Chapter 12

12

A short break in the firefight had Striker moving into position. He blew out a breath as he lined up the sight on his rifle. The man with the RPG had the thing loaded and was preparing to fire.

Striker’s throat closed with fear. He squeezed the trigger, staying steady though he was in the open and could be taken out at any moment.

The blast from his rifle echoed across the field and then there was silence. Had he done it? Another volley from his team struck true. There was no answering fire from the enemy.

“Is he down?” Jackson asked.

Brady lifted up, moving so he could look out the window. “No clue. Give me a second.”

Striker grabbed his sight monocular and looked at the man who’d been shooting off that devil of an RPG. Sure enough, he was slumped over, his arms hanging at his side.

“I got him,” Striker said.

“Good job,” Jackson called out. “It’s time to move out and get rid of that missile site.”

Striker didn’t allow the relief to get in his way of doing his job. Though they’d cleared the playing field, he still kept watch for more combatants to show up. Warzones were full of danger, and one slipup was enough to get you killed. The odds of surviving blew with the wind, so he had to remain flexible and aware.

Twenty yards from the missile site, he froze. The air seemed thick with danger. His throat closed as fear and anticipation twisted together.

“Something is off,” Jackson whispered.

“Way off,” Brady added.

Striker saw two guys decked out with rifles. This shit got very real, very fast.

“Two on the left side of the door,” Striker said.

“I got the one on the right.” Brady aimed his rifle, ready to fire .

Striker lifted his gun and prepared to take out the guy on his left. “Ready in three, two, one.”

They both fired, and both men dropped to the ground. Brady chuckled and then patted Striker on the back.

“Perfect timing,” Brady said. “That was good.”

“It was. Thank you. Good shot.” Striker waited a few seconds to make sure they were in the clear. When nothing else moved around them, he stood and headed toward the missile launcher.

Brady placed C4 at the base of the launcher and wired the firing device. With this bad boy gone, their helicopters would be able to move in. Brady tapped him on the shoulder, and they took off, making their way back to the resort. When they were fifty yards away, Brady blew the charges.

It was rewarding to see their hard work pay off.

Whitney spoke over the headset. “Congratulations, you got it done.”

“Sure did. We’re headed back.” Striker took a step and paused. Something was wrong. He held up his hand, and the rest of the guys stilled.

“What do you see?” Jackson asked.

“I heard something. A twig snapped up ahead.”

“Shit, we have company.” Jackson dropped low and began firing.

Striker hit the dirt, wishing they had a wall to hide behind. Brady hit someone, and Jackson took out another person. Striker rose to his elbows and prepared to fire. The crunch of leaves to his right had him rolling over. The guy had snuck up on them.

The sight of a man holding a gun on him, his finger on the trigger, made Striker’s blood run cold. Shock hit him like a wave, and he hesitated just a second as the guy pulled the trigger. Striker returned fire, hitting the guy in the head.

Blood sprayed on Striker’s hand and the dirt beside him. He gulped in air, taking in the stench of unwashed bodies that mixed with blood and gunpowder. It filled his nostrils and made his head spin.

Was he in pain? He didn’t think so. He wiggled his toes and fingers, and they all worked.

“Jesus, anyone get hit?” Striker asked as he rolled over and climbed to his feet.

“I’m good,” Jackson said.

Brady didn’t say anything. Striker stared at his buddy, anger mixed with sadness as he noticed the blood pooling beneath his friend. Another good man died, leaving behind his family. Anger churned, and he wanted to strike back, but he had a mission here.

“Fuck,” Striker said. “They got Brady.”

Jackson cleared his throat, and Striker turned to him. The man’s lips were pressed in a thin line. “I’ll get him.” Jackson’s voice was low, his words crisp .

“What happened?” Whitney asked.

“Brady is dead.” Striker’s stomach clenched, and his head ached.

“Dammit.” Whitney echoed his pain.

Jackson bent low and picked up Brady. Striker took their packs as they made their way back to the resort, stopping by to check on the family Bishop had been headed to help before they’d been attacked.

The woman and daughter were in tears when they saw Striker and his team. They went by the building where Bishop and his wounded men were hiding. Striker helped Bishop to standing, and half carried, half supported him so he could walk out of the building. Whitney had moved the group of embassy employees to another building near the main building. The headache wasn’t over, but they weren’t being shot at, and the SAM site was gone.

Anger rode Striker hard, but it wasn’t his place to say anything to the pompous asshats who through stupidity had placed everyone in danger.

He mourned Brady. They had drifted apart after Brady’s last promotion, but in basic training, they’d been best friends and had good times together. After basic, they’d hung out quite a bit, enjoying the late-night chats after fun bar visits, and then the early-morning runs. After a few missions as Rangers, they’d grown to be family, actually closer than just regular family. He’d depended on Brady keeping him alive. Striker’s heart hollowed out. He’d failed his friend, just like he’d failed Dirk, who had died two weeks ago. It was a damn shame losing Dirk, just like it was a damn shame losing Brady.

Anger and pain swirled together. He didn’t want to lose any more of his friends. Whitney caught his eye and shook his head. Jesus, he wasn’t going to go off on these diplomats. It wouldn’t solve anything and might just end up with him in deep shit. No, he’d save his anger for later when he was home.

Jackson stumbled over and slunk down on the ground next to him. Neither of them spoke, but Jackson leaned up against him, resting his head on Striker’s shoulder. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t shed any tears here.

The whoop-whoop of helicopter blades brought relief. They’d escape this hellhole without losing any more men.

On the chopper, Whitney sat on one side, Jackson on the other. He leaned his head on Jackson this time and drifted off as they made their way to the ship sitting offshore. Eventually, they’d be flown to a base in Spain and then home.

On the ship, they ate then slept as they rested up against each other. The embassy employees weren’t going to Spain with them, and a few of the Rangers were headed off to other bases. He landed in Spain and loaded onto the bus that would take him back to his temporary quarters where he could shower before grabbing a meal. They’d be gone before the sunset, so he’d sleep on the plane. Jackson was with him, along with Whitney, Ben, and Rand. They were all dragging ass. The injured had been flown out on another helicopter after the doctor on the Navy ship had treated them.

“You got anything planned for next week, Striker?” Jackson asked as they sat down for eggs and bacon along with pancakes served on Army trays in the mess hall. The food was much better than the dishes they were eating on, and he wasn’t disappointed, finishing every last bite.

“Nothing special.” He lied. He wasn’t ready to tell the guys how close he was to having Shannon move in with him. She was too good to be true, and he didn’t want to jinx it. He’d told Lucas, his suitemate, but that was different. Lucas had to know since someone else would be moving in with him.

Whitney and Rand laughed and made rude gestures as Jackson talked about heading out to a bar to pick up some woman to screw. He chuckled along with them though his mind was on Shannon.

“I’m looking forward to getting drunk and making bad decisions after that mission,” Whitney said.

A few of the guys laughed, Striker gave a half-hearted chuckle. He doubted Whitney would make bad choices. He wasn’t like the rest of them. Sure, he fucked around, but Whitney was a stand-up guy.

Striker had grown up a punk loser from the wrong side of the tracks. The Army had been his only option for any sort of a future. With no money even for trade school, he’d taken his GED and left high school early. The first few years in the Army had been hell, but he’d impressed someone and been promoted. Ranger school had opened for him, and the decision was easy. He figured he would probably die soon anyway, so why not go for the hardest thing possible. After three years in as a Ranger and he hadn’t died, he decided staying in was a good idea. Now he was about to turn twenty-five, never married, and no kids. He was Army through and through, and then there was Shannon. She’d become important after only a few days with her. Once they spent some serious time together, he figured she would be the better part of his life.

He drew in a slow breath, praying Shannon would move in with him. His palms started to sweat, and his head spun. He would never let her go if he had her, but not in a creepy way; instead he would work his ass off to keep her happy because he knew that life without Shannon wouldn’t be worth much.

Six hours after they landed at the base in Spain, they loaded on a plane and took off for home. Touching down on American soil jolted him awake. Shannon’s graduation would be happening soon. He wanted to go, but he’d have to ask for leave, again.

He cleaned his gear, stowing his things in the proper place so the next time they went out, he’d have everything at the ready. He pulled out his phone and dialed Shannon. She didn’t answer. He called again; same result. He sent a text telling her he was home, but there was no response. His heart twisted, and his stomach ached as the hours passed and still his text went unanswered. With his paperwork done from the mission, he headed to the command room and ran into Jackson. His buddy was headed out for a night of drinking.

“Want to go?” Jackson asked.

“I have something else I need to attend to.”

“Sure, I’ll see you later.” Jackson bumped his fist before taking off.

The sadness from losing Brady still hung in the air. He saw it in the faces of his friends, heard it in their voices. It was difficult to get over losing men like Brady. He’d never get used to losing his buddies.

The need to see Shannon grew. He called her after he dressed, but she didn’t answer. Panic flared.

“Jesus Christ, woman, where are you? ”

Lance stepped in and paused. “Can’t get hold of her?”

“No, she won’t answer.”

“How long has it been? Didn’t you just get back?”

Striker blew out a breath and pulled a beer from their refrigerator. “Yeah, it hasn’t been that long. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

He took a long draw of the beer, watching as Lance grabbed his own and held it up so they could clink bottles. The sharp click reminded him of when he’d met Shannon. Maybe it had been too good to be true. Maybe, just maybe, she wanted nothing to do with him ever again.