Chapter Eight

Nomad

With everything going on with the Middle Eastern countries along the Mediterranean Sea right now, the United States government had a vested interest in calming the temperatures.

Whatever information this guy Poole had in his back pocket, it couldn't be small.

It had to be a serious threat.

This was one of those missions where any point of failure was a spark to a det cord. It could very well snake itself along to a massive explosion.

Nomad had lived a razor's edge kind of life for nearly two decades.

It was the space he liked to inhabit. It brightened his focus, calmed his nerves, and felt good in his bones. It was what he was made to do.

While that made missions feel natural, it didn't make them easy.

Nomad didn't take anything about his work lightly.

He and Echo Team Alpha spent time trying on the dirty clothes, going through the packs, and familiarizing themselves with all the elements that had been gathered. Whoever was supporting this mission had done an excellent job. How they found worn hiking clothes that fit both him and T-Rex—yeah, they stepped up to the challenge of "Go big or go home."

Their jump gear was squared away. The night was deepening, and now there was nothing to do but be pointed toward their plane and given a thumbs up.

"Focus in." T-Rex pulled the team's attention to him as he looked at his phone. "I'm getting a message from the Diplomatic Security Service."

Ty turned his way. "Out of Ankara?"

"Affirmative."

Nomad scowled. "Is this about our legislators?"

"Reading. Okay, a bomb went off in front of an American-owned hotel in Tal Afaya."

"Lebanese border town, I moved through there on assignment a few years back," Havoc said. "Which hotel? Does it say?"

T- Rex put his finger on the screen. "Surain Zunai."

"That's right in the middle of town where Westerners stay when heading over the border to Syria. It was a good jumping-off place for those traveling to Damascus before the Civil War. It's nice." Havoc paused. "Was nice."

"Does it give any information about the structural damage? Body count? And, I guess, more importantly, if it's bringing scrutiny to that area?" Ty asked. "Our target isn't there, but he's not that far either. We might run into issues if they're suddenly on high alert."

"That's all it says other than it might have been targeted on the government building next door to the hotel."

"And someone set off a bomb in the wrong location by mistake?" Nitro asked.

Jeopardy tipped his head. "Hand got twitchy on a vest, and they didn't reach their destination?"

"There was a significant loss of life. There were almost exclusively foreigners and staff in the hotel. To that end, embassies in Beirut were informed. They don't know yet if any Americans were involved." T-Rex swiped his phone closed. "It might make the border guards jumpy. Lebanon and Syria might put more boots on the ground."

"Good thing we're floating into the desert then," Ty said.

"Note that. Desert is where our boots touch down. We are coming mighty close to the lake, and we don't have the time, the equipment, or the manpower to drag your drowning asses out of the drink. Ty is dropping down first with Rory. Follow his beacon in."

"Which is fine until he goes into the water," Havoc said.

"That's why you have a GPS, princess," Ty sent him a grin.

A guy in Air Force coveralls stepped through the door. "Echo," he called out, "your plane is fueled and waiting. If you'd follow me?"

They scraped back their chairs, snagged up their gear, and headed out.

Nomad looked down at Rory, trotting beside him on a short leash. "You ready to play? Does Rory like to be a birdie?"

Rory's tale wagged furiously while he pranced by Ty's side.

Ty scowled. "Don't rile him with promises we don't know we can keep. Look at him grinning like that. Now, if he doesn't get to jump, he's not going to be happy."

"I think that's all of us," Nitro said. "Jeopardy and I will see you on the beach. Go catch us a traitor."

***

Rory, Echo's Malinois, had trained for a SEAL team. Rory came to work for Delta Force when his handler became ill and had to leave the service. By the time Ty became his handler, Rory was a seasoned and polished force multiplier. His enthusiasm for working in the fray was admirable. And his energy was contagious.

Right now was one of those times. With his helmet strapped under his chin and the ear protectors in place, Rory knew he was going to work—his favorite thing in the world.

Smart as a whip, he paid attention to what kinds of packs the team had hanging from their shoulders and knew they were about to jump.

Possibly, that was true.

The brass in the situation room hadn't greenlighted this mission beyond flying to a specific coordinate where they'd circle until a decision was made. That decision could come from D.C., or the pilot would call it if they got fuel critical.

This was part of their training: Take a knee, ready for the breach, and get called off. It wasn't as easy as that might sound. Hormones being what they were, when all systems were primed for violence, it was hard to sneak away in silence.

If it was hard on them, it was straight-up bad for Rory. If they did get turned around, Ty would have to devise something, possibly even having them jump onto the training field so Rory wouldn't be disappointed. It was the same when Rory went out on a search. If the subject wasn't found, at the end of the day, they'd find some volunteer to lay under a blanket or something so Rory could find them and get his reward. Otherwise, like most working dogs, he could become depressed.

Rory stretched his neck past Ty's knees to capture his jump bag in his teeth and pulled it onto Ty's lap. His butt hit the floor, and he looked expectantly at Ty.

Ty scratched under his chin.

Rory must have a bit of psychic intuition. The pilot came over the comms. "That's the call. We are climbing to altitude and leaving international waters. We have the wind pushing us along, that's going to cut our flight time. We estimate you'll be on target in thirty-five minutes."

The men moved through their preparation slowly. The goal was to—even if nerves were amped for the dangers of a HAHO jump—prevent any sweat. Being damp and experiencing the negative forty-nine-degree temperatures at thirty-five thousand feet could be life-threatening. They donned their thermal HAHO suits that wouldn't keep them toasty but would help prevent frostbite.

Ty loaded Rory into his jump bag, which would keep him warm in the frigid temperatures of high altitude and protect his legs during landing. He wore an oxygen mask like the rest of the team to keep from going hypoxic and passing out.

Nomad was looking forward to the jump every bit as much as Rory was. Nomad's place of peace was floating through the night sky. His favorite kind of jump was the HAHO. It gave him the longest drift of all the jumps.

It was only under extreme circumstances that he got the opportunity to enjoy his time in the sky. Such is life.

The HAHO was chosen when they needed covert insertions. And if a mission needed minimal detection from those on the ground, this qualified.

The pilot called out the two-minute mark.

The back of the plane yawned open.

The brothers lined up.

After the team checked each other's equipment and gave a thumbs up, the jump master signaled them forward.

Ty was out the door with Rory dangling from his front harness.

This was it. The mission was in motion.

Nomad stepped up and jumped out.

Now, to meet the objective without starting World War III.