A resigned smile curled his lips and he shook his head. For a Navy SEAL, retirement was as difficult as it was inevitable. Being a SEAL was like being a professional athlete, and the human body, as amazing as it was, could only take so much abuse. At thirty-five, he would still be considered a young man in most professions. But in special warfare, seventeen years of hard service and a shattered hip had left him a bit long in the tooth. After taking a 7.26mm round to the left hip, the docs had said he’d walk with a cane for the rest of his life, but he’d proven them wrong and rehabilitated himself back into fighting form. And yet, it was important to be honest with himself. Could he still do his job? Yes. Could his brothers without chronic pain, scar tissue, and flaring arthritis in their hips do the job better? As much as it stung, the answer was also yes. Retiring with grace was not the same as being retired. Passing the torch was not the same as quitting. These were the things he’d told himself, and they were true . . .

But why didn’t it feel that way?

“What’s up, Senior?” A voice interrupted his rumination, and the slap on his back sloshed beer onto the back of his hand. He looked up into the smiling face of a teammate ten years his junior—a lifetime in the SEALs. “Is this a party or a wake?”

“He’s right, Jed,” a familiar voice beside him boomed, and Jed felt himself reflexively straighten up at the sound of the Group Two Commander, Captain Mike Jared. He had served with the senior officer on and off his entire career. Jared was one of the SEALs Jed respected most, and he was confident the man would make admiral and one day command all of WARCOM. “You okay, Senior Chief? Not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No, sir,” Jed said with a forced grin. “I’m good.”

“Well,” the officer said, “if you change your mind, let me know. I’ve got enough rank to make your retirement package disappear.” Captain Jared smoothed his dress blues as he took the barstool beside his former platoon leader. Like the rest of the SEALs funneling into the room, Jared would be more comfortable in BDUs or blue jeans. In the Teams, the dress uniforms were little more than dust collectors in between funerals and retirements—more of the former than the latter since 9/11.

“I’m sure you could, sir,” Jed said. “Like we made that bus disappear in Qatar that one time.”

“Easy now,” Jared said but laughed at the memory. “We agreed never to speak of that, shipmate.”