Way of the Warrior
Page 39
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Free Fall
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The Elite Force series by Catherine Mann
Cover Me
Hot Zone
Under Fire
Free Fall
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Bring On the Dusk
M.L. BUCHMAN
There were few times that Colonel Michael Gibson of Delta Force appreciated the near-psychotic level of commitment displayed by terrorists, but this was one of those times. If they hadn’t been so rigid in even their attire, his disguise would have been much more difficult.
The al-Qaeda terrorist training camp deep in the Yemeni desert required that all of their hundred new trainees dress in white with black headdresses that left only the eyes exposed. The thirty-four trainers were dressed similarly but wholly in black, making them easy to distinguish. They were also the only ones armed, which was a definite advantage.
The camp’s dress code made for a perfect cover. The four men of his team wore loose-fitting black robes like the trainers. Lieutenant Bill Bruce used dark contacts to hide his blue eyes, and they all had rubbed a dye onto their hands and wrists, the only other uncovered portion of their bodies.
Michael and his team had parachuted into the deep desert the night before and traveled a quick ten kilometers on foot before burying themselves in the sand along the edges of the main training grounds. Only their faces were exposed, each carefully hidden by a thorn bush.
The midday temperatures had easily blown through 110 degrees. It felt twice that inside the heavy clothing and lying under a foot of hot sand, but uncomfortable was a way of life in “The Unit,” as Delta Force called itself, so this was of little concern. They’d dug deep enough so that they weren’t simply roasted alive, even if it felt that way by the end of the motionless day.
It was three minutes to sunset, three minutes until the start of Maghrib, the fourth scheduled prayer of the five that were performed daily.
At the instant of sunset, the muezzin began chanting adhan, the call to prayer.
Thinking themselves secure in the deep desert of the Abyan province of southern Yemen, every one of the trainees and the trainers knelt and faced northwest toward Mecca.
After fourteen motionless hours—fewer than a dozen steps from a hundred and thirty terrorists—moving smoothly and naturally was a challenge as Michael rose from his hiding place. He shook off the sand and swung his AK-47 into a comfortable position. The four of them approached the prostrate group in staggered formation from the southeast over a small hillock.
The Delta operators interspersed themselves among the other trainers and knelt, blending in perfectly. Of necessity, they all spoke enough Arabic to pass if questioned.
Michael didn’t check the others because that might draw attention. If they hadn’t made it cleanly into place, an alarm would have been raised and the plan would have changed drastically. All was quiet, so he listened to the muezzin’s words and allowed himself to settle into the peace of the prayer.
Bismi-llāhi r-rahmāni r-rahīm…
In the name of Allah, the most compassionate, the most merciful…
He sank into the rhythm and meaning of it—not as these terrorists twisted it in the name of murder and warfare, but as it was actually stated. Moments like this one drove home the irony of his long career to become the most senior field operative in Delta while finding an inner quiet in the moment before dealing death.
Perhaps in their religious fervor, the terrorists found the same experience. But what they lacked was flexibility. They wound themselves up to throw away their lives, if necessary, to complete their preprogrammed actions exactly as planned.
For Michael, an essential centering in self allowed perfect adaptability when situations went kinetic—Delta’s word for the shit unexpectedly hitting the fan.
That was Delta’s absolute specialty.
Starting with zero preconceptions in either energy or strategy allowed for the perfect action that fit each moment in a rapidly changing scenario. Among the team, they’d joke sometimes about how Zen, if not so Buddhist, the moment before battle was.
And, as always, he accepted the irony of that with no more than a brief smile at life’s whimsy.
Dealing death was one significant part of what The Unit did.
U.S. SFOD-D, Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, went where no other fighting force could go and did what no one else could do.
Today, it was a Yemeni terrorist training camp.
Tomorrow would take care of itself.
They were the U.S. Army’s Tier One asset and no one, except their targets, would ever know they’d been here. One thing for certain, had The Unit been unleashed on bin Laden, not a soul outside the command structure would know who’d been there. SEAL Team Six had done a top-notch job, but talking about it wasn’t something a Delta operator did. But Joint Special Operations Command’s leader at the time was a former STS member, so the SEALs had gone in instead.
Three more minutes of prayer.
Then seven minutes to help move the trainees into their quarters where they would be locked in under guard for the night, as they were still the unknowns.
Or so the trainers thought.
Three more minutes to move across the compound through the abrupt fall of darkness in the equatorial desert to where the commanders would meet for their evening meal and evaluation of the trainees.
After that the night would get interesting.
Bismi-llāhi r-rahmāni r-rahīm…
In the name of Allah, the most compassionate, the most merciful…
Order M.L. Buchman’s next book
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Bring on the Dusk
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Also by M.L. Buchman
The Night Stalkers
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
The Firehawks
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point
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A SEAL Forever
ANNE ELIZABETH
Master Chief Declan Swifton of SEAL Team FIVE rolled over the side of the Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boat and slid soundlessly into the Pacific Ocean. The RIB took off without even a comment from the operator, leaving Declan to sink further into the drink.
The temperature cooled as he swam away from the surface. Fish skirted the edges of his thighs, small shimmers of movement against his skin. He scissor-kicked his way forward. The ocean currents caught him, dragging him in the direction they wanted to go, toward shore. He lay with his arms at his sides, frog-kicking only. Above him, he could see the afternoon sunlight glistening and frothy foam chasing away the glassy surface. Down here, things were different…calmer. Peaceful in a way few souls would understand, and yet, he knew that even he would have to surface soon.
His lungs would start to ache and burn, his gut would begin to feel as if it would cave in, and that would force him to either head topside or drink in the salt water. But there was still time. This was the water in front of Imperial Beach and the apartment he lived in. He knew it very well.
Scanning the ocean floor, he gauged it would be about thirty seconds until he reached one of the many rocky sand bars out here. He’d have to pull up before then or the force of the current would smack him against the side. As his body began to complain, he used both arms and legs to draw himself upward. Breaking the surface, he opened his mouth and drew in air like a thirsty man.
The waves bounced him like a buoy. The tide was coming
in and the wind was picking up momentum. Looking at the sky to the east, he could see a storm was likely. Dec took a long, slow breath and appreciated the sunset. The colors were extraordinary; orange and gold dappled the horizon as the blazing ball of light attempted to sink before the moon lifted higher in the sky.
His hands flexed, cupping the water. It had been a warm day and the sun’s rays had heated the top of the water, making the surface feel like a warm bath, loosening his muscles. Three months ago, he’d been in waters so frigid, there were actual ice caps; the memory still made him cold. But here, the Pacific Ocean off California’s Imperial Beach was a slice of heaven.
Coming in from the east were some nasty-looking cumulus-nimbus clouds. Seeing the lightning arc way off toward the distant desert, he decided it was time to go in and right on cue, here came a perfect wave.
Swimming at top speed, Declan pushed his way through the changing current, one that sought to drag him into faster-moving waters. He went over a sand bar, having no intention of going to Mexico today, and increased the reach of his stroke. With single-mindedness, he worked his way into the more placid surf as he homed in on a large stretch of beach.
He felt a few sea lions swimming around him; one nosed him in the gut and another in his back a few times, assessing whether or not he’d play. Not this time, my friends. He continued swimming without engaging. If he stopped to play, he’d be out there for hours.
Switching to the breaststroke, his arms protested. His Platoon had switched their training this month to desert warfare techniques, and he’d been sweating his balls off in the heat. He’d managed to learn a thing or two, even now, after all his years in the Teams. But it felt good to be back in the ocean, his element. He’d live in the deep blue like a Jules Verne character if he could.
Taking in a mouthful of water, he swished it around and spat it out. Salt water, nature’s peroxide.
Pausing to focus in on the beach, he saw two sunbathers to the left, apparently arguing, and a handful of children at the other end packing up their sand castle gear. The area abutted some nasty terrain where even the tweakers and druggies didn’t venture.
Dec bodysurfed the rest of the way to shore. With the cool, sandy bottom beneath his feet, he walked up onto the beach, leaving behind the water’s warmth. The wind ruffled the tops of the waves, blowing hard from east to west.
Taking one more glance at the sunset, he noted the time. He needed to keep moving to stay on schedule. A certain lovely lady would be having his undivided attention later this evening.
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Once a SEAL
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West Coast Navy SEALs by Anne Elizabeth
A SEAL at Heart
Once a SEAL
A SEAL Forever
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Endgame Ops
LEA GRIFFITH
Douala International Airport
Cameroon, Africa
Quinn feared she wasn’t going to make her flight and damn, she really needed to be on that plane. She weaved through the throngs of people in the main terminal, trying not to knock down anyone who refused to the get the hell out of her way.
“Final call for Air France flight 1701 to Paris, boarding now,” the gate hostess said in a lilting, accented voice over the intercom.
Quinn pushed her heavy blond hair out of her face, breathed deeply, and smiled at the woman as she handed her the boarding pass. The woman shooed her through. One step closer to home. Exhilaration pumped through Quinn’s body. She pulled her carry-on behind her down the loading ramp. The tick, tick, splat of rain on the dock’s tin roof reminded her that it was monsoon season in Cameroon. She definitely wouldn’t miss the rain. The people were a different story. She’d miss the hell out of them. But she’d be back.
She stepped into the plane and nodded at an attendant.
“Welcome aboard, mademoiselle,” the flight attendant said with a smile.
Visions of manicures, pedicures, and McDonald’s French fries danced in her head as she practically skipped down the aisle of the 747.
Quinn found her seat, pushed down the handle of her carry-on, and lifted it to the overhead compartment. She struggled for several moments, cursing, before she got it situated. Her gaze fell as she closed the compartment door and her breath stuck in her throat. In the row behind her sat a lone man.
Quite possibly the hottest man she’d ever seen. He was looking out the window and she stood there in awe as she took in his mink-brown, wavy hair. High cheekbones balanced a square jaw darkened by a five o’clock shadow.
She took in the strong column of his neck and the breadth of his chest. Then she slammed right into his gaze and Quinn almost swallowed her tongue. His eyes were the green of an Irish hillside, and his lips curved at her perusal.
His eyes smoldered then he blinked. That single instant of reprieve allowed her to get her shit together—okay, almost together. She sat quickly in her aisle seat. She tried to concentrate on breathing evenly. The sexy bastard in the row behind her had stolen the oxygen from her lungs. Quinn wasn’t a believer in insta-love, but insta-lust? Very possible.
“We’ll be leaving shortly. Please make sure all carry-on luggage is stowed carefully in the assigned compartments,” a flight attendant said over the speaker.
Quinn was flying to Paris and then catching a flight to D.C. Home was at least eighteen hours away—if everything connected properly.
Quinn closed her eyes and focused on her go-to fantasy—McDonald’s French fries. Yeah, the Golden Arches had some thirty thousand locations worldwide, but not one McD’s graced the country where she’d spent the last three years. She took a deep breath and smelled evergreens and mint. Her body tightened and she looked up.
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Hotness. “I think I had the wrong seat,” he said in a deep baritone that seriously rearranged pieces inside Quinn’s abdomen.
“Uh, well, okay?” She was a mess in the face of all that hotness.
He smiled, which was possibly the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen on any man, ever.
“I think what I’m asking,” he began and sighed patiently, “is do you want the aisle or the window?”
She stared up at him and his brows lowered. Then it hit her. “Oh! Aisle is fine, thanks,” she murmured as she started to stand so he could sit down.
He brushed by her and there it was—the holy grail of backside views.
Quinn shook her head and sat down. But when her arm brushed against his (which was damn near impossible to avoid because the dude was huge) Quinn jerked her arm away and felt more than saw his chest rising and falling.
He was laughing at her.
Quinn drowned it out by closing her eyes again and thinking of McDonald’s fries. She was lost to the dream of salty goodness, trying hard to get Mr. Hotness off her mind, and so the rat-a-tat-tat took her by surprise.
A strong hand pushed her head down. “Don’t move!” he bit out.
“Hey,” she objected but it was directed to her knees. She tried lifting her head but his grip on the back of her neck was solid.
“We’ve got trouble. I need you to keep your head down, ’kay?” he whispered in her ear.
Trouble? Understatement, she thought. Shots fired were a bit more than trouble.
More rat-a-tat-tat-tat, and it was definitely automatic weapons fire. Children and adults were screaming, and over it all, a hard voice demanded that everyone sit down.
Well shit. “All I wanted was a mani/pedi and some hot McDonald’s fries,” she muttered.
“What?” he asked.
Then every single thought left her brain as a woman screamed. Quinn’s instincts kicked in and she reached for his hand to remove it from her neck.
“I said to stay down,” he bit out.
She twisted his hand in a move her father had taught her and he released her immediately. She lifted her head and her gaze found chaos.
At least five men holding AK47s were shouting orders to people in heavily accented, broken English interspersed with…Arabic?
“Where is the woman?” one of them yelled as he shoved his gun in the face of a stewardess.
Oh, damn. This was so not good.
If you enjoyed Beauty and the Marine,
you’ll also love these titles by Tina Wainscott
The Justiss Alliance
Wild Hearts (series intro)
Wild On You
Wild Ways
Wild Nights
Suspense
What Lies In Shadow
Until The Day You Die
In Too Deep
What She Doesn’t Know
I’ll Be Watching You
Blindsight
Unforgivable
Falling Trilogy
Falling Fast
Falling Hard
Falling Grace
Romantic Suspense
Back in Baby’s Arms
A Trick of the Light
In A Heartbeat
Woke Up Dead
Touched by Lightning
Stranger in the Mirror
Until I Die Again
Read on for a preview of book one in the hot new romantic suspense series
Protect and Serve
KATE SERINE
Kyle Dawson’s heart was in his throat. He and his brothers arrived at the house to find two sheriff’s vehicles and three Oakdale police cars parked out front. The door was standing open and two of the Oakdale officers were walking the perimeter, shining their flashlights along the hedges.
“Abby!” Kyle cried as he jumped out of Gabe’s department Tahoe, not even bothering to close the door behind him as he sprinted toward the house. “Abby!”