Again, the whole operation, which could have taken hours, was measured in minutes—seventeen of them to be precise. Getting the “hostiles” all squared away had taken longer than beating them in the first place.

Chad had wanted to throw the SOG team into the ship’s brig.

Sofia had liked that idea, especially after one of the “dead” men shot her when she wasn’t looking—which still stung—and another had tried to grab her ass—which Duane had stopped with a blow that broke the guy’s wrist. Sadly, she was used to such treatment, but apparently Duane wasn’t.

He hadn’t looked merely irritated, he’d been furious. His strike had been so fast and vicious that Sofia was half surprised that the man’s hand was still attached to his arm at all.

Had it been it was her, because she was a woman, or would he defend any member on the team that way? Had she actually found a military team that treated women as equals rather than some tolerated lower species? Watching Carla and Melissa woman-handling the wounded asshole out the door and toward the infirmary—the men on the team not even offering to assist—made her think that maybe she had.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about working with a team in the field.

The whole purpose of Activity was teamwork—collaboration between intelligence services, both domestic and foreign. Yet out in the field on reconnaissance, they were often loners. Even in the office, one ISA agent typically equaled one project. Only the information flow was collaborative.

Suddenly she was on a team again, and she wasn’t sure why. Especially because it wasn’t the sort of team she was used to—not intelligence gathering, but Delta Force action. Not a chance that she’d be admitting to anyone how much she was enjoying herself while doing it. Who knew that kicking in doors could be so satisfying?

The ship’s captain, in his cultured, Danish-accented English, had killed Chad’s idea of using his brig. “It is only big enough for to hold a few of drunk sort of people. I do not think you could fit them all in the sides, even standing up.” Ohp was how he’d pronounced it—a dignified man who was still upset with the destruction of this wing bridge doors and the mayhem caused to one of the luxury suites.

Carla had suggested tying the rest of the “dead” up and leaving them in a pile like old driftwood until the CIA came to collect them.

Twenty-three hostile “casualties” to…none of their own.

“You owe me, soldier!” Sofia turned to Duane and crowed with delight. They hadn’t agreed on the payout, just the bet itself, but she’d think up something good. The CIA’s SOG had committed over a third of their manpower to this training op. “They must have wanted it ba-ad!”

Duane nodded, being a good sport about losing, but she could see he was thinking about what lay ahead. Now that started to worry her as well.

Melissa’s more rational head prevailed and the SOG operators were released and left to sulk at one of the mid-ship buffet lines—except for the one with the shattered wrist still down in the infirmary. He actually was being treated for two broken wrists, apparently not learning his lesson the first time. She couldn’t imagine someone dumb enough to underestimate Carla, but apparently the SOG idiot had tried to fondle her breast from the treatment table.

The Filipino crew, who’d been told to stay safely below decks during the exercise, were now at their stations, feeding the SOG operators. They were apparently glad to have something to do—not used to having no passengers aboard. It was certainly an interesting break from routine all around.

Delta set up at the far end of the ship in a small Italian restaurant. They’d just placed their orders when Duane recalled the FAST ropes they’d left in the pool and the two tactical lines down to the ship’s bridge.

“Least we can do is retrieve our own gear,” Duane had headed out and she’d followed along. He studied her as they wandered out of the luxury restaurant with its white linen tablecloths and fine cutlery, such a contrast with their own black t-shirts, slacks, and the pile of Simunitions-adapted weapons and armored vests stacked on several of the tables. They both wore live sidearms again. Duane picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder as he headed out, so she did done the same with her G28.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Just trying to puzzle you out.”

“I am not some Rubik’s Cube.”

“No. You are a beautiful and skilled woman who is far too used to being alone.”

“Why do you say that?” She walked beside him up the grand staircase that curved up to the next deck. Red carpet and gold-painted railings. She half expected to see a chandelier above, but it would probably make passengers seasick as it swayed with the boat and that would never do.

“Why are you following me? There’s only the two ropes and I can carry them myself.”

“Maybe I like you,” she went for her driest tone.

He snorted out a laugh and she liked that her joke had worked. Liked him for getting the joke. Liked that he—

Sofia chopped off that crazed train of thought before it could completely run off the tracks.

Maybe Duane understood that she was actually escaping the crowded restaurant, loud with stories and laughter. Even though they had all fit around one table—there were only four men and two women on the Delta team and the rest of the tables had been vacant—they had overwhelmed the space. Including her own personal headspace.

The silent warriors.

Maybe around others. But with only her and the waiters there—and riding high on kicking some serious SOG behinds—the Deltas were suddenly loud, laughing, and…larger than life. Duane was the only one who seemed even close to normal-sized. Yet he had taken it all in stride: blowing up a Venezuelan prison one night and spending the next taking downing a large team of pretend hostiles, who hadn’t been pretending very much.

He pushed out onto the upper deck at the ship’s stern. The lights were off except for little kicker lights so that she could see the walkway. They didn’t interfere with the stars that filled the night sky. A long trail of phosphorescent green followed behind them. The glow of Colón, Panama hadn’t yet come over the horizon. Only the deep-ocean tug, far ahead on the line it was using to tow the disabled cruise ship, lit the dark ocean ahead. It was breathtaking.

“Where did you go?” Duane called from farther down the deck. He hadn’t even noticed her stopping.

She waved a hand toward the sea and the sky.

He spent about zero-point-three seconds looking around.

“Nice,” he offered before continuing toward the pool.

“Nice? Nice! You dim-witted Delta!” Sofia stalked after him. “It’s spectacular. Not even from the vineyards of home can I see such stars. Open your eyes! Look around you! Not everything is battles and—” Hardly aware of her own actions, she had stalked up until they were toe to toe and she was jabbing a finger against his chest. Without the armored vest filled with ammunition and explosives, she was driving the tip of her finger against equally hard muscle.

“I’ve got a question,” Duane asked with a calm that she certainly wasn’t feeling.

“What?”

“Am I going to regret this or not? I’m thinking not, no matter what happens.”

“What are you talking about?” She stopped with her fingertip resting on his breastbone.

“This.”

Duane rested his hands on that amazing waist of hers, pulled her the last quarter-step closer, and kissed her.

Sofia made a sound of surprise, but not of complaint.

Her finger slowly shifted from poking against his chest to palm flat. Then, with a long, slow pressure, she eased him back, even as she bent forward to prolong the kiss.

Once they were too far apart to continue kissing, his hands on her waist was the only thing that stopped her from retreating until she disappeared into the darkness. He shouldn’t have done it but he’d be damned if he’d say he was sorry. She tasted exotic, like she was made of foreign lands and strange places to explore.

She felt—Christ! Had he ever held such a woman? A fighter, an exotic beauty, and a mind sharp enough to have helped him create an entire new tactic for taking back a pirated cruise ship. Even holding and kissing her for such a brief moment had shifted something. Or maybe the cruise ship had caught a stray wave too big for the stabilizers too dampen out.

“That,” Sofia pushed him just far enough that he pulled his hands off her waist, though her palm still rested against his chest—fine-fingered, strong, very feminine.

He could feel his heart beating against her palm.

“That… should not have happened,” her voice was barely louder than the night.

“Why? Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it?” Please don’t tell me that.

“I did. You have a very nice kiss, Mr. Duane The Rock.”

Duane tried not to feel a foot taller and totally failed.

“But I will be gone soon and…”

“I don’t care,” he cut her off.

“But—”

“Any chance I get with you, sugar, I already know is going to a thousand percent worth it.”

“‘Sugar’ isn’t helping your cause.”

Okay. Good to know. He’d cross that off the list along with sister.

“Nor is using any percentage over a hundred. Percentages don’t work that way.”

“Sure they do. A thousand percent is ten times better than simply a hundred percent incredible,” even if he hadn’t meant it that way when he said it. It earned him a smile and an eyeroll, though he couldn’t tell if they were additive or if they cancelled each other out.

“And you say ‘any chance I get with you is going to be worth it’? Is that also simple hyperbole? I’ve heard it a thousand times before.”

“Now who is exaggerating?” Duane teased her.

“I only wish I was,” her sigh was not a happy one. He wondered just what she’d had to put up with in her life, especially looking the way she did in a Spec Ops world.

“Well, you haven’t heard it from me before.” And as soon as he said it, he knew it wasn’t some line no matter how much it sounded like one. He’d be truly sorry when she was gone—rather than his usual not-so-sorry when a relationship ended because he was headed out on deployment. Women had a shelf date that always seemed to expire way too soon. Kyle and Carla, along with Richie and Melissa, appeared to be somehow different, but not in any way that he’d ever experienced. Or understood. Or believed in.

“Too bad,” she tapped one of her fingers still resting on his chest.

“What’s too bad?” He’d feel the outline of them for days.

“It’s too bad that I almost believe you.” Sofia took the final step back that had her hand slipping off his chest. Then she walked the rest of the way to the pool and coiled the first rope that had landed mostly out of the pool.

Duane wanted to do something to lighten the mood. How had it all gotten so damn serious so fast? All he’d done was kiss her—that shouldn’t alter the world. He fished the other FAST rope out of the pool where it lay like a swimming Anaconda in a pristine but no less dangerous swamp. The damn thing weighed a lot when it was wet. The helo was long gone, headed back toward its ship, so it was up to the team to clear all of their gear.

“See,” Sofia hefted her own rope. “It is a good thing that I came along to help you or you must carry this as well.”

“I’m thinking that anything you do is a good thing.” Now that sounded too much like a line.

For some reason she stumbled and almost plunged back into the pool. Odd. She’d been so surefooted all day.

Good thing?

Her commanders had always complimented her on her skills.

But Duane’s simple statement of unquestioning belief in her skills had stopped her cold.

She’d spent most of her childhood snarled up in trying to be the good girl, trying to do the right thing and her mother had always been very clear that she wasn’t succeeding. Her brothers could get away with anything, but her eldest? Not even a chicken scratch worth.

Why did his saying it make so much more difference than all of her previous commanders?

They were halfway to the bow of the ship to recover the light tactical lines they’d used to reach the bridge, when they passed beside a wide-open skylight. It sat forward of the pool, filling the space between the two sides of the running track they’d raced along previously to attack the bridge. The skylight was the same width as the pool and just as long—the opening was at least thirty-feet square. With the storm gone, and the training exercise over, the captain had reopened it to the warm night.

She and Duane stood in the darkness of the top deck. Beyond the inner railing, through the opening, they looked down a well-lit, luxurious bar done in dark woods and lush leather. It was easy to the SOGs who had gathered there.

She made the mistake of looking down. She and Duane would be invisible from below, especially due to the ceiling lights to either side of the skylight. The bar itself was a curved piece of walnut, shaped like a gentle sea wave. Behind it was ranged a truly impressive collection of liquor bottles. Correction, of whisky and scotch bottles. The ship’s whisky bar. All of the stools were of the same wood as the bar, comfortable chairs of red leather with elegant walnut side tables were placed throughout the room, and it was populated by two Filipino bartenders and twenty-three SOGs—one in double wrist casts. All drinking, though it appeared to be first rounds, so a long way from drunk.

Then she heard the first words and did her best to ignore them.

Ignored them so hard that she ran square into Duane’s back where he’d stopped as if bolted to the deck. She could feel the tension, no, the fury as she bounced off him. How could he be so solid?

He was glaring over the pipe railing and down through the big skylight.

“Can you believe that bitch who took us down on the bridge?”

“Su-weet! Like to teach her a lesson or two.”

“At least an eight on the FI.”

“And those other two. Hot shit!”

“Don’t, Duane,” she whispered to him in the darkness. “Don’t listen to them.”

He didn’t answer—or move—as the SOGs continued.

Instead, he keyed the mic on his radio, “We’ve got a rat problem.” Then he held it out over the skylight. At the same time, he swung his rifle off his shoulder, turned on the video camera attached to the scope, and aimed it downward. He worked it back and forth across the room, jumping to each face as they spoke.

“Their guard will be down now,” another SOG continued as he grabbed a whisky bottle from a suddenly reluctant bartender. “We should go kick some ass and throw us a three-woman party. Then we’ll just claim victory. Besides, you saw what they did to Bernie. Both wrists man,” Bernie held up the dual casts like a champion fighter taking his lap. “That’s got a price. Maybe they’ll have a small accident afterward.”

“I’ll take the brunette,” one called out.

Duane’s scope zigged left.

“Blonde for me,” another answered. “Blondes always have a higher FI.”

His scope swept right.

“I want that Spanish bitch until she squeals.”

He zeroed in on the commander, a big ugly dude with a flame tattoo one his arm and steroids in his bulging muscles.

“What’s FI?” Sofia whispered to Duane.

“Fuckability Index,” his voice sounded dead. No, like death.

“Just ignore them. We’ll post a guard and—”

He released the key on his radio mic.

“Situation?” Kyle called back over the radio. Sofia had forgotten to take out her earpiece, so she could hear the flatness of his tone as well.

“Whisky bar amidships. We’re up above the open skylight. Twenty-two rats plus one in double wrist casts. Two non-combatants behind the bar.”

Sofia could hear them still egging each other on. She’d only give it a ten percent chance of getting ugly; she’d certainly heard worse.

“Duane,” Sofia tried pushing against his shoulder but he wasn’t going anywhere. “Let it go.” They were so alpha-idiot raunchy. She upgraded the chances of action to fifteen percent and climbing. Initially only four or five were being vocal, but it was up to half now. There had to be a way to—

“In thirty,” Kyle called back.

“No! Wait!”

Duane shushed her.

Damn it! She knew better and lowered her voice—not that the SOGs could hear her. They were up to twenty percent and climbing on the probability-of-action scale. She’d listened to plenty of intelligence traffic over the years to know that there was no way this was going to end well, not at the rate it was escalating.

At some other time she’d have to reconsider growth rates of group pressure dynamics. At thirty percent it was fast becoming a certainty, so why were her trained instincts still classifying it as only thirty…now forty percent likelihood of action?

“Duane, you’ve got to find another way.” This time she actually had to raise her voice a little to be heard over the escalating cloud of machismo.

He pulled something out of a thigh pocket. He leaned through the rail and attached it to the edge of the skylight. A micro surveillance video camera.

She checked it out. Nothing fancy, thirty dollars retail online. She liked the low-techness of it. The Activity had a similar cam that they almost never took in the field because it cost closer to a thousand. Probably with about the same performance specs.

“You can help or you can step aside. But no one gets to talk about women that way. Especially not around a Delta team.” He unshouldered the FAST rope and tied one end around the rail.

“All you have is live ammo,” she double-checked her own weapons. “The Simunitions are still in the restaurant.”

“No one on the team will be using Simunitions,” his voice was low and dangerous.

“But you can’t—”

“Just don’t shoot to kill…unless you have to.”

Duane balanced the coiled FAST rope on the rail so that it could be deployed down through the skylight with a nudge. He sat on the top of the rail and hooked one foot in place to keep himself balanced.

Helpless, unsure what would happen next, Sofia scrabbled to get her own rifle in place. Some part of her had been counting:

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

Duane placed his rifle against his shoulder and aimed down.

Thirty.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?”

Duane watched Carla walk into the room as if entering a ladies social club—one for which standard attire included a pair of Glock handguns and an HK416 over her shoulder.

The sudden silence was deafening.

“You know, I have some really bad news that you boys aren’t going to like.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” The big commander with the flame tattoo, stepped up in front of Carla. He was at least a foot taller and each of the arms he had crossed over his chest was as big as her waist. He still had two paint splotches on his chest from his initial Simunitions death, and a line of six more down his back from when he’d shot Sofia after he was technically dead and Duane had decided to teach him a lesson. It must hurt like a line of wasp stings, at least he hoped so. The next time Duane shot him, it was going to hurt much more.

“We just started streaming a nice little video of your conversation to our commanding officer. I’m sure you’ve heard what a patient man Delta Commander Colonel Michael Gibson is. Is there anything else you’d like to say to him? Now’s your chance.” Carla sounded all sweetness and light.

She could bluff her way through a brick wall. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered with breaching charges when she was around.

Two years ago—on the first day of Delta Selection—Duane had watched her face down over a hundred macho wannabes by herself. But still he couldn’t believe how cool she was standing alone in front of all these assholes. He’d bet that not a one realized Carla was already in command of the room though she was the smallest one by far. Several of the guys were chilling down fast.

Not the commander.

If he’d been pissed before, he was nearly apoplectic now.

Carla put a hand to her ear as if listening. “Oh, Colonel Gibson said that he recalls you, Captain Victor (such an unfortunate name in the current situation).”

Maybe she wasn’t bluffing. He should know better than to underestimate Carla.

“He says that the court-martial was very memorable. Ooo, dishonorable discharge. Two years in Leavenworth,” she made loud tsking sounds. “He now has the Director of the CIA on line. Sounds like she doesn’t appreciate being woken up at 0200 Langley time. Look up, Captain.”

He did. Not quite in the right direction to see Duane leaning out into the darkness above, but his face was very clear in the rifle scope’s and camera’s video feeds.

His face shifted as he figured out why she’d made him look up and his expression twisted from pissed to mean. In a move so fast and liquid that Duane almost missed it, the leader snatched one of his sidearms as he turned toward Carla. Then he grabbed for her with his other hand—intent on hostage taking, or maybe being dumb enough to think he could teach Carla a lesson.

Three things happened simultaneously.

Duane used his sniper rifle to shoot the commander’s sidearm away, through the back of the man’s hand.

Carla grabbed the arm that the commander was trying to grab her with, and twisted it up behind his back hard enough to make him scream in pain.

And there was the sharp spit and the click of a bolt close beside him as Sofia used her silenced G28 to shoot the SOG commander in the knee.

There was a momentary pause, then five of the men leapt to their feet.

Duane pulled out his handgun, which wasn’t silenced, and shot an entire magazine into the walnut bar, placing a round in front of every SOG still seated there. The sudden roar filled the space and everyone froze.

Except for the Delta team. Just as they’d been trained, they used the distraction to surge into the room from both directions, rifles up with the safeties off and sweeping from side to side.

Someone flinched, and earned a round through the arm from Chad. Another swore and Sofia’s shot shattered the bottle in his hand.

Carla stepped up to the former Captain Victor, kicked him in the shot-up knee, then disarmed him while he howled.

Chad, who was as big as any of them, snapped out an evidence collection bag—a big, heavily-reinforced green garbage bag—and began collecting weapons, knives, and—in a smaller bag—anything else he could lay a hand on: wallets, IDs, watches, rings.

Duane knew Chad well enough to know that it wasn’t just for show and humiliation. None of these guys were getting shit back. They were being robbed in middle of the night on a luxury cruise liner and just didn’t know it yet. Chad would probably, once the cameras were off, give it all to the bartenders still cowering behind the bar. It would make up for scaring a decade off their lives.

Melissa stepped forward with a fistful of plastic ties and began binding them hand and foot. When one kicked out at her, Duane shot him in the foot. Melissa bound it with a sea green linen bar napkin—after she finished tying him up.