Cliff's Edge Read online

  “It sounds as if you have some vague notion BDSM is something you’d like to try, but when I show you a variety of toys, the first thing your mind latches on to are those involving restraint…another form of control.

  “No matter what anyone says, there’s no rule book for BDSM. Hell, practitioners can’t even all agree on what the letters stand for. In just a few minutes of talking, knowing your background, plus my little pop quiz—completely unscientific, I admit—I think you may find what you’re interested in is Dominance and submission. At least starting out.

  “The question will be whether you want to maintain that control all the way into the bedroom. Or maybe what you really want is to give up that control for just a little while. A consensual exchange of power that allows you to let someone you trust completely take control of your pleasure. Give me your other hand.”

  Draco’s voice was hypnotic, his words reaching deep inside. Cliff raised his hand, felt the cold circle of steel as the cuff ratcheted around his wrist.

  “A good Dom should try everything he plans to do to a sub at least once…but maybe you’ll find the temporary role of some relief from the ever-present need for control.” Draco stood. “I’m going to leave you here, in the dark for twenty minutes. No one will disturb you, but neither will you be released until I return. Unless of course you want to ring the bell,” Draco said, a reference to those in BUDs training who DOR—dropped on request—prior to completion. This little test of Draco’s was nothing—twenty minutes of restraint didn’t even scratch the surface of how long a SEAL might stay in position waiting for target acquisition. They both knew using a safe word wasn’t going to happen—especially not now that the challenge was issued.

  Cliff raised his chin in a quick nod and a cocky grin.

  Draco chuckled. “And that my friend is why I personally train all the special warfare personnel.”

  Before Cliff could ask about other SEALs belonging to the club, there was a distant shout that seemed to carry up the stairs over the steady beat of background music.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Cliff recognized Gentry’s voice. The hair raised on the back of his neck.

  “Let me up,” he hissed urgently to Draco. He jerked at the restraints, his need to move having nothing to do with a scene and everything to do with a sense of danger.

  “No time. Closing the partition,” Draco spoke over him, already moving, one hand going to his pocket and emerging with the remote, the other reaching for his shoulder holster and coming out with a P226 SIG. The bookshelf slid most of the way closed before whirring to a stop after catching on Draco’s heel as he stepped out into the office.

  Wood splintered as the door to the office was apparently kicked open, and Cliff caught a glimpse of Draco diving for cover as two shots from the Sig were fired in quick succession.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Draco, wa—” Gentry’s words were cut off in a hail of automatic gunfire. The sound of wet meat hitting the floor was audible even through the ringing in his ears from the shots. Or maybe it was just his imagination filling in the blanks.

  Then the shouting started—the voices rough, the language Spanish.

  “Get back, get back.”

  “Hands in the air. Open the safe, or we wipe out everyone downstairs.”

  “All right,” Draco agreed. “Tell the two assholes with the AK-47s to back the fuck off. Goddamn gangbangers. What the fuck do you think you’re going to find—”

  “Shut up. Gato, Raul, move back—now. Open the fucking safe, asshole.”

  “Okay, okay. Nobody else gets hurt…” Something about his tone told Cliff there was probably a weapon inside the safe that Draco believed he could reach before the gunmen fired. There was a brief moment of silence, presumably while Draco worked the lock, then gunfire erupted. A .45 caliber versus automatic weapons. Never a good match.

  Straining to see through the narrow opening, Cliff cursed whatever god deemed it amusing to leave him naked and handcuffed to a goddamn bed while three armed gunman attacked less than twenty feet away. Keeping his arms still so the slide of metal against metal didn’t draw their attention, Cliff stretched his shoulders and neck to the breaking point, trying to see what he could.

  “Goddamn fucker—Raul’s down.”

  “Leave him. Vasquez was right about the fuckin’ weapons. Time’s up. Grab the money and the backup disc. Get the other 47 and let’s go.”

  For what seemed like an eternity, the silence built and Cliff spent the time cataloging everything he’d seen and heard in the three minutes it had taken for the world to go to hell. When he was certain the shooters were gone, he jerked his wrists hard, testing the strength of the metal and the sturdiness of the bed frame. “Draco? Draco, can you hear me?” Nothing. Not even the sound of labored breathing. Nothing but the ringing in his ears until he finally caught the sound of sirens warbling in the distance, drawing ever closer. Help would come far too late for the men in the other room, but someone with a handcuff key would be here to release him soon. He closed his eyes on a sigh.

  Fuck. The only easy day was yesterday. The SEAL motto bounced around in his head before going up in smoke—just like his career.

  Chapter Two

  Rhino remained frozen in place, his nostrils barely clearing the slimy surface of the swamp that marked the northern boundary of the former Vietnamese concentration camp. The fetid water soaked through to his skin, bringing along a few uninvited guests—probably of the leech variety. Every so often one of them would move, like a cold glob of snot crawling on his leg. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but remaining in position, out of sight until he had a clear shot.

  A shadow passed by the glassless window of the decrepit cinder block building. This might have been a state of the art prisoner holding area in the sixties, but the place had been long abandoned by any official branch of the government. Vines had overgrown most of the structures, reducing them to rubble or shrouding them in a creepy living cloak. A few fence posts had survived the decades, but not with the barbwire attached. The single remaining building was fifteen by eight, with plywood serving as doors, windows, and most of the roof. The three “patriots” who were his targets were holding former Army Ranger Wilton Rufus for the crime of crossing into Viet Nam illegally—which was true—and accusing him of spying for America—which was not true. According to the official government spokesman located in Ho Chi Minh, neither the local police nor the Peoples Army had any knowledge of the American’s whereabouts, but if he was discovered, he would be prosecuted for spying.

  A second shadow joined the first, and angry voices hung heavy in the air. Come on, you bastards…step outside. All fucking three of you…step outside…step outside…

  Ordering his mind to go still, Rhino checked his angle once more. Given the layout of the building, the four-by-four-foot bamboo cage housing Sergeant Rufus, and the encroaching jungle, it was the best he could get. His fire team partner Marco Adams—aka Mad Max—was twenty feet to his right, up to his balls in the same swampy shit, but with a less clear shot. He would take anyone Rhino missed. As if.

  After three days of recon, they’d selected their approach and moved in. Now it was only a matter of minutes…or maybe hours…but either way, the sergeant was going to be heading for home today. All Rhino needed was for the three guards to step through the door—to come clear, so no one took a death shot at Rufus.

  As if summoned, guard number three came into view, an automatic rifle slung over one shoulder. He was carrying a metal pie tin of whatever slop they were passing off as food to their prisoner. As he approached the cage, he shouted to the others inside. Rhino didn’t have a lot of the language, but enough to catch that the man was calling the others to join him. Something about Rufus’s condition made him unhappy, and he wanted an explanation.

  Looking straight through the scope at the man he now thought of as target one, Rhino, tightened his grip on his weapon, his finger just a whisper away from taking his shot. From the pe
riphery of his vision, he watched and waited for the others.

  Step outside…step outside…

  Then the man next to the cage raised his weapon, turning it to point at Rufus, and they were out of time.

  Target acquired, Rhino thought as he pressed his finger to the trigger.

  Target down.

  Panning left, Rhino caught the second man in the throat as he raised his weapon. Number three was a fast little fucker. The man spun at the sound of gunfire, diving for the relative safety of the cinder block as he fired his gun in the direction of the swamp. Rhino caught him in the back of the shoulder and he went down hard, but still moving—for about twenty more seconds. To his right, Mad Max emerged from the swamp like some special effects movie monster. Rhino covered him all the way in, until he received the hand signal that said he was needed to help with Rufus.

  It took them less than three minutes to get the skeletal foul-smelling man from the cage, and into the water, heading for home.

  Eight hours later, Ryan leaned his head against the vibrating tin can of a transport plane, and closed his eyes. The doc would call him over soon enough, but he’d catch some shut-eye while they worked to stabilize Rufus. He and Marco had done what they could while running through the jungle, taking turns with the man draped over their shoulders. Had they known before the mission how bad his condition was, they might have tried to do things differently…but different took longer, and in this case…longer would have meant dead.

  Now, the only thing Ryan wanted was to survive the debrief and the ten days of decompression R and R with the team in Honolulu before they headed back to the unit. Something about this last mission had felt…sour. The trouble wasn’t with his team. They were the fucking best…like family. Maybe not quite as much like family as they used to be, but—maybe that was his problem. It just wasn’t as much fucking fun with Cliff on shore duty. He gave a little snort. Or maybe he was just pissy after finding a leech on his balls.

  “Goddamn bugs,” Marco said, digging at his calf. “I want a shower, a twenty-ounce medium rare T-bone from Chow House, and a tight ass riding my cock.”

  “All at the same time?” Ryan teased.

  “Nope. But in that fucking order. How about you?”

  “Sorry to break your heart again, Marco, but I keep telling you—I just don’t swing that way.”

  Marco snorted. “As good as. You and Snides are like an old married couple—no wait. I take that back. My parents have been married for thirty years and you two are nothing like them—you guys actually like each other.” Marco shifted on the bench, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

  It wasn’t the first time someone commented on his friendship with Cliff Snyder, wondering—or assuming—they were a couple. Their friendship went back twenty years, to BUDs training. The class started with one hundred twenty-four candidates and finished with nineteen. Without a doubt the two of them had spurred each other to success, often side-by-side in the sub-sixty degree water off the coast of San Diego, reminding each other that failure to reach or maintain standards in training meant getting wet—failure on a mission meant death.

  For the first few years after qualifying as SEALs, the two of them served on different SEAL teams out of Coronado, but eventually they’d been assigned to the same team and landed on the same platoon many times since.

  God…BUDs was forever ago. I’m getting to be an old man in this business.

  They’d formed a competitive bond that extended far beyond the already tight connections that SEAL teams develop. The only area their lives didn’t intersect was in the bedroom. They each had their own interests there.

  “Heard from Snides lately? Man, I thought they’d never get him out of the field. How’s he doing at the schoolhouse?” Marco asked, pulling Ryan from his memories.

  Ryan laughed and shook his head. “Haven’t talked him for a couple weeks, but he wasn’t looking forward to this tour of duty. He says it’s where old SEALs go to retire.”

  “He ain’t wrong about that,” Marco agreed. His mouth quirked up on one side. “So…they cutting you orders there next, old man?”

  “Fuck you,” Ryan said, laughing. He paused to unwrap a piece of Big Red and folded it into thirds before popping it in his mouth. “All respect to those who teach at BUDs, but, man…I don’t think I’m cut out for that training shit. Besides, I don’t think they could handle both me and Snides.”

  Marco punched him on the shoulder before standing as his name was called for his turn with the medical crew. His smile faded. “I hear what you’re saying—but don’t sell yourself short, Rhino. Despite all the drills, and that invincible feeling you get when you’re finished with the training pipeline, you and Cliff got me through the probation period and made sure I stayed alive.”

  Marco disappeared behind the blue curtain where the medics would conduct their preliminary assessment, and Ryan resumed his head-back-eyes-closed position. Goddamn Marco had called him an old man—and he had the right of it. At least to the kids going through BUDs right now. Only thirty-seven, but twenty years seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. Now he was in the enviable position of having his reenlistment coincide with negotiating for his next set of orders. Not that there was a lot of wiggle room among their ranks. With less than twenty-five hundred SEALs, the billets were manned with intricate precision. Pay grade, skills, and experience all had to align to meet the mission of the special warfare community. Twenty years also meant he could go home…but other than his Coronado condo, what exactly was home?

  Maybe he could skip the mandatory R and R and head straight back to base to talk to the captain and the detailer about his reenlistment options. The powers that be would probably still insist he take some downtime after the mission, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He and Snides had the final season of Sons of Anarchy on the DVR. The sonofabitch better not have cheated and watched it without him.

  *

  Ryan eyed the bowl of matchsticks Captain Ross kept on his desk and wondered what the old man would think if he took two to prop up his eyelids. Sure he could function on no sleep for days on end when he was in the field, but for the last—he glanced at the loudly-ticking government-issued Skilcraft clock on the wall—fifty-seven hours, he’d been deloused, debriefed, and determined fit to travel. Returning to San Diego via Yokota, Japan, and Pearl Harbor could take a lot out of a man. He popped in another piece of gum, then leaned back in the chair and concentrated on remaining conscious.

  The door clicked open. “Senior Chief Matthews, welcome back,” the commanding officer said, stepping through the doorway. Ryan immediately popped to attention and remained in that position. “Carry on, carry on,” Captain Ross said absently as he closed the door behind himself and crossed the room to his desk.

  Ryan stood until the old man was seated, then resumed his position in the visitor chair situated in front of the flight-deck-sized desk.

  “Tell me about the mission, Rhino. Any surprises? Anything we should have done differently?”

  Ryan went through the mission, avoiding doing a runaround on his LT by outlining the same key points he’d made during the debrief. The captain listened carefully and made a few notes. Finally, Ross leaned back in his chair and studied Ryan under brows that nearly met over the bridge of his nose.

  “Now, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Everything worked like clockwork, sir.”

  “Senior Chief Matthews, I’m not asking you to blow smoke up my skirt—”

  “You wear it well, Skipper.”

  “Smartass. I want to hear the opinion of the senior enlisted man on the mission. How did the platoon respond to Lieutenant Pendergast?”

  “You’ve got a good man—a good leader. I’d go into another mission with him at the helm.”

  “Good to know. Now what about you? You’re here to talk with Petty Officer Harris about orders?”

  Ryan weighed his words. “I’m interested in seeing what’s available.”


  The captain nodded. “You’re eligible for retirement. You and me have something in common. We’ve both only got one tour left…”

  Deciding to be brutally honest with the man, Ryan shook his head. “I’m not so sure, Skipper. I’m eligible to retire now. I know I stand a good shot at making master chief in the next year or two, but that would mean another three-year enlistment from the date of the promotion—in other words, four or five more years before I could retire. I came to see what kind of orders are available, but it’d have to be something pretty special.”

  “How about SEAL Team Six?” The captain held out the premier Navy SEAL assignment like some sort of prime bait.

  “Is that a genuine offer or are we speculating over what it would take?”

  Kincaid smiled. “I think I can manage to drag along one of my best—”

  “Hey, congrats, Skipper! You’re going to Six—that’s a serious honor.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s not my first tour with them, but this one means something special. Senior Chief—if you want those orders, the clock is ticking. All I can do is get you in front of the vetting board—you still have to pass all the interviews and training—and all that takes time. Now, I understand you turned down the decompression R and R at Pearl, which means you have two weeks of mandatory leave starting”—he checked his clock—“in fifteen minutes.”

  “If you’re going to tell me I have fifteen minutes to decide—” His temper rose.

  “Hold that thought. What I was going to say is you have until next Friday to decide, and given how short your string is right now, I’d say you need it. If you don’t want this DEVGRU special assignment, then I hope you’ll consider orders to the Training Command here in Coronado. We need you for one more tour, Senior Chief.”

  Recognizing dismissal in the captain’s tone, Ryan stood. “Sir,” he said with a nod.