The copilot paused in the act of pulling the accordion-fold door across the cockpit entrance and bellowed, “Sweet dreams, ladies.”

Somebody launched a plastic champagne glass in the kid’s direction, and he retreated, laughing.

The engines wound up, their high-pitched scream splitting Grif’s effing skull in two. A collective groan went up around him.

“More champagne, gentlemen. That’ll fix what ails us,” Trevor announced.

The jet taxied out for takeoff, and they passed around the bottle, taking turns chugging from it. As the plane lifted off the ground, climbing into the night, Griffin closed his eyes and passed out.

* * *

Sherri Tate looked around the WWII–era army base and artillery range. It had long ago fallen into disrepair and was well on its way to derelict. Better this, though, than endless rounds of press conferences and cocktail parties with handsy senior officers and drunken congressional staffers pawing at her.

When Calvin Kettering had approached her a few months back and asked if she would consider trying out for the SEALs, she’d been all over any assignment that would get her out of Washington D.C., out of nylons and high heels, and out of range of men who assumed that because she was attractive she was also stupid.

She was stoked to finally experience the real military. She wanted sweat and dust, bugs and sunburns, honest physical exertion. Maybe here at this secret training facility she would finally get a chance to be more than just a pretty face.

Two insanely fit-looking women came out of the rusted Quonset hut before her, wearing tank tops, shorts, and athletic shoes. One was tiny, blond, and shaped like a gymnast. The other was of medium height, brunette—maybe of South Asian–Indian heritage—and ripped like a bodybuilder.

“Ladies,” Commander Kettering said briskly, “this is our newest trainee.”

The two women stopped in their tracks and jumped to attention as soon as Kettering spoke.

He continued. “This is Sherri Tate. Sherri, these are Lily VanDyke and Anna Marlow. They’ll show you the ropes.”

No ranks. Interesting. She got that rank didn’t much matter in the SEALs, but she was startled—and secretly pleased—that he’d ignored military protocol completely. Without another word, Kettering turned, climbed back into the Hummer, and drove out of sight. Only a trail of dust marked his passing.

“Welcome to the weirdness, Sherri,” Lily said brightly. Even in combat boots, the woman barely came up to Sherri’s chin.

Anna added in a husky voice that would be sexy as hell if Sherri rolled that way, “Is that your only bag?”

Sherri glanced down at her duffel. “Commander Kettering told me to pack light.” Truth be told, he’d emailed her a packing list so detailed he’d even told her how many sports bras to bring and had specified no thongs.

“Did he forget to tell you to pack tampons, too?” Anna asked laughingly.