Page 1 of Surfer's Paradise

Chapter 1

Naval Air Station North Island

Coronado, California

The wheels hit the runway with a firm jolt, and a slow grin spread across Isaac Rayleigh’s face. Home sweet fucking home.

The C-17 taxied along the tarmac, the weight of its cargo—seventeen SEALs, six months of sweat and gunpowder, and a hell of a lot of adrenaline—settling into the California heat. The guys were already unstrapping, clapping each other on the back, laughing about near-misses and victories that would never see the light of day outside their circle.

Isaac ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough scrape of stubble. He needed a shower. A beer. Maybe two. Or five. Heneeded a soft body against his, the burn of whiskey in his throat, the sharp hit of a cigarette between his fingers.

He needed more.

“Good work out there, gents,” Adam Carrington’s voice cut through the chatter as they stepped off the ramp, boots hitting the pavement. The commanding presence of their LT, always cool, always steady. “Go home. Get some rest.”

Isaac huffed a laugh, slinging his duffel over his shoulder as he walked toward the lot. Rest? What the hell is that?

He wasn’t built for rest. He was built for motion. For the next hit of high-octane bullshit. And today? He was riding higher than ever.

It wasn’t just the op—it was how fucking good it had gone. Textbook. Clean. One perfect breath, one calculated dive, one split-second decision in the deep—and now some motherfucker wasn’t breathing anymore because of him.

Not bad for a punk rock diver with too many tattoos and a reputation for burning the candle at both ends.

Isaac slid into his truck, tossing his bag in the back. The moment the key turned in the ignition, music flooded the cab—hard, fast, pounding—the kind of sound that made blood thrum in his veins. He pulled out of the lot like a man with no brakes, the sun hanging low in the sky, the Pacific glittering in the distance like a goddamn dream.

The road stretched ahead, wide open. His city. His playground. Tonight, he’d drown in it.

* * * * *

Isaac was home for all of five goddamn seconds.

Long enough to kick his boots off, drop his duffel by the door, and take the world’s fastest shower—water scalding, scrubbing away the stench of jet fuel, salt, and sweat. Long enough to shove a protein bar and a swig of orange juice down his throat before slamming the fridge shut with his forearm.

The second he was clean, dressed, and moving again, he felt right. Black baseball hat pulled low. Black jeans. Grey charcoal tee stretched over his frame. No dog tags. No reminders of where he’d just been.

It was Saturday night in San Diego. And he was already gone.

The city unfolded around him in streaks of neon and brake lights, the Pacific dark and endless at his side. The air was thick with late summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel electric.

Isaac didn’t bother checking his phone. He already knew where to go.

His people were everywhere.

Some of them were SEALs, guys from his team who knew how to cut loose as hard as they fought. Some were his L.A. boys, the ones who’d ended up down the coast chasing work, surf, or women. Some were just the kind of people Isaac collected—loud, reckless, always up for a good time.

Too many friends. Too many options.

But that was the beauty of it—he didn’t have to think. He could air-drop into any one of their nights and own it.

And tonight?

Tonight, he was getting shitfaced.

Tonight, he was getting laid.

Maybe multiple times.

Fuck it.

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