“He called me about the lace after I mentioned it. I don’t know how he got my number. SEAL ninja skills?” She shrugged and reached out to squeeze his forearm. “So, we talk.”
“You what?”
“He’s interesting and has a lot of funny stories to tell. Sometimes he gets homesick. Isn’t he part of your sacred brotherhood? You should be as thankful as Rhonda that he’s helping.” She waved her hand. “It’s a moot point. I already asked him to be a groomsman. He was honored.”
“You what?”
“You’re repeating yourself, little brother,” Gina said, folding her arms over her chest which meant there was no further discussion on the matter.
“Ooh, I can’t wait to meet him,” Anna cooed, her eyes bright and sparkling, and everyone started talking at once. But this time Max was right in the middle of it. The tailor peeked his head in, saw they were still at it and disappeared again.
Forty-five minutes later, after coaxing the tailor back into the room and ushering his five sisters out, Max was on base.
“Dodger!” he called out as the man turned and saw him barreling down the hall. Dodger backed up right into his teammates, 2-Stroke and Saint, who caught him, puzzled looks on their faces until they heard Max’s shout. “Stop right there!”
“What the hell did you do now, Dodge?”
“Nothing. I’m bloody innocent,” he said as Max reached him and kept moving through his teammates and pinned Dodger against the wall.
“Innocent my ass. When were you going to tell me? When you were walking down the aisle?”
“Man, I need some popcorn,” 2-Stroke said as he glanced at Saint.
“Are you getting married?” Saint asked.
Max ignored them. “When?”
“I was going to tell you, mate. I promise, but I was waiting until maybe you were…you know…around your family, definitely unarmed, maybe inebriated or unconscious or restrained in a strait jacket.”
Saint laughed softly. “Hoo boy, he’s in trouble big time.”
“These are my sisters. You got that, numbnuts?”
“Sure. I was just trying to help out Gina and Rhonda. You know, make her day the best it can be.”
“Are you their wedding planner?” Max growled. He had no idea how Dodger did it. Defuse his temper and soften Max like jelly with this sincere look in his eyes.
“No, but... Bollocks, Max, you’re my teammate, and I wanted to do something for you. Is that so hard to understand?”
Yeah, there it was. That damn soft spot.
“His sisters? They good looking?” Saint asked.
“Beautiful,” 2-Stroke said, shooting Max an innocent look in response to his scowl. “It’s true. Chill, man.”
“Step out of line and there will be hell to pay. Got that, mate?” He let Dodger go, then said, “I’ve got lime and a shovel in my trunk.”
Still fuming over being outmaneuvered by his big sister, Max headed over to the SEAL compound. As he came around the barracks to the grinder to enter his office, he saw three trainees arguing near the beach edge of the asphalt. In the gloom, he made out Daniel Wilson, Walter Manning, and Craig Hennessey.
“What’s going on? Why aren’t you guys getting ready for tomorrow?”
“C’mon, Hennessey,” Wilson said and grabbed his arm. Hennessey had bruises on his face and along his neck.
“Release him, Wilson.”
Wilson’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Hennessy wrestled out of Wilson’s strong hold. “I want to ring out. Th-they were only trying to encourage me to stay,” Hennessey said, but the guy looked battered and nervous. Most of the trainees who quit BUD/S were more ashamed and solemn, but Hennessey was sweating, his eyes darting back to Manning and Wilson. He looked…afraid.
“You sure about this?” Max asked, watching Manning and Wilson, who looked pissed, as if they wanted to say something but didn’t.
“Yes. I’m done.”
“You heard him. Get yourselves squared away, or there will be hell to pay tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’ll regret this, Hennessey,” Wilson said in a threatening voice, and the two of them walked away.
“Let’s go to my office,” Max said, turning away as Hennessey followed.
“I’m sorry, Proctor. This ain’t for me,” he said, then softer, “None of it.”
“Before we go inside, ring the bell.”
Instead of stepping forward and ringing out, Hennessey looked like a man with a moral dilemma. His face twisted up and he said, “I thought I knew what I was about, but I was wrong. Very wrong. Sometimes you get lost. Do you know what I mean Proctor?”
“Yeah, I get it. But it’s tradition, Hennessey.”
He swallowed and looked down the berm toward the ocean where his two friends had disappeared, regret, fear, and determination on his face.
He walked over and rang the bell three times. Max was sure that everyone could hear it from the barracks.
Max opened the door and went to his office. Once he and Hennessey were inside, he closed it. “Have a seat.”
Hennessey crumpled into the chair and stared down at his hands. He looked like his uniform had dried on him from a state of wet and sandy. The light caught his bruises showing them to be more mottled black and blue than Max had initially thought. This kid had been put through the ringer.
“How did you get those bruises on your neck, Craig?”
Hennessey’s head jerked up. Maybe he was startled by the question or maybe it was because Max had used his first name.
“Training,” he mumbled.
“Are you sure?”
He looked back down, then said, “Training,” again.
Max pulled up the necessary form to process him out of BUD/S.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
His eyes grew moist. “I didn’t expect to feel this way. To question who I was, and what I was doing. I didn’t know.” Hennessey sighed, then met Max’s gaze. “I can’t say. Not here. Maybe you could meet me off base.”
“Where?”
“Behind the Hotel del Coronado, on the beach?”
“Okay. When?”
“In an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
Hennessey left after signing the necessary documents, and Max immediately picked up his cell, calling Shea. “I need to talk to you,” he said when she answered.
Something woke Hemingway out of a deep sleep. He wasn’t sure what it was. A thump, angry voices. He sat up in his bunk and looked around his room. Two of his roommates were sacked out in their bunks, but Wilson’s rack was empty.
Hemingway tried to remember if Wilson was on watch duty but didn’t recall the schedule. He pushed back the covers, slipped on his boots, pulling on a hoodie, then tucking his cell inside the right pocket, settling the hem over the waistband of his sweatpants.
He walked to the door and listened, but suddenly it was quiet. Pulling open the door, he entered the hall, then headed for the outer doors. He pushed them open and stepped outside. The crash and rush of the ocean sounded loud in the stillness. Hemingway couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.