Intimate Honor Page 2

  The team divided, subtle whispered commands coming through his earpiece like a well-trained concert. Three split to the back of the house, while the rest of them with Squirrel moved to the front. Chris gripped his partner’s collar, keeping him firmly by his side for what came next.

  This was what all those extra hours prepared them for…

  A breeze kicked up and brought the scent of deep forest and green life, something that tickled his senses to an old memory. One he couldn’t quite fully picture but knew had occurred when he’d been a little boy. These small breaks in his attention had been occurring lately, some memory triggering his mind to put together the whole picture. He didn’t know what it was, only that he’d been happy, in New York City, and riding a carousel. His childhood prior to being adopted had been anything but sunshine and roses. But for the life of him, he could never fully put it all together.

  He shook his head, bringing himself back into focus. The mission needed to be his entire world right now, otherwise, his lax attention could cost the life of one of his brothers, or even his own.

  A few seconds of utterly agonizing silence ticked by before two explosions rocked through the village. With the entryways at both the front and back blown to pieces in splinters of wood, they entered the dark house.

  ****

  Three hours later…

  “Goddammit, Crack, I need that air support. And I needed it yesterday!” Squirrel’s voice barked through the headset and Chris grimaced as he ducked another bullet. The damn things seemed attracted to him like bees to pollen. He dodged behind another spiked boulder and tried to catch his breath. Air sawed in and out of his lungs, puffed in circles, and threatened to freeze midair to fall in droplets to the ground.

  The mission had initially gone off as a success. Tayseer al-Libi had been asleep in his room, and while they had taken down a few of his lieutenants, the bloodshed had been minimal. Hog-tying the SOB went smooth, and just as the thought of how easy it’d been … things went to hell in a handbasket from there. Some silent alarm was apparently initiated, and hordes of tribal militia swarmed out of the caves above. Effectively cut off from getting to higher ground, they’d been forced to retreat away from their gear and into the canyons.

  Stuck out in the middle of the White Mountains, a more apt location should have been Antarctica for all the ball-freezing cold surrounding them.

  To be honest, when he didn’t have to dodge those lead-wasp stingers, the mountains were beautiful. Set in eastern Afghanistan, the range was known not only for being an important area for the Taliban insurgents, but it was also lined with some of the most striking natural caverns formed by limestone streams. Even with the remnants of bombing left over from the good ‘ole US of A’s strike to pull Bin Laden out of hiding, nature’s true painting could not be described using words alone. Bob Ross would have even had a hard time capturing the beauty in one of his paintings.

  The range surrounding his team bottomed out with a lake so blue it hurt his eyes. The fish inside probably weren’t clean enough to eat, but hell, when the bright, pollution-free sky mirrored off the crisp surface, one could almost believe they were sitting on a lake back home, basking in the sun, relaxing with the birds chirping nearby, the sound of the wind whispering through trees.

  Almost—that was, if you ignored the acidic-burnt scent of gunpowder, temperatures that threatened to have your balls receding inside your body, and bullets flying over your head. Yeah, it could be considered a torturing kind of paradise.

  Right.

  “Crack!” Squirrel’s voice boomed seconds before the ground shook with another aftershock of an explosion.

  “I’m on it, Captain. Trying not to get my head blown off before the party’s started.”

  “Come on, Princess,” Sergeant Davis, the squad’s leader drawled. “Having a few holes in your head would actually be an improvement.”

  Chris snorted and risked a peek around the rock before tightening his hand on his dog’s leash and darting out from the hiding spot. He had to get to the top of the range, or at least at a higher elevation, in order to contact one of the big birds in the sky. Big birds meaning one of the planes hovering some couple of thousand feet above, a far distance from the hell engulfing below. He jutted over rocks, jumped across ledges—not an easy task when worrying about a hundred and fifty pounds on his shoulders when he had to pick Dumb Ass up, the M4 in his hand and the M9 strapped to his leg, and still carrying the radio pack. The handgun would be like taking a baseball bat against a bowling ball in this godforsaken hell, but if he was that close to anyone to have a need to use it, then he was too close to the enemy. A place no one wanted to be.

  Coming up on a higher cleft, he dove to the ground just as the zing of a bullet whooshed by his head. Too fucking close. Chris dropped the pack and dug for the satellite radio, their only hope for getting a ride out. Earlier, when this whole mess began, the radio sergeant took a knife to his thigh. Chris didn’t want to think too hard about how it had been his knife used, nor about how al-Libi apparently had gotten the one-up on him. Dumb Ass hadn’t liked the show of aggression at all and chomped right through the calf of the SOB who had a few tricks up his sleeve.

  Good dog.

  With the Taliban coming down from the caverns and the bullets echoing through the ranges, it wouldn’t be too much longer until every bad guy in the area—and proceeded to join their comrades—knew that a battle was underway with the United States military.

  Goddammit, it was supposed to be a quick in-and-out based on the intel. He had one week left of his yearlong deployment and then blessed-be, he would be flying home for some R&R. This wasn’t something he signed on to do for the pay, nor something he did to assert power over anyone. This was about doing what was right, and growing up outside of New York City, the missing towers from the skyline served as a reminder that some people needed to be stopped.

  “Cobra 93, this is Crack coming in under fire. Request assistance for immediate extraction and medical emergency,” Chris said, pressing the mic. Sweat, despite the frigid temperatures, popped out underneath his uniform. Yet another damn thing he would have to worry about if they didn’t get off this mountain range. If he stayed stationary too long, the moisture would freeze and he’d run a risk for hypothermia. When trying to keep his ass, and his team alive, being worried about his body’s temperature was the last thing he needed.

  “Crack, this is Cobra 93. We’re three miles out perpendicular to your location. Coming in hot. Request secure landing-zone.”

  The snap of gunfire had muted to almost the sound of popcorn in a microwave. A good sign for holding the enemy back. A bad one should they decide to regroup. And there was no doubt they would. Only a matter of time out here in a field where the bad guy could gather forces faster than rabbits mated.

  “Cobra 93, LZ secure and in visual. Winds 250/8, Activity 4 north with small arms on east and west ridge lines. Report final.”

  Chris whipped his head away from the battle, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and forced himself to watch the horizon for the C-130 coming in. Landing the hunk of metal in a hot zone where enemy forces were breathing down their spines wasn’t the best-case scenario, but it was the only one they had. The ranges and high winds whipping through left the fighter jets with hardly any options and the risk for friendly fire too great. With the four-engine turboprop aircraft holding its own defense system, and the quicker of the larger aircraft, as much as it pained him to do this, if he wanted to get his team out of here—and he did—and get medical help to those needing it, this was their only, albeit risky, shot to do it.

  Had Max Carletto, the radio sergeant, and al-Libi not suffered serious wounds that couldn’t be ignored, they might have tried to hump it to a more secure location. But as it was, Max stood on his last leg, literally. In addition, no way could the guy, no matter how tough he was, make it the ten or so miles they needed to hike.

  A glint reflected the sun and Chris narr
owed his eyes as the C-130 came into view over the horizon. Adrenaline, a separate kind from the gunfight, surged. Landing a billion-dollar plane out here, where it was vulnerable to surface-to-air missiles, not to mention any IEDs they may have missed during their quick sweep, fell on his shoulders. Not only did his team rely on him to get them out of here, but the pilot and his aircrew were betting on him to have done his job right.

  “Cobra 93, Crack LZ, 240/10, LZ secure as it’s going to get. Cleared to land.”

  “Crack LZ, uh … seems pretty short. Provide confirmation of distance,” Captain stated warily.

  Despite the situation, Chris couldn’t resist the instinct to fuck with him. “Roger, Cobra 93. Distance confirmed. Make a hard right at the end, center for immediate take-off. Going to be really close to those cliffs, which jut off into a deep space of who-the-hell-knows. If you’re not able to do that, take the Guadalupe exit off Highway 101, make a right at the light, and return to the airstrip.”

  Silence ticked by so long Chris thought the pilot might be one of those uppity kinds who didn’t know a joke when they heard one. They were rare, but it would really suck for this guy to be one when they needed the ride home.

  The radio crackled. “Ro-ger, Crack. Google for a drive-thru liquor store. Next stop, Southern California, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chris snorted.

  Seemingly moving too damn slow to stay in the air for a hunk of metal its size, the aircraft lowered inch-by-inch in the sky. He held his breath during the last few seconds as the plane hovered over the ground, then it touched down. The ground shook with force as the pilot tossed the engines in reverse, attempting to stop the progression with the short field they had available.

  Chris moved, pack back across his shoulders, down the cliff with his dog. Not only did he act as an STS, and a pseudo-air traffic controller, but he also had to be the ground crew and get the plane turned around and ready to take off at a moment’s notice. He was pretty sure the pilot and each of the aircrew had puckered assholes right about now. Especially seeing the telltale sign of smoke coming from caverns, the Taliban’s announcement that they knew they were there, and they wanted reinforcements to move in.

  A ticking time bomb had begun.

  From the sound of gunfire, which had increased, Chris wasn’t too far off the mark for the clock either. He rejoined his team at the bottom of the range just as the tailgate to the C-130 slammed down and the Ravens—flight crew and plane security—whooshed out in a startling pop of gray flight suits, each taking a knee once they cleared the wingspan and focusing their attention on securing the plane.

  Chris still talked to the pilot. “Cobra 93, cargo moving up now. Coming from your six, SF team, and two injured. Providing 180 to you.”

  “Cobra 93, copy,” the pilot responded, his voice sounding as if he were sitting back enjoying the same lazy day Chris dreamed of earlier.

  He dropped to a knee next to Squirrel and scanned the horizon. Each second the plane stood on the ground, the more of a risk it drew, a big gray bull’s-eye sitting in the middle of mountains. “Pilot knows it’s hot. What’s the ETA on the rest of the team?”

  Squirrel glanced over. “Nice job, Crack. ETA two minutes and this plane could not have come any sooner. And look at you, no extra holes. It’s been a good day.”

  Chris resisted the urge to roll his eyes … barely. The entire operation had been one clusterfuck after another. He’d be glad to put this behind him, as he was sure they all would. They still had to get through takeoff, though. And that would be a risk in itself.

  Distant sounds of gunfire grew closer and the radio traffic in his ear more excited as the team with the injured came up on the landing zone. Chris rose and braced for the switch that would overtake the somewhat peace they had. In the space of seconds, this area would be heavy under fire. Like turning a light on.

  As if on cue, two members broke out of the clearing, carrying Sig, aka Max, between them, making a beeline for the plane. He rushed to provide cover and started counting bodies as they made way for freedom. Squirrel took up point next to him and one by one, they fired shots. His world narrowed until all he focused on was his teammates, the rushing of bodies to get to the plane, the occasional popping of a head behind a rock, his partner’s weight against his leg, and the steady squeeze—five pounds of pressure against the trigger.

  When the last body rushed past, Squirrel slapped his shoulder. Chris dropped back and contacted the pilot again. He kept his gaze forward, weapon at ready, but for the most part knew Squirrel would let nothing get between them and the plane.

  “Cobra 93, Crack LZ, cargo secure. Coming up on your tail, plus one. Cleared for departure. And we need to do this fast.”

  The crackle of the corresponding transmission came through mumbled as the power of the engines kicked up, preparing for takeoff. Would be a quick ride, but one they had to do if the sounds of impending doom coming down the mountain didn’t speak volumes. Squirrel picked off one figure after another, his rifle never lowering as the bodies began to grow in numbers.

  Chris grabbed the back of Squirrel’s pack and hauled him up. Dumb Ass brushed against his leg and Chris gave him the command to get on the plane.

  He turned and time seemed to slow. The plane’s engines dropped to a low whisper. Dumb Ass had turned around on the loading dock and headed back toward him. What the hell was he doing? Chris shouted at him to halt, but his damn dog wasn’t listening. Explosions vibrated through the ground, shaking his exhausted legs until they threatened to crumble.

  Chris looked over at Squirrel and while the captain yelled something, he couldn’t make out the sound. Panic crossed his commander’s features before a dark ball of fur cut off his vision. Air whooshed out of his lungs as the sky exploded in dust and debris. Pain slammed into his skull, rocked through his chest. His leg and back screamed in agony. His vision dulled around the edges as explosions continued to pummel the ground around him. Bullets whipped overhead and Squirrel’s face filled his vision, his eyes wide and terrified.

  A heavy weight lay on his chest and Chris shifted to grab a full breath of air, but the body held him fast.

  “Are you hit?” Captain asked.

  He blinked, couldn’t think of an answer. Everything moved in slow motion. What the hell had happened? Warmth spread across his stomach and moments later, the weight lifted from his chest. He sucked in precious air with a hard gasp.

  He glanced down. Davis took a limp Dumb Ass in his arms, his eyes full of sorrow just as the world tilted.

  “Dumb Ass?” Chris shouted after Davis.

  Squirrel kneeled in front of him, wrapped Chris’s arm around his shoulders, and heaved him up. Pain pulsed in a steady wave and nausea swirled in his stomach. His vision wavered but the rest of the team surrounded them, fighting back whatever the hell was happening. He couldn’t think, couldn’t tear his gaze off his dog, his unmoving partner as they were swept into the cargo hold of the plane.

  Flight crew rushed up and darted around, readying for takeoff. Chris was tossed into a seat and buckled in for the ride. His heart pounded to the beat of techno music he hadn’t heard in over a year as the plane started to move, bouncing over rocks and holes on the makeshift runway. In front of him, Davis leaned over DA, pressing something to his dog’s side, the white gauze soaking crimson fluid faster than Chris could keep up.

  He ripped at his buckle and fell to the ground, intent on crawling over to the Shepherd. Pain knifed up his legs from landing on the unforgiving hull. He tumbled forward and coughed. The taste of iron filled his mouth and he spit it to the floor.

  “Easy there, Crack. You’re hit. Seems you didn’t escape those holes,” Nate, the team’s medic said in his ear. With the assistance of Squirrel, who at some point joined him on the ground, they laid him out next to his dog, barking orders to one another over his head. He didn’t comprehend any of it. His sole attention was on his partner at his side.

  He squeezed his eyes shut as the pilot g
ave the vehicle equivalent of flooring it, then the nose tipped and—thank fuck!—they were airborne.

  Reaching out, he grabbed a limp paw and looked into those same intelligent brown eyes now fading in life and full of unspeakable pain.

  “Dumb Ass,” he choked and fought the sting behind his eyes. “What the hell did you do, buddy?”

  Ford chuckled from beside him and Chris glanced over to find Squirrel’s worried expression, but strength and will behind his gaze.

  “He saved your ass, Crack. Hoorah,” Captain said. “All in a day’s work.”

  Chapter Two

  So many days passed in a blur. If someone had asked him, Chris wouldn’t have been able to give a definitive answer. Two weeks, maybe? It was hard to say as the narcotics they kept pumping through his system made his mind fuzzy and his reactions slow. A predicament no Spec Ops soldier wanted to find themselves in. Not when a delay of a second could mean the difference between life and death. Even sitting up in bed within one of the biggest military hospitals in Germany didn’t lower his risk assessment any. He had a hard time letting his guard down.

  Chris squeezed his eyes closed and pushed out a shaky breath. Pressure sat like a coiled spring in his chest, tightening with each tormenting second. He didn’t want to hear the words, wished like hell he hadn’t. And he craved, not for the first or second time in as many days, to switch roles with Michael J. Fox and star in Back to the Future so he could erase the last few weeks. What he wouldn’t give for a time travel machine.

  “Did you hear me, Sergeant Gonzalez?” his commander asked, tone hard and cold, yet still holding a trace of pity. The words battered against his pounding head with the staccato of a fully loaded M60.

  Chris cracked his eyes open and for one, two, three seconds—yep, he counted those bitches out, the room spun before his commander filled his vision. The man stood tall and proud in his dress blues, metals gleaming in an array of colors and in as many rows. He was surprised he didn’t fall over face-first. Silver birds winked from the top of his shoulders and the sun from the late afternoon’s rays glared off the rank as it disappeared behind Germany’s horizon.