Beyond the Limit

by Cindy Dees

  A noisy explosion erupted beyond the sight line of the cameras.

  “Concussion grenades followed by flash-bangs,” Griffin bit out.

  Concussion grenades would knock people off their feet, and the flash-bangs would blind and deafen anyone inside for several minutes. The Reapers swung through the door in a tightly choreographed move. Some of Haddad’s men sprawled on the floor, incapacitated.

  The Reapers swung left into the first room, forward into the back left room, through to the right rear room, and back around to the right front room without encountering any resistance from the half-dozen men incapacitated by the grenades.

  Sherri winced a little as the SEALs put bullets into the heads of the downed hostiles. It was brutal, but she understood the necessity. This was a kill-or-be-killed deal. Any one of Haddad’s men would happily stand up and kill the Reapers if he could. And intel reported that everyone here was an active terrorist.

  The team started up the stairs. They’d nearly reached the top when a huge explosion whited out the cameras and knocked out the audio feed altogether. The camera feeds tumbled wildly as if their wearers were falling—or flying through the air.

  Griffin leaped out of his chair as the dust settled. Camera one, Kenny’s feed, pointed at a massive pile of concrete slabs, wood, splintered furniture, and debris compound from an ant’s eye view. The entire house had blown up.

  Camera Two was buried, tucked into a crevice formed by two concrete slabs leaning toward each other in a crude teepee.

  Camera Three pointed up at the sky. It was a beautiful, black expanse, dotted by thousands of stars and the misty belt of the Milky Way. In any other circumstances, it would have been breathtaking.

  Kettering swore in a low, steady stream. “C’mon. Get up, you motherfuckers. Run for cover. Move, dammit! Be alive!”

  The radios were chaotic with SEALs reporting in that the whole compound had been booby-trapped. Reports of fleeing figures on foot out the back of the compound toward the hills started to flow. Overwatch snipers shouted about their positions being overrun, and everybody was shouting for air support and wondering where the hell the Marines were.

  It was, in a word, a clusterfuck.

  Chapter 11

  Sitting there watching a mission going to hell around his brothers was perhaps the hardest thing Griffin had ever done. It was excruciating knowing that he might be watching their deaths in real time. He vaguely registered Sherri’s hand gripping his painfully tightly.

  Gradually, the dust of the daisy-chained explosions began to settle. At the far edge of Kenny’s camera range, Griffin spotted movement. He leaned forward, squinting at the form, trying to make out if it was friend or foe.

  “Get up, get up, get up,” Cal was chanting under his breath.

  Very slowly, Kenny’s camera moved to a seated position.

  Thank the Lord.

  The form moving toward Kenny wore native garb—a knee-length white shirt with a dark vest over it, and the round cap of the locals. The bastard was pointing an AK-47 at Kenny.

  “Kill him!” Griffin ground out.

  Kenny was obviously dazed, because his own weapon came up far too slowly. Wobbled. Steadied. Wavered again. Finally, Kenny fired. The kick of his assault weapon knocked Kenny onto his back, for his camera saw sky as well.

  Kenny rolled to his side. The hostile was lying on the ground in a lump, unmoving.

  “Good shot,” Griffin gasped. He felt like he was Ken on the ground, trying desperately to regain his bearings, to gather his wits and get his head back in the game.

  Jojo’s camera, the buried one, moved a little. A shower of dust fell in front of that feed, and then the video shook as if Jojo was coughing, perhaps. Very slowly, inch by agonizing inch, Jojo’s camera began the long crawl toward open air at the far end of the concrete tunnel.

  Kenny’s camera moved at hands-and-knees height toward a dark lump on his right.

  Cal was first to identify it and started moaning, “Nonononononono,” under his breath.

  And then Griffin saw what it was.

  Sam.

  Down. Crumpled in an unnatural heap that the human body wasn’t meant to lie in.

  “He’s not moving, Cal,” Griffin groaned.

  Sherri started to cry quietly beside Griffin.

  Aww, noo. Please God, no. Not goofy baby Sam. The kid was an overgrown puppy, sweet, loyal, and eager to please. Everyone loved Sam. He had the makings of a great SEAL.

  And just as certainly, he lay in the dirt of an Afghani valley dead, all that potential, all that life, wiped out. Ended. Gone.

  Trevor’s head bowed beside Griffin, the Brit’s lips moving in a silent prayer. The finality of sending up a prayer for Sam’s soul was a spike straight through Griffin’s heart.

  He’d seen death before. He’d lost teammates before. But never like this, up close and personal, sharing a live feed of a brother’s death.

  He spun his chair around fast, grabbed the trash can in the corner behind him, and heaved into it.

  Grimly, he turned back around and resumed watching the nightmare unfold.

  The operations folks were shouting about the compound being overrun by hostiles. They ordered teams Sulu and Scotty to pull back. The other two strike teams radioed back, asking to go in and find the Reapers, but they were ordered again to retreat. Team Bones was a loss.

  But Kenny and Jojo were still alive!

  Cal grabbed the phone and shouted into it, demanding and then pleading for a rescue of his guys.

  Teams Sulu and Scotty were grudgingly told that if they happened to see the Reapers on the way out, they were green-lighted to grab Team Bones.

  Trevor said grimly, “Ten to one, those teams have turned around and gone back into the compound to ‘happen to see’ our boys.”

  All of a sudden, gunfire erupted around Kenny. Dirt flew up and the rat-a-tat of gunfire was deafeningly close. Hands grabbed at Kenny and Sam’s cameras, and not in a helpful way. Kenny’s Ka-Bar knife flashed, and Griffin swore. The hostiles were on Kenny, and he was fighting hand-to-hand, now, trying to hold them off.

  Sam’s camera lifted up in the air and smashed down to the ground. The video feed went dead.

  It was Griffin’s turn to moan. He had never in his life felt this helpless.

  And then something smashed into Kenny’s camera—a rifle butt, perhaps. That feed went dead, too.

  Griffin’s stare riveted on Jojo’s feed, still inching toward the gap at the end of the crevice in the rubble pile.

  Finally, Jojo reached the end of the long tunnel. Hands abruptly reached into the opening. Grabbed Jojo roughly. Dragged him out.

  A silhouette flashed on Jojo’s helmet camera.

  “That’s a SEAL!” Griffin cried.

  Jojo’s camera tilted, then righted. Someone had just slipped under Jojo’s shoulder and was half carrying, half dragging him away from the disastrous ambush.

  The camera bounced violently as the men hauling Jojo broke into a heavy-footed run.

  Griffin had done it before. A fast combat carry to clear an injured man from the field. It was massively hard work, but all SEALs were glad to do it for their teammates.

  More flashes exploded on Jojo’s camera feed, but the men carrying him plowed onward.

  Jojo was laid down on his back. The guys had put him on a stretcher. Now at least four men would be humping him out, which would let them move faster.

  Grass and dust suddenly swirled above Jojo.

  “Helo. It’s dropping in to pick up Jojo!” Griffin exclaimed. God bless whatever pilot was crazy enough or had a big enough death wish to brave the heavy firefight to get to a hurt SEAL. The interior of a helicopter came into sight in Jojo’s camera feed. A face leaned over Jojo. The guy wore a helmet marked with a white cross. Medic.

  Jojo’s helmet was remov
ed, and the camera pointed at a wall of padded vinyl insulation.

  “Where’s Kenny?” Griffin asked raggedly. “What happened to him?”

  Cal put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Unknown. Drone surveillance operators are looking for him. They’re going back through the footage of the past two minutes or so to track him. They’ll give us a situation report when they know more.”

  Griffin waited as long as his raging need to know could stand and then asked again, “Anything?”

  “No,” Cal answered grimly. “Nothing.”

  “Are they lying to you?” Griffin shot back.

  “Maybe.”

  Griffin couldn’t sit one more second. He pushed to his feet and paced back and forth in the tight confines of the conference room, down the length of the table and back.

  “Sitrep?” he bit out.

  “Not good,” Cal answered reluctantly. “Marines got ambushed in the pass. Multiple casualties. Tangos seem to be trying to take prisoners.” A pause, then, “No word from DEVGRU. They’re still unaccounted for in the tunnels. One confirmed dead on Team Sulu. One confirmed dead on Team Bones. One overwatch sniper confirmed dead, two more sniper casualties possible. Their positions were overrun and now have negative radio contact.”

  “Kenny?”

  “Missing. Presumed dead.”

  “Now what?” Sherri asked in a hush.

  Good fucking question. Griffin squeezed his eyes shut against the burning grief.

  Cal answered grimly, “Army’s sending in a battalion at first light to clean up.”

  Which was military speak for recovering the bodies.

  Griffin spun and slammed his fist against the wood-paneled wall, which turned out to have concrete behind it. Otherwise, he’d have put his fist right through the wood. He swore violently.

  Trevor leaned over Sherri, muttering into her ear. She nodded and her gaze swiveled to Griffin. The sympathy in her eyes was more than he could stand.

  Griffin barged outside into the cold, crisp twilight. Stars were starting to shine overhead as if not a bloody thing had just happened, as if nothing was wrong. As if one of his brothers hadn’t just died.

  Griffin felt a quiet presence fall in beside him as he strode down the road, heading for the woods. Sherri. She didn’t say anything, just kept pace beside him as his stride lengthened into a run.

  He ran—hard—for perhaps twenty minutes. Finally, when he was winded and the worst of his agony had condensed into a diamond kernel of vengeance tucked away deep in his heart, he stopped.

  “Thank goodness,” Sherri gasped. “I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up with you.”

  He looked around. They were at the far turn of the long course, miles from the camp. And then he looked at Sherri.

  Mistake.

  Her eyes were infinitely sad. Understanding. She’d known loss this deep before.

  And that was what broke him. A single, hoarse sob escaped his throat.

  Sherri rushed forward, gathering him in her arms. As his legs gave out and he sank to his knees, she went with him, pulling his head against her chest, cradling him tightly.

  He wrapped his arms around her, holding on for dear life. Images of Sam flashed through his head. The kid sneaking off to fish, even if all he had was a stick, some fishing line, and a makeshift hook. Sam, listening to music so loud through his earbuds it kept the other guys awake and made them complain. His boyish smile that made him look even younger than he was. His laughter. Oh, man. His laughter. Sam had loved life.

  Griffin couldn’t hold back the grief as it tore through him in racking sobs.

  And all the while, Sherri held him tight, absorbing his pain into herself. She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to push any thoughts-and-prayers platitudes on him. She just shared his pain and silently offered her strength and support.

  Eventually, the worst of the initial grief passed, leaving him drained. He felt wrung out like a cheap washcloth. Griffin raised his head and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

  “I’m sorry—” he started.

  “Stop.” Sherri cut him off sharply. “Don’t you ever apologize for loving your brothers and feeling the loss of one keenly.”

  One corner of his mouth momentarily quirked up. “Yes, ma’am.” He rose to his feet and drew Sherri into a hard, long hug. “Thanks for being here.”

  “Any time.”

  “For real.”

  “I meant what I said, Griffin. Any time. Any place. You call, and I’ll be there for you.”

  Huh. She really was starting to sound like a SEAL.

  He looked around, identifying the forest in minor shock. “Well, hell. I really ran us out to the back forty, didn’t I?” He didn’t relish the long run back. Not feeling this soul-weary.

  Sherri wriggled in his arms and dug a cell phone out of the back pocket of her cargo pants. She hit a button and plastered it to her ear.

  “Hey, Anna, it’s me.”

  Sherri listened for a minute. Then, “I don’t blame them. If I lost you or Lily, I’d react about the same way. Hey, could I ask a big favor of you? Griffin went for a run around the long loop, and we’re at the back end of nowhere out here. Any chance you could hop in a Jeep and come pick us up? Neither one of us feels like hiking all the way back. Thanks, girlfriend. You’re the best.”

  Sherri pocketed her phone. “She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “What’s up with the guys?”

  “They’re locked in Cal’s office with a whole lot of booze.”

  Griffin nodded. If he hadn’t taken off like he had, that was exactly what he would be doing right now.

  The sound of a Jeep engine broke the silence before long, and Anna pulled up beside them. Sherri climbed in the back, and Griffin swung into the passenger seat. Nobody spoke. Words weren’t adequate to express how any of them were feeling right now.

  They arrived back at the compound, and Anna paused in the act of getting out of the Jeep to make eye contact with Griffin and nod soberly. No doubt about it. She’d lost someone close to her, too. Knowing shone in the dark sadness of her brown eyes. It was a terrible club to belong to.

  Anna tossed him the car keys and disappeared into the women’s barracks, leaving him and Sherri alone.

  “Wanna blow this Popsicle stand?” he asked her, shifting into the driver’s seat.

  “As in leave base?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Won’t we be going AWOL?”

  “I think Cal will understand, given the circumstances. We’ve all earned a night off.”

  Sherri hopped into the front seat.

  Thank goodness. He really did need to get out of here, and he didn’t trust himself alone tonight. No telling what foolish, self-destructive idiocy he would engage in.

  He frowned as he guided the Jeep toward town. Honestly, he would rather wake up beside Sherri in the morning and not feel like shit for being with her.

  Son of a bitch. That could not possibly bode well for either one of them. Sex was one thing. He could justify that as mutual scratching of an itch. But feelings? Those threw what was going on between them into another league altogether. They were talking an actual relationship when feelings got involved.

  He drove in silence, wrestling with the emotions roiling way too close to the surface. He was too raw, too hurt, to hold them back, though.

  Contemplating the choices, he surprised himself by driving past exactly the kind of bar he would’ve chosen had he been alone. It looked trashy, the parking lot was full of pickup trucks, and classic rock blared through the cheap plywood front door.

  Instead, he shocked himself by pulling into a high-end resort down by the beach. It looked classy, with beautiful tropical foliage and a wide veranda bar with umbrellas and a stone railing facing the beach. It was the kind of place a
person went to sip a nice cocktail after supper. The clientele wore preppie clothes—attorneys and accountants. No rednecks here.

  The other place—the crappy dive—fit him. This posh place fit Sherri.

  “Interesting choice of venue,” Sherri commented as he turned off the ignition.

  She reached for the door, and he touched her elbow. “Stay there. I’ll come around and get the door for you.” Why he wanted to treat her like a lady and observe the niceties of the real world, he couldn’t say and didn’t feel like psychoanalyzing tonight.

  He opened the door for her and even held out his arm. She looped her hand around his forearm and leaned in close as they strolled out to the beachside bar. He led her to a table facing the beach, away from where most of the people were clustered. A hostess asked for their order, and Sherri surprised him by asking for a large order of french fries, an expensive bottle of scotch, a pitcher of water, and two glasses.

  When the single-malt scotch came, Sherri poured generous splashes in both glasses. Thankfully, she wasn’t planning to water it down. She picked up her whiskey. “To Sam.”

  To Sam, indeed. Griffin tossed back his scotch, sucking in a sharp breath as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. “Are we getting wasted tonight?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. You tell me. What do you need?”

  He stared out at the black sheet of the ocean as it whispered to the stars. Eventually, he turned his gaze on Sherri. “I need you not to go to war and die like Sam.”

  Sherri poured them each a glass of water and slugged hers. Then she lifted the scotch bottle and waited expectantly for him to throw back his water. Ahh. Hangover prevention protocol—carbs and hydration.

  He downed the water and watched her refill their glasses with amber liquid in silence. She picked up hers and sipped it this time, while he threw his back and then commenced snacking on the fries.

  Only then did she respond to his earlier comment. “I need you not to go to war and die like Sam, either.”

  “I’m serious, Sherri. I don’t want you in harm’s way. It scares the hell out of me to think about you out there in a mess like we witnessed tonight.”