Becker and Quinn slumped on the couch while their other two teammates prepped some food. It wasn’t long before they jumped to their feet, startled.
The wailing echoed down the hall accompanied by several hard thuds. The two men exchanged concerned looks before heading toward the hallway.
“Let him be,” Reeves stated. The two men glanced toward Reeves. “The kid needs to get it out of his system,” the older man said without looking up from his book. He flipped a page, and Wyatt’s grief continued to echo from the shower.
10
Major King glanced over Shaw’s report laid out on his desk. Shaw sat in the chair across from him watching King’s every move. The seasoned man’s bald dome gleamed like a well-polished shoe as it reflected the florescent light. King’s large eyes always appeared to pop from their sockets, and his ears flared outward. His large nose sat smashed on his wide face.
King was a good man and better Marine. He maintained perfect fitness scores and was often sympathetic to the concerns held by those under his command. It was in this trait that Shaw placed his hope.
“You know you’re not in the intelligence analyzing business,” King critiqued. Although Raiders gathered intelligence, they passed the information on through the channels set forth by whatever agency liaised on the operation, whether it be the CIA, NSA, DIA, their own Marine Corps intelligence teams, or the countless others that constituted the United States intelligence community.
“I understand, sir,” Shaw replied. King glanced up at him and then back down to the file.
“And all this,” King started, waving his open hand over the documents, “you’re sure about it?”
“Yes, sir,” Shaw replied.
“And you want to lead this thing?” he asked. Shaw nodded. King cracked a smile.
“You know that is not how this works.” Shaw knew he possessed a fifty-fifty shot at winning King over.
“I’m the only one who can identify Al Amiri,” he countered. It was a long shot but the only one Shaw had in securing involvement in future operations concerning Al Amiri. King traced over the documents.
“This photograph says otherwise,” King replied. Shaw sighed. He had thought about excluding the photograph from the file, but it was the only article that linked Taaha bin Hashim to Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda. “Also, your report is uncorroborated,” the major added. “Everything here is based off your word alone. Now don’t get me wrong, your word carries great weight here.” He paused. Shaw saw the inner workings of King’s mind through the man’s light-brown eyes.
King was a rational man, and he was up to date on the events in Yemen. His heart hurt for his lost Marines as much as Shaw’s, but his duty persisted with a deployment to Afghanistan around the corner to coordinate headquarters operations for the remaining teams in his company. That deployment, however, would have to wait until after the funeral arrangements and next of kin notifications for those deceased. He shifted focus. “So, you think this man, bin Hashim, this Al Amiri, is responsible for our downed helicopters?” King asked. Shaw’s hope grew as King shifted the conversation’s direction.
“I do,” Shaw answered.
“And how did you come to that?”
“Sir, Isaam Al Amiri is the CIA’s highest priority target in Yemen. I’m certain that this Al Amiri is Sheik Taaha bin Hashim from Helmand Province. It all adds up. Bin Hashim is pictured with bin Laden here,” Shaw answered rising from his seat. He pointed out bin Hashim from the photograph.
“Yes, I see that,” King replied. His tone was kind and understanding, and he allowed Shaw to lead him through the intelligence.
“I met this man in 2012,” Shaw finished. King glanced down at the photograph again.
“How do you know that this is Al Amiri?” he asked.
“The name,” Shaw began, “bin Hashim shared with me about his father Hashim Al Amiri. If … ”
“You know as well as I that we don’t operate on if,” King replied.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can anyone support your findings?”
“Yes,” Shaw answered. King perked up at his answer.
“Who?”
“Staff Sergeant John Wyatt,” Shaw replied. “He was there with me when I met with bin Hashim.” Major King mulled over the captain’s words and nodded his head several times in quick succession.
“It appears we need to rescue Staff Sergeant Wyatt,” King stated.
“Yes, sir.” King collected the documents into the folder and rose from his seat. Shaw straightened, unsure of King’s intentions.
“Who is overseeing this operation in Support Group?”
“Lieutenant Bateman,” Shaw answered.
“Let’s pay him a visit,” King stated. Shaw cracked a grin.
It was a short walk from King’s office, across the lawn, and into Support Headquarters. Shaw followed as King’s long strides carried him with deliberate purpose. He pushed through the door, drawing everyone’s gaze, but no one snapped to attention, nor were they expected to do so. The operation was still under full swing, and although Wyatt and the civilian had been rescued, their work was far from over. The coordination of departments and assets required their undivided attention if they were going to return their people home safely and secure the remains of the fallen.
“Major,” Bateman greeted.
“Lieutenant,” he replied. Bateman nodded his greeting to Shaw, which Shaw returned. The presence of Major King with Shaw at his side stirred anger within Bateman. Had Shaw gone over his head? For what purpose? It was hardly Bateman’s fault that the operation went awry.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Bateman asked. He braced himself for disciplinary action.
“Captain Shaw has brought it to my attention that Staff Sergeant John Wyatt’s recovery is of vital importance to national security,” Major King explained. Bateman glanced at Shaw. Had he fabricated some false intelligence to rescue his men? If there was any who would, it was Shaw. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind how much that man loved his men.
“What intelligence?” Bateman asked.
“That isn’t what you should be concerned with,” King replied. “Give me an update on the status of your operation.” Bateman again shifted his glance from King to Shaw. “Don’t focus on him,” King scolded, “focus on what I’m telling you to do.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied quickly. He briefed the major on the most recent events. Units with the 13th Marine Expeditionary Unit were inbound to recover the dead, but for fear of exposing the CIA outpost, Wyatt and the civilian would remain until such a time that covert extraction could be arranged. What remained of the Yemeni government had kept silent on the recent events, despite the US embassy’s numerous attempts to secure their assistance in Aden. King took it all in and simply nodded along as Bateman continued.
“Do we know where this CIA outpost is?”
“Yes, sir,” Bateman replied.
“Is Staff Sergeant Wyatt fit for duty?” King asked. Bateman sighed. It really wasn’t his place to say.
“We’ve received no indication that he has been wounded or otherwise rendered unable to fulfill his duties.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” King replied. “Lieutenant, I want you to run everything by me prior to taking any action to extract, and I want those SEALs to stay right where they are. This is a MARSOC op, and the Marines will see it through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” King said, “alert me when our boys have been recovered.”
“Yes, sir,” Bateman replied. King turned to Shaw.
“You got a uniform?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pack a bag. We’re headed to Tampa. We’ve got important people to see.”
• • •
The room quieted as Wyatt emerged from the hallway. Bacon sizzled on the stovetop, the grease cracking and popping in the heat. The fragrant smell churned Wyatt’s stomach, and it growled fiercely.
“I appreciate t
he clothes,” Wyatt said.
“Yeah, bro, no problem,” Becker responded.
“Have a seat, man,” Quinn encouraged as he pulled out a chair next to him. Three men sat around the table, one cooked over the stovetop, and Reeves sat in the recliner still reading. “Alright, introductions!” Becker exclaimed. “You met Quinn,” he began. Quinn offered him a nod, which Wyatt returned. “Me and Quinn go way back, been together since Basic and then Rangers, then onto SF, then Delta.”
“Whoa, seriously?” Wyatt exclaimed. Only a handful of people had served in all three famed, Army units.
“Yeah, kid,” Quinn replied. Wyatt was hardly a kid. He was nearing his thirtieth birthday; Quinn and Becker had to be pushing mid-forties to have such a resume.
“You met Reeves. He’s a Teams guy, been around for a long time now. And that’s Isaac Adara,” Becker continued, referring to the man at the skillet. “He’s the oddball. Serves currently in HRT, but never spent any time in the service. We give him a hard time.” Becker referred to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, which was arguably the most highly trained SWAT unit in the United States, perhaps even the world. Wyatt grinned and nodded his greeting.
“How do you like your eggs?” Adara asked, his Boston accent coming out strong.
“It’s a little late for breakfast, isn’t it?” Wyatt said.
“It’s never too late for breakfast,” the Bostonian replied. “Your eggs?”
“Fry them hard,” Wyatt responded.
“You got it.” Adara drizzled some oil in another pan and cracked two eggs.
“Then we got Luis Sotelo, our very own puddle pirate,” Becker started again, “but he was MSRT, so he’s okay.” Sotelo was a former member of the Coast Guard’s Maritime Security Response Team. The unit specialized in counterterrorism, anti-piracy, and hostage rescue.
“What’s going on, bro?” Sotelo greeted. Wyatt clapped hands with Sotelo in a more modern, less traditional handshake.
“I don’t think anyone here has rolled with a Raider before; maybe Reeves,” Becker said.
“I knew some Det One guys while in Fallujah back in oh-four,” Reeves said, still not looking up from his book.
“He’s a real book worm,” Becker muttered.
“My old team commander was Det One,” Wyatt replied. Reeves finally looked up from his book.
“There weren’t many of those guys. What was his name?” Reeves asked.
“David Shaw,” Wyatt said. Reeves smiled wide.
“No kidding,” Reeves replied. “Small world.” Wyatt smiled, and Adara drew his attention as he dropped a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. “What’s he been up to?” Reeves asked.
“He was just wounded in Afghanistan, barely made it, and is on a forced medical retirement,” Wyatt explained. Reeves nodded his understanding and noted Wyatt’s sadness.
“Sounds familiar,” he stated. “Glad he made it.” Wyatt felt the sympathy radiating from the SEAL and wondered if Reeves’ exit from the Teams had fallen under similar circumstances. Reeves returned to his book, and not knowing how to respond, Wyatt turned around and picked up a piece of bacon. He bit into the savory morsel and relished the rendered fat and crispy meat. “Oh man, this is good,” he said, turning to Adara.
“Glad you like it,” Adara replied. “You don’t have to be polite, I’m sure you’re starving.” Wyatt smiled, folded one of the fried eggs like a taco, and shoveled it into his mouth. The guys laughed when some of the egg fell from his lips as he chewed.
Becker patted Wyatt on the shoulder before rising from his seat. Wyatt watched him reach into a cabinet and produce a bottle of bourbon. He stretched out the bottle to Wyatt, who took it from him. His eyes fell on the intersected arrow and tomahawk emblem molded into the glass before they moved down the bottle. The image of a Special Forces soldier, sitting astride a stallion, lay stamped on the silver, metal label.
“Horse Soldier Reserve,” Wyatt noted. Becker set six glasses on the kitchen island, took the bottle back from Wyatt, and poured up a round before distributing to each man.
“Reeves, get over here,” he called. Reeves nodded, closed his book, and rose from his chair. Becker turned back to Wyatt and said, “we were saving this to celebrate our homegoing, but,” he paused as he thought of the recent tragedy, “this seems more fitting.” Wyatt watched as all nodded their solemn agreement. “It’s our buddy’s label. His team was first in after the towers fell.” Wyatt knew well the story of the legendary actions of ODA595, known as the Horse Soldiers. In ninety days, the small team of Green Berets had all but eradicated the Taliban presence in Northern Afghanistan.
Becker raised his glass, and each warrior followed. “You’ve been through hell, bro, and we’re glad you made it,” Becker said. “To those who didn’t, may their names live forever.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room as the men clinked their glasses together. Wyatt paused, remembering his team, before taking a swig.
A knock at the door stole their attention. It opened and Abby stood in the doorway.
“She wants to see you,” she said. All eyes fell on Wyatt. His eyebrows perked up in surprise, and Becker gave him a gentle nudge. The Raider set down his bourbon, shoved another piece of bacon into his mouth, and followed Abby out the door.
11
Kathryn fought through her wet, tangled mane with a comb. She draped her golden hair over one shoulder and attacked it from another angle. Satisfied, she set the comb down on the bathroom counter and looked at herself in the mirror. Fatigue sat behind her blue eyes, and her face appeared drained of its usual vitality. Would it come back? She didn’t know, but she knew she would never again be the same.
As much as she tried to cast the scene from her mind, she kept seeing Reyes leap on that grenade, his mangled body bouncing as it fell back to the roof, and the blood pooling too quickly beneath his broken frame. It replayed in her mind over and over again, sometimes in slow motion, and, despite her best efforts, the image was there to stay. She doubted she would ever forget the events of the day, regardless of how much she wished she would. Perhaps the vividness would fade, and she hoped for at least that.
Then there was John Wyatt, his strong countenance giving her comfort and building trust within her. She would never forget his eyes that moment in the alley. She would much rather dwell on that dusty and bloodstained complexion with those vibrant irises of hope than the scene of Reyes’ fate on the rooftop. Could she even begin to decipher the emotions surrounding her savior? The tickling in her heart, was it true affection or was she riding the final wave of highly unpredictable emotions caused by the day’s tragedy? She wanted to know, and she hoped that seeing him again would help.
She looked at herself in the mirror again. The navy robe that covered her provided warm comfort, like a blanket, she didn’t wish to cast it off for clothes just yet. A swift knock at the door beckoned her that way. She paused before she gripped the handle and breathed deeply.
“Yes?”
“It’s Abby, I’m here with John.” Kathryn opened the door and again offered Wyatt that shy smile, one that said thank you but was uncertain of the future.
“Thank you, Abby,” she said.
“No problem, girl. Let me know if you need anything else.” As the officer backed away, she held Kathryn’s gaze and teased her by puckering her lips in response to Wyatt’s appearance. Kathryn rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let her smile vanish. Wyatt, failing to see the jest cocked his head for an explanation.
“Nothing,” Kathryn replied as she reached for his hand. Abby was a good and fun woman, and Kathryn was grateful for her kindness and quick friendship.
As Kathryn pulled Wyatt in and the door closed behind him, the Raider felt his heart leap into his throat. He glanced at her bare feet and glistening legs as they disappeared beneath the hem of the robe. He couldn’t deny his immediate desire for her. She was even more beautiful than when he first laid eyes on her. A few stray droplets of water rested on her neck and collar.
He looked away quickly.
“What?” she asked. She realized she was still holding his hand. It was warm and comforting.
“Nothing, you’re just … uh … you know,” he replied, returning his eyes to her and glancing down at her robe. She grinned. It was different smile, different from her laughter on the helicopter, different from her smile in the Range Rover. It was sweet and tender, affectionate even.
“Will you sit with me for a moment?” she asked. Wyatt allowed her to lead him to the bed, and they sat on the edge. Kathryn still held his hand tightly in her lap. Wyatt felt heat radiate from his core, was he really that nervous? “John, thank you. I will never be able to repay you for what you did for me, and I’m so sorry about your friends.” She started to tear up, and she snapped her eyes to the ceiling as her voice broke. “I don’t know if I can live up to their sacrifice,” she continued. She brought a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing for her tears.
“No, it’s okay,” he replied. She collected herself and sniffed. She replaced her hand on top of Wyatt’s, which made his heart almost burst.
“You know, I’m feeling a lot right now,” she said, a short laugh accompanied. Wyatt smiled.
“Me too.”
“I don’t feel safe without you.” She paused and looked at him. Tears rimmed her sapphire eyes again. “And I have all of these feelings for you, but I don’t know if they are just because of what happened or because I really,” she paused, “care for you.” It took great effort to say, but she had said it. She looked into his eyes, those eyes she found so comforting, and the resolve had not left. It still swirled behind those gems like a mix of smoke and water. The more she thought about it, staring into his eyes, the clearer it became. She wore nothing under that robe, and yet felt no embarrassment, no insecurity, and no timidity. Did she care for him? Yes, she decided. Did she know anyone else like Staff Sergeant John Wyatt? No, she did not.
“Kathryn,” Wyatt began. It was the way he said her name that sent a streak of fear through her heart. She had always thought of herself as a strong woman, fearless even, but that persona had shattered on the plummeting helicopter. The realization of her new vulnerability didn’t sit well with her, and the fear of potential PTSD haunted her thoughts.
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