Bradley’s mouth closed over hers in a possessive kiss. The recliner lurched backward, and he pulled Abby on top of him.
She could feel his heart drumming fiercely. His hands gripped her backside, pressing her hips tighter against him, then roamed upward. His fingertips slipped beneath her T-shirt, caressing bare skin, electrifying her senses. His thumbs gathered the fabric, hiking it higher, and thoughts of making love began pulsating through her.
In one fluid motion, he sat upright, rolling and rotating Abby across his lap, scooped her into his arms, and rose from the recliner.
This is it, she thought, nerve endings jangling with anticipation. He’s carrying me to his bedroom.
Then Bradley returned Abby to her feet and pulled back from the kiss.
Dumbfounded, she watched him retreat into the kitchen without uttering a word.
115G
RYAN HIKED THROUGH waist-high weeds and between gnarled pines, keeping a wary eye on Jihad-Joe.
DJ could easily take me out during a firefight, Ryan thought. He could pick up an abandoned AK-47, pop off a shot, and make it look like enemy fire, just another casualty of battle.
A perilous thought made a jailbreak, running wild through Ryan’s nervous system, pumping jagged little icicles through his conscience.
Then again, I could take him out the same way.
He shook away the temptation.
Since the Army had not gleaned any actionable intelligence on the missing Patriot missile battery, his team had been tasked with recovering a dozen Stingers, shoulder-launched missiles capable of destroying vehicles and low-flying aircraft.
More U.S. weaponry being turned against us, he thought.
Ryan cast a wary eye skyward, wondering if he could trust the drone support overhead.
Rumors were swirling: The IRGC had boots on the Eastern Seaboard and the Gulf Coast; an F-22 had crippled the U.S.S. Ramer with a 9/11 dive into the ship’s island; North Korean operatives had infiltrated the West Coast.
Flashes of lightning silhouetted their target, a small cabin inside Lake Louisa State Park that backed up to Dixie Lake. As the team moved into position, Ryan counted four men with AK-47s outside the building, a minimal threat.
Mike, Juan, and Victor covered the front of the cabin and the eastbound road. Ryan was across Dixie Lake watching the rear of the property; and DJ was monitoring the T-shaped intersection at the western end of the road, six hundred yards away—a wise decision on Mike’s part.
Is he afraid of DJ shooting us? Ryan wondered. Or me shooting DJ?
Probably both.
He checked the time. The drone strike was still minutes out when Ryan spotted a pinprick of light to the west, too inconsequential to be lightning, more like a flashlight switching on and off repeatedly. Was DJ signaling someone inside the cabin? Alerting them to the Rangers’ presence?
The guards posted behind the structure grew restless, and Ryan could smell the scent of ambush hanging in the air. Swearing under his breath, he readied his rifle, then bullets swarmed around him like mosquitoes. He fired off a half dozen bursts. Then the back of the cabin grew quiet.
Out front, the firefight continued, and he heard a hollow popping noise, too loud to be a gunshot, more like a grenade.
A missile launcher poked through the cabin’s side window, aimed toward Juan and Victor.
Ryan delivered a deluge of bullets.
The Stinger pivoted toward him.
A streak of light arced.
A hissing trail of smoke whooshed from the building and plowed into the lake. The missile detonated, spewing water and mud onto Ryan with a force that stung; then a Hellfire missile struck the cabin and rattled the ground.
He waited, scanning the dusty remains for movement, thinking about those orphaned AK-47s.
So tempting ...
As if DJ could read his mind, he was first to report in, followed by Juan and Victor.
A brittle silence filled the night.
“Mike, you clear?” Ryan asked.
No response.
Soaking wet, the breeze felt like frosty fingers clawing his back as he moved toward Mike’s position.
His friend was lying prone, and Ryan dropped to his knees, frantically trying to stem the bleeding.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, lying to himself, more so than Mike. The right side of his face was a mass of chewed, uneven flesh with bits of metal and bone protruding.
Blood was gushing from his neck.
His pulse was fading.
Ryan cradled his friend, then he squeezed his eyelids tight, refusing to watch what was about to happen.
Instead, he heard a soft shush of air.
He felt the last wisp of life expire from Mike’s battered body.
Like a whispering sigh. Peaceful. Final.
116G
BRADLEY WANTED HER; Abby was sure of it.
So why did he run away?
Emotions tottering between confusion and anger, she snatched the lantern from the coffee table and followed him into the kitchen. Bradley stood at the sink, back to her, rinsing dinner dishes in a bucket of water. To his left, flames danced, slowly consuming the tapered candles that had adorned the dining room table.
“Need some help?” she asked, placing the lantern on the island.
“Nope. All done.” Bradley extinguished both candles and turned around. He slouched against the countertop, hands gripping the granite, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankle.
“Why did you run away from me?”
Seemingly taken aback by the bluntness of her question, Bradley’s gaze dropped to his feet. Minutes passed with no response.
“Damn it, do I have to waterboard you to get an answer?”
Disappointment and hurt solidified into an unorthodox plan. Abby grasped the bottom of her camouflage T-shirt, wrenched it upward over her head, and flung it onto his bare feet.
Stunned, Bradley’s lips parted. His eyes roamed higher, hovering over her silky pink bra, an involuntary smile overspreading his face.
Abby edged closer, straddling his shins. She began unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy, trembling fingers. His hooded eyes met hers, simultaneously pleading for her to stop and begging her to continue.
She unfastened the button on his khaki shorts, and he inhaled sharply. Abby could feel heat radiating from his body as her thumb and index finger found the pull tab of his zipper. She eased the slider slowly downward.
Bradley exhaled in an audible pant and pitched forward, shorts slipping to his ankles. He kissed her with a devouring intensity, his hands slid downward, exploring bare skin.
Abby’s silky pink bra drifted to the floor, and a flurry of insecurity shivered through her—a reminder that book knowledge was no substitute for practical experience.
Weighted down by loaded magazines, her cargo shorts dropped with a thud; then Bradley’s hands grabbed her backside, lifting her. Abby’s legs encircled his waist, two thin layers of fabric separating them as he carried her to his bedroom.
117G
AMID INTENSIFYING CRACKLES of lightning, Ryan searched the cabin’s remains. Pulverized drywall coated the grass and trees; and the evening breeze felt heavy, damp and thick, like an onrushing tide pushing against him. He couldn’t fend off the thought. Mike, his best friend, the only person he trusted, was gone.
Grief was a burning abscess demanding vengeance. A dozen terrorists were dead, but one traitor was still breathing, plotting against his country, wearing a U.S. uniform.
There never should have been a firefight. The drone’s Hellfire missile should have simultaneously initiated and terminated the conflict. The Ranger team’s role was to round up any survivors and verify that the Stinger missiles had been destroyed; but with just a flashlight, DJ had managed to screw up the entire operation. Did Juan or Victor see him signal the enemy? Would Captain Rodriguez deem that conclusive proof?
Focus, Ryan told himself, sifting through rubble, slinging wood fragments and chunks of ap
pliances into a pile. In Mike’s absence, he was the ranking team member and had a job to do. Mourning Mike—and nailing DJ—would have to wait.
“We finished searching the other cabins,” Victor told him. “Nothing.”
“Shit!”
They had only recovered two of the twelve Stingers that had gone missing. In retrospect, this whole mission felt like a setup, a grand diversion. Were the other ten Stingers already scattered across Florida? Across the nation?
Disturbing images flitted through his mind like a portal into the future, a prophesy of hijacked convoys, downed planes, and ambushed military bases—American weapons killing American Soldiers.
118G
BRADLEY STARED DOWN at her through the ambient glow of a ceiling-directed flashlight, skin blazing, heart still galloping from making love. A silly little smile curled her lips; and resting his forehead against hers, he said, “If you say, ‘Miss. Re-engage,’ I swear, I’ll throw you into the lake.”
“Definitely a hit. But you should still re-engage.”
“Oh, you can count on it.” Bradley rolled onto his side and snuggled beside her. He closed his eyes, listening to rain slap against the window, and a frightening realization spread through him. Abby was the one, the woman he wanted to spend his life with.
A flash lit the room followed by a deafening crack that shook the house, and he held her tighter.
Abby’s fingers were fiddling with his hog’s tooth pendant, an intrusive reminder that he had to leave—soon. Bradley wanted to remain lost in the moment, just the two of them; he wanted to let the entire world melt away.
“So when are you leaving?” she asked.
Determined to avoid this conversation, at least for tonight, he said, “I haven’t decided.”
“Promise you won’t just spring it on me? Give me a twenty-four-hour warning?”
“I will.” He kissed her forehead then burrowed his chin into her silky hair. “And when this is all over, I’m coming back for you.”
“I doubt I’ll be here.”
His eyes snapped open. Tension began seeping back into his neck, his shoulders. He didn’t have to ask. Would Abby be safer in the Marine Corps? She wouldn’t starve or be overrun by savages, but what if she was injured on the battlefield? Or killed? Or worse?
Successful Snipers often had bounties placed on their heads, and Bradley understood the horrific consequences of being captured. For him, it was an occupational hazard, a calculated risk; for Abby, that risk was unacceptable. His lungs felt like they were being compressed to the size of a marble.
Another flash brightened the room, followed by a deep rumbling groan that echoed his emotions. Bradley had no problem with women becoming SEALs, Rangers, or Snipers—just not the woman he loved.
As the thunder faded, footsteps resounded through the house.
Shit! Gramps is back from overwatch due to the lightning. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
“Bradley, you asleep?” Gramps asked, knocking on his bedroom door.
“Not exactly.”
“We are really getting lucky tonight, huh?”
Abby pressed her face into his chest, trying to stifle her giggles.
“What?” Bradley demanded.
“The rain. We’re lucky the pool’s filling up. Kyle did a great job rerouting the downspouts.”
Bradley dragged a hand over his face. Kyle was the last name he wanted to hear right now. “That’s great news. Good-night.”
A clap of thunder disrupted the conversation, a reprieve that ended too soon.
“So how was the big dinner?” Gramps asked. “Everything go off with a bang?”
“It was awesome,” Bradley said, unable to curb the laughter in his voice. “Thanks for asking. Good-night.”
“Did you tell her?”
Bradley met Abby’s questioning glance and said, “Tell her what, Gramps?”
“That you’re hopelessly in love with her, Knucklehead!”
An embarrassed smile warped the corners of his mouth. His face rolled toward the ceiling, and he tried to suppress thoughts of strangling his grandfather. “I’m pretty sure she already knows.”
“Okay then. I guess I’ll go straighten up the kitchen.”
The kitchen!
Bradley winced, realizing he had left the lantern on—a glowing beacon drawing attention to the heap of clothing on the floor.
“No, no, no. I’ll do it.” He stumbled into his boxer shorts, grabbed the flashlight, and bolted out the door. If he made it to the kitchen before his slow-moving grandfather, he could stow the clothes in a cabinet, out of sight.
Bradley darted past him.
Then he heard Gramps call out, “Good-night, Abby.”
119G
IT WAS AFTER 2100 HOURS when Ryan’s attention returned to his fallen friend. DJ and his jihadists had taken away everyone Ryan trusted. Anger and grief took turns assailing him, grinding, hardening, honing his resolve into a deadly blade.
Fucking DJ, he thought, right hand drifting to his Beretta 9mm. I should just shoot him.
Ryan could end the traitorous sabotage, but it was too late for Mike. He glanced at his friend’s ravaged face, knowing he would not approve.
“You okay?” Victor asked. He and Juan were preparing a sling to transport Mike’s body to the extraction point.
Ryan muttered, “Fucking fabulous,” and busied himself gathering Mike’s gear. His friend’s rifle had been hurled six feet, and as Ryan grabbed the barrel, an acidic bubble rose into his throat, burning it raw.
A grenade hadn’t killed Mike.
The upper receiver of his rifle had exploded.
Thoughts raging, Ryan pried the magazine from the mangled gun and inspected each round with a flashlight.
Nothing unusual.
Carrying the rifle, Ryan returned to Mike’s lifeless body and ripped the spare magazines from his shredded vest.
“Ry, what’re you doing?” Victor asked.
He shined his flashlight on the damaged rifle.
“Oh fuck!”
Systematically, Ryan examined each round. He set aside three bullets because the weight seemed off. Rummaging through his gear, he said, “Victor, can I borrow your multi-tool? I need a second pair of pliers.”
DJ approached, his infamous flashlight now trained on Ryan. “Can we stop dickin’ around and get out of here?”
Ryan considered plunging the pliers into DJ’s eyeball, and as if sensing the danger, the Corporal quickly backed away.
Victor held the casing as Ryan rotated the pliers, wiggling the bullet with a circular motion, stretching the brass until finally, the hunk of lead pulled free. Victor tapped the shell casing against Ryan’s open palm. Black gritty powder flowed out.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
He started on the second cartridge.
“Come on, Staff Sergeant. You’re wasting time,” DJ said, “and wasting ammunition.”
I’d like to waste you, Ryan thought. He twisted and tugged until the chunk of lead slipped free. Again, Victor dumped the shell’s contents onto Ryan’s palm; and this time, the flashlight illuminated sparkling white crystals.
“Fucking hot ammo!” Victor said, incensed.
Trust was a military staple eroding before Ryan’s eyes. He wondered every time he took a bite of Army-issued food; every time a drone flew overhead; every time DJ grasped his rifle. And now, he would have to wonder every time he squeezed the trigger: are there explosives inside my ammunition?
( ( ( 60% Complete ) ) )
* * Change of Heart(3G)? * *
YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 3B
NO ... Page forward to continue
( ( ( DAY 18G ) ) )
Monday, March 3rd
120G
YAWNING, BRADLEY MADE his way into the dimly lit kitchen. Gramps’ fingers were bleating out a nervous cadence that mingled with the hiss of a radio broadcast.
“With the arrival of a high-capacity transformer from Europe, the U.S. mil
itary has successfully restored power to three critical refineries in Texas. Distribution of electric and diesel will be prioritized in accordance with national security concerns.
“By week’s end, a civilian assistance center is slated to open in Central Florida. This joint effort by FEMA and the U.S. Army will house, feed, and provide medical care for displaced citizens. Additional details will be forthcoming.”
Relief surged through Bradley. If that were true, he could escort Gramps, Abby, and Kyle to the FEMA camp then report for duty, knowing they would be safe; and Army personnel could help him reunite with his Marine Corps unit. Finally, a workable solution to his family-versus-country dilemma.
As the message repeated, Gramps switched off the radio. “So, I trust you had a good night?”
“Yes. And thanks for being such a dick.”
“Son, indiscretion has its price.”
And it was definitely worth it, he thought. After his grandfather’s stunt, Bradley had made love to Abby two more times and awakened with her beside him. She had hurried home a few minutes ago, before Gramps was scheduled to relieve her father from overwatch. Hoping to re-engage again tonight, a decadent smile sprawled over his lips.
“Look at you,” Gramps said, “grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary. Let’s hope you don’t regret it.”
Bradley responded with a critical stare. “I was careful. There won’t be any surprises.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gramps let out a beleaguered sigh. “You crossed a threshold that changes everything.”
“How so?”
“You still taking her on patrol up to Haywood Field today?”
With Kyle going right to sleep after his midnight-to-sunrise overwatch shift, Bradley didn’t have another option. “Yee-yup. But Abby understands the danger out there. She doesn’t flirt or complain. She pays attention and follows orders.”
Gramps’ weary, bloodshot eyes rolled skyward, and as he lumbered toward the door, he said, “Who says I’m worried about Abby?”
121G
ABDULLAH JAWAD “AJ” AL-ZAHRANI was lost in thought, relying on the computerized autopilot to keep his C-130 on course.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 137
