Magnificent Seven 1. Chapter 1

Blood and destruction shall be so in use  
And dreadful objects so familiar  
That mothers shall but smile when they behold  
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;  
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:  
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,  
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,  
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice  
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;  
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth  
With carrion men, groaning for burial.

-Shakespeare-

_Julius Caesar_, 1601

The Dogs of War

Riley Goodwyn

"Trust me."

His voice was soft, barely a whisper as strong hands cupped her flushed cheeks then threaded through her long hair. He pulled her face close to his, lips resting ever so softly on hers and she had no choice. He wanted her and she was powerless to resist him. She couldn't resist the hooded green eyes, the perfect nose and his sensuous lips. She loved to run her fingers through the thick blond hair that covered his head as well as the tiny dusting of golden hairs that covered his muscular chest and, as she stood before him in a field of gently waving rye grass, he unbuttoned her red blouse and slowly slid it from her shoulders and she trusted him as she trusted no other.

She wore nothing beneath the sleek, shiny fabric and he swallowed hard and closed his eyes momentarily at the sight of her breasts. Slipping his fingers into the waistband of her jeans he flicked the top button open then lowered the zipper. Bending low, he pulled the pants down her long legs and she placed a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance as he slipped them off, her touch like fire. His heart began to hammer and he rose up and grabbed a fistful of material and pulled on the silken threads of her thong. It tore easily under his urgent hand and stepping back to gaze at her. He likened her to beautiful, full-breasted, pagan fertility goddess as she stood naked before him in the waving stalks of grass, her long, coal black hair whipping in the breeze.

His palms brushed the nipples of her breasts as he circled her rib cage and he smiled at their taught reaction. He lifted her up onto the woolen saddle blanket laid out on the back of a large black gelding that stood docilely next to a hay bale occasionally ripping chunks free and chewing complacently. From atop the horse she watched him as he rushed to shed his own clothing and at the sight of his lean, well-muscled body she licked suddenly dry lips .

He was already hard when he stepped up on the hay bale and slid onto the horse's back settling behind her and, as he leaned forward to catch the reins in his hand, he rubbed against her and kissed her shoulder. She shivered visibly, her breath quickening and with a smile he kneed the black.

The horse started out at a slow walk awaiting the rider's next command and when it came the horse quickened it's pace and she settled back into him, her firm ass rubbing against him. He moaned aloud once again and satisfied by his reaction a smile crossed her lips.

They rode farther out into the fields, away from the road and his truck, and when he loosened his grip on the reins the horse slowed and came to a stop . He moved backward on the blanket and placing his hands around her waist he lifted her up as if she weighed nothing. Leaning back to give her enough room to swing a leg over the horse's powerful neck she sat 'side saddle' in his lap for a moment then, with his help, leaned back and threw one long leg over him. They were now face to face and, placing his hands firmly on her rear, he pulled her forward toward him until she found herself fully impaled on him, her slick, silky folds taking him in smoothly, familiarly as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist.

Kissing her hungrily, he pulled her in closer in to his body and kicked his heels into the horse's flanks. The black started off again at a slow walk picking up speed as the rider urged him on to a bone-rattling trot then into a smooth canter where every movement caused him to surge forward and slide into her up to the hilt, time and time again. The harder the horse ran the quicker and greater her pleasure until a loud cry escaped her lips.

At her release he kicked muscled flanks once again and, giving the horse his head, they were quickly at a full gallop and he slammed into her until he came with a force that sucked the breath from his lungs and all thought from his mind.

Sensing the loss of guidance from his rider, the black drew up and idled down to a gentle walk then came to a standstill.

Leaning back, his hands on the black's rump for support, he rested for a long moment then straightened up. He drew her back up into his arms and kissed her hotly, biting her lower lip and they lazily made their way back to where the ride had started. He slid backward over the rump of the horse and, lifting his arms to her, she slid slowly down his naked body until her feet rested on firm ground.

They smelled of horse and the musk of lovemaking, an odor he would never forget and he smiled.

"Bareback," she whispered into his mouth as they kissed again, "Bareback Larabee."

Chris Larabee sat bolt upright in his bed, bathed in sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had dreamed of her for seven nights in a row.

Her name was Riley Goodwyn and he had loved her. Her name was Riley Goodwyn and he had lost her.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Chris Larabee saw Riley Goodwyn it was through an alcoholic haze at a strip bar off the boardwalk in Coronado, California. The crowded bar was an after hours place catering to military personnel of all branches. In other words it was a fairly crappy hole in the wall where a seaman first class or an army grunt could belly up to the bar and stare directly into the crotch of a stripper while quaffing beer, elbow to elbow, with a Marine Corps aviator or an elite Navy SEAL. And, while a fly boy would more than likely simply ignore an enlisted man, a SEAL might just puke on the poor sorry son of a bitch and then, to make up for the poor show of manners, buy him drinks for the rest of the night. A navy SEAL could and would respect an Army PFC but, at the same time, wouldn't give a Corps Top Gun the time of day.

Lieutenant Chris Larabee was still a couple of drinks away from puking on anybody but enough sheets to the wind to allow the gyrating strippers to extract dollar bills from his mouth as only they could. As a result he suffered a ball breaking hard-on as he leaned back on the bar, a dollar bill clamped between his teeth, and offered up yet another tip.

Lt jg Stephen Hilliard stood next to his best friend and halfheartedly wished that at the end of the night, he too, could go home and pass out dead drunk and dead broke, his face smelling like pussy. Instead, he would sneak in well passed the curfew set by his usually sweet-natured but extremely pregnant wife and try to drunkenly ease himself into bed without waking her.

Hilliard threw back another shot of Tequila and laughed at the smug smile on Larabee's face as his friend and CO draped his arm over his shoulders and leaned in to yell in his ear. "How's that sweet little wife of yours?" Little did Stephen know but the man who stood unsteadily next to him and who had stood up for him at his wedding would give his eye teeth to find that one woman who was worth giving it all up for. All the debauchery, the drinking 'till all hours, the fights…"Fight!"

Although it was nearly impossible to hear anything in the bar, Larabee had taken slight at a Marine aviator's off handed remark about SEAL Team Seven and, turning to his left, he clocked the fighter pilot before he could take another swig of his beer. All hell broke loose with Marines and Navy SEALs going head to head, toe to toe and fist to nose...or chin...or gut.

The brawl, which didn't last long, spilled out into the parking lot and five minutes later Chris was back at the bar, a cold bottle of Bud pressed up against his battered face when Riley Goodwyn walked in on the arm of a tall, mustachioed, Army Ranger Major. Chris Larabee, who also wore a mustache, spotted fresh meat and heading straight for the woman he drunkenly offered her a ride on his. She slapped his face while the Ranger just guffawed loudly.

Determined to save face Chris upended his beer and emptied it without taking a breath. He then set the bottle down on the nearest table and made a move toward the Ranger bent on dragging yet another branch of the service into yet another fight. And why the hell not? The night was still young.

"Now hold on a minute, cowboy," the Ranger said as he pushed the dark haired woman behind him before taking a step toward the listing SEAL.

"Did you just call me cowboy?" Larabee asked and squinted to try and connect a face to the somewhat familiar voice, "Buck?"

"That's right, cowboy," the Ranger said, a wide smile splitting his handsome face.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch. Buck Wilmington," Chris shouted above the din and grabbed his oldest friend in a fierce bear hug.

Buck returned the hug then quickly bent at the knee when Larabee's eyes glassed over and rolled back in his head and he collapsed like a rag doll. Riley watched incredulously as the handsome blond SEAL toppled forward and was caught neatly over her escort's shoulder. This was the man Captain Wilmington wanted her to meet?

"1441 Seacrest. Key's under the mat," was all Stephen Hilliard said to the newcomers as he passed them by on his way out the door.

Riley drove Buck's rental car while he navigated regalling her with tales of drunken debauchery from Chris Larabee's and his own sordid past. At least Major Wilmington seemed to have outgrown it she thought to herself and wondered exactly how he had talked her into going with him to the Ace High in the first place.

She had flown in from D.C. on business and had reconnected with the dashing Army officer when, just like in the movies, they had both hailed the same cab. They had worked together a little over a year ago when Wilmington's unit had jumped up a number of suspected Al Queda operatives in Iraq who needed sorting out and her expertise in the customs and her fluency in Arabic and Kurdish, as well as Assyrian Neo-Aramaic and South Azeri, made her indispensable when it came to deciding who got a one-way to Gitmo and who got kicked free.

When she had choppered into his base outside of Baquba in Diyala province north of Baghdad dressed in combat fatigues and full combat gear, Buck had thought it was just another Army SNAFU. What the fuck was a gorgeous brunette, with killer blue eyes and tits to die for, doing in his testosterone tent city?

It took the two of them a little under an hour to get things sorted out and squared away. She had been sent by NCIS armed with a high level clearance and an ass load of cautionary tales about a smooth talking Ranger operative with a red-hot libido and, once she had assured him she was immune to his charms, they settled into a routine they were both comfortable with - that of overprotective big brother and little brat of a sister.

Buck Wilmington had endeavored to and succeeded in protecting her virtue for the six months she was under his command and in doing so had endeared himself to her forever so she couldn't quite understand why he had insisted she come with him to surprise an old friend. An old friend who frequented titty bars, smelled like a stripper, had glitter in his hair and couldn't hold his liquor.

As they entered Chris Larabee's house she found it was no better than the bar from which they had just come. It was a complete disaster, littered with empty cans of beer and empty bottles of booze along with various articles of discarded clothing. At least there were no strippers - none that Riley could see anyway. As she walked further inside she saw that it was worse than any frat house she had ever been in and she wondered where the discipline and self-respect of this particular SEAL had gone. Did Chris Larabee no longer adhere to the parts of the SEAL creed that said he would "...serve with honor on and off the battlefield"? Did he no longer have "the ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance...?"

Pushing a pile of debris off of a kitchen chair, Riley sat down gingerly while Buck unloaded his burden on the double bed in the only bedroom of the tiny seashore rental. Buck stripped off Chris' clothes easily, as he'd done a hundred times before, and tossed the bedspread over his friend's naked body then joined Riley in the kitchen.

"Listen Riley, I'm really sorry about all of this. I don't know what Chris' deal is. I guess he and the others were just letting off a little steam," Buck said with an apologetic grin, "And I guess the cleaning lady got caught in the crossfire."

Riley noted that the place was not really filthy, it was just trashed. Furniture was broken or overturned, pictures were torn from the walls, the glass smashed. It looked as if Chris Larabee had had one gigantic temper tantrum and she wondered what hadn't gone precisely his way. As Buck fumbled around to try and find the coffee maker to make them a pot, Riley started to clear off the table and pulled a folded up newspaper from three days ago out from under an empty pizza box and an ashtray full of cigar stubs and ashes. "Which team did you say your friend was on?" she asked pursuing the folded section.

"He's on Seven, Naval Special Warfare Group One."

"Did you know that nine SEALs from his unit were killed in a helo crash three days ago?"

The color drained from Buck's tanned face and looking around he said, "Well, that pretty much explains...everything."


	3. Chapter 3

Riley could see it now as she looked down the beach and saw various American flags, including the one on Larabee's deck, standing at half-mast in the waning early morning fog. She should have noticed when she came into town but the demeanor of the people of Coronado was that of so many other military bases in that it was business as usual in time of war, the loss of so many brave men notwithstanding. She and Buck had cleaned Chris Larabee's small house, throwing out the trash and repairing what could be fixed and, as dawn began to break, the Major had gone for decent coffee and bagels while the Lieutenant was still dead to the world...or so she thought.

As Riley Goodwyn, wrapped in an old, moth eaten, plaid woolen blanket, reclined in an equally old, paint-flecked deck chair to await Buck's return she heard footfalls and watched in silence as Chris Larabee came out onto the deck, a lighted cheroot clamped between his teeth and as naked as the day he was born. The thought of clearing her throat crossed her mind but she decided to let him discover her in his own time and remained quiet. The sound of the ocean waves breaking on the shoreline interlaced with some far off shouted commands and the proper responses of early morning PT drills seemed to capture Larabee's interest while the sight of his incredibly tight ass and the way his muscles ripple as he smoked only added to the ambiance of an early morning in Coronado for Riley. She didn't know how long she would be in town and would, for the moment, simply enjoy the view.

Chris took in a mouthful of aromatic smoke and let it play around on his tongue before exhaling. His beer and whiskey soaked brain was a tad slower than usual but his hearing was still acute and he definitely heard a sigh. It was a woman's sigh of contentment and he smiled and hoped to hell it was Jen...or Joan...or whatever the hell the flavor of the week was. He turned slowly fully expecting to see one of the strippers from the Ace and was surprised to see a complete stranger wrapped up against the early morning chill.

The sight of her sparked the last few memories of the night before and he smiled. "I see you came back for your ride," he said nonchalantly and leaned back against the deck railing unashamed of his nudity or the response her presence stirred in him.

"Stand down, Lieutenant," she ordered, "My empathy for your grief only goes so far."

Buck stood in the doorway holding a cardboard tray and paper bag and added, "Chris, don't make me have to apologize all over again for you before I kick your ass."

"Nothing to apologize for," Chris said in his own defense, "I come out for a smoke every morning. It relaxes me."

"Yeah, maybe," Buck said with a snort after seeing his friend's state of arousal, " But I'll bet it pisses off your neighbors...just like it's pissing me off." The Ranger, dressed now in jeans and a tee shirt, set his packages down on a picnic table and went back into the house. Moments later he reemerged with a pair of jeans that were reasonably clean and tossed them to Chris.

The SEAL knew he should have shown a modicum of modesty and, even though he had been taken aback by the sight of a strange woman sitting peacefully on his deck, her unwavering stare and complete lack of any embarrassment in regards to the situation was like an unspoken challenge and he had wanted to show her who had the bigger balls. But Buck had a right to be pissed, Chris thought. This woman evidently meant something to him or he would never have tried to introduce her to him or let it be known that he was angry. Buck Wilmington didn't anger easily and when he did the consequences were usually painful...and bloody.

"I apologize for my boorish behavior," Larabee said contritely slipping on the jeans.

Riley didn't know if she believed him or not but had to take the apology at face value. "Apology accepted, Lieutenant," she said and Buck relaxed significantly. Lacy certainly didn't want the Major to have to beat the crap out of his oldest friend when they had only just reconnected and it wasn't like she'd never seen a penis before.

Buck handed her a cup of coffee, almost white with cream and practically solid with sugar, and grimaced as she took a sip. He held out a cup to Chris, black as midnight just like his, and the SEAL took it in his trembling hand. Buck then sat down on the tabletop, one booted foot up on the bench while Larabee returned to his place leaning against the railing.

Still not sure what to expect there was a moment of stilted silence before Chris spoke. "What are you doing here, Buck?" he asked flatly. It was a benign question but could be taken so many different ways.

"Had a few days off before I need to report to The Presidio. Thought I'd stop in to see an old friend," Buck explained between sips of coffee, "I brought along a colleague of mine to meet you."

"Is that what they're calling 'em these days?" Chris asked with a lascivious smile, his former apology all but forgotten.

"Shut up, you son of a bitch. I'm trying to be civil here," Buck said hotly but his anger was tempered with a little good will now that his friend had some pants on, "This is Agent Riley Goodwyn, NCIS."

Riley waved her hand, a smirk on her face.

Yeah, right, Chris thought and said; "I think I've seen you on TV. You're the Goth one, right?"

Buck turned to Riley in surprise but she only laughed and said, "I think he's got more than enough rope, Major." She stood up and, still wrapped in his blanket, crossed over to where Chris stood still half expecting her to throw off the blanket to reveal nothing on underneath but pasties and a g- string. "You know that show is a total goat fuck, don't you?" she asked and, extending her hand, looked him straight in the eye and added, "And I am sorry for your loss."

Chris' throat tightened as he shook her pro offered hand. There was no way this woman was a stripper. Stolen valor was something neither he nor Buck could abide and a stripper passing herself off as an NCIS agent would be a hundred steps over the line. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Goodwyn," he said and, as his tanned completion darkened even more, he added; "I sincerely apologize for my behavior of last night and again of this morning."

Riley stepped up beside him at the railing and looked out at the sea. "Apology sincerely accepted, Lieutenant," she said and nudged him with her shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

The three of them sat at the battered picnic table eating bagels, Riley and Chris sitting across from Buck.

"So what does the Presidio want with the likes of you?" Chris asked fully aware of the 'heat' generated by his close proximity to his bench mate despite the early morning chill. He'd been out in the cold waters of the bay for hours on end during his training and now, sitting next to her, shirtless, his hair still wet from his shower, was like a day in Qandahar.

Buck smiled charmingly as Riley sniggered, "Why, I'm the poster boy for Modern Army Combatives. I'll be building the Army thirty five soldiers at a time."

Chris, well familiar with Buck's training in the US as well as in Germany, smiled. He was a level four instructor and the Army had definitely chosen the right man for the job. "Congratulations, partner," Chris said and shook his friend's hand.

"We're only a little more than a year into Operation Iraqi Freedom and, despite popular belief, things are gonna get a whole lot worse before they get better. These new front line soldiers need to understand that the first basic tenant of modern combatives is that the winner of a hand-to-hand fight in combat is the one whose buddy shows up first with a gun. I always say that if your close quarters opponent has a knife...shoot the fucker."

"I'll drink to that," Chris said lifting his coffee cup then looked to his left at Riley, "I do have a beer left, don't I?"

Riley took a sip of her coffee and told him with a smirk, "This wasn't an intervention, Lieutenant, Buck and I just shoveled your place out a little."

Buck noticed that she was still addressing Chris as Lieutenant...not a good sign.

In return Chris smiled insincerely and let her know, "Good, because the last thing I need is a nursemaid."

Buck winced. Riley Goodwyn was nobody's nursemaid. If she knew you and trusted you she'd have your back but there was no way in hell she would ever enable someone who could not live up to his potential...for whatever reason. Buck knew Chris well enough to know that he'd just hit a bad patch but seemed to already have his life back under control that morning...but did Riley?

The woman in question turned again to face the SEAL. "You're a...big boy," she said looking pointedly at his crotch, "I know you can handle it."

"Oh, man," Buck said almost choking on his coffee.

Chris just stared at her, his eyes ratcheted down to slits but not in anger. He was finally smiling, genuinely this time."Duly noted, ma'am," he told her crisply.

Riley just nodded and turned back to Major's phone had rung and she suspected duty called...or one of the blondes Buck was so partial to. It was duty and, as soon as he picked up his bag from the hotel, Buck Wilmington would be on a plane to San Francisco then on to Monterey Peninsula Airport.

Although Chris seemed fine, the SEAL had just lost some very close friends and Buck suggested to Riley that she stay with him a few more hours until she were sure he was okay. To Buck's surprise Riley agreed. What was even more of a surprise was that Chris Larabee hadn't refused when he'd asked him to see the NCIS agent safely back to her hotel.

Chris knew Buck was still a little anxious about his mental stability but it was all good. He'd lost friends before but never so many in one fell swoop. There had been a memorial service yesterday on base and the bodies had already been dispatched for burial in nine different states so all there was left to do was to move on.

Riley Goodwyn's job as a linguistics expert should have kept her safe from the perils of war and, although she hadn't been directly involved in any firefights during her six months embedded with Company A, 3rd Ranger Battalion, she had still made friends and her job couldn't shield her from the pain of loosing some of them. War was hell...especially on those left behind.

Chris stood next to her in awkward silence as they watched Buck drive away and he wondered if it was really a good idea for her to stay. He had already bared his ass to her but he was damned if he was going to bare his soul to her any time soon. "Now that mother hen is gone, I can take you back to your hotel anytime," he suggested.

"That's okay, Lieutenant. I think I'll stick around. Maybe help you sort your laundry," Riley said walking into his bedroom. Looking the room over she was relieved to see that it wasn't all that bad. True, his laundry had piled up on the floor but his bed, with the exception of the tangled spread that Buck had covered him with, was still freshly made. She suspected that in the past three days Chris Larabee either hadn't slept at all or had slept on his couch...or with one of the willing mustache riders from the bar.

As he watched her inspect his quarters Chris suspected that laundry wasn't all the Special Agent wanted to sort and he asked her flat out, "What's NCIS doing here in Coronado?"

Riley stooped to pick up a discarded tee shirt and he grabbed it out of her hand. She laughed softly and turned to look at the mirror above his dresser. Photos lined the glass stuck haphazardly into the dark wood frame. No women, she noted, not even his mother. Mostly his SEAL buddies who, more often than not, became as close if not closer than actual family members. "Nothing exciting...like on the show. I'm here to teach classes in Pārsi-ye-Dari and Pashto to teams one, three, five and what's left of team seven."

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut only he wasn't ready for it and he actually felt sick to his stomach. Riley watched him in the mirror as his face paled and sighed. Chris Larabee was what she liked to call a "gutter". He took all his pain and shoved it deep down inside where he thought it couldn't hurt him. But, just like a coiled snake, someday it would strike out and bite him in the ass.

She didn't really know this man at all but she knew Buck Wilmington and she trusted him implicitly. If he thought that his friend was more than just a macho asshole she'd give him the benefit of the doubt. Riley picked one picture from the mirror, one she guessed by its size and placement meant more to him than any of the others.

It was a photograph of Chris Larabee and another SEAL dressed in wet suits and dive gear, kneeling on the beach, arms around each other for support. Despite the smiles they looked more dead than alive, except for their eyes which sparked with what Riley could only guess was some sort of perverse joy at having survived BUD/S training, and, when he sucked in the breath he didn't think she heard, she knew this was his swim buddy... and that he was dead.

She was right. From the beginning of his training it had been drilled into Chris Larabee to never leave the partner he'd been assigned as a swim buddy behind and, in 30 years, Navy SEALs had never left a fellow SEAL behind in combat, dead, wounded or alive. But three days ago nine men had left swim buddies and fast friendships behind and, as Riley watched, Larabee's chin quivered slightly and she saw him swallow what must have been a huge lump in his throat. He then took in a quavering breath and the first tear to escape his vigilance since the accident slid down his suddenly wan cheek.

Chris grabbed the picture from Riley's hand and anger quickly washed over him at her uncanny ability to know just what would hurt him the most and, Buck's friendship aside, this knife-twisting, scab picking bitch needed to go. But before he could call a cab and escort her from the premises the pain of his loss broke free and he suddenly felt as if he were underwater and didn't know which way was up.

Watching him start to crumble, Riley reached out to him and cupped his cheek as more tears slipped down his stony face. He grabbed her hand in his, pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers, the desperation in his kiss drawing the very breath from her lungs like a drowning man too long starved for air.


	5. Chapter 5

When he kissed her Riley Goodwyn's stomach lurched…but in a good way… and when he broke that kiss and barely moved his lips from hers, she inhaled deeply and breathed in his minty fresh breath and his aftershave, a classic scent that made her think of her father…but in a good way. Riley looked up from his lips and into his eyes and she could see the pain in them slowly give way to lust and she thought to herself how basic and uncomplicated some men were, especially the modern day warrior.

Chris Larabee, bad ass Navy SEAL, wanted to temper his pain with a good old fashioned "pity fuck" and, when he kissed her again and she actually felt his lips tremble against hers, she thought who was she to deny a gorgeous, obviously dangerous and visibly hurting sailor a port in a storm.

His taking of her was not gentle, like his kiss, but forceful and urgent and rough and if she hadn't known "where he was coming from" she might have been a little scared. But she knew the depths of the sorrow from which his primal urges came and she allowed herself to be used...gloriously.

Chris Larabee was in his own world buried deep within her. Their intimate connection was his only contact with the real world and she was soft and tight and urgent and, above all, safe. Safe enough for him to let his tears fall all over her as he drove into her again and again, finally coming to rest, spent, his full weight on her, his head resting on her amply awesome breasts.

Riley didn't squirm or bitch about him squashing her or complain about lying in the wet spot. She just ran her fingers through his hair and, at that moment, he fell a little in love with her. He rolled over and waited for her to lie to him about how great he was all the while pointedly ignoring the five hundred pound crying baby gorilla that now lay in the bed next to her wiping its snotty nose on a discarded tee shirt. She was breathing pretty heavily and he couldn't tell if it was the result of his crazy balls to her walls full on frontal assault of her or if she was laughing.

Chris Larabee had been the ride of a lifetime and Riley Goodwyn had come twice in just under half a dozen minutes. She wasn't laughing but wanted to. Hell, she wanted to sing 'Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life' a la 'Young Frankenstein' but she knew that the tough as nails Navy Lieutenant lying next to her in ominous silence had just, for the first and probably only time in his life, cried his way through sex and when she went where noncoms and angels feared, she knew she had to tread lightly.

Hearing her sigh, Chris closed his eyes and actually grimaced. But Riley didn't see it. She simply moved her hand closer to his and hooked pinky fingers with him and told him, "Your swim buddy would be proud." With fresh tears clouding his vision he fell the rest of the way in love. "Alexander Metaxas." His voice came from deep down inside of him and was forceful but broke anyway before he finished the name and Riley knew he was the dark haired man kneeling next to Larabee in the photo on the mirror.

Lieutenant Alexander Metaxas had been a swarthy Greek Adonis complementing Larabee's own blond gorgeousness perfectly and, with neither one of them being wing man material, it must have simply been a choice for the ladies of the Ace High, mocha or vanilla, white meat or dark. She only hoped that Larabee had had the good sense to use protection when banging the dancers there because in their own haste they had ridden to the Promised Land bareback.

Any other time, Chris Larabee was an officer and a gentleman but the past few days had thrown him for a loop and sex hadn't really been high up on his "to do" list. Getting totally shit faced was. And Riley Goodwyn, well, she was a complete surprise. Even when Alex was alive, more often than not, Chris had gone home to an empty house and an empty bed because the girls who worked at the Ace, as well as the women who frequented the joint, were just too easy, too cliché. Oh, he didn't mind stuffing a butt load of cash down g-strings or buying Frog Hogs drinks all night long but his head and his heart weren't really into the smooth dog thing anymore. Besides, he was gone most months out of any given year and he was damned if he was going to give his all, and his benefits, to some bimbo who would eventually get tired of waiting and wondering if he was even alive and leave him.

Chris opened his nightstand drawer, fumbled for a Trojan and held it up so they could both see it.

Riley snorted. "That horse...is out of the barn and half way to Mexico, my friend," she said, "But if it makes you feel better..."

Nothing felt better than flesh on flesh, her flesh on his flesh, surrounding him, so smooth, so tight and, moments later, he took Riley Goodwyn on what he hoped was the best damned ride in the amusement park.

When it was over and they were slick with perspiration and barely conscious, Riley rested, her elbow bent and her chin in her hand, and just watched him. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and steady. She could still see the tracks of his tears and traced them with her fingertip until her grabbed her hand and gently kissed her fingers.

"You know if you tell anyone, Goodwyn, I'll just deny it…and then I'll have to kill you," Chris deadpanned.

Riley lifted an elegant, dark eyebrow. "You mean that you slept with me?"

"Oh, hell no," he told her in mock seriousness, "In fact, I'm gonna tell every man jack on each and every team that I made love to the most beautiful woman in NCIS...and that includes Kate."

"But how will it look if your buddies think you're getting an 'A' in class just because you slept with the teacher."

"An A?" he asked with a lascivious smile and a waggle of his eyebrows.

"If you really must know...an A plus," she told him truthfully, "But don't let it go to your head 'cause a big dick ain't gonna help you in A-stan if your accent isn't just right." Riley rolled on top of him and kissed his lips then each eyelid and tasted the salt, "And about the other 'thing'," she assured him, "Your secret's safe with me."


	6. Chapter 6

For eight long weeks select members of the odd numbered SEAL Teams stationed at Coronado labored long and hard under Riley Goodwyn to learn Pārsi-ye-Dari and Pashto, two of the most common languages spoken in Afghanistan. Of the forty men in her classes most would be able to get by in a pinch while a few would only understand what was being said and, at her recommendation, would need to speak only when spoken to...if at all. Only a handful would be able to fool the natives. Lieutenant Chris Larabee was in that lucky handful but then he had the distinct advantage of private tutoring.

Riley Goodwyn had gone back to her hotel only to pick up her gear before becoming ensconced in Larabee's small house, in his day-to-day life and in his heart. From day one, Riley refused to speak to him in English and immersed him completely in one dialect or the other. He was a fast learner picking up all the nuances until he spoke like a true native and for extra credit he learned to speak the words that led to Riley's total immerse in sex, words he would probably never use while on assignment but ones he used the hell out of at home.

But now the eight weeks were over and Riley was being reassigned. She walked purposefully toward Chris and his newly formed command as the bunch of them loitered in the hallway outside of his office to let him know that she would be flying out the next day and to wish them all good luck on their next assignment...wherever it may be.

It was a good bet that Chris Larabee was already in the pipeline for Afghanistan and, as an Assault Force Commander, he had already, with the exception of one man who had been assigned to him, chosen his team. He would be in overall tactical command of any upcoming mission and in communication with the Task Unit HQ via his radioman, BMCM V (Boatswains Mate Master Chief Petty Officer) Romeo Vargas.

In addition to being a unit Shooter, Vargas was in charge of making sure Larabee could talk to everyone at once, his sniper element, his element leaders and the Task Unit Commander. The handsome Hispanic from El Paso, Texas would always be within inches of Larabee at all times during the op and had already laid in a healthy supply of deodorant and mouthwash for himself and his commanding officer.

Lt. J.G. Stephen Hilliard, Larabee's bar mate, was his Breacher, the man responsible for forcing his way into closed spaces using specialized explosives called breaching charges. He would also carry a sledgehammer if explosives were not necessary and, in lieu of a shotgun, a lock picking kit if stealth was required.

HM3 (Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Petty Officer) Nathan Jackson was new to Larabee's command. On loan from the insertion submarine Blade, he would be the medic on the SEAL team. Having attended Navy HM "A" school and the U.S. Army 18 Delta Medical Course, Jackson possessed knowledge of triage, field surgery, suturing, resuscitation and other life-saving skills and, though not officially a SEAL, he was a welcome addition to the team.

The rest of the team was made up of four more Shooters, the workhorses of the Assault Team, including the one man Larabee had not chosen but had been assigned to him, Aviation Warfare Systems Operator (AW) Adam Coxen.

"Who's the snatch, LT?" Coxen asked as he watched the female figure walk toward their small group.

Chris pointedly ignored the slack jawed southerner's inquiry and stared at the approaching figure, a smile breaking out on his usually closed face. In true Federal Agent style Riley wore a severe navy blue suit, a starched white shirt and sensible shoes and with her hair in a tight knot at the nape of her neck only he knew just how "against regulations" her undergarments were.

Coxen jabbed an elbow into Vargas' ribs eliciting a grunt from the man standing next to him. "Who's the snatch?" he repeated.

The woman's tight fitting suit held no identifying patches but Vargas would know those tits anywhere. "That's Riley Goodwyn…you know...the teacher...Larabee's "snatch"," Vargas told the newest member of the squad sarcastically.

God, could he say or do any more to alienate his team members, Coxen wondered? As it was the more he tried to befriend the taciturn Larabee the more the AFC pulled away as if even talking to him left a bad taste in the CO's mouth and it was beginning to really piss him off.

"The L.T.'s been fucking the instructor?" Coxen asked stupidly as Riley drew closer.

With a glance at Larabee's grinding jaw, Vargas offered, "How else you think he got to be teacher's pet?" The Radioman had no use for the thick necked, southern cracker either and the more chapped Larabee became the quicker he would rotate him out.

Coxen watched the NCIS Agent's undulating thighs as she approached and thought, if given half a chance, he'd tap her, too. If not to rid himself of the massive hard on seeing her always brought on, then to get one up on Larabee, to rub his face in it so to speak. But if he were going to do something about it he would have to work fast because the bitch had evidently come to say goodbye.

Before Chris took Riley home to keep her up all night then deliver her to the airport at 0-dark-thirty they were all to meet at the Ace High for an impromptu graduation party. Both Riley and Nathan Jackson were no shows and, when Chris returned to his ominously dark and quiet house, he found that she'd left a hastily written note that said she had been ordered to take a military hop back to Arlington ASAP.

As he restlessly roamed the rooms of his home Chris Larabee came to the realization that, instead of screwing her brains out every chance he got, maybe he should have told Riley that she meant a hell of a lot more to him than just a TDA, a temporary duty assignment. He sat down on his couch and pulled his cell phone from his pocket to do just that but, even as late as it was on the west coast and if she'd managed a through flight to D.C, she probably hadn't even made it home yet. He tried her anyway but before he could leave her a message his pager went off.

He and his team were wheels up inside of two hours and the next time Chris Larabee saw Riley Goodwyn she was standing next to a Talibani warlord dressed in a beautiful blue full Afghan _chadri_ that covered everything but her eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Larabee looked at Riley, hidden behind the chadri, as he handed over a letter of introduction and to her credit she didn't move a muscle. She simply waited patiently until the compact, wiry man, dressed as they all were in Perahan Tunban of muted colors and in various degrees of disrepair, leaned in closer to her and showed her the paper. Riley spoke in low tones and in Uzbek instead of Pashto and the leader of the four other men, in addition to the five Seals who packed the small hovel, seemed to relax. The Afghani took the wrap from his face revealing a large nose and small, surprisingly white teeth.

Only Coxen from Larabee's group, who had also recognized the now somewhat haunted eyes behind the veil, seemed to ramp up becoming visibly agitated. Vargas, his radio back at the rendezvous point with Corpsman Jackson, was glued to Larabee but could 'feel' the SAW gunner amp up and stepped back next to him.

Larabee pulled the wrap from his face and Riley smiled unseen by anyone. He looked good in a beard, she thought, and began to relay his every word to the old man, translating his flawless Pashto to another language altogether. Chris' realized the man was far from his home in the north and neither spoke nor understood either of the dialects he had learned. He guessed that Riley had been inserted as a translator, either by NCIS or maybe even the CIA, sometime during the four weeks they'd been growing out their beards and pulling their collective puds in Kuwait.

With the proper words, the proper dialect and the proper respect for the 'freedom fighter' who stood across from him, Chris forged on. But one man's patriot is another man's terrorist and if they were to use this man to find and extract "the butcher of Baghlan" without tipping their hand, things had to come off without a hitch...and at that moment Coxen was the hitch.

Vargas leaned into the shooter and whispered harshly in Pashto, "Calm down!" but Coxen's breathing remained rapid and sweat dotted his forehead although it was quit cool inside the mud brick hut despite the number of bodies therein.

Listening with half an ear Larabee proceeded to try and broker a deal with the butcher's brother-in–law Houshmand and Riley translated his offer to supply Russian arms to Jahangeer but they needed to meet face to face with the man in question. Things were progressing smoothly, Larabee's charm translating as easily as his Pashto, until one of Houshmand's sharper-eyed lieutenants took offense at Coxen brazenly glaring at the female as she translated.

Houshmand's man took a step forward, raised his weapon and demand that the disrespectful one look away. Riley translated and Chris turned to Coxen to remedy the breach of manners but it was too late. The SAW gunner has already pulled his side arm and before any of them could react he shot Houshmand's man point blank then turned the gun on Houshmand himself.

Without thinking Riley shouted, "Wait!" in her pure unadulterated American accent and for a split second everyone froze. Houshmand looked at the veiled figure as if she'd had just bared her ample breast's in public and even Coxen hesitated a moment before he shot again. The gunfire reverberated around the camp of definite unfriendlies and the SEALS had no choice but to beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the rendezvous point.

Once there Larabee shouted and shoved hard at the man who held so tightly to his forearm. "We can't go! We can't just leave her behind!"

"Who, Goddamnit?" Hilliard demanded knowing of only one woman in the area, "Houshmand's translator? What the fuck, Chris?"

"It way Riley Goodwyn, Sir," Vargas told Hilliard and he stared at Chris dumbfounded. Hilliard hadn't recognized her but the burka the woman wore left everything to the imagination, including the fact that she was an American and known to him. "Regardless," Hilliard said stiffly, "The mission's blown and we need to get the hell out of here."

"We're almost past our rendezvous time as it is, Lieutenant, and the helo needs to be outbound before sunrise. They won't wait for us!" Vargas added trying to reason with Larabee. His headpiece hissed again and he relayed the final message from the helo pilot to his CO, "Five minutes, LT," but Chris was no longer listening.

"Vargas, Jackson, Coxen, the rest of you, when the bird gets here load up and tell the pilot to take off. That's an order," Chris barked and turned to look back the way they'd come.

"But LT…" the radioman started to protest but was silenced by the look on Chris' face when he turned back to them. "Aye, Sir," Vargas replied grudgingly and the rest of the team, with the exception of the Corpsman, took off at a trot toward the landing zone.

Hilliard and Jackson stood next to one another in the sand listening to the footfalls as they faded into the night while Larabee again scanned the darkness for any sign of Riley. "She's probably dead," Hilliard said not thinking.

"No!" the word exploded from deep within Larabee startling his teammates, even himself, with his vehemence. In a quieter voice he continued. "She could have gotten away." He turned to the two men standing with him in the fading darkness and, with a lump in his throat, added, "And if she is dead…SEALs don't leave their own behind. Am I right? AM I RIGHT?"

"Just get on the fucking helo, Chris!" Hilliard again insisted.

"You go. I'm gonna find her," Chris said with finality.

Hilliard looked to Jackson for help but being the FNG the Corpsman simply shrugged. Stephen tried again to dissuade Larabee. "Listen, I know you and Riley had a thing but…"

"You don't know jack shit, Hilliard," Larabee said cutting him off before they could both say what they would later regret, " You two get the fuck outta here. I'll find her and bring her out...then I'm gonna bring you two and Coxen up on charges."

Loosing his temper Hilliard shouted, "You hot dogging, mother fucking, cowboy, son of a bitch!"

Ignoring Hilliard's assessment of what he considered his virtues, Larabee started back toward the village and Stephen, realizing the hopelessness of the situation, silently drew his side arm and cautioned Nathan to stay where he was. "Wait up, Chris," he shouted and trotted up next to Larabee, "If you're dead set on it I'll help you find her."

They continued at a brisk pace and Stephen surreptitiously aimed his side arm at Larabee's back, in an area that he hoped would do the least amount of damage and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through flesh and muscle then exited out Chris' front.

In the light of the moon Stephen Hilliard could see the shock in his CO's eyes and hear the grunted threat. "I will kill you for this," Chris hissed and toppled forward over the shooter's shoulder.

Hilliard ran back to where he'd left Nathan and dumped Larabee unceremoniously into the sand. The corpsman tore open a pressure bandage from his med kit and, fighting the man every step of the way until he dosed him heavily with morphine, applied it to the Seals' wound. Wiping his brow, Jackson looked first at the fallen man, whose eyes fairly rolled in his head, and then up at Lieutenant Hilliard who just sighed.

Leaning down Hilliard grabbed one of Chris' arms and pulled him into a sitting position. From there, with Nathan's help, he got him onto unsteady feet and, as they ran for the waiting helo dragging Chris between them, he said to no one in particular, "Fuck man, he didn't leave me with any other options."

Roger that, sir," Nathan said concurring wholeheartedly.


	8. Chapter 8

The Dogs of War, or DOW, LLC, had been an idea that had languished in the back of Chris Larabee's mind until the day he ran into Buck Wilmington again. Late of the 75th Ranger Regiment (Airborne) headquartered in Fort Benning, Georgia, the tall, dark haired former Ranger sat precariously on a bar stool in the elegant lounge of the Adam's Mark Hotel in downtown Denver, Colorado methodically throwing back Liquid Cocaine shooters made with one part Goldschläger, one part Jägermeister, and one part Bacardi 151 rum for the express purpose of getting totally shit faced.

After twenty years of Army fatigues, Wilmington's civvies, an expensive, well-tailored business suit, had nonetheless felt tight and binding when he had first sat down at the bar. But the copious amount of alcohol he had imbibed in since his flight to L.A. had been unexpectedly canceled made the wool silk blend more comfortable by the minute and, if lady luck were on his side, he'd have it shucked altogether and be in bed with a gorgeous woman before the night was over.

His black beret was laid neatly before him atop the shiny bar. He didn't wear it any more yet he couldn't leave it behind in the battered old trunk waiting for him in his hotel room. His entire life fit neatly into a six foot by four-foot metal box and the thought of it filled him with melancholy.

The Rangers had been Buck's whole life, his reason for living and, should he have had the honor, his reason for dying. But a few weeks earlier, when the politics had gotten to be more than he could handle, the bullshit more than he could wade through, he had opted not to re-up and retired at the rank of full bird Colonel with full benefits and a healthy pension to squander on booze and beautiful women.

Instead of fighting or instructing, as he had done for most of his career, the powers that be had wanted to relegate him to a desk job state side of all places. Hell, he thought wearily, he was a Ranger not a desk jockey. He could pilot any helo ever made, kill a man a hundred different ways, many with his bare hands and one with just a number 2 pencil. He could also blow up a building with Composition C4 or any number of ordinary household products. He was a pencil killer not a pencil pusher. He was a Ranger, Goddamn it, and had earned the right to wear the coveted black beret with his blood, his sweat and his tears.

Chris Larabee had spotted his oldest friend, hunched over, elbows on the bar, occasionally leaning back to down a shot, quite by accident. Attending a seminar in the hotel he had seen Buck's reflection in the bar's mirror and abruptly turned ninety degrees and entered the quiet, dimly lit room. Sidling up to stand next to him, the former Ranger's eyes remaining stubbornly downcast as Chris raised a finger and the bartender. Well acquainted with the ATF agent, the man brought a shot glass and a fresh bottle of Black Maple Hill twenty-three year old, limited edition, Kentucky straight rye whiskey. The barman poured a shot neatly into the glass and Larabee downed it. With an approving nod, the bottle stayed put.

Chris remained standing mere inches away from Buck and downed a second shot of the Rye while the former Ranger fairly tremble with agitation at the invasion of his personal space. Larabee smiled wickedly and raised a booted foot to the bar's brass rail and brushed Wilmington's arm with his hip.

Eyes glued to the liquid in his glass, the tall man's jaw muscles worked furiously as barely suppressed anger boiled just under Buck's suddenly thin skin. There wasn't another soul in the place and this mother fuckin' cowboy just had to stand directly next to him and jostle his arm with his ass, Buck thought angrily, and in one swift fluid motion he stood up, turned to his left and shot his fist out in a mean right cross that set the interloper back on his heels.

As the guy lay sprawled out on the highly polished surface of the bar floor behind him, Wilmington marveled at how much the man he had just clocked resembled his old friend, Chris Larabee. Reclaiming his seat, Buck reached for the bottle left on the bar and turned it to read the label then helped himself to a shot. Chris Larabee always drank Rye.

"Is that all you've got you fuckin' candy ass Ranger shit heel?" a voice asked from the floor. Rubbing his hand across his throbbing jaw Larabee got to his feet and calmed the bartender's fears with just a look.

Buck tipped back the whiskey and answered matter-of-factly, "You do know that an Army Ranger eats two Green Berets for breakfast, shits a Navy SEAL and has a D-Boy clean up the mess."

"I did hear that it takes two Green Berets and the digestion of a Ranger to crap out one Navy SEAL...and as for having a Delta wipe your ass…"

"Fucking SEALs," Wilmington laughed getting unsteadily to his feet.

"Fucking Rangers," Larabee returned and grabbed his friend in a fierce bear hug.

After the deal with Riley loosing track of his friend had been easy for Buck. Nine years was a long time to hold a grudge and, although she would always stand between them, maybe the wounds were starting to heal. "What are you doing in Denver, man?" Buck asked pouring himself another shot of Chris' whiskey.

"This is my home," Chris told him taking a seat next to him, "You?"

"Lookin' for a home. Kind of at a loss since leaving Uncle Sam's employ," Buck said and 'hangovers be damned' helped himself to even more Rye.

Larabee couldn't believe his friend had left the Army. He couldn't believe he himself had been out of the Navy for almost ten years because, face it, they had both been Uncle Sam's bitches and had loved every blood curdling, sweat drenching, freezing cold, blistering hot, ball tightening, testosterone filled, adrenalin fueled minute. Sitting down at the bar Chris thought back to the boring seminar he had just suffered through and the languishing idea started to blossom and would soon take on a life of it's own. "Well partner, I've got a deal that might be right up your alley."

"Does it involve any Federal Agencies?" Buck remembered that a few years before Chris had signed on with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, an awesome name for an agency but one that was so steeped in red tape and bullshit that he himself was not interested.

"Nope," Chris told him composing his letter of resignation in his head even as he spoke.

"Does it involve pain?" Buck then asked as his interest suddenly piqued, "Mayhem?"

"Oh, yeah," Chris assured him with a smile.

"Then Rangers lead the way," Buck said and raised his glass.


	9. Chapter 9

Chris Larabee rolled into Toscosa, Texas, a miserable little town near the Mexican border, a little past one in the morning and stopped at the only motel in town...the Aces and Eights. He walked into the office and found that the only connection to James Butler Hickok and Deadwood was the Deadhead dressed in a vintage Grateful Dead tie-dye tee shirt playing solitaire with a ratty old pack of playing cards. Checking in he also found that, even as late and as dry as the county was, he could still get a drink...at the local shooting range no less. Ah, Texas! Where the Wild West remained and guns and alcohol always mixed.

The bar section of The Shooting Line was hopping but Chris headed directly for the door to the shooting range, his gun case containing his Belgian made FN five-seven semi automatic pistol in hand. He paid for the privilege and stepped up to the shooting line and, forty rounds later, he took a break to watch the man in the first of the rifle bays.

The shooter was a good-looking kid with long hair, a fashion statement that never really sat well with the former SEAL. But his gun of choice, a Score High Police Sniper Rifle, was a thing of beauty and the kid knew how to use it. The young man, dressed in jeans and a blue tee shirt, sighted in the Score High and punch dead center each time he shot before stopping to take a break himself. When he did Chris stepped back up to the firing line and let his five-seven do all the talking and, just as he'd hoped, the longhair stepped back and leaned against the wall and waited for him to go cold.

When the head of DOW laid his gun on the bench and stepped back the sharpshooter asked, "That a military issue five-seven?"

"Sure is. You ever shoot one, Mr..." Chris asked nonchalantly and watched the other man for any tells.

"Ah, Hatcher...and I'm not much good with handguns," the shooter said.

His face appeared to be an open book, his demeanor affable but Chris instinctively knew that Hatcher was lying. The young man didn't pose any immediate threat so, holding his weapon by the barrel, Chris offered it to him butt first.

Taking the proffered weapon Hatcher adjusted his hearing protection and stepped back up to the firing line. He placed a clip into the magazine, hefted the heavy handgun and, holding it in the standard cup and saucer handhold, extended his arm and fired off the gun's twenty rounds. Although he never blinked, he missed dead center every shot.

"She's a beauty but I guess I need a scatter-gun for close up work," the young shooter said and grinned sheepishly as he returned the pistol.

Avoiding the grips Chris took back the gun and the stranger nodded his thanks and returned to his bench. Chris then packed up his gear and, lifting a hand to his short lived shooting partner, left the building knowing that in minutes he would have the shooter's real name and know a little more about his game.

Sitting in the Ram Chris lifted the prints off the gun butt, made a reasonable facsimile, inserted them into his remote fax and hit the send button. Hatcher remained inside the Shooting Line apparently content to continue honing his considerable skill with the Custom and seven minutes later Chris had his answer.

Tanner, Vin. Twenty eight years of age. Former Texas Ranger turned bounty hunter. Currently wanted for questioning in the sovereign state of Texas in connection with the death of one, Eli Joe, a convicted murderer who, up until six months ago, had been incarcerated in the Correctional facility in Huntsville but was now toes up in a cemetery outside of Tascosa. Tanner, an expert marksman with long-range weapons as well as small arms, should be considered armed and dangerous and approached with extreme caution.

Chris hit the auto dial feature on his console mounted cell phone and started skimming to the bottom of the page looking for the reason Tanner was no longer a Texas Ranger but a bounty hunter with a possible price of his own on his head when the unmistakable snict of an automatic handgun slide being engaged caused him to stop reading and hold his breath.

"You might wanna put down that cell phone, cowboy," Vin Tanner said through the open window. He opened the Ram's passenger door and took a seat next to the black clad stranger. Then, as if reading Chris' mind, he answered, "They said I was negligent in the performance of my duty."

Chris replaced the phone and turned to the long haired man sitting next to him. He remained silent, a trick he'd learned interrogating suspects, and Tanner offered up an explanation. "My oath was to protect and serve and, when I saw the opportunity to take out a bad guy, I took the shot. But the bullet took a quirky turn in the perp's brain pan, exited and struck an innocent bystander."

"Acceptable loss," Larabee said quietly.

"Unofficially yeah...officially no. The department and my C.O. left my ass hangin' so far out in the breeze that I thought I'd never get it reeled back in. It was resign or be terminated...so I booked."

"Eli Joe?"

"Was a loss to no one," Vin stated simply, no excuses and no more of an explanation than that. "You can turn me in if ya want but I won't go easy."

"No, I don't suppose you will, Chris surmised and added, "And don't call me cowboy."

Vin released the slide of his SIG SAUER P226, Larabee's own choice for a field weapon, smiled and reached for the door handle.

"I could use someone like you in my organization," Chris said and placed a hand on the departing man's shoulder.

Vin chuckled and looked out the truck's windshield. "And what kind of organization might that be?"

"Dogs of War. LLC. I need someone who's an expert marksman at distance, someone who can take orders unconditionally, someone who will kill without compunction, without remorse and someone who wants to be as rich as Cresus."

Vin turned and looked at Larabee. His eyes were blue, clear and sharp as a hawk's and he stared directly into Chris' as he answered, "Don't need much money...and I'll always feel remorse. Keeps me human." Stepping down from the Ram's cab Vin closed the door gently, slipped the Sig into his jacket pocket and trotted over to a battered red jeep without a backward glance. He secured the Custom's case on the floorboards behind the front seat, hopped in, fired up the engine and pulled out onto the highway headed north.

Chris lit up a cheroot, leaned back in his seat and smiled. He was pretty sure he had just found his team's skirmisher.


	10. Chapter 10

Nathan Jackson stood, stethoscope in hand, inside a makeshift hospital tent in Reynosa, Tamaulipas just across the border from Hidalgo, Texas. He was not just surprised to see Chris Larabee he was stunned. The Navy medic turned full time physician's assistant placed his hand gently atop the head of the young girl he was examining and in fluent Spanish told both her and her mother that he would be right back.

As he pulled off his gloves and walked toward the tent's opening Nathan noted that the man he had served with temporarily, the man whose life he had more than likely saved, looked well. Fit and trim, his blonde hair still cut military short Nathan couldn't believe that more than nine years had already passed since he was charged with keeping Chris Larabee alive. Yeah, the former medic thought, even with a few more wrinkles Lieutenant Larabee looked much the same. Only his eyes were a lot more haunted, Nathan noted, as he shook the man's hand.

"It's good to see you, Petty Officer," Chris said with an easy smile.

"It's good to see you, too, Lieutenant," Nathan said with an equally easy smile, "Although I've been told I'm not an easy man to find."

"PA's without borders ain't necessarily PA's without cell phones with GPS chips in 'em," Chris told him, "And it's just plain Chris Larabee now." Nathan's eyes widened in surprise and Chris laughed softly. Later that evening the two of them sat in a local Cantina and when Chris was full of Mexican food and tequila he filled him in on the past years.

Petty Officer Nathan Jackson had kept Chris Larabee doped up and semi-conscious aboard the Blackhawk until the SEAL could be medevaced to the hospital at Ramstein Air Base, Germany and, when he finally came down to earth, the young Lieutenant found that he was in custody and handcuffed to a metal bed frame.

Thanks to some heavy handed calling in of favors by person or persons unknown Larabee was never brought up on charges but he knew his teammates no longer trusted him one hundred percent and, rather than leave the teams and return to the black shoe Navy, he was offered a medical discharge on the grounds that he suffered from PTSD, a very real "battle wound" that very few SEALs would ever admit to having. The upshot of the whole cluster fuck was that he was still eligible for all his military benefits including burying his murdered wife and son at Ft. Logan National Cemetery in Colorado.

Stunned by Chris' revelations Nathan felt that God, for whatever reason, did indeed have a hard on for Chris Larabee. No man should ever have to suffer the losses the now stony faced man sitting across the table from him had. "Listen, Chris," Nathan started, "I'm sorry…about everything."

Chris just shrugged his broad shoulders and threw back another shot. "I didn't look you up to open up old wounds…or to settle old scores," Chris told him although he really had no beef with the man. Stephen Hilliard and Nathan Jackson had both done what they felt was right.

Nathan sat back in his chair and smiled. He had no desire to dredge up the past either because, at this point in his life, what Chris Larabee didn't know wouldn't hurt him. "Then why are you here?" Nathan asked as curiosity got the best of him.

"I have a business proposition for you," he told Nathan, "I've started a little company called Dogs of War. We specialize in private security, search and seizure, as well as search and rescue both domestic and foreign."

Nathan squinted. "Sounds dangerous, kinda like war."

"I have no doubt that some of our missions will be in some really hot spots," Chris told him stopping short of telling him that they would most likely be involved in black ops, "And that's where you come in."

"Listen, Chris," Nathan started, fully intending to tell him he wasn't interested, "I'm fighting a different kind of war now, a war against ignorance and poverty, against neglect and apathy."

"I can see that, Nate, but with your salary plus bonuses and with my contacts you'll be able to set up free clinics anywhere in the world. Hell, we could even use one where we are."

"And just who is we and where is where?" Nathan wanted to know.

"'Who' is my partner and XO, an old Army buddy of mine, Buck Wilmington. It's just the two of us for right now but I've got a line on a shooter as well as a pilot. And 'where' is a horse ranch just west of Denver with a ranch house and a barn that doubles as a base of operations. There are seven or eight other parcels on the property with houses and garages, the whole nine yards, any one of which would be yours rent free," Chris explained sweetening the pot.

"You got any horses on this ranch?"

"Got a few for cover, all of 'em good stock. I've got a little over two hundred acres so there's plenty of room for a wife and 2.5 kids and even a mangy old dog if you were of a mind," Nathan heard him say and for a moment he wondered how Raine would like living in Colorado.

Larabee lifted a hand to catch the eye of their waitress and ordered up another bottle of Patron with which to ply the former medic but Nathan Jackson was already impressed with Chris Larabee's operation and with his style. Sitting across the table from him, talking over old times all the while skirting the issue of Riley Goodwyn, had Nathan nostalgic for the camaraderie that the Navy had afforded him and the idea of working with Chris again grew more appealing by the minute.

They'd only spent a few months together on SEAL Team 7 but the man, who now matched him drink for drink, evidently thought enough of him to track him down in the middle of nowhere and offer him the opportunity of a lifetime, to make a difference not only to Chris' clients but to the people of Reynosa and maybe even the people living in the poorer mountain towns of Colorado.

But the man who sat across the table from Nathan Jackson owed the Navy corpsman and Chris Larabee always paid his debts. He knew that the medic had just been doing his job when he had patched him up after his ill-fated mission had gone all kinds of sideways but the former SEAL still felt he owed him and as the CEO of Dogs of War he had enough respect for the man himself, as well as for his considerable medical skills, to go the extra mile and ferret him out. Nathan Jackson was a top notch PA, as well as a trained fighter, and Chris wanted him and if building him his own clinic would get him on board, so be it.

Pouring yet another shot of tequila Chris looked Nathan dead in the eyes and toasted, "To the Teams."

"To the Teams," Nathan concurred and threw his shot back. He then grabbed the bottle and refilled their glasses and looked Chris dead in the eyes and toasted, "and let slip the Dogs of War."

Chris Larabee smiled and drank to his new coworker while Nathan Jackson, fully on board by that time, told him, "If you're line on a pilot doesn't pan out I think I have the perfect guy for the job. Can fly anything with wings and he's a bona fide Sky Pilot."


	11. Chapter 11

Reynosa was just a speck in his rear view mirror and pretty much forgotten when Chris Larabee pulled into Mansfield, Ohio, the home of the 179th Airlift Wing and a number of C-27J Spartan Tactical Transport Aircraft and, after checking into a local motel, Chris headed out to find Josiah Sanchez.

Following Nathan's directions he spotted an old battered pickup truck that had seen better days in the parking lot of a quaint, white, wooden church not far from the base. Most of the tornado damage had been repaired but the closer Larabee got to the small building he wondered, "Why bother?" There was a newer, far more structurally sound and quite beautiful church of the same denomination in downtown Madison and, when Chris climbed the ladder to the roof to ask the large man dressed in overalls wielding a hammer as opposed to a nail gun to tack down what looked to be hand hewn wooden shingles the very same question, the "preacher" just smiled enigmatically and told him he considered it a sort of penance.

Josiah Sanchez had watched the black clad stranger walk from his black Dodge Ram and knew that this was the man Nate had spoken to him of just a few days before. His friend had told him only that the former Navy SEAL and former ATF agent was looking to put together a team and needed a top notch pilot and an even better mechanic. Nathan hadn't told him why the man had left both the SEALS and the ATF and couldn't really vouch for anything more than the man's word but a man's word was usually good enough for Josiah.

After twenty years in the regular Air Force and eight more in the Reserves Sanchez had found that his name appeared less and less on the flight roster, his time in the "left seat" only enough to stay qualified and receive flight pay. Maybe it was time he found another vocation and, as the church was almost done, another avocation.

Nathan had also told him that Larabee's base of operations was in the Colorado foothills and that he would need to live on site. Not a problem for a confirmed bachelor without even so much as a potted plant to tie him down.

Larabee sat down on the roof and waited patiently while the man continued to work seemingly tirelessly in the heat and humidity. After a while Chris said, "Major Sanchez, I was talking to a mutual friend of ours about needing a first rate pilot and mechanic and your name came up." Chris pulled a cheroot from the pocket of his dark t-shirt, placed it between his teeth but didn't light it up.

"That so," Josiah said with a grunt and continued to work, methodically laying shingle after shingle, never looking up at the other man.

"Nathan tells me you're one of the best," Chris then added.

"Fixed wing only," Josiah offered, "You won't catch me in a helicopter."

"My partner's one of the best chopper pilots in the country," Chris told him.

Josiah thought maybe he'd hear the stranger out and stopped hammering. He dragged a bandana across his sweating brow and thought, only the Army referred to them as choppers and huffed under his breath, "One crazy son of a bitch, I'm guessin'."

If you only knew Chris wanted to say but didn't want to scare the big man off, although he didn't look as if he could be intimidated by anyone or anything, "Buck's looking at planes right now."

"That your trooper?" Josiah said and finally looked up.

Chris looked him in the eyes taking his measure and saw nothing untoward in their blue depths. He did know from experience that members of the different branches of the service sometimes had a hard time sharing the sandbox and told him, "Former Army Ranger. That a problem?"

"Not unless he buys a piece of crap for me to fly," Josiah told him with a wink.

Chris smiled and relaxed a little. "Hopefully, I've got a former Texas Ranger turned bounty hunter coming on board as our firearms and munitions man and you already know Nathan Jackson. I'm a former SEAL and federal agent and, admittedly, that's a crap load of testosterone all in one place but I need a pilot who can get us out of Dodge when the shit hits the fan and the Air Force puts out some of the best."

"You're right about that," Josiah said laying down his hammer, "What's your man looking at?"

"Gulfstream IV," Chris replied finally lighting up his cigar.

"It's a mighty fine aircraft," Josiah told him, "Powered by two Rolls-Royce Limited Tay MK611-8 turbofan engines equipped with thrust reversers and she's capable of all-weather, long-range, high speed non-stop flights between nominally suited airports."

"Nominally suited being the key words," Larabee laughed. "We'll be working in regions where suitable airfields for refueling are unavailable…or undesirable…and time constraints, along with heavy fire, will most likely dictate minimizing fuel stops in any case."

"Sounds like fun," the big man quipped then grew serious, "The IV can be equipped with a multi-mission, rapid-change interior and a combination of cargo and passenger operations. I suggest you opt for the eight passenger/two pallet config, one pallet being strictly medical."

"You think we'll need it?" Larabee wondered aloud.

"You hired Nate, didn't you?" Sanchez asked with quiet resignation.

"Yeah, I did and I'd like to hire you if Uncle Sam's finished with you," Chris said handing him one of his business cards.

He looked at it thoughtfully and told Chris, "I'm due to re-up for another four but I think Dogs of War might be a better fit for me at this time in my life."

"I've read your military jacket and I gotta tell you I'm pretty impressed but I've got one request. I need you to show me something I've never seen before," Larabee said and Sanchez chuckled.

"Be on the flight line at 0800," he told Larabee mysteriously with a wide toothy grin that fully reached his eyes and made them twinkle, disconcerting in a man so large.

Larabee left the pilot on the roof of his church and returned to his motel room to call Buck to tell him he would be joining him at General Dynamics headquarters in Falls Church, Virginia the following day to look at the IV and that he thought he had a lock on a pilot. Bright and early the following morning he was sure they had their pilot when, fifteen minutes after Josiah Sanchez took off, the Air Force Reservist proceeded to barrel roll a C-27J Cargo aircraft, not once but twice.


	12. Chapter 12

The leased Gulfstream IV, piloted by Josiah Sanchez with Nathan Jackson in the right-hand seat, was due in at 1500 at a private hanger at Denver International Airport. Leaving early to grab a quick bite to eat Chris Larabee turned the Ram onto the dirt road that led from the ranch and was mildly surprised to see Vin Tanner's red jeep waiting off to the side. Pulling up next to the Texan's vehicle Larabee said through his open window, "Pretty neat trick."

"Finding you?" Vin said, "Lifted your prints right off that slick little business card you left on my front seat." Chris Larabee knew his prints were no longer in any database anywhere in the world and he cocked an eyebrow and squinted at the young shooter. "Called in a marker," Tanner then confessed.

"Could've saved that marker. My partner had instructions to give you directions," Chris said then continued on to pull off onto the side of the road. He got out and walked to the front of his truck where he struck a kitchen match on his boot heel and lit up a Whiskey flavored cheroot.

"Got a few markers out there still." Vin said as he sauntered over to the Ram where Chris now leaned against the truck's grill. The bounty hunter wiped off some of the dust coating the silver ram hood ornament with a finger before taking his place next to the man dressed in black.

Impressed, Chris asked, "This particular marker need a job?" and offered a cigar to the Texan.

Vin shook his head declining the offer. "He might be interested. Right now he's wasting his time as a beat cop in Bean Town," he replied as he looked out over Larabee's ranch. Vin Tanner, whose home for the last six months had been a bedroll slapped on the ground at the nearest campground or pulloff on the side of the road, took in the scenic vista that spread out before him. "Nice place," he said and nodded in the direction of the meadow where the stripped logs of a huge barn shown almost white in the bright sunlight.

Larabee's house, original to the property, the logs dark and weathered, could also be seen nestled in a stand of pine and aspen and for all intents and purposes the place looked like nothing more than a working horse ranch. "So what brings you to Colorado, Vin?" Chris asked nonchalantly although he was champing at the bit to hire the man.

"Got some business in Denver but I thought I'd stop here first," Vin replied eying the dozen or so sleek, shiny horses that grazed lazily in the copious green grass below them.

"I'm glad you did. We've got a mission and I'd like you on board for it," Chris told him and thought of the letter that had been delivered to his office the week before, the letter that had him dreaming of Riley Goodwyn for seven days straight.

The dreams had starting the day he had opened the innocuous looking envelope and the past had come back to slap him in the face. The missive smacked of Orin Travis, former head of NCIS and Riley's boss. After the incident the old man had visited Chris in the hospital in Germany. He introduced himself then told Larabee that, if he were twenty years younger, he would have thrashed him to within an inch of his life if his teammates had not had to shoot him to get him to leave Afghanistan without one of his top operatives.

The two of them sat for a couple of hours talking all the while Travis spiking Larabee's orange juice with medicinal grade alcohol. It was a nasty concoction but acceptable in a pinch and, as Lt. Larabee was surreptitiously debriefed, Orin Travis assured the young SEAL he would do everything in his power to ascertain the whereabouts of Lt. Goodwyn and help him bring her out if she was indeed still alive. But, for whatever reasons, Travis had never gotten back to Larabee... until now.

A few years after Riley had gone missing Travis had quit NCIS and returned to the private sector as a partner in a prestigious law firm in D.C. where he pushed papers until Uncle Sam called upon him once again, this time as an appointee to the federal court in Denver Colorado where he still sat. In all that time Riley Goodwyn had never been far from his thoughts and, because Orin still kept his fingers in many a pie, two weeks before contacting Chris Larabee he had received information from an old friend at NCIS.

A woman matching Riley's description had been seen in Kabul with a high-ranking member of the Haqqani Network and, as much as it pained Orin Travis to hear it, the high-ranking Haqqani terrorist was more than likely Houshmand Sher Agha bomb maker extraordinaire. Although her language skills would have been extremely useful, any military information Riley Goodwyn retained had been rendered obsolete almost immediately upon her capture and would have been of no real use to anyone, especially Sher Agha, who seemed to need no military intelligence to inflict his sort of injury and pain; only someone willing to strap on a vest filled with explosives and blow themselves to kingdom come.

The handsome, charismatic Afghani had no shortage of willing martyrs nor of explosives with which to send them into the waiting arms of Allah and his bevy of virgins. It was rumored that the Haqqani would step up their operations in Kabul targeting US forces under Nato command and that Houshmand Sher Agha, with the help of his American born jihadist girlfriend, would head up the operation.

Orin had passed all of this information on to Larabee and his partner Buck Wilmington and both men were on board to either bring Riley Goodwyn out of Afghanistan if possible or to terminate her if she were indeed part of the Haggani Network and not willing to leave. The mission was being funded by a person or persons unknown and the operation itself was in no way sanctioned by the United States government which had already listed Lt. Riley Goodwyn first as missing, then as killed in action.

They were on their own and if any one of them were caught they had only themselves to rely on so adding Vin Tanner to his roster was a priority for Chris. "So Vin, who's that in the jeep?" he asked nodding toward the Jeep.

"A con artist I been trackin' for a coupla years. Need to drop him off in Denver. He's my business here…and my last bounty." When Vin added the final words he knew that he had made up his mind. He wanted to be a part of something much bigger than himself, a venture like Dogs of War. He wanted to be a part of a tight knit brotherhood of men who were willing to give all if necessary to make a difference in the world.

Chris turned to face the now former bounty hunter and extended his hand. "Welcome aboard, Tanner," he said simply.

Vin shook hands to seal the deal and, knowing he'd virtually signed on blind, asked, "You'll let me know all the particulars?"

"I'll have Buck line it all out for you but I can tell you right now you won't be disappointed with the package. For one, you won't have to sleep all jacked up in the back of your Jeep anymore."

Vin smiled sheepishly. "It's been a while since I had a real roof over my head." _and someone I could rely on_ he thought.

"You have your choice of any of the vacant structures on the property," Chris told him and knew intuitively that the Texan would choose the rustic cabin high on the mountaintop without electricity or running water. He then said, "I'm headed to DIA to pick up two more team members. You think it's all right if we leave your bounty here to cool his heels with my partner Buck? I could use your help racking the guns and ammo."

Vin smiled and chuckled. "It's fine with me but I don't think Standish will be none too happy with the delay."

"Why, he in a hurry to get behind bars?" Chris wondered.

"Definitely not." Vin told him and with all sincerity added, "But he's slippery as hell so tell your man that if he even twitches…shoot 'im."


End file.
