Dagger (SEAL Team EAST Book 6), page 30
Months later, they loaded up at the airstrip, bags tossed into the transport truck, deployment officially over. Flash watched Quinn and Dagger say their goodbyes, low voices, tight grip, eyes locked like they were memorizing each other. There was something unshakable between them. Peace.
A peace Flash didn’t feel.
He wanted that. Needed it, maybe. But he couldn’t imagine what it would take to get there.
A new team was coming into guard Quinn, Tier 1 badasses, Iceman’s crew. The kind that moved like shadows and didn’t miss a damn thing. It put Dagger’s worries to bed. He didn’t look thrilled to leave her, but he trusted them. Trusted her.
“Thank you for understanding,” Quinn was saying, chin lifted, voice steady. “This job means so much, Kade. We’ll stay in touch.”
Flash caught the flicker of pain on Dagger’s face, quickly buried
Dagger’s answer came quiet, sure. “I’ll never stop you from being you. I’m just going to miss you.”
Flash looked away, like he was intruding on something sacred. He glanced at the embassy rising in the distance, half finished, bold, already beautiful. Strong.
Like her.
He didn’t know if he believed in forever. Didn’t know if peace was something men like them ever got.
But watching them, Quinn fierce and proud, Dagger grounded and sure, he knew one thing: They got what they deserved.
The wind kicked dust across the tarmac, and somewhere nearby, a palm frond rustled.
Then he heard it. A whisper of wings. He turned, pulse spiking, not sure if it was instinct or hallucination. Then he saw her.
Half-shadowed beneath a cluster of palms, braid trailing down her back, golden eyes catching the light. He was drawn to her as he took several rushed steps to her. She didn’t speak at first. She just looked at him, longing, fierce, aching with everything they hadn’t said.
Then she stepped closer, just enough to let her fingers graze the line of his clenched jaw, so lightly it barely felt real.
Her voice was soft as smoke, threaded with a smile only he would hear. “Watch the sky for me, águila estrellada.”
His breath caught.
“Lechuza…”
“Flash!” Tex’s voice barked from behind. “Let’s go!”
He turned his head, just for a heartbeat. When he looked back, she was gone.
No sound. No trail.
Just a shimmer of heat where she’d been.
The feeling that part of his soul had gone with her.
The buzzing hum of the tattoo gun filled the small studio, blending with the low throb of bass pulsing from the stereo in the corner. The walls were covered in inked sketches, serpents, skulls, warbirds, wolves.
But Flash only had eyes for one thing, the wings. But Flash only had eyes for one thing, the wings. They’d come to him in a dream. Not soft. Not gentle. Urgent.
When he woke, he couldn’t shake the compulsion. It hammered at him, day and night, loud as a war drum in his chest. So he gave in. Not out of grief. Not even hope.
Just because he couldn’t not. The wings were calling. Somewhere in the part of him still bleeding in silence, he knew. They weren’t just his.
He lay flat on his stomach, shirtless on the padded table, sweat sheening his skin despite the AC. The artist worked silently, his gloved hands steady as he inked black and gray eagle feathers in intricate, sweeping lines, starting high across Flash’s shoulder blades and arching down along his upper arms.
Wings of a warbird. A symbol of the freedom they fought for. Wings…for her.
Each stroke seared pain into his skin. He welcomed it.
“Looks good,” Brawler said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was quiet today, no teasing, no sarcasm. Just watching.
Dagger stood off to the side, arms folded, eyes narrowed like he was trying to read the ink through bone.
Flash didn’t say much. He just exhaled hard through his nose and let the needle do its work.
“You sure you wanna go full span down the triceps?” the artist asked, glancing up.
“Yeah,” Flash muttered. “She earned that.”
Brawler tilted his head. “She’s a very pretty little bird. She’ll surface. I can feel it. The way she looked at you…yeah, the fierce babe will be back.” He shrugged. “She’s probably on a classified mission.”
Flash didn’t look back. “Probably.” His voice was rough, but steady.
Dagger nodded slowly. “Aguila estrellada. Star-spangled eagle,” he said. “She called you that in the helo. It fits.”
Flash flexed his hands, jaw tight. “The wings aren’t the only thing she left me with,” he said solemnly. He didn’t have to say. Dagger knew. Brawler would know soon enough when he met someone who moved him like Lechuza have moved Flash.
Silence settled again, thick and heavy.
Dagger finally spoke, voice low. “Wings ain’t just for flying.”
Flash looked up.
Dagger met his eyes. “Sometimes they’re for shielding. Sometimes they’re a killing force. But they’re always earned.”
The gun buzzed on, drawing another long black line.
Flash bit back a grimace and grinned faintly. “You getting poetic on me, Kade?”
“Shut up,” Dagger muttered.
Brawler chuckled. “Next thing you know, he’s gonna start quoting Robert Frost.”
But Flash went quiet again, feeling every bite of the needle, every inch of pain carved in ink. It was more than art. It was a promise.
A vow.
If she ever came back, he’d be ready. If she didn’t, he’d carry her in every wingbeat of his soul.
A week later…it took him that long to handle the impact of his ink. The room was quiet, just the low hum of a ceiling fan and the distant chirr of insects beyond the open windows.
Flash stood shirtless in front of the mirror, hands braced on the sink, sweat still drying on his skin from the morning run. Women had eyed him as he passed, and he had noticed many of them were suddenly watering flowers or walking their dogs now as he ran past. He felt some of his old humor surfacing. You’re such a stud.
His breath was steady, but his eyes weren’t.
They tracked the reflection, the full span of black and gray wings etched across his back, sweeping wide from shoulder to shoulder, curving down his arms like they were ready to unfurl.
Not angel wings.
Not ornamental.
War wings.
Each feather was jagged at the edges, shaded with shadows and burn-like texture, a story in every stroke, flight through adversity, survival carved in ink.
They weren’t beautiful.
They were fierce. Worn. Real.
The wings of a man who’d lost something sacred and didn’t know how to put it down.
His gaze drifted to the side, toward the mirror angle that caught his ribs.
The Chakana stared back at him from his side, geometric lines bold against his skin, ancient and heavy with weight. The SEAL Trident was inked at its heart, framed perfectly in the center cutout, sharp, inked like iron, as if it had been forged there by pain and loss.
Three realms. Three scars. Three truths.
Past, Present, Future.
Water, Earth, Sky.
Ukhupacha. Kaypacha. Hananpacha. The words etched down the side of the cross.
He didn’t speak the words aloud.
Didn’t have to.
The Chakana sat over the scar. He could still feel her hands on him. Still hear the whisper of the jungle. The Trident marked the space between the pain and the power. He lifted a hand, ran his fingers lightly over the edge of one wing. Not reverent, just quiet. Still trying to believe it was his.
His fingers drifted lower, brushing the edge of the Chakana. He curled his palm over the trident, the blunt press of muscle and bone fitting right over the ink like he was trying to hold something that could never be held again. His thumb passed over the lines, the sharp angles of the cross, the spear-point tips of the trident. He remembered the way her fingers had brushed his skin that day at the airfield, barely a touch, just enough to haunt him.
The wings were for her. For whatever force had taken her, transformed him, and left the sky permanently cracked above his head. But the cross?
That was hers alone. For the woman who bled beside him. For the one who never said goodbye. He didn’t ink it for mythology. He inked it because he had to keep her somewhere.
His ribs, right over the scar where she’d tried to save him, was the only place that still felt like hers. Her voice…Watch the sky for me, águila estrellada. The words echoed like a prayer and a curse. A whisper stitched into the fabric of who he was now. A vow he hadn’t stopped keeping.
He looked back up, staring at his reflection, the man with wings on his back, scars on his ribs, and silence in his heart. Wings he could never put down. Even when grounded. Even when bleeding. A gift. A burden. A memory of the woman who named him.
A breeze drifted through the open window, light but sharp, carrying the scent of earth, heat, something wild. He didn’t move. But for one breathless moment, he swore he felt the wings lift off his skin. Just a flutter. A stretch. A phantom pulse of motion down his back.
He turned fast. Nothing. Just ink. Flesh. Still his. Still him.
But something had shifted. Something had called to him in that compound.
He didn’t know what it was. But it hadn’t been blood loss. It sure as hell hadn’t been nothing. Whatever passed through that place, whatever judgment, whatever unexplained answer…It had been fucking real.
He stared at his back, remembering. It was after they got home. After the ink. Their celebratory watering-hole ritual. Late. Everyone gone but him and Shark. The bottle of whiskey was mostly empty. The jungle was far, far away, but the fire still crackled low between them.
Shark leaned in, voice rough with drink and memory. “That guy I took down…” He shifted, took a slow swig. Flash glanced at him. Shark didn’t rattle easy. “He said something. Right before we cuffed him.” He exhaled sharply. “I saw the gold judgment. I’m already dead. I’m just… waiting.”
Shark didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. He just tipped the bottle toward the shadows, then set it down. “Rumor has it those guys were institutionalized. Found them both dead in their beds.” Flash stared at nothing. “Weird shit, man.”
Suddenly, the wings on his back felt heavier.
The bar was low-lit, all aged leather booths and the faint scent of beer-soaked pine. Sports murmured from wall-mounted TVs, and the jukebox flicked from outlaw country to old-school rock without much ceremony. The air carried the easy hum of friendship and the clink of glasses, comfort, camaraderie, home base. The frog hogs were out in force, and Brawler sat at the end of the table nursing a whiskey, half-listening to Twister argue about the best smoker rub, while Easy took bets on which of Tex’s twins would break his new patio furniture first.
Flash leaned back, boots on an empty chair. “I give it two days before someone ends up in the ER with a Nerf dart to the cornea.”
Brawler eyed a buxom babe with long blonde hair and curves to spare. A little hay-making was sounding damn good when his phone rang.
He checked the screen, froze for half a second, then answered quickly, any thoughts of women or drink wiped from his mind. His pulse hammered. “Hank?”
The voice on the other end was low, tight with guilt. “I’m sorry, man. Ray snatched Toby right off the sidewalk outside the center. Said they were going on a little ‘trip.’ He didn’t even pack him a bag.”
Brawler’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the glass. “Hank—”
“I couldn’t stop him, Chris. I thought that sleazy fucker was gone for good, but you know how Ray is. Slick. Fast. One minute I was locking up the damn file cabinet, the next Toby was gone. I’m sorry. My guess? Vegas. Toby will be terrified of all that fucking noise.” The glass cracked in his grip. Then shattered. Conversation at the table stopped cold. Every head turned toward him. Hank growled, “You need backup, man?” I’ll storm that fucking beach and use his skivvy ass as target practice. Say the word.”
“No, Hank. I’m getting him back and he needs you.”
Brawler stood abruptly, ignoring the blood pooling in his palm. He tossed a wad of bills on the bar and stormed toward the door.
“Yo, Brawler? What the hell?” Flash stood.
“Don’t,” Brawler growled without looking back.
But the others didn’t hesitate. Chairs scraped, boots hit the floor, and within seconds, the entire team followed him into the parking lot.
“You’re bleeding,” Twister said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Easy snapped. “Talk to us.”
“I said I’ve got it handled.”
Flash moved in front of him. “You don’t get to go full lone-wolf and pretend we don’t see you unraveling. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Brawler snapped. “Just leave it. I’m going off the rails, and I’m not taking you all with me. We’ll be UA, no fucking way.”
He turned toward his truck and never saw the leg coming.
Dagger stuck a foot out, sending him stumbling forward with a grunt. He caught himself just before his face hit the pavement.
Brawler spun around, furious. “What the hell?”
“You didn’t cooperate,” Dagger said, arms crossed, calm as stone. “You really thought you’d bulldoze your way out of here and none of us would follow?”
“You tripped me?”
Dagger grinned. “At least I didn’t punch your lights out.”
“We voted,” Flash said, deadpan. “Unanimous decision. That juggernaut momentum of yours needed a full-stop intervention.”
Twister grinned. “It was either that or a tranquilizer dart. I left mine in my other jeans.”
Brawler’s glare could’ve melted steel. But it cracked, just slightly, at the edges.
“My brother,” he muttered. His voice dropped, rough and raw. “His name’s Toby. He’s… different. Gentle. Brilliant. He doesn’t see the world like we do. He’s in Vegas right now with the same piece-of-shit uncle who tried to use him like a slot machine the last time he needed to pay off a debt.” His voice wavered. “I didn’t tell you because…because I didn’t want you to see that part of me. I thought I could keep it separate.”
“You didn’t tell us,” Dagger said quietly, “because you didn’t think we were your family.”
Brawler’s jaw flexed.
“You think we wouldn’t want to know about your brother?” Dagger stepped closer. “We go to war over less. You think we’d sit this one out?”
“Next time,” Twister added, “you bring Toby to the team cookout or we’re all tripping you in formation.”
“Dibs,” Flash said. “I’ll hold your arms while the rest of them swing.”
Brawler groaned, rubbed a hand down his face. “Fine. You all want in? You’re in. But if anyone touches my playlist in the SUV, I’m throwing you out on I-15.”
“Deal,” Easy said, already opening the back.
“We all know it’s nothing but rock and rage anyway,” Shark muttered.
As they piled in, Brawler took one detour to the base kennel.
Beast exploded out of the gate like a missile, tail wagging, eyes sharp.
“Time to work, buddy,” Brawler said, ruffling his coat. “We’re going to save my brother.”
Beast growled low in answer.
Hours later, Vegas hit them like a living pulse, neon lights flashing, music pounding, people flooding the sidewalks in waves. Horns blared, laughter echoed from balconies, and the strip shimmered like a hallucination in motion.
They piled out at Ray’s favorite place. The casino floor was chaos, overhead lights, clinking chips, perfume clouds, and the constant drone of slot machines. Tourists milled like ants, draped in sequins and bourbon.
“All right,” Flash muttered, scanning the floor. “Blackjack, craps, or sleazy poker table?”
“I want odds on how many kneecaps Brawler breaks before we get to him,” Easy said.
They moved in formation, methodical and sharp.
Then Brawler saw him.
Ray.
Greased hair, oversized ring, cigar hanging from his teeth like a cartoon mobster. Toby stood beside him, small, still, wide-eyed, arms wrapped around his torso like armor. His face was dirty, his shirt was filthy, and he looked like he was about to cry.
Something inside Brawler detonated.
“Beast,” he snapped, unclipping the leash.
The dog launched.
Ray barely had time to scream before the Malinois was on him, snarling, snapping, teeth flashing as Ray stumbled over a craps stool and sent chips flying like confetti.
“Jesus!” Ray shrieked, flailing as he scrambled toward a craps table.
“Security’s inbound!” a dealer yelled.
Dagger appeared at the manager’s side just in time. “That guy’s using his autistic nephew to count cards. You want TMZ here tomorrow, or you want us to handle it?”
The manager’s face turned angry in Ray’s direction. He looked at the crowd around him. They all roared, and he grinned. “The customers are always right. Let the dog have a minute with the piece of shit.” He waved three brawny guys off.
Beast circled Ray, low and feral, eyes locked, fangs glinting.
Toby turned toward the chaos. “Chris?” His face broke into smiles that were brighter than the neon lights.
Brawler couldn’t get to his brother fast enough. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Toby ran into his arms. “It’s too loud. I don’t like it. There’s too many lights. I told him I wanted to go home. Hank’s gonna be mad.”
“No, he’s not.” Brawler said, his voice soft and soothing. “You’re coming home with me.”
Toby opened Brawler’s fingers. “You get hurt. Want me to kiss it?” He just looked at his little brother, feeling the guys around him shift, the aws, and damns under their breaths. Yeah, they were now hooked too. Toby did that without even breaking a sweat. Twister had sewn him up on the drive.
