were beautiful and warm. Trent had enjoyed himself with more than a few of them.

 

None of them had drawn the word "love" out of his mouth the way Mal had.

 

Mal was handsome and warm, but Mal was also competent. Trent had been with a number of omegas, but the thought of bringing any of them into the field with him was laughable. He still didn't like the idea of bringing Mal into the field, but Mal made it clear time and time again he could more than hold his own with the SEALs. Mal could do things the SEALs couldn't, like casually fund himself from a hotel chain's profits without them ever noticing. Mal and his sister could swoop in and rescue a team of SEALs like it was a day at the damn beach.

 

What would it be like to spend his life with a man like that?

 

Trent would never know. Mal might be the perfect guy for Trent, but he wasn't just a European. He was a European vigilante — a criminal, really, and Trent couldn't exactly bring him back to the States as his lover. He could get away with some things while he was here in the field, but there was no way he could get away with allowing a known hacker on base.

 

Then, there was the fact that Mal hadn't said it back.

 

Mal seemed affectionate enough, but there was a world of difference between affection and love. Mal had work of his own to do. He wasn't likely to be ready to throw it all over for an American SEAL, not when he had a grudge against American ideals and the American government. Maybe Mal didn't want to be tied down. Maybe he liked his freedom.

 

Maybe Trent needed to stop thinking about the what-ifs and start enjoying what he had.