Page 64 of Broken Oath

Old.

Forgotten.

Rust streaked the corrugated metal siding. Half the windows had been boarded up years ago. Snow covered the roof, and one corner sagged enough to make Rook question how many winters the building had left.

From the outside, it looked abandoned.

That was exactly what they needed.

No one would imagine three supposedly dead Navy SEALs were building an operation inside it.

Cutter had called it a headquarters.

Rook wasn’t ready to give it a name.

For now, it was simply the place where they would begin.

He turned away from the water and walked toward the warehouse.

Snow crunched beneath his boots.

His ribs still ached when he moved too quickly. His shoulder remained stiff, and the wound in his leg pulled with every third step.

The doctors had warned him recovery would take months.

He had given himself two weeks.

Rook opened the warehouse door.

Warm air met him.

Barely warm.

Cutter had repaired the old heating system, but the building was too large for it to accomplish much more than keeping the pipes from freezing.

The interior stretched into shadows.

Shipping crates and old boat-repair equipment occupied one side. Rusted stairs led to a narrow office overlooking the main floor. Exposed beams crossed the high ceiling, and the smell of metal, engine oil, and seawater clung to everything.

Rook stopped beneath a hanging work light.

A folding table stood in front of him.

Six challenge coins.

Six photographs.

Hammer stood beside a pickup truck with one arm around a boy holding a fish almost bigger than he was.

Ghost looked irritated that someone had managed to take his picture.

Viking’s mouth was open halfway through a joke.

Tex knelt beside his daughter at the edge of a lake.

Ridge stood on a mountain summit with both arms raised.

Bishop looked as though he was considering violence against the photographer.