by Tracy Brody
A Shot Worth Taking
A Bad Karma Special Ops Novel
Tracy Brody
This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events or localities, actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental or are used fictitiously, as I do occasionally, with their permission, name a character after friends as a thank you for their support. So be nice to this author and you can show up in a book.
A Shot Worth Taking
Copyright © 2020 by Tracy Brody
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Tracy Brody at [email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-952187-04-9
First edition
June 2020
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-952187-05-6
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To my awesome and supportive husband and family.
To our military members and their families. Thank you for all you sacrifice.
To all the aspiring writers with a dream of sharing their love of story telling.
Praise for Tracy Brody
“The Bad Karma series just gets better and better. Do yourself a favor and start reading. You won't be able to put them down.” ~ Liliana Hart, New York Times Bestselling Author.
“What do you get when you have a kickass female Black Hawk pilot, a sexy Bad Karma Special Ops elite soldier, and a deadly cartel out for revenge? You get toe curling romance, heart-stopping suspense, and a daring rescue that will keep you reading late into the night. Deadly Aim is a book you won't be able to put down.” ~ Sandra Owens, author of the bestselling K2 Team and Aces & Eights series.
“You’re going to love this Army Special Ops team and Tracy Brody’s authentic stories.” ~ Angi Morgan, USA Today and Publisher’s Weekly Bestseller.
“Seat of the pants action with true military insight!” (Deadly Aim) ~ Robin Perini, Publisher’s Weekly Bestseller.
“Tracy weaves action and heart together with crisp writing that kept me turning pages.” ~ Colette Dixon, author of Love at Lincolnfield series.
“What an incredible book. This book has all the feels. Romance, action, adventure and mystery all in one book. The ending was perfect!” ~ Christy (Goodreads review of Deadly Aim)
“This is the first romance novel I've read where the characters felt like 100% authentic people. …. I absolutely loved both of them. This is what I want from romance novels. … Highly recommended.” ~ Beckett (Goodreads review of Desperate Choices.)
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
IN THE WRONG SIGHTS Excerpt
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tracy Brody
Foreword
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing this book to read! I love the heroes of the Bad Karma Special Ops team, and I hope fall in love with them, too.
I’ve written a short story detailing the joint operation where Tony Vincenti first meets FBI Agent Angela Hoffman. This story is FREE, but available EXCLUSIVELY as a thank you to my newsletter subscribers.
You may want to read this story before you begin A SHOT WORTH TAKING. To get your link for the free download to UNDERCOVER ANGEL, subscribe to my newsletter at this link or via https://www.tracybrody.com/newsletter-signup.
One
Kandahar, Afghanistan
“Porter, I’m talking to my mom. Can you keep your shorts on a second?” Tony turned his chair and laptop, so the bunks became the background on his Skype session.
Too late. Mom got an eyeful, based on her wide eyes. By now, he was oblivious to the overexposure of his teammates’ junk, but was it too much to ask for ten minutes of privacy a week? The fun factor of “camping out” with eight of his closest friends only lasted the first month or two, max, of a deployment. Five and a half months into sharing a space barely larger than his folks’ living room tested the most patient of souls at times—like right now.
His noise-canceling headphones kept him from making out any response to his request. Probably for the best, because if Dominguez made another wisecrack about Tony’s weekly call to his family, today’s call could turn into a lecture about his use of profanity.
“Sorry, mom. What were you saying about Mrs. Pesci?”
“That she ran into Carla last week at the market.”
Lord, not again. “She’s married and has kids, and I’m—”
“But she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. You should get in touch with her.”
He worked not to go cross-eyed. Weren’t seven grandkids enough, at least for now? “I can handle my own love life. Thanks.”
“Really?”
Ouch. Now would be a good time for the shitty internet connection to go out.
It didn’t.
He swallowed and shifted on the hard chair trying to avoid his mom’s convicting stare. Even traveling a few thousand miles through his screen, it didn’t lose any impact.
Okay, he didn’t have anyone special in his life. Hadn’t in, oh, say a decade, but what he and Carla shared years ago had as much chance of being resurrected as the two US troops and nearly a dozen locals killed by a suicide bomber last week.
None.
He never told his mother—or anyone—the whole story, and he wasn’t going to now. Carla still lived in Amherst. No pointing in trashing her good-girl reputation.
Porter motioned to him while pulling on the uniform pants he’d shed a minute ago. Something was up based on the spate of activity in the room.
T
ony lowered the headphones to his neck as Chief Lundgren closed in.
“Eyes on LaRuh. We’re rolling.” Lundgren lifted his M-4 from the hook on the wall.
Eyes on! Seriously? Tony’s heart pounded against his ribs like the thud of mortar fire. His body went on autopilot. The laptop rocked on his lap as he began to rise, then sat again. He yanked the headset back on.
“You love kids,” his mom continued without missing a beat. “You’re both still—”
“Mom, I gotta go.”
“You said you weren’t going out until tonight. Anthony Salvatore Vincenti, are you trying to get out of this conversation? Because I know how—”
“The team’s going out on patrol. I’ll talk—”
“What for? Is something wrong?” Her pitch rose, and her face scrunched in worry.
“It’s a routine patrol.” He stared right at the computer screen and lied to his mother.
His mother’s eyebrows arched, the left higher than the right in the manner she’d perfected raising four kids.
He didn’t flinch or let his gaze deviate from the screen.
She made the sign of the cross, then leaned closer to the screen. “I’m headed to the market. I’ll stop by St. Benedict’s to light a candle and say a prayer for you.”
Busted. He never could fool his mother’s bullshit detector.
“Thanks.” He and his team could use the extra prayers, even to patron saints, about this mission. Father, forgive me for lying to my mom. “Give my love to Pop and the family. I’ll talk to you next week and see you soon.”
That made her smile, and the wrinkles on her forehead disappeared. “Be safe. Email me later, so I know you’re okay.”
“We’ll be fine. I gotta go.”
“Routine patrol, huh?” Lincoln Porter grinned at him and pulled on his Kevlar vest.
Tony shook his head. Not exactly routine. If they nabbed Samir al-Shehri, aka LaRuh, the guru of recruiting suicide bombers, it would be like getting extra cheese and double meat on a deep-dish pizza. However, there were a lot of things family was better off not knowing.
“How good’s the intel on this?” he asked Lundgren.
“A local told a patrol team from the 173rd he saw al-Shehri going into a home this morning. At least that’s what they got out of the translation. I wouldn’t bet a month’s pay on it.”
Tony wouldn’t, either. They were oh for three when it came to translators they shared with another unit.
The first translator had been good. Good enough to get shot in a drive-by assassination. The second stopped showing up, likely after he was threatened by insurgents. The third “translator” fired off one shot, hitting Rozanski in the vest, before the team took him down.
Lundgren spoke Pashto better than their translators spoke English, and Tony couldn’t think of anyone he trusted more. Well, he could think of one linguist who would have their backs, but he doubted Angel Gilbert—the alias he’d known FBI Special Agent Angela Hoffman by—knew Pashto. Besides, her being here could be a major distraction to the guys on the team, and him most of all.
Time to gear up, load up on ammo, and pray this intel proved reliable and didn’t send them into an ambush. Then it’d be time for the strike team to live up to their name and deliver bad karma to deserving jihadists.
Tony held the door handle as the caravan of Humvees bumped down a pothole-rutted street. Outside the vehicle, a sandstorm raged. It sounded like rain as it beat against the metal and glass, only instead of water, the wipers swept aside the grains. An eerie red glow reflected off the blowing sand and distorted the already shitty visibility.
They braked to a quick stop before the concrete wall of the house. They’d been down this street on routine patrols a handful of times. This evening was different.
A thousand mini shocks of electricity danced on the surface of his body and his pulse rate jumped as if someone floored his heart’s gas pedal when he and the team poured out of the vehicles onto the narrow street.
The sand infiltrated his uniform’s neck and sleeves. With his gloved hand, he pulled the shemagh scarf higher to cover his nose. He never thought a sandstorm would be good for something. But the storm kept the locals hunkered down inside their mud-walled homes. Still, he scanned what he could see of the residential street. Only flat rooftops peaked over the high walls that protected the homes.
Tony didn’t let the deserted streets lull him into an overconfident state. Not here. Not ever in Afghanistan. Just because he didn’t see anyone didn’t mean an enemy sniper wasn’t there watching. Waiting.
The team fell into place behind the eight-foot-high wall near the locked metal gate. Porter shifted his M4 Carbine rifle to his back. Tony and Lundgren clasped their hands to each other’s forearms. Porter placed one foot on their arms, and they boosted him up. He peered over the top before swinging his legs over the ledge. Within seconds, he gave the all clear.
They boosted Juan Dominguez next. He kept an eye out while Porter dropped to the ground on the inside. Metal grated metal when Porter unlocked the gate for the team to enter.
Time to start this party. Two of the team guarded the entrance while another pair took Dita, the team’s working dog, and headed toward the back courtyard.
Tony sprinted to the side of the target residence with Porter, Lundgren, and Dominguez. They edged their way to the main door.
The walls decreased the amount of blowing sand to improve visibility by a few feet, yet dust rolled in waves along the base of the house. It drummed against the surrounding walls, masking most of the noise they made.
The mud house had a metal door. Solid metal, not a sheet of corrugated or scrap metal. Hardly standard Afghan construction. Major red flag. The fight-or-flight instinct hit and pumped adrenaline through his veins. No brainer. Fight. He’d do his part to stop one more zealot from persuading kids to strap on bombs. Who the hell decided being a martyr got you a shitload of virgins in heaven? Gimme a freakin’ break. Sounds more like hell. He’d take a woman with experience any day.
Lundgren tried the doorknob. No-go. He nodded to Porter, who opened his ordnance pack.
Porter looped detonation cord and taped it to the wall near the door. For the tighter quarters, Tony pulled his Kimber .45 from the holster on his protective vest. After Porter inserted a blasting cap into the C4, the team stepped clear of the blast zone.
Tony turned his face away. The vibration rocked his body though the earpieces of his communication headset muffled the explosive crack when the charge detonated. A poof of smoke mixed with the sand in the air. They ducked through the opening into the house, weapons raised.
He tugged the scarf below his chin and pulled his dusty goggles from his face. Sand rained down. He licked the rough grains from his chapped lips.
The pungent aromas of fresh herbs hung heavy in the air.
Dinnertime. Somebody’s home.
Lundgren and Dominguez veered to the right. Tony followed his nose, and Porter trailed him through the doorway to their left. A few steps in, a shadow appeared on the floor of the narrow hallway.
His gaze shot to the dark-gray fabric that billowed into the hall, and his weapon tracked with his eyes. A figure covered in a burqa emerged. Definitely not al-Shehri, but Tony’s heart rate yo-yoed when the woman squawked and stopped dead. He held his index finger to his lips and aimed his weapon away from her chest.
She hobbled a step toward them on a crutch carved from a branch. Her gravelly voice fussed at them in rapid Pashto. He couldn’t make out all of what she said, but the tone and gnarled finger she waved clearly conveyed her message: Get the hell out of my home!
He advanced, trying to force the old woman back into the kitchen. Except she refused to budge.
“Move,” he growled through clenched teeth and resorted to waving his pistol to direct her. She rattled off a fresh litany of complaints, something about American troops and invasions. Behind him, Porter cleared his throat, probably to keep from laughing at the diminutive menace
.
Damn, she reminded him of his Nonna Sofia. Stubborn cuss. Rules of engagement dictated the only way he could touch her was if she were in danger or presented a physical threat. Smacking his legs with her stick probably didn’t qualify. Just as reprisal wasn’t an option when Nonna’s cane accompanied a swift reminder to behave like a good Catholic boy.
A noise came from the next room. Tony rushed forward. Using his body as a shield, he spun the woman and lifted her out of the potential line of fire.
Her crutch clattered to the floor. Thin arms and legs flailed at him and Porter, who surged past them. A heel smashed him in the shin. He reared his head back to avoid the clawed hand that reached for his eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” he said in Pashto. He couldn’t protect her and cover Porter, but he didn’t dare release her. She didn’t weigh half of what he bench-pressed, but holding onto her was like trying to cuddle a feral cat. Covered head to toe in the burqa, she could be hiding something. Something other than the ragged fingernails that raked his cheek. He didn’t need a mirror to know she drew blood.
