Tawny Weber – A Seal's Desire (страница 2)

Until he saw the pistol in the guy’s hand.

For a guy with the call sign Auntie, Castillo was one hell of a fighter.

Laramie grinned.

His eyes locked on the weapon, he anchored his hand to the rock, bending low and taking a deep breath as if the fight had left him winded.

He came up with a jump round kick, sending the gun flying. He feinted a palm heel strike to the face, wrapped his arm around the man’s neck and took them both to the ground. Before they hit, he had the knife out of his boot and carefully pressed the dull side to the man’s neck, tapping the sensor on his laser-engagement device to sound the hit.

As he did, a loud beeping sounded, then an air horn blared loud and shocking in the gritty air.

“Calling the win.”

“That means you’re dead,” Laramie said, as he reached out a hand to the body on the ground. “And you owe me a beer.”

“Dude, what’s with the backup blade?” Clasping Laramie’s outstretched hand to lever himself to his feet, Castillo gave the dirt on his fatigues a quick slap, then threw his arm over Laramie’s shoulder.

Now that the battle was won, they were teammates again. The sixteen-man platoon had split into two, each side battling “to the death” to test some new equipment. Laramie, O’Brian and Eckhart had led their side against Castillo, Morelli and Thorne’s team.

“Know your enemy. I figured your team would have some heavy hitters and I’d need everything I could bring to the game,” Laramie explained with a shrug. “That, and I saw the sheath inside the new boots and figured I’d try it out.”

“Nice.”

The two men strode off the mock battlefield, collecting the bodies of the others as they went.

“You girls call that a battle?”

The challenge bellowed out from a husky man so short that even standing there on that boulder, half the men on the team were still taller than him.

“Can I help you with your critique?” As ranking officer on the team during this exercise, Castillo’s offer was both militarily correct in tone, and a clear screw you in message. Just one of the things Laramie liked about the guy.

“Warrant Officer Murdock,” the troll-like man snapped, his words as sharp as his salute. “Here to take over CQC training.”

“You’re scheduled to report for Close Quarter Combat training on Monday at o six hundred hours.”

“I’m here now.” His heavy brow furrowed over beady eyes, the man spread his glare over the entire group before aiming it at Castillo again. “Do you have an issue with that?”

“Now why would anyone have an issue with that?” Fingers hooked through his belt, Castillo rocked back on the heels of his combat boots and grinned. “We’re trained to deal with ambushes.”

“Trained, my ass.” Murdock bent at the waist to stare into Castillo’s face. “You call that dancing around you were doing training?”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Thorne called out with a tilt of his head toward the field. “Show us how it’s really done.”

“You think I’m afraid of your big bad club?” Murdock’s laugh dripped with enough insult that Laramie felt as if he should shake it off his boots. “What makes you think you’re all so special?”

“We’re SEALs,” sixteen voices chanted together.

“Whatever. I’m here to teach you pansies how to really fight.” His words sneered down the extensive combat training and battle experience that each and every man there had under his special-ops belt. “The kind of fighting that requires more than guns or knives hidden in your socks.”

The sidelong looks of amusement slanted his way made Laramie smile. Hell, that move had won the battle. Like the others, he began unbuckling and shrugging out of the vest that held the various laser sensors for their mock battle. Being the last man standing, Laramie’s laser-engagement sensors were the only ones not lit, indicating he hadn’t taken any hits.

As if seeing that as a negative, Murdock pointed at the flashing lights.

“You bubble-blowing babies don’t even play with live ammo? What’s the matter with you? Lasers all you can handle?”

All that earned him was an eye roll since the SEALs were known to regularly train with live ammo. It was rare enough that they hauled out the MILES gear that a few of them had had to be briefed on how to use it. But the commander expected them to train with all available resources, and laser practice was considered a resource. Something Murdock probably knew if the disappointment on his face at not getting a reaction was anything to go by.

Still, while the platoon continued to silently strip down, Murdock continued his insult-laden introduction.

“The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.”

“At least he’s got his clichés down,” Scavenger muttered with a laugh as he joined them. The bag of MILES gear he dropped at his feet muffled his words, but from the glare on Murdock’s face, the warrant officer had a good enough radar to know he was being mocked.

“So...” He took a slow look at them, his eyes shifting from man to man with a look of distaste that reminded Laramie fondly of boot camp. “Let’s see if one of you sissies can handle this new move. Any of you got the balls to step up here and take me on?”

That got him a slew of laughter and a few pats between the legs as some of the team checked their personal equipment.

“How about you, Anchor Clanker?” Murdock gestured to Laramie, using the derogatory reference to the anchors on the petty officer insignia visible on the collar of Laramie’s camouflage jacket. “You think you can take me on?”

This time the laughter was aimed at Murdock. The guy was forty if he was a day, and those eleven years he had on Laramie weren’t any kind of advantage in a physical contest. The guy might have skills when it came to close combat fighting, but they weren’t likely to pay off in this situation.

Because Laramie was good. Maybe not competition form, but he held a second-degree black belt in jujitsu, he was fast on his feet and he had big hands. Big enough that it usually only took one punch to put a guy down.

Still, it was never smart to underestimate an enemy. Laramie rocked back on his heels, assessing. The guy was older, smaller, but too cocky not to have some tricks up his sleeve. He was also fresh, whereas Laramie was coming off three hours of intense maneuvers.

So the minute the guy jumped down from his rock, knees bent and fists high, Laramie did a jump scissor kick, knocking him sideways. As soon as Murdock regained his balance and swung, Laramie blocked the punch with his forearm, launched a spring hip throw, then pinned him with a double arm lock.

And grinned down at Murdock’s furious expression.

“Point?” he asked, wanting his pin acknowledged before he let the guy up.

When Murdock shoved, Laramie waited a moment just to make sure the guy knew he was letting him up, then pushed to his feet.

As he did, Murdock kicked Laramie’s feet out from under him, sending him ass-down on the hard sandy ground.

“How’s that for a point?” Murdock spat, lumbering to his own feet and slapping at the sand covering his uniform. “You didn’t give me a chance to show the move.”

“That,” Laramie said bouncing back to his feet, his easy tone a vivid contrast to the other man’s breathless one, “is how we do it.”

“You mean by cheating?”

“If we ain’t cheatin’, we ain’t trying,” Laramie paraphrased. It was known among the SEALs that the larger force set the rules, and the team was always the smaller force. Therefore, to win, they broke those rules. “Bottom line, I won.”

Which shouldn’t be a surprise.

Because Laramie was a SEAL.

He made it a point to always win.

* * *

FOUR HOURS, A SHOWER and a hot oil massage from a talented blonde named Hilda, and Laramie was back in fighting condition. He strode into Olive Oyl’s bar, his Stetson taking the place of his battle helmet, jeans instead of combat gear and his cowboy boots knife-free.

The Navy hangout located a few miles away from the base in Coronado, California, was loud. Music and laughter rolled over the top of the conversations, hitting Laramie in an inviting wave as he stepped through the double doors. Bodies were packed from one end of the long building to the other, proving why the bar’s proprietor hadn’t wasted a lot of time prettying up the decor. It was a man’s bar. A sailor’s bar.

The grayed wood floors were nicked, the whitewashed walls punctuated here and there with anchors, rustic ship wheels and a faded nautical compass painted over the bar itself. Neon bounced off rope-trimmed stools and the roving waitstaff wore wide-legged white pants, striped cotton nautical shirts and classic sailor caps.

Olive Oyl’s was the go-to place for the SEAL teams. It was also the embodiment of all of Laramie’s childhood visions of the seafaring world. He grinned. And a damned welcoming place.

He moved easily though the crowd, his rolling gait as much from spending his formative years on the back of a horse as spending many of his adult years on the deck of a ship.

He returned greetings and waves with ease, but didn’t slow on his way toward the back rooms where the team usually met. At least, not until one particular greeting.

“Laramie!”

The breathy greeting was accented by a loud giggle and a bouncy little wave to get his attention. Laramie chuckled, appreciating what the bouncing did for the tiny strips of bright blue fabric masquerading as the blonde’s dress.