“We’ll head to the lodge, try to find the SEALs.” In the pounding rain, it would be difficult to hear birdcalls that would signal the SEALs, so odds were they’d stay firmly hidden, but they were out of options. “We’ve got sixteen allies in these woods, and they’re among the best-trained men on the planet. We’ll find them and coordinate our efforts to get you out of here and find the other trainers.”

They stayed in the trees, going back in the direction they’d just traversed, creeping along like fugitives.

Or prey.

As a SEAL, he was used to being the predator. This feeling of being at a disadvantage was foreign. Trainings like this one—no communication, unfamiliar woods and building, unidentified targets—were meant to address this, but still, on an op, they were doing the attacking. When SEALs were sent in to stop pirates, rescue a hostage, or liberate a seized facility, they were proactive. Swooping in to save the day.

They weren’t targets; they were the response team.

But the objective here had flipped on its axis—on a training he, personally, had planned right down to the last detail.

This was all on him. He’d set these guys up for this. The platoon was based out of Coronado, and he knew all sixteen men by name. He and Flyte had been on the same team once upon a time. The lieutenant was the only reason Xavier was alive today.

He’d been the leader of the rescue mission that had landed Xavier in the hospital. The other two on their four-man team had died. Only Flyte had walked away from that mission on his own two feet, carrying an unconscious Xavier over his shoulder. He now was second-in-command of a new platoon, some shuffled from other teams, some new to the ranks.

He and Flyte were first-name kind of friends. On an op, it was always rank or last names, but out of uniform, Lieutenant Flyte was Chris. And Chris’s wife, Pam, had attempted to fix Xavier up with half the women in San Diego before she finally introduced him to Lynn.

Shit. Carly. Pam. Those were only two of the wives he’d let down today.

And then there were the children. Xavier had Thanksgiving dinner at Paul Cohen’s house. That night, he’d read bedtime stories to Olivia, Paul’s six-year-old daughter. She’d chattered excitedly about how now that Thanksgiving was done, Hanukkah was just a few days away and her daddy would be home for the entire Festival of Lights because he was teaching now and no longer going on missions, which meant this would be the best Hanukkah ever.