Se7en Deadly SEALs: Season 1

Episode 3

MIA

I SPENT TWO DAYS SCOURING every inch of Joaquín's apartment, but came up empty-handed. I found nothing—no shady receipts, no weird email messages. Everything was clean. Too clean, as if someone had already scrubbed any evidence from the place.

I wanted to crash Tiffany's funeral to search for clues, but I definitely didn't want to affront her family, who would no doubt kick out the sister of the man they thought had murdered their beloved daughter. I skipped the service, uncertain what to do next.

Any day now, the remaining men on Joaquín's Team could be deployed, and after that, who knew when I'd be able to see them again. I'd lost my inside connections, no Grant, no Joaquín. I had only one way to see them all.

Today I was going to head to the Pickled Frog. The bar was a dive where all the SEALs went any time one of their men had passed. The looming death toll never seemed to wane—a training accident, a downed helicopter, an embassy upheaval. I'd been to enough SEAL funerals during the two years I dated Grant to know the drill. One by one, each man would pound down his trident, the SEAL insignia, on the deceased man's coffin. Then they'd get wasted. Even though Joaquín was still technically alive, I was pretty sure they'd be mourning the loss of their Teammate.

The Pickled Frog was more than a watering hole; it was a safe haven for heroes. Men who needed to drown their sorrows in hard liquor, men who wanted to forget the faces of the terrorists they killed, men whose wives had cheated when they'd been deployed, men whose kids didn't even recognize their own fathers. I shuddered, imagining all the times two years ago Grant might have sat in the seedy bar, getting hammered, trying to get over me.

I needed strength before I saw Grant again. Time to meditate. I sat on a chair in Joaquín's apartment and straightened my spine, my feet placed firmly on the ground. Resting my hands, I turned my palms upward and prayed. I alternated my breath, from tense inhales to relaxed exhales. Focusing my attention on my spiritual eye, I uttered a quick chant and closed my practice. I needed to remain calm and centered, today more than ever.

I locked up Joaquín's place, jumped in his truck, drove along the coast, eventually parking in an alley behind the bar. A deep sigh escaped my lips. I was sure I was the last person these men wanted to see.

When I pushed back the front door, the acidic stench of whiskey and sweat overtook me. It was two in the afternoon on a random Saturday, and the place was mostly empty. Despite being in the heart of Ocean Beach, no college coeds or surfers hung out here. This was a SEAL bar; SEALs and frog hogs were its only customers, though the occasional SEAL wife or girlfriend would make an appearance. But on this day, even the frog hogs must've taken the day off from their groupie duties. I was the only woman in this dump.

My feminine scent gave me away. No sooner had my heels touched the Technicolor, puke-stained, carpet than the heads of seven men turned toward me: Grant, Paul, Mitch, Joe, Vic, Pat, and Kyle. The seven other men on Joaquín's eight-man SEAL squad. Had they all been at the party that night?

I avoided Grant's suspicious glance and stared at the walls, studying the pictures of fallen SEALs. So many gorgeous men. Bearded, tatted, ripped.

Gone. Dead.

Never to kiss their wives again, never to cradle their babies in their strong arms. I might as well put Joaquín's picture on the wall. Man, this place was depressing, but it was a thousand times better than jail. Now I was the one who needed a drink.

I sat on the bar stool closest to the only friendly face, Kyle, who was tending bar. The gummy pleather seat clung to my thighs as he gave me a welcoming smile.