Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,69

pass, and he’d be one step closer to becoming a SEAL.

As the warmth from the mug and Shea’s presence seeped into him, his hunger returned. He ate everything on his plate.

“Let’s get you some more hot chocolate,” she murmured, and they rose and walked over to the drink area. “It was Manning’s DNA under Hennessey’s fingernails,” she said, keeping her voice low. “But he came up with a story that they got into a fight. He denies killing him.”

“He’s lying.” He grabbed a cup and filled it with hot water, reaching for a cocoa packet. “So, you can’t arrest him?”

“No, but we’re still digging. We hope to find something more concrete. I would bet my badge on Wilson and Manning tag teaming that murder. Wilson was there. I just can’t prove it.”

“Sinclair!” Kyle called out. “Medication.” The instructor might be a douche normally, but he was vigilant on everyone’s pills.

Unable to help himself, he leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. This was about the cleanest he would be for some time. Her mouth was soft and warm. She caught the back of his head and kissed him back.

“You two need a room?” Kyle said with a chuckle, and it almost seemed as if he was human…almost. He handed Hemingway the pills, and he washed them down. Then the instructor did something even more out of character. “Keep both of your heads in the game. You’re almost there.” He slipped Hemingway a Snickers.

Hemingway chuckled softly. Maybe Vile and Kyle were such big assholes during BUD/S because they only wanted the men who could tough this out in the teams and at their backs. Maybe. The jury was still out on that one.

“Okay, you’re done. Let’s move, ladies!” Vile called out.

Hemingway sprinted out of the hall to where his boat crew was mustering. “Up boat,” Vile said. “Keep up no-loads!” He took off at a run, the class sprinting to catch up with him, their train momentarily derailed. He moved south along the water’s edge. With every step, pain jolted through his scalp and down his back, his knees protesting, his hip flexors stiff. Lights in the distance grew brighter as the class limped toward Imperial Beach.

“Time to act like piggies,” Vile said with an evil cackle. The laugh track from Big Blue complemented his joyous outburst.

“Mudflats,” Brown said with dread.

“I don’t know, man. You look like you could use a facial,” Hitchcock said.

“Shut up,” Brown snapped.

Hitchcock laughed.

Vile looked back. “You guys are always having so much fun. Let’s see if you can keep up.” He increased his speed and the class sped up. When they reached a large tunnel that went under Silver Strand Boulevard, the thunder of a multitude of rubber soles on concrete resonated in the closed, dank passageway. The headlights from Big blue pacing them danced ominously against the grimy walls. Vile sprinted through the tube and disappeared on the other side. As they lurched back onto the sand, Hemingway immediately saw Vile at the bottom of a gradually declining hill. He knew what they were in store for as he looked out over the still, dull flats.

The instructors lived up to their names. They kept them in the mud for an hour and a half running all kinds of races, wheelbarrow, relay, leapfrog, fireman’s carry, crawling on their stomachs, facedown.

Winners got to sit by the fire and losers had to race again. Hemingway lost some of his lunch, but it didn’t slow him down. Professor was coughing again, and Hemingway looked over at him.

“I’m fine.”

“What did the doc say?”

“A little pneumonia.”

“What?”

“I’m fine. I’m going to do this or die trying, Atty. There’s no turning back for me.”

“Milo—”

“Just support me like I support you, and we’ll get through this together. We’re swim buddies, roommates and crewmates. I won’t let you down.”

“I won’t let you down either.”

The rest of the day they were doing surf immersion drills, and with Hitchcock helping, they did their best to keep Professor between them for warmth.

They had been up now for thirty-six hours straight.

Wednesday morning dawned with the threat of rain and most of what they had done for the rest of Tuesday night was a blur of cold, wet, and sand. Hemingway’s scalp was raw, his back aching, leg infected, skin chaffed, lips chapped, his junk tenderized, but there was only one clear thought. Get through it. It seemed like nothing but harassment, but BUD/S was a sorting process to identify those who have a will to win—to win under