The ceiling hadn't changed, and Wyatt knew this because he'd been staring at the same crack forever. He couldn't seem to get his mind wrapped around the way this last mission had gone down. It was an entirely different mission and situation than Afghanistan, yet it reeked of ineptitude and perhaps deception.

The traffickers had known they were coming, and it was obvious the women hadn't been hustled out there at the last minute because they were spotted. They'd been waiting for the cavalry to arrive, and the big F.U. involved massacring the victims right in front of the rescuers. The last op he'd participated in while deployed to Afghanistan had been a nightmare, and Wyatt had been the lone survivor.

Knowing the guys who'd had his back were all dead screwed with his head. All of the therapy with the VA psychologists and the group therapy with the other warriors who were wounded where no one could see didn't prepare him for the periods of numbness and self-loathing which followed him. When he met Clare, a change occurred within him and waking up in the morning wasn't only a respite from the nightmares, but a moment he savored. He closed his eyes and could see her face as she lay deep in sleep beside him, despite it being almost a year since he'd seen her last.

Each of them had been a lone survivor and damaged as they were, they worked as a couple. The hollow place in their souls had been filled by the presence of the other. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he sat upright and groaned at the throbbing in his head, signaling with the beginnings of a headache. His head dropped into his hands until the pounding eased, and he scrubbed the sweat from his face with his hands as his eyes raised.

A sharp knock on the door preceded the rumbled expletives which flowed from Rev on the other side.

"Hang on, hang on." Wyatt took his time getting to the door and flung it open hard enough the knob slammed into the wall. Before the door had settled, he'd folded back onto the edge of his bunk.

"Getting enough beauty sleep, Princess?" Rev puffed out his chest and crossed his bulging arms in front of him.

"If you weren't my superior, I'd tell you exactly what my thoughts are on that subject. So why am I privileged with your company, Commander?" Military titles weren't used in 5211, but they had served together in the Navy, and Wyatt admired the former SEAL team leader.

"Well, damn, I didn't realize I had to have a reason to come down here and give you shit, Law." A malicious grin accompanied his words.

Unable to keep from chuckling, Wyatt shook his head. "How do you always make me laugh, man? I was deep in the analysis of that mess of a mission right before you dented my door."

Rev's face hardened as the corners of his mouth turned down. "Ugly business, that. It didn't settle right with me either, but it's not the reason I'm here. We need to get a briefing from one of the spooks. Get your ass to the conference room in five." One moment he was there, and the next, he was gone while the sound of his words still hung in the air.

There wasn't enough time for a shower, so Wyatt threw on a tee and a pair of board shorts to attend the meeting. When he was on active duty, showing up this way would have meant going to Captain's Mast. 5211 was a different reality. He nabbed a cup of coffee along the way and entered the conference room where his fellow teammates and a few suits had gathered. In the front of the room, a woman set up her laptop. She was attractive in a starched and buttoned-up way. Her brunette hair had been scraped back away from her face so tightly it looked painful. Her carefully applied makeup seemed more mask-like than something to enhance her looks.

"Gentlemen, I need you to take your seats. We need to get started." Not even a smile. But he wouldn't judge because Lord knows few captains or admirals had ever smiled pleasingly before their presentations to the operatives. The woman was CIA, and the costume she wore now was probably one of who knows how many she'd worn in the performance of her job.

"I'm Agent Keating, and I'm going to begin the briefing." The lights dimmed, and the room fell silent as they waited for her to start. Multiple slides clicked on and off the screen in front of them as Keating gave them intel about each subject or scene. With the next slide, she was noticeably silent a few moments longer than usual. Wyatt noted she dipped her head and her jaw tightened right before she cleared her throat.

"The man in the stocking cap in this photo is believed to be Aleksandr Sokolov's son, Maarku. As his father's chief enforcer, he's tied to multiple assassinations and intel points to him operating in the United States at the current time. Maarku Sokolov has been reportedly linked to illegal arms deals, drug smuggling, and sex trafficking. Our informants talk about his financial acumen, and it is highly likely he's involved in laundering money for his oligarch father."

Wyatt eyed the blurry photo before him, wishing the resolution was better. There was something about the blurry image that niggled at him. Something about the eyes. Shaggy light colored hair peeked out from the knitted cap. A beard hid his jawline from view. This was the best photo the CIA had?

Doc's drawl filled the room. "Sweetheart, I don't understand what this Sokolov dude has to do with us and our mission?"

"Well, dahling," the female agent softly spoke before her eyes narrowed to slits and her voice turned cold. "My name is Agent Keating, not sweetheart, honey or babe. You will address me as such. Maarku Sokolov issued the orders for the slaughter of your hostages. He warned the group about the operation in advance. Did that answer your question?"

"Yes, ma'am, Agent Keating." The traces of the South in Doc's speech didn't change, it was natural, but he knew not to push his luck.

So this Russian asshole has a mole embedded deep--very deep--if they had intelligence on what the 5211 operatives were planning. Wyatt looked at the slide again, committing it to memory.

###

Shanaya closed the computer file she'd been assessing and bit her lip in frustration. Why couldn't she put her finger on the source of the discrepancies Uncle Jeb alerted her about? She was a highly trained forensic accountant, for heaven's sake. Significant amounts of cash flows into any casino organization, because of being such cash-intensive businesses, they're an easy target for money laundering operations. Chips are purchased with illicit funds, the gambler plays only a short period and then cashes in their chips requesting payment in a check or with a receipt they can claim as gambling winnings.

But that is only speculation at this point. The real issue is the missing money from earned revenues. Is there someone on the inside who is helping to coordinate the money laundering and helping themselves to the bottom line at the same time? She would find out. Maybe spending some quality time with the security cameras and any recordings over the past month should be on her agenda. Popcorn would be necessary for her screenings. Shanaya smiled at her joke, knowing she had her work cut out for her.