Page 1 of The Last Ride

PROLOGUE

Too many.

I’d attended too goddamn many funerals in my lifetime. But this one was a sucker punch to the gut. It eviscerated me. Left me gasping for breath at the agony ripping my soul to shreds. My best friend was gone. We’d served sixteen years together. He’d been my commander. The leader of our ragtag group of special forces.

Memories swamped me. Our first meeting after I became a SEAL and was assigned to his squad. We were members of SEAL Team 8. We served multiple deployments together in the Mediterranean, Africa, and the Middle East.

The tearing grief left me frozen. It didn’t feel real. Evan had this larger-than-life personality. Always smiling and laughing even as he busted your ass to ensure we were ready for the next fight, the next mission, continuing to push us to be the best of the best.

Evan hadn’t died by enemy fire or in a car accident or because of cancer or a heart attack. Any of those would be an easier pill to swallow than the truth. Because he’d put the muzzle of his rifle in his mouth and blown his damn head off.

Why? What the fuck had Evan been thinking? Why hadn’t he fucking called me so I could talk him off the ledge?

Stepping out of my truck in my dress blues, I donned my hat. And then woodenly made my way across the green expanse at Arlington Cemetery, dotted with row upon row of ivory headstones. This time of year, with the cherry blossoms beginning to sprout, it was a beautiful sight. Even though all it did was make death look pretty. When the truth was, there was nothing pretty about death. Often it was brutal, painful, and terrifying.

I’d lost far too many fucking friends in the field.

When I reached the graveside funeral, I nodded at Wyatt, Lucas, James, and Aiden. We were the last of our old squad. They wore solemn expressions, their gazes hidden behind sunglasses. I stood beside Wyatt, staring at Evan’s casket draped in the flag.

None of it seemed real. How could it when I talked to him two weeks ago?

His family was conspicuously absent. But then, Evan had pissed off a lot of people in his day, both family and friends, with anif you don’t fucking like it, you can leaveattitude.

The chaplain’s words did nothing to soothe the raging grief.

I failed him. Failed to see the signs that he was that close to the edge. But Evan never showed any weaknesses. It was part of being a SEAL, being mentally, physically, and emotionally tougher than everyone else.

Duty. Honor. Sacrifice.

The chaplain’s monotone voice droned on about eternal life and that kind of bullshit. One shot and you’re done. That was my philosophy on life. And I fucking loved being alive.

Despite all the shit I’d seen and done, I never wanted this crazy fucking ride to end.

I watched my brothers approach Evan’s casket—dust to dust and all that shit—and pound their golden trident into his coffin. Fury rose inside me as I approached the glistening wood. I was so fucking weary of burying my damn friends.

I pounded the trident into the wood, striking hard and letting the pain wash over and through me, reminding me I still lived. That his suicide would be another thing I carried.

At the end of the ceremony, Wyatt murmured, “We need to meet at my place. A courier brought a package by. It’s for all of us—from Evan.”

My head whipped around. “Excuse me?”

Wyatt nodded sagely. “You heard me. Don’t make me repeat myself. Meet me and the others at my house. We’ll open it together.”

I nodded, bowing to his command. Without Evan’s family present, there would be no reception afterward. “I’m going to stop by my place on the way. Need me to grab anything?”

“More beer. We’ll barbecue, drink, and see what that fucker sent us.”

“Got it.”

What could Evan have possibly sent and why?

1

Back at my place on base, I switched out my dress blues for jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed my leather jacket to guard against the early spring chill. I figured we were all going to bunk at Wyatt’s place tonight since we’ll be drinking like fish. On the way to his house off base, I picked up four cases of beer and a bottle of Jameson, Evan’s favorite whiskey.

The fucker drank the shit all the time. I had pictures of him holding a bottle in one hand and a cigar in the other.

We would do shots and toast him.

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