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CHAPTER ONE

It pays to be a winner.

And Diego Torres was a big believer in winning.

But it was the winning that he liked.

The competition.

The thrill of testing his skills, pushing his limits. Of knowing he was better than his adversary.

Yeah. He liked knowing he was the best.

He didn’t do it for reward.

Especially not when the reward came by way of the pomp and pageantry of a ceremony like today. Stand­ing onstage in front of the various platoons that made up SEAL Team 7, listening to Admiral Cree pontificate was a pain in the ass. What made it worse wasn’t the couple hundred sets of eyes inspecting him or the dis­comfort of his dress whites, too tight across the shoul­ders.

It was the damned shoes. Diego’s toes pinched in the mirror-bright black patent leather, begging him to flex. He didn’t, of course. Not while standing at attention. But damn. Give him a pair of combat boots any day.

As the sun baked through his cap and the heat of the morning swirled around, he wondered what yahoo had decided to hold this ceremony outdoors. And why it felt so much hotter standing in the San Diego sun in whites than it did in the Afghan desert in full combat gear. Probably because combat gear fit him better.

Diego had spent a large portion of his life fight­ing over the wrong things. He’d fought over turf. He’d fought over gang colors. Hell, if the mood struck, he’d have fought over just how blue the sky was. It’d taken a bullet barely missing his heart to clue him in to the fact that maybe the things he was fighting over simply weren’t worth dying for.

He’d figured that out when he woke in a hospital bed, his mother’s careworn face wet with tears. Wondering if he’d see his eighteenth birthday, Diego had taken stock of his situation. He’d started out a street thug, worked his way up to gangbanger, then into the powerful role of First Lieutenant of the Marauders, an East LA gang determined to claw its way to the top of the food chain.

It wasn’t the bullet that had made him reconsider his chosen lifestyle. Nor, he was still ashamed to admit, was it his mother’s misery. It was the fact that his gang, his sworn brothers, had left him in that filthy alley to bleed out while they ran to save their own asses.

That’d made Diego rethink his definition of broth­erhood. Of honor.

Now that he was a Lieutenant in the United States Navy he still fought. But he fought for his country. He was still a badass. But he was a badass SEAL. And if he got shot now, he knew his team would lay their lives on the line to get him out.

And that was key for a man who put loyalty above all else.

As the admiral’s voice boomed out his pride in the elite power of Special Forces, Diego didn’t look toward his superiors on the left, even though he stood shoulder to shoulder with Lieutenant Commander Ty Louden, who stood with Commander Nic Savino on his other side. Diego didn’t look to the right toward his teammate, Lieutenant Elijah Prescott, or beyond him to Petty Of­ficer Aaron Ward.

But in his mind’s eye, he could see them all stand­ing as he did, eyes forward, shoulders back. Basking somewhere between pride and misery at such focused attention, their faces were as familiar to him as his own. Brothers in every way but blood, Diego would—and had—put his life on the line for every one of them and knew they’d do the same for him.

With his mother dead three years past, these men were Diego’s family. They’d helped form him into the man he’d become. They’d been part of shaping him into a SEAL he could be proud of.

And these here onstage? They’d led a raid to capture three high-level militants, doing so in the dead of night without detection. Proving, once again, that Poseidon kicked ass.

Which was pretty much why they were standing up here being recognized.

As SEALs, they were trained to be the best.

As members of Poseidon, they were expected to be better than the best. Twelve men had come out of BUD/S together, each earning his trident a decade ago. Thanks to Admiral Cree, all twelve served among SEAL Team 7’s various platoons, allowing them to con­tinue to train together, to study together, to excel to­gether. And, when called up, to serve together. Team Leader Savino’s doing, Diego knew. The man had had a vision in BUD/S of an elite force of warriors, all fo­cused on one purpose. They trained longer, they pushed further, they fought harder than most.

They made their mark.

And now they were getting awarded for it.  

Diego damn near rolled his eyes as the speech eu­logizing that award droned on. And on and on and on.

But, thankfully, years of Navy discipline stepped in and kept his eyes still and his discomfort at bay.

Finally, the admiral wound up the ceremony by per­sonally pinning a commendation to each man’s chest. The weight of the man’s congratulations was twice the honor of the bronze Expeditionary Medal.

There was one final salute, a few words of thanks from Captain Jarrett, then the band played, the color guard stepped in and the team was dismissed.

Thank God.

Diego didn’t let his grin show, but he sure felt good as he stepped off the stage. He didn’t rip off his hat, but he mentally tossed it in the air and, hell, why not, did a fist-pumping victory dance in his mind.

Oh, yeah. It paid to win.

“You looked good up there, my friend.” Chief Petty Officer Jared Lansky grinned, his boyish expression pure glee as he met Diego at the bottom of the platform.

“Why the hell wasn’t your pretty face up there, too? The entire Poseidon team was being honored.”

“Special assignment in Sudan. Plane got in late, so I didn’t get here until Cree was winding down. I’ll have to pick my medal up in private.” Lansky pulled a face of fake regret, then grinned again. “But let’s talk about what this is really about. Dude, we are so going to get laid. Nothing like a commendation to impress the la­dies.”

“Thanks for the perspective. Is there anything you don’t bring down to sex?”

“Hmm, let me think.” The other man tugged on his bottom lip, looking as if he were considering the weight of the world, before shaking his head. “Nope. I’m pretty sure the day I’m not thinking about sex will be the day you’re tossing dirt on my grave.”

Since the man hadn’t shifted focus in the ten years he’d known him, Diego had to figure Lansky was in no danger of imminent burial.

“You look like a combination of choirboy and Boy Scout. It always blows me away to realize what a com­plete horndog you are.”

“My looks are my secret weapon.” Lansky beamed his pearly whites, those baby blues pure innocence. “A woman looks at you, all dark and brooding, and she knows she’s looking at trouble. Me, I’m—”

“What?” Diego interrupted. “Stealth trouble?”

“Yes, sir. That I am.” Jared tapped his knuckle on the brim of his cap, then tilted his head toward the Officers’ Club. “Celebration time. On base or off?”

“Off, for sure.” But as Diego’s gaze swept over the dispersing crowd, he knew the team leader, Commander Savino, would want to offer up thanks to those who hadn’t been onstage. The rest of the team—the ones who weren’t a part of Poseidon, the support person­nel. He’d give a little speech, buy a round of drinks. Public relations, Savino would call it. Pure hell, in Di­ego’s opinion.

“We’ve got a meeting first.” Diego jerked his head toward the long white building that held the offices of command.

Jared’s gaze swept over Savino’s back as he and a few others accompanied Admiral Cree in that general direction.

“Good times.” Jared watched two more COs join the group and muttered, “Wish the plane had been a little later.”

They headed for duty, making their way toward the low-slung offices instead of joining the crowd heading toward the freedom of the O Club. Diego loved what he did. Every damned thing about it. Except the poli­tics. Meetings like this, with all the glad-handing and posturing, they ranked right up there with dress shoes on his list of things that sucked.

But twenty minutes later he had to admit that poli­tics went down pretty easy when served with whiskey.

“To Poseidon.” The admiral lifted his glass, light gleaming in his steady blue gaze as it swept around the circle of men crowded into the pomp and polish of his office. “You do justice to my vision.”

They were all well trained enough to keep from smirking as they lifted their glasses in response.

“And to Lieutenant Torres for leading the latest mission to prove Poseidon’s might,” Savino added, his dark eyes assessing, his expression satisfied. Which was about as close to a grin as he got while in uniform.

A little weirded out at being toasted, Diego knocked back the rest of his drink. As the heat slid down his throat, he realized that while this might not be the pin­nacle of his career, it was a pretty high peak.

As if cementing that realization, Savino aimed a fin­ger at Diego. The admiral nodded, setting his glass on the desk before giving Diego a sharp look.

“Torres. My office, oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning. You’ll be leading Operation Hammerhead.”

With that, the admiral headed for the door, appar­ently leaving his office—and his bottle of Jameson—to the men.

“Gentlemen,” he said in dismissal as he swung through the door, his two aides trailing in his wake.

“Check you,” Elijah Prescott said, tossing his cap aside now that the brass had cleared out. Green eyes amused, the man leaned one hip on the desk while lift­ing the decanter to offer refills. “Leading another mis­sion. A big one, from the sound of it. Hot damn, El Gato. Way to kiss brass ass.”

El Gato. The cat. That was the call sign his BUD/S team had given Diego back in Basic Underwater De­molition/SEAL training because he moved with stealth and grace. Prescott was called Rembrandt owing to his habit of sketching his way through every spare minute. Lansky’s skills had earned him the name MacGyver. The rest of the team was similarly nicknamed, with Sa­vino in the lead as Kahuna.

“Brass-kissing is Savino’s job,” Diego reminded them, giving his commander a grin. The man carried enough weight to put Diego in charge of higher-ranking SEALs on his recommendation alone. Fast-tracking him, Diego knew, toward that pinnacle. “Thanks, man.”

“You’ve led plenty of missions.” Savino refilled his glass, then passed the bottle to the left. “But this one can make your career.”

Diego’s gut clenched. Nerves or anticipation, one or the other. He was silent as they all waited until the bottle made it back to Savino.

“Some things in life are worth fighting for.” The commander raised his glass.

“Some things in life are worth dying for.” Lansky raised his.

“And some things,” Prescott said, giving his glass a frown before raising it high, “are better to simply walk away from.”

“The trick, of course, is knowing which is which,” Savino pointed out before jerking his chin to indicate that Diego drink up.

Formalities over, the seven men relaxed. Some re­filled their glass; others said their goodbyes. Diego couldn’t get his curiosity about the upcoming mission out of his head. Knowing he’d get no details from Sa­vino before the briefing, he decided to find a few dis­tractions in the form of a crowd and, taking his cue from Lansky, a willing woman.

“Heading out,” he said. “Thanks for the recommen­dation.”

Savino simply nodded, his dark eyes inscrutable.

“Next step, DEVGRU.” Lansky smacked Diego on the back.

“Next step is leading Operation Hammerhead,” Diego corrected. But damned if that wouldn’t be sweet. DEVGRU, the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, was the stuff of legends—like SEAL Team 6. Serving on the highest elite Special Ops team in the country was Diego’s dream. Each mission, each opera­tion, each commendation was a step in that direction.

And he was getting closer.

“One step at a time,” Savino said as if reading his thoughts. The light bounced off his silver oak leaf as he gestured toward the door. “C’mon. We’ll buy the rest of the team a round before you all head out to debauch in the name of celebrating.”

That it was only fourteen-thirty hours didn’t much matter. The team, SEALs, sailors, were skilled at many things, including drinking at any time, day or night. And the support crew, the rest of SEAL Team 7, de­served a drink.

They headed for the O Club by way of the barracks, where they ditched the misery of dress whites. Diego, Jared and the others went for digies—blue tees and camouflage fatigues—while Savino kept to his khaki uniform.

The whole time all Diego could think was that he’d come a long way. Riding the wave of success, he barely held back his grin as he followed Nic through the crowded O Club, taking the shouted praise and rib­bing with equal grace.

When he reached the front of the room, he stood to Savino’s right, legs braced and hands clasped behind his back. Like a wave, the conversation rose, then set­tled as each man gave Savino their full attention. With a few simple words, he thanked everyone for their hard work and contribution. Even though Savino made it look easy, Diego hoped like hell that whatever future pinnacles he climbed didn’t include giving speeches.

“So that’s that,” Savino wrapped up. “And since you’ve all listened so kindly, the next round of drinks is on me.”

A few of the men laughed. A handful cheered. The rest raised their glasses in thanks. Lansky tossed his back, then turned to give Savino a fist bump.

“Nice speech. Short, to the point, rounded out with booze. You’re the man.” After Savino’s nod of thanks, Lansky turned the fist bump toward Diego. “And here’s another man. King o’ the hill, if you ask me. El Gato, the badass kitty cat.”

“All hail the king,” Savino said with a quiet smile before he slid out of the conversation like smoke from a flue. Quick, silent and barely noticeable. Diego knew he’d leave the room the same way. Hero worship was a sad and pathetic thing in a grown man, but admiring class wasn’t. Nor was appreciation. Everything Diego was he figured was due to Savino. To his drive, his vi­sion and his unswerving loyalty to those he believed in.

“Dude.” Diego laid a hand on Savino’s shoulder, waiting for the other man to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”

Savino’s eyes lit with appreciation.

“Don’t party too hard” was all he said. “You’re going to want to be one hundred percent for the briefing.”

That was all the warning Diego needed to know he’d be nursing a single beer tonight and heading to bed early. The only thing more important than his gratitude to Savino was the success of his career.

“C’mon, Kitty Cat,” Lansky said to Diego when Sa­vino turned to leave. “Let’s blow this joint. Find a place where we can be people instead of military machines.”

“You mean a place where you’re fawned over by ci­vilians who’ll be impressed when you tell them you are a military machine.”

“Curvy civilians. Sexy ones in short skirts and high heels.” Lansky’s Boy Scout smile flashed, a little blurry around the edges from the back-to-back whis­keys. “Gotta love them all, right?”

“Couple more drinks and the only thing you’re gonna be loving is the toilet seat.” Shaking his head, Diego headed for the door.

“Yo, Torres,” a voice beckoned before he’d made the exit.

Diego glanced over to see Prescott waving from a prime table next to the dart board. As usual when he wasn’t on duty, the man had a pencil in hand and that engrossed look in his eyes.

Seated with Prescott was another SEAL and one of the team’s support members. Petty Officer Dane Adams kicked back with his feet on the table and gestured with a dart, making as if he were aiming it at Diego. Next to him, Lieutenant Brandon Ramsey just smiled and murmured something under his breath that made the other man laugh.

Both IP officers, or Information Professionals, they specialized in tech. Adams had a solid rep as a Special Warfare Combatant Crewman, while Ramsey was on his third tour as a SEAL. They’d transferred to Coro­nado eight or so months ago after deployment in Af­ghanistan. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of weeks to realize that Ramsey was used to being top dog and not only expected to stay on top but expected everyone to kiss his ass while he was there. Since SEALs didn’t kiss ass, he’d had a little trouble adjusting at first. But Prescott had taken the guy under his wing, showed him the ropes. And made him one of the team.

“How about a few games of pool,” Ramsey suggested with a wink as Diego and Lansky drew near. “We’ll play for shots.”

“I hear you’re good with the cue,” Diego said.

“I hear the same about you,” Ramsey acknowledged with an assessing look. Even in digies, the guy came across as a movie star with his blond hair spiked in ca­sual disarray, intense blue eyes and his perfect smile. “Why don’t we see who’s better?”

“Ego still bruised over Torres busting up your record on the range?” Lansky asked, a sneer creasing his face. “I warned you he would.”

Something ugly flashed over Ramsey’s eyes, but it was gone just as fast. As a man with a temper of his own, Diego had to respect a guy who could reel it back that quickly.

“Then it’s only right that you give me a shot at re­deeming my rep,” Ramsey suggested mildly, his hands spread wide in invitation. “What do you say, Torres? You willing to go head-to-head on a universal field? Say, a pool table?”

The taunt “Or are you afraid?” went unspoken, but they all heard it. Insults like that went hand in hand with the dog tags the men all wore. Years of training, both as a SEAL and as a man, had taught Diego to think before he reacted.

“You think I need to stack the deck to win, you don’t know me.” Diego rocked back on his heels to offer a smile. A very small, very effective smile that mocked the idea. And, of course, the man asking it.

From the way his face tightened, Ramsey understood just fine. Not surprising. He was a smart guy. He was also after Diego’s spot on Poseidon. A useless goal, since it was known that Poseidon was made up entirely of graduates of BUD/S class 260. But like everything else, Ramsey apparently figured that he’d be the excep­tion to that rule. It had to be the rich boy in him, used to being number one, always the top of everything. From his rich parents to his perfect son, according to Bran­don Ramsey, he had it all and expected more.

Not a problem for Diego, since he respected some­one who aimed high. Except Ramsey was going to have to get whatever he was looking for from someone else. Because Diego was keeping his share.

“I’ve already got plans, so pool is out. But I’m happy to buy you a beer instead.” Diego ignored Lansky’s look of disgust. Ramsey wasn’t all that bad. And any time spent with Prescott was time well spent. Besides, for all they knew, it was Ramsey’s relentless focus on compe­tition that’d pushed Diego to step it up and do better. To be better. He definitely had to push past 100 percent to beat the guy. As far as Diego was concerned, that made Ramsey a good man to have on the team.

“You’d rather share a beer than go head-to-head?” Ramsey laughed. “Sure. Why not? You might as well toast my success, too.”

“Success?” Diego waited until Lansky was through rolling his eyes before waving a hand toward the bar­tender. He circled his finger, indicating another round, then grabbed his own chair. “You finally score with that pretty little redhead you were hitting on so hard?”

“Dude, have you seen pictures of Ramsey’s old lady?” Adams blew on his fingers as if they were on fire, then shook his head. “You’d be so lucky if a woman that hot even turned you down.”

“Can’t say as I have,” Diego said with a shrug. Look­ing at other guys’ wives had never been a favorite pas­time of his.

“Show him that picture you just got, Brandon.” Adams let out a low whistle. “The one where she’s wearing the bikini.”

“You’re a sad, sad man,” Ramsey told his friend with a laugh, even as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and swiped through the screen. He shot Diego a look. “You want to see?”

Not really. He figured if you’d seen one guy’s old lady, you’d seen them all. But Diego was trying to build a bridge here. So he was already trying to think up po­lite comments as he took the phone.

Hellooo.

Diego was pretty sure there was an ocean in that shot somewhere. He was vaguely aware of a kid on the screen, but only because he was blocking the view of the blonde.

The woman was stunning. Hair more gold than blond blew in the breeze, the long strands covering part of a perfectly sculpted face. Full lips smiled wide, accented by cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. But it was her eyes that grabbed him. Too dark to tell the color in the photo, they were round with an exotic tilt echoed by the dusky gold of her skin. And oh, man, that skin. It covered a body meant for hot fantasies. She was made up of long, lean lines and lush curves.

For the first time, he envied a man his woman.

“She’s a looker” was all he said, though, as he handed the phone back.

“I’d do her in watercolor. She’s got that mermaid thing going there,” Prescott murmured, his attention on the paper he was scrawling on. It took a second for the silence to hit him, then another for him to realize what he’d said. “I meant I’d paint her. Not, you know…”

They shared a good-natured laugh as Prescott gri­maced.

“I just do her,” Ramsey joked, slapping Prescott on the shoulder. His smile turned possessive as he looked at the picture again before tucking his phone into his pocket.

“Thought she was your ex,” Jared chimed in, tak­ing his beer from the server without taking his eyes off Ramsey. “Isn’t that the way of it? She took your kid and split? Dumped you, right?”

Really? Diego’s attention perked up at that bit of news, his body doing a happy salute to the idea of a woman that hot being free and clear. Except she wasn’t, he reminded himself. As much as it might suck—and oh, boy, did it—Ramsey had staked prior claim. Whether he and the gorgeous blonde were a couple or not, she was still his.

Ramsey clearly thought so, too. His blue eyes chilled to lethal ice, his sneer blade sharp.

“As usual, Lansky, you’ve got your details wrong. I left Harper because my career had to be a priority, not the other way around. And given that I can’t take my kid with me while I’m out saving the world—and be­cause I’m a hell of a nice guy—I let her take care of him. She appreciates that, and is pretty damned good at showing just how much on my visitations.”

“Is that how you want to tell it?” Jared’s expression called bullshit.

“That’s how it is.”

Jared leaned forward, that schoolboy face looking for all the world as if he were about to call out what he saw as a lie.

“So what particular success are we toasting?” Diego interjected, wanting to end this before Jared escalated the conversation into something that required everyone to drop their fatigues to prove who had the biggest dick.

“Nominations for DEVGRU are coming up, pal. And I’m going to be on that list.” Ramsey leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head and offering a big smile. “I’ve got Captain Jarrett’s support. And my fa­ther’s golfing buddy, Senator Glassman, is gonna make sure of it.”

He waited a beat.

“You got anyone pulling for you, Torres? You know, someone on the outside with influence?”

His first thought was, Yeah, right.

His second was, Seriously? It wasn’t that he be­grudged Ramsey the success. But did they have to compete for everything? There were only a few slots offered each year.

He felt like a jerk for coveting the nomination, but he couldn’t completely shake the feeling. After all, DEVGRU was top of the line. A counterterrorism, spe­cial missions unit made up of the most elite operatives in the Navy. Once upon a time, some people had called it SEAL Team 6. It was a unit filled with mystery, power and prestige. And Diego wanted in.

So he tilted his chair onto the back two legs, mak­ing as if he were carefully considering the question. He pulled off his cap, rubbed a hand over his short, spiked hair, then tugged the hat back in place. Then, giving Ramsey a look of long-faced regret, he shook his head.

“My old man rolled with the Hells Angels as a Nomad. That’d be king o’ the hill to you and me. But he was shot down in ’91 during what turned out to be a rather heated discussion,” Diego mused, tapping his fin­gers on his knee as he pretended to think it through. “He did leave behind three brothers, though. The ones that are still alive are serving time, one in Quentin, another in Pelican Bay. They probably have the better access to politicians than a golf course, but I guess we’ll see.”

Diego barely kept from offering his own sneer when he caught the looks on their faces. Disdain-covered hor­ror with a barely concealed side helping of fear. Typical.

“Is your mother doing time, too?” Adams asked, his usual smirk sliding back in place.

“Dude,” Prescott protested.

Diego’s smile dimmed.

His momma had been shot dead three years back while sweeping the floor in the little bodega where she’d worked. No matter that he’d bought her a house, set her up so she didn’t have to slave day and night like she had most of her life, she’d insisted on keeping that job out of loyalty to Manny Cruz.

While Diego didn’t mind using his father to get a reaction out of others, he never shared his momma. That’d be disrespectful.

Besides, it was nobody’s business.

But Adams’s comment required a response. Instead of going with a smart-ass comment, or better yet the brutal slap down he’d prefer, Diego figured he’d chan­nel Savino.

“See, here’s the thing.” Diego leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his expression as serious as a howitzer. “I figure you had no say in your upbring­ing. And maybe it was awesome, or maybe it was pure hell. But whatever it was, whatever you brought with you from your past, it made you the man you are now. A solid officer, an outstanding IP tech and in your case, Ramsey, a damned good SEAL.”

Diego took a swallow of beer before continuing.

“Bottom line, we fight for the same thing. We have the same goal, and we serve the same team.” He had to dig deep for the rest, but, picturing Savino giving him that impatient, just-bullshit-if-you-have-to look, he man­aged. “I’m proud to serve with you, man.”

It was a toss-up who looked more shocked at Di­ego’s words. Adams, who appeared to have swallowed his tongue. Lansky, whose expression warned that he’d puke at any minute. Or Ramsey, who tried to hide his surprise with a frown but didn’t quite succeed.

Prescott simply grinned as he dashed his name over the bottom of the piece of paper before tearing it from the sketchbook. He handed it to Diego with a wink.

Diego snickered. His own face stared back at him, finger pointed like a gun, cocked and ready to rock. The caricature emphasized Diego’s dark eyes, his large head teetering on a slender body weighted down with fat muscles.

“You’re all right, Torres,” Ramsey said, his frown shifting into a grin. “I’m proud to serve with you, too.”

Figuring Lansky really would gag if this kept up, Diego stood.

“Congrats on your shot at DEVGRU,” he said, offer­ing his hand. “Enjoy the beer. Lansky and I are head­ing out.”

He exchanged the team’s hand slap with Prescott. To Adams he gave only a nod. Just as well, seeing as Diego and Lansky didn’t get ten steps before they heard the asshole comment, “Bet he’s full of shit about his father. He just said that to make himself sound tough.”

“Let it go,” he muttered to Lansky, who’d started to turn back with his fists ready.

“But—”

“You might want to learn to watch your mouth,” they heard Prescott warn, his easy tone not disguising the threat beneath.

“Let it go,” Diego said again, shoving open the door and stepping into the sun’s heat. He’d come to terms with his history. When he’d first joined the Navy, he’d kept his past under lock and key. Not out of shame—out of concern that he’d be thrown in the brig for giv­ing someone a serious ass kicking over their comments about it.

But after a while, he’d come to realize that his past was as much a part of him as his height or his skill with a knife. It made him who he was.

A success, dammit.

“We’ll hit Olive Oyl’s, and drinks are on me until ten-hundred hours when I head back to base.”

Lansky frowned. “You can’t be serious. Things will just be heating up then. The hottest women don’t hit the bar until after dark, my friend.”

“Yep, totally serious. You want to wait for women who look better in the dark, you’re gonna have to get yourself a ride back to base. Me, I’ve got a briefing in the morning, and I plan to be sharp.” Then, because Lansky was a good friend and deserved a little pay­back, he added, “This operation is going to shoot me to the top, buddy. A dozen of Daddy’s senators won’t help Ramsey get ahead of me after this.”

As his friend whooped and hollered, Diego accepted the fist bump with a laugh.

He was within kissing distance of the high point in his career. No way some blowhard like Adams, or even a rival like Ramsey, were going to mess it up for him.

No way in hell.

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