Griffin stood up, hauling on the larger man’s arm. “C’mon, big guy. We gotta go.” There were two kinds of SEALs: the lean, fast ones, of which he was one, and the slower, strong-as-an-ox ones, of which Axel was the poster child. The guy wore a long beard and a leather vest, and he rode a chopper when he was off duty or not wearing a blue tuxedo at his teammate’s wedding.

“Don’ wanna go…”

Trevor picked up an unopened bottle of champagne. “C’mon, gents. We’ll take the party with us.”

Griffin nodded gravely. “Now you’re talking. This is why you’re my favorite redcoat wanker.” Trevor was a crossover guy from the British SAS, handsome, elegant in bearing, and a hell of a fine operator.

Joaquin “Jojo” Romero staggered to his feet, causing Griffin to do a double take. Jojo was a freaking incredible athlete—hell, he’d been drafted by the NFL—and was never clumsy. Although, come to think of it, Griffin couldn’t remember ever seeing the guy drink before, either.

With his free hand, Griffin snagged the open bottle of whiskey Kenny had smuggled in earlier. Ken was the team’s ALPO—alcoholic libations procurement officer—and damned good at his job.

In a gaggle of baby blue, they piled out of the officers’ club and into the crew bus the text had said would be waiting for them outside. Passing around the bottle, they polished off the whiskey while the bus drove them to an airplane hangar on the Naval Air Station Whidbey Island flight line. It was raining tonight in northwest Washington State, and headlights and taillights sparkled outside like white and red jewels. Or maybe Grif was just drunker than he’d realized.

With a start, he realized this wasn’t just a ploy by Kettering to get them out of Leo’s wedding. A crew chief waved them over to a sleek Learjet parked near the hangar entrance. It was hooked up to a ground power unit, and the interior and exterior lights were on.

WTF? They were going somewhere tonight?

But…their kits…a mission briefing…their support team… Crap, he was confused. And his head was starting to pound. He needed more hair of the dog.

“Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” an Air Force pilot who looked about twelve years old boomed.

“Hush. Not so loud.” Trevor enunciated with breathy care. “We’re all very drunk.”

The copilot grinned. “So I gather. Technically, it’s illegal for you to bring that liquor aboard a military aircraft.”

Griffin winked at the kid. “If you don’t tell, we won’t have to kill you.”

The copilot’s smile widened. “We’ll turn the heat up back here so it’s nice and warm for you guys. You’ll have a few hours to sleep it off before we get to our final destination.”

Grif jumped on that. “Which is where?”

“Classified.”