Damned (SOBs Book 4)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
About the Author
DAMNED
An SOBs Novel
IRISH WINTERS
Damned, An SOBs Novel, #4
Copyright ©2020 by Irish Winters
All rights reserved
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover design: Kelli Ann Morgan, Inspire Creative Services
Cover image: Paul Henry Serres Photography,
Interior book design: Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Editor: Linda Clarkson, Black Opal Editing and Proofreading
ISBN Paperback: 978-1-942895-04-6
ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-06-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021906846
Irish Winter’s websites: http://www.irishwinters.com and irishwinters.blogspot.com
Damned
An SOBs novel
The previous books in this series are:
Angel – Chance’s story
Assassin – Pagan’s story
Vaquero – Julio’s story
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Chapter One
Kruze Sinclair wasn’t supposed to be there. The plan to leave Istanbul, Turkey, had been straightforward. All of Senator Sullivan’s black ops exfils were well-planned, vetted, and expedited accordingly, through whichever DoD spec ops teams happened to be in the same country at the same time. If the US Air Force couldn’t accommodate getting an occasional unnamed hitchhiker out of Turkish airspace, the Navy had resources available on the sly. Since civil unrest became the norm for this third-world country, all US military departments operated more as socially-unwanted distant relatives rather than the besties they’d been during the decades of solid Turkish/American relations.
But like the shifting political landscape below, where Kruze found himself late that afternoon, things had changed. Unfortunately, Istanbul, his way home, now lay on the exact opposite side of this godforsaken part of Turkey. Early this morning, Sullivan had tasked Kruze, since he was ‘in the neighborhood,’ with picking up some high and mighty journalist who’d gotten herself captured by a rebel faction in the Eastern Anatolia Region. Bordered by Georgia to the north, Iraq to the south, Iran, Azerbaijan, and Armenia to the east, Eastern Anatolia was once again Eurasia’s glow-in-the-dark hotspot.
The mountainous region was home to the often-disparaged Kurds. It was what some talking heads called their last holdout. Their Alamo. Kruze knew the history. After the First World War, thanks to then USA President Woodrow Wilson, Kurdish nationalists were guaranteed the eventual establishment of their own country, Kurdistan. But, like treaties made with the American Indians, it never happened. In 1920, the Treaty of Sevres between the Allies and the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire recognized Kurdistan’s autonomy. But the treaty was never ratified due to a rising military star in Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the country’s first president. Lack of ratification left the ancient country of Kurdistan geographically spread across large portions of eastern Turkey, northern Iraq, and western Iran, as well as smaller portions within Syria and Armenia. Iran and Iraq were the only countries that officially recognized the autonomous portions of Kurdistan that lay within their borders.
Which also explained the conflict between Turkey and Armenia. Back in the early 1900s, the Eastern Anatolia Region had seen the demise, as in the outright genocide, of its Armenian population. The Turkish campaign against Armenians had been so ugly that, even today, the word ‘Armenia’ was still outlawed in Turkey. Not that people didn’t say it. The powers that ruled Turkey were still changing the written history of that war to suit their whitewashed spin on the war crimes committed against a population of well over a million innocent men, women, and children.
Which must be why Brianna What’s-Her-Pain-in-the-Ass-Name, oh yeah, Banks, was there. She’d probably decided to create her own fictional spin on the historic nightmare. Guess Mizz Banks hadn’t received the royal treatment she’d expected, though. A rebel faction had taken her captive. The Turkish military now vigorously hunted her with no intention of taking her, or her captors, alive. She’d had a death wish coming the moment she’d ventured into this undeclared mountainous warzone. Turkey intended to grant that wish and had put a million US dollars bounty on her head. Kruze’s job now was to find the prima donna and extract her pretentious ass without causing an international incident. Lucky him.
From the bottom of his former Navy SEAL heart, he detested journalists and reporters. Every. Last. One of them. That hatred stemmed from the fabricated untruths and fiction they’d spun about his older brother’s final foray into South America, the one that had nearly gotten Chance killed. Yes, those ugly stories. Because of them, Kruze carried one helluva grudge against the entire star-studded, celebrity news community. In his estimation, they were nothing but gold-digging liars, easily bought by whichever politically-driven megalomaniac offered the most pieces of silver. But that was another story and another grudge Kruze carried. Like he didn’t have enough.
He lay perfectly still on a narrow granite outcropping, his mini-binocs trained on the caravan of rusty jeeps, half-assed ancient pickups, overburdened donkeys, and the scruffy militia—around four dozen strong—in the narrow valley below. His gear bag, filled with a weighty collection of survival items lay beside him, his sniper rifle already on its bipo
d and aimed below.
His in-country sources were spot on. They’d told him which band of rebels Banks had most likely tangled with. And bingo, there she was, her highness Brianna Banks, the latest know-it-all from one of many twenty-four-seven, capitalistic propaganda machines to hit America’s big time. She was tripping along beside a dust-covered, rust-pitted older model Toyota pick-up, itself a DIY project, bristling with banners, armament, and enough rebels to void its shock absorbers’ warranty. If it still had any.
Most of the rebels were dressed in traditional baggy pants, ragged button-up shirts, vests, sashes, and leather boots. Nothing colorful. Everything dusty, dirty, and some shade of brown. Yet the entitled American woman among them wore a bright red scarf wrapped over her head and around her arrogant neck, making her a target. Kee-rist! What did she think she was? Untouchable? Didn’t journalists understand anything about this country? Guess not.
Kruze fingered the focus wheel on his compact binoculars to bring her in closer, watching her walk that dusty road with her head held high and her nose in the air. Because of the too-big-for-her-face Jacki-O sunglasses propped on her nose, she screamed ‘Made in the USA’ and proud of it. Not the smartest declaration in this war-torn region.
She was definitely closely guarded. Two armed men followed behind her. When she slowed, bent over and rubbed her bare foot, one of them slammed the butt of his rifle into her lower back. Of course, she fell to her knees. She was lucky she didn’t fall on her face.
Oddly, the hackles springing up between Kruze’s shoulder blades morphed into twelve-inch-high stegosaurus plates. Even as far up on the hillside as he was, he could hear the ugliness in their voices. He didn’t know their language, but it carried. Like a couple of teenage bullies, they were mocking her. Calling her vile names behind her back. Disrespecting a classy woman, gawddamnit.
His harsh opinion of the journalist shifted—a little. Kruze knew he was close-minded, but she was still an arrogant piece of entitled ass, and for sure, had no business being in this war-torn part of the country. Her ignorance had put her life—and now his—at risk. Damn the mentality that made foolish American princesses like her.
A tiny prism glittered inside the outer ring of his binocs' lens. Kruze shifted his view to the opposite side of the canyon. Well, what do you know. A robed man stood across from Kruze’s position, the long rifle in his hands aimed at the caravan below. The guy was probably after the reward on Banks’ head, a lucrative offer in any part of the world, but especially here. Whoever he was, he’d be everyone’s best friend by nightfall—if he made the shot—and if he could prove he and he alone had killed the American journalist. Which meant he’d be after some kind of trophy. That red scarf would do. Or her head…
“Shit,” Kruze hissed. He needed to stay the course, save the girl, do his hero thing, then get the hell out of there.
Flattening to the ledge, he had two options. Shoot the assassin before he got a shot off, or fire into the caravan to create a distraction. But even if one of those options worked, there was still no guarantee Banks would be smart enough to take advantage of the misdirect and run for her life, or that she’d get away if she did. These mountain people weren’t stupid. They lived on what they hunted, for hell’s sake. They’d run her down in no time, might even beat her for causing trouble.
Steadying his rifle across the canyon, Kruze opted for the direct approach: Shoot the motherfucker. One round ought to create enough distraction to separate Banks from her marching buddies. Getting down in time to rescue her would take a couple minutes, though. She might not have that kind of time.
Option three sprang to mind. Instead of taking out the assassin, he called to the men below, pointed to where the assassin now hunkered down, and bellowed, “Turkish Army! Hadi! Hadi!” Which he hoped meant hurry, hurry.
That put a wrinkle in things. The brave assholes below scattered and took up defensive positions. The assassin ducked and recalculated. Kruze grabbed the opportunity his distraction provided, clutched his rifle over his head, and slid down the nearly vertical face of his side of the canyon. A loud cry went up below, but no one fired at him. That was decent of them.
He landed boots first, then pointed up at the precise lookout of the assassin, and yelled, “Shooter!” His Turkish wasn’t good; his Kurdish and Farsi weren’t much better. But most Kurds knew enough English to understand that he was trying to help them. They reacted as any targeted gang would. The assassin got one more shot off, but it went wild, as every rebel soldier in that convoy peppered his location with enough lead that they knocked a small landslide loose.
Kruze took advantage of the fog of war. In three quick steps, he grabbed the flustered American woman by her hand, ripped that stupid red scarf off her head, tossed it to the dirt, threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold, and ran in the opposite direction.
“What? Wait. No, stop! I can’t leave.” She wanted to argue? Now?
“Shut the hell up. I’m here to save your stupid ass. Stop kicking!”
“But they’ll kill you.”
“Like hell.” He needed to get to the last vehicle in this roughneck convoy before that rockslide buried them all alive. While the rebels were busy being heroes, Kruze hurried to get Banks out of sight. Once they noticed she was missing, they’d come unglued. But they’d also expect her to run in the opposite direction. Kruze didn’t plan on being that kind of stupid. He tossed Banks to the ground beside the last vehicle, a square-fender jeep that looked like it’d been in WWII.
“Get under here and shut up,” he ordered.
She stood there blinking at him like a… a woman.
Kruze stepped into her personal space, towering over her, and still breathing hard from sliding down the mountain. He was damned if he was going to take any lip.
That did the trick. Mizz Banks tugged her skirt up and scurried on her hands and knees beneath the undercarriage. While she rolled over and shifted her backside into one of the ruts, Kruze tugged his blanket, which was plenty ratty and dirty, from inside his camouflaged jacket and climbed under with her. Before Banks could pitch another hissy-fit, he rolled onto her much smaller, narrower body. A less than ladylike grunt ground out of her. He shook the blanket out as far as he could, given the restricted space, then tossed one end of it over his legs and pulled the other end up until it covered his shoulders and head. And her.
By the time he’d finished, Kruze was on his belly and face-to-face with Mizz Brianna Banks, breathing the same air. She whimpered when his full weight mashed her into the dirt. Well, too damned bad.
“Shut it, Princess. I’m only here to get you out of the country alive, not marry you.”
“Th-thanks for helping me.” Banks almost sounded sincere.
That should’ve altered his opinion, but it didn’t. Journalists just like her had made his brother Chance’s life a living Hell for too damned long and in too many ways. They’d known nothing about the details of his covert op in South America, less about Kruze and Chance’s mother’s death, which had happened during the same time. So, what’d they do? They’d invented, hypothesized, and outright lied. Created sensational, twisted tales full of so much crap, that Chance had come damned close to committing suicide. He’d lost most of his SEAL team on that op and had nearly lost his own life. America’s press corps thought they could say whatever they wanted under their first amendment rights? Well, Kruze had news for them, this woman in particular, and it started with a vehement effing F-off!
By the time he was through recalling why he detested journalists, Kruze was flaming pissed all over again. Gawddamnit, yes, he was the emotional middle brother of Scarlett Sinclair’s three boys, and he’d struggled with his temper all his life.
But like his friend Julio had taught him to do, Kruze forced his mind and soul back to zero. Breathed in. Breathed out. Tried like hell to let the past go, to forgive and forget and—
Yeah, not happening. Not only no, but hell no. He’d never
forgive the press for their lies nor his mom for not telling him and her sons that she was dying of cancer. Or Chance for wanting to kill himself after he came to in the hospital and found out he’d lost everything. What a fucked-up month that was! How was anyone supposed to get over all that?
Didn’t matter how much Kruze had tried, he plain didn’t know how to let those sorrows and grudges go. He’d adored his mom, still did, and he would always idolize his older brother. Losing her had been gut-wrenching, but losing Chance at the same time? That would’ve been the cruelest blow. Kruze didn’t know how to get back to the man he’d been before Chance had almost pissed his life away. Pagan, the youngest Sinclair, seemed to have found a way to deal with those betrayals, but Kruze didn’t know where to begin.
In the stillness of his mighty struggle to zero his anger, Kruze’s mind settled on the sensation of the much smaller heart pounding against his belly. The journalist’s heart. Odd that the steady thump of this foolish, selfish woman’s blood flowing through those chambers grounded him in the middle of a nightmare situation that could still get them killed. Yet it did. There was something familiar to this moment, something tugging at the back of his memories. He almost felt—better.
No, gawddamnit, no! Kruze shrugged that notion aside. Miss Brianna Banks was nothing to him. She wasn’t brave, surely wasn’t any kind of patriot. She was a user, a prima donna of the highest magnitude, some rich man’s privileged daughter. All she’d wanted when she’d sneaked into Turkey was a sensational story. She wanted to be rich and famous.
He might block his thoughts and opinions, but Kruze could still smell the sweet, musky scent of her body, the perfumed oil in her straggly hair. And her fear. Red scarf or not, arrogant or just plain stupid, Banks was awash with panic. She was breathing hard, scared for her life. She damned well ought to be. She’d brought this shitstorm down on herself. His job was just to get her dumb ass safely back to America. He didn’t have to like her to do that.
The Earth quaked. Then roared. What now? Kruze ducked his face into Banks and lifted his arms over her head, shielding her from the furious cloud of rocks and dirt suddenly pummeling the convoy. The landslide those idiots had kicked loose was there. Thick dust and all sizes of rocks battered everything in its way like a dry ocean wave. Make that a tsunami. Kruze could barely breathe. The landslide’s throaty roar turned into bouncing thunder that grew closer and closer until—