Zack was exhausted and sore. The adrenaline from the SUV chase and gunfight had drained him, and he was recharging the old-fashioned way, a favorite of sailors worldwide—with a dark, thick cup of coffee that the ship’s executive officer had made for them. The XO had cleared the wardroom so that Zack and his team could speak without interruption in privacy. “I promise, this will get that pep back in your step,” the lieutenant commander had said, as he’d handed him a mug with “Shellback 2019: The Day of the Shillelagh” written on it. A curved stick with knots in it was under the writing, but Zack had no idea what that meant. Based on the picture, he doubted it had been fun for those on the receiving end of that instrument of hazing.

Charles and Noah sat across from him at the table, and both men looked as worn as he was, although Charles was the worse of the two. He held an icepack on his jaw and kept opening and closing his mouth. “That motherfucker hits hard. I had no time to react. I’m good, but psycho or not, that bastard is Money Mayweather fast. I’m just glad my jaw’s not broken.”

“Just like your head—thick,” Noah joked semi-seriously.

“All jokes aside, I’m just glad you’re alive. He tried to blow us up, and that’s unforgivable in my book, no matter what. Whatever loose bindings of morality have been keeping him in check are gone. Griffin is the kind of guy who in Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan—hell, take your pick—would’ve committed a war crime and not thought twice about it.”

Charles looked down and then back at Zack, acknowledging the truth of the statement without uttering a word.

“But now what?” Noah asked. “Belyakov and Moretti are in the ship’s brig. God knows what Griffin is telling Langley. Honestly, what do you think they’re going to do to us? We disobeyed a direct order, even if it was the right thing to do.”