LEE
IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
Book 12
IRISH WINTERS
COPYRIGHT
Lee; In the Company of Snipers, 12
Copyright ©2016 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 and author photo by Kelli Ann Morgan, http://www.inspirecreativeservices.com
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Editor: Lauren McKellar, McStellar editing, http://mcstellarediting.blogspot.com
Editor: Katie Johnson, [email protected]
ISBN Paperback: 978-942895-33-6
ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-32-9
Irish Winter’s author websites are: http://www.irishwinters.com and irishwinters.blogspot.com
DEDICATION
To First Responders everywhere…
IN THE COMPANY OF SNIPERS
This multi-book series revolves around ex-Marine scout sniper, Alex Stewart, and his covert surveillance company, The TEAM, home-based out of Alexandria, Virginia. An obsessive patriot and workaholic, he created the company to give ex-military snipers like him a chance and a decent job.
In the Company of Snipers is a collection of love stories. Book 1, ALEX, reveals how The TEAM came to be, as well as how Alex and Kelsey met, fell in love and fought all odds to stay together. Each of the following books is a complete romance in itself where, in the course of an active TEAM operation, one agent will come face to face with his or her demons. They’re all patriots and warriors, dealing with what they’ve lived through or the mistakes they’ve made.
By the end of the telling, it is my hope that you, my reader, will come to realize along with my heroes that...
Love changes everything.
Prologue
Four years earlier
“Bind her!”
Tess Culver fell to her knees, the crack from the rifle butt to her head more than she could bear. Whoever these Taliban soldiers were, they were nothing like the others she’d known. It took less than minutes for two of them to tie her hands together in front of her knees, to shackle her ankles with the same rope.
Tess fought to control her trembling. She shot a sideways glance to her mentor from the orphanage, but there was nothing Sister Alison could do. Not anymore. The children needed her—not that the Taliban cared about the orphans and little ones they’d maimed in their struggle for terror. The worst was yet to come.
They’d swarmed the orphanage at the crack of dawn. No shots had been fired. Tess and Sister Alison had made no attempt to defend themselves. Why would they? They had no soldiers, no weapons, and no means to fight back. The orphanage housed the homeless and poor, not just children and babies. How could the helpless fight these monsters?
They’d come for Omar, the teenage boy with the wide-open smile who ran errands for Sister Alison. He was the best of his country, but Omar was poorer than dirt. Now he lay bloodied and unconscious in the back of one of the Taliban soldier’s trucks, but for what? Because his dream was to become a doctor? Because Omar wanted to give back to the country that beat him and people like him down? Most likely.
Tess feared he wouldn’t live the day. Her pounding heart echoed the same fear for herself.
A bearded man shuffled to where she’d been forced to sit and wait. What she wouldn’t give to wipe the smirk off his foul mouth but she couldn’t control the tremors rattling through her whole body, much less come up with enough saliva to spit in his face. Male chauvinist bullies—that was what many of these men and their self-proclaimed prophets were. They didn’t believe in a cause. They just needed a reason to kill.
He’d dragged a wooden pole behind him. It looked solid. Good. One hard hit with it and she’d be dead. At least her end would be fast and merciful. She hoped. Steeling her resolve, she prepared to die more honorably than most of these guys lived. God, she hated them and the lies they spewed under the guise of Islam.
“You infidels,” he growled when he crouched at her feet, but not like a brave and powerful tiger might growl. No. More like a conniving jackal, whining his thanks for the demeaning task he’d been given. He had the nerve to settle his dirty hand on her knee. Brave Afghan warrior, nothing. This weaselly excuse for a man might as well have a bandana wrapped around his head like the gangbangers back home in America. He was there to make a name for himself, to beat women and children because it made him look tough.
Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t think. Fear and panic had control. Death was imminent. Her mother’s sweet smile flashed to mind, then her father’s steady gray eyes. They’d be sad to hear their daughter had been killed on what they honestly believed was a humanitarian mission. At least they’d think she died for a noble cause.
Tess closed her eyes, prayed one last prayer, and willed the deathblow to come fast and hard. The end of her short life might have come too soon, but death would be welcome now. She’d lived a good life. The truth may not come to light today, but it would eventually. Her quest would be revealed. Since she’d come to this beautiful country less than eleven months ago, she had singlehandedly stolen several of Afghanistan’s ancient relics from the very thieves who’d looted the National Museum in Kabul. The relics and artifacts were safe now, reserved for the real heroes of this beleaguered country—the simple, honest people.
She’d truly believed in something greater than herself, but if she took her secret to the grave, that she was the cat burglar of Kabul, she was fine with it. What mattered most was that she’d helped the innocent children at the orphanage, innocents like Jamaal and Mina. They would remember the silly, impetuous American woman who had read them Disney stories of princes and princesses and happily-ever-afters. She scanned the grounds, hoping they were safely hidden inside. They didn’t need to witness more cruelty.
The ugly man with his hand still on her knee grunted. Instead of striking her with the pole, he shoved it under her knees and into the small triangular space created by her bound arms and legs. Not what she’d expected. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest at this unexpected turn of events. Damn. This might be worse than death.
“That wicked mouth of yours must be taught a lesson, American,” he muttered with a salacious sneer. “You cannot spread your lies and get away with it.
Hidden from his comrades by his thick, dark hair and beard, his lying eyes skated to her breasts—not that he could see them through all of her required heavy clothing. But all men knew what lay beneath a women’s garb. There weren’t enough layers of cotton, linen, or silk in the world to change the filthy mindset of a pervert like this guy.
He dipped one dirty finger inside her shirt collar and tugged out the crucifix her brother had given her when she’d graduated college; not that Clint was religious, but it meant something to her, a Christian in an unforgiving land. She wore it as a sign of her individuality. Her free will and her spirit. Her belief in a God who loved all of his children, not just extremists, terrorists, and jihadists.
“You think your Christian god will save you no
w?” One bushy brow lifted along with his lip.
“Get your hands off me,” she hissed, struggling to show defiance instead of fear.
He let the chain drop to her breasts and pushed off the ground, his hand pressed to her knee for leverage. Tess caught one last terrified look from Sister Alison as two men lifted the pole and Tess along with it. Instantly, her head tilted backward, her body swinging upside down. There was no escape. She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped for a beating instead of the total degradation of gang rape in the center of the orphanage playground.
Another man stepped forward through the throng of bullying illiterates with AKs. While the others were charged with testosterone and their twisted idea of religious zeal, he seemed eerily calm. Businesslike. The scent of sandalwood approached with him. Tess couldn’t miss his expensive leather loafers, crisply pressed black linen trousers, or his matching blazer.
The others quieted. They seemed to respect him. Was he there to save her? Hope flared—until he crouched to her level and softly stoked her cheek. The sensation of his skin against hers curdled her blood. He lifted her head until she had no choice but to look up at him. A cruel smile wrinkled his upside-down face, and then she knew how bad this was going to be.
“You think you can do whatever you want in my country, Miss Culver,” he said quietly, the pad of his thumb rubbing a gentle circle beneath the black eye she’d gotten when she’d punched the first creep who’d laid a hand on her.
This guy could’ve passed for a gentleman. Suave, clean-cut, and recently bathed, he spoke with the clipped inflection of a civilized man with a British education. Yet there he was, in the most uncivilized country in the world, in charge of this death squad. She should’ve known.
This was him, Hasim Nizari. Banker to the Taliban. Vile molester of women and children. The man she’d rightly accused of raping a young woman before she’d realized how blind justice was toward women in this part of the world.
“You and your buddies are the ones defiling your country, not me,” Tess hissed. If this was the end, she intended to die with a curse on her lips for him and all men like him. “You defile it by breathing the same air as the good people you grind under your boots. You raped that girl. You and I both know it.”
He shook his head, an odd smile on his face. “You only think you know, my pretty little friend. Tread gently from now on,” he whispered, his eyes lifted to the men gathering around her, “or we will meet again. I have an appetite for beautiful women, but you won’t enjoy it nearly as much as I do. I can promise you that.”
Tremors seized her soul, squelching her pithy comeback to a man so cruel. He rose from the ground and snapped his fingers. The cowardly Taliban warrior in charge of the attack uttered a fervent curse to all infidels. The lesson commenced.
After the first hit Tess only saw black.
“You sign. I let you live.”
Yeah, right. I’m not signing that confession, no matter how many times you shove it under my nose. USMC Corporal Lee Hart swayed forward, his legs too weak to support his battered six-foot-five frame. No sooner did he tilt off axis than the two stout Taliban soldiers at his sides jerked him backward. They forced him to kneel on the wooden canes spread parallel to each other on the floor—not that kneeling hurt less than falling on one’s face. There was no part of his battered body that had not been tested by these bastards. Everything throbbed. Some places just hurt worse. Others bled. Life in the day of a captured Marine sucked to hell and back.
They never leave a man behind. I’m not alone. My guys are coming back for me. I know it.
They’d better hurry. The chats with his one-eyed Taliban were getting shorter. More vehement. Bloodier. If Lee’s men didn’t find him soon, there wouldn’t be much left when they did. The day would come when that one last brutal conversation would end with a bullet to his head.
For days, Cyclops had tried to persuade Lee to betray his country on video, to confess to the world how the degenerate United States came to oppress and destroy innocent Afghanistan women and children, and of course, Cyclops always demanded Lee reveal U.S. troop movements and strategy. Lee had feigned ignorance. Over and over again, he’d refused to comply. No matter what they’d done to him, he’d honored his vow to protect his country.
“Geez,” he muttered one last time. “Don’t much feel like... signing today.”
The guard at his left stomped his boot down on the back of Lee’s calf, grinding bone against wooden canes and concrete. Lee caught a sharp breath and grimaced while his kneecap shrieked in agony. He gritted his teeth, panting for enough air to breathe and the strength to endure. He hadn’t always been able to breathe through the torture. Drowning in a bucket of dirty water and having rags stuffed down his throat for nothing more than his captors’ entertainment had taught Lee a hard lesson. Air was a damned dear friend.
They never leave a man behind. They’re coming. I know it.
“You will sign!”
“You see...” Lee began, but the lunacy of his intended answer overwhelmed what remained of his common sense. He chuckled at this one-eyed moron. “No. Guess you don’t see, do you, Jack Sparrow?”
A fist hit the back of his head. An angry stream of Arabic rhetoric spewed from the leader’s bearded face. Lee bowed his chin to his chest, spit and blood dribbling off his lip. Arabs in Afghanistan? Interesting. He would’ve expected Pashto or Urdu. The things a Marine had to find out the hard way.
“Today you will die,” Cyclops hissed.
Heard that one before. Just do it already. Stop talking and do it.
“Take him back to his cell,” his ugly warden muttered.
Lee tried to stand, honest he did. Standing made better sense than kneeling, but he wasn’t fast enough on his already tortured feet. Roughly, his Taliban buddies dragged him back to the tiny cell. More like a concrete broom closet, it boasted the lovely accommodations of a tin bucket to piss in and another to drink out of. Some days, he wasn’t sure which was which. They tasted the same. Dry bread might get tossed in occasionally, but he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. The room had other occupants, too. Bugs. Rats. A hook. A pulley.
They dragged him to the corner beneath the hook where he could be raised to his feet for another fun day in Kabul, or Kandahar, or wherever the hell he was. Too soon that other man would join the party. He always did. Hasim Nizari. He made the one-eyed goblin look like Winnie the Pooh.
When he showed, he was always immaculately clothed, his soft hands clean, and his nails trimmed. Why wouldn’t he be? He owned the estate this pit of torture and death was on. But he carried the stink of a truly twisted mind with him, masked by some expensive men’s cologne. Nizari was a master at torture and pain. He needed to die.
Lee’s too battered brain mused at the ugly metal hook dangling off the ceiling. If it had been placed in the center of the room, it would’ve turned his hanging body into a punching bag, but in the corner like it was, they had more control. That was the ultimate humiliation of torture, the loss of control over your own body.
Lee forced his mind back home before the games began in earnest. Back to where greater powers than the barbaric bullies let loose in Afghanistan were at work in the universe. He summoned them now through the words of age-old magic. Quietly. Reverently. Hoping to God his squad was on its goddamned way!
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound...
Chapter One
Spring in Kabul, Afghanistan
“Keep it low. Keep it tight.”
Well, duh. Junior Agent Eric Reynolds ignored the astute observation of his spotter, one annoying-as-hell Junior Agent Seth McCray. Instead of replying, Eric blew the dirt off his lens and took careful aim again. It was night, dark and dusty. He was invisible, camouflaged in desert cammies behind the only flat rock for miles around in the flat, dusty valley outside Kabul. Ex-Army, Seth lay next to him, his rangefinder stuck in his eye sockets like the good spotter he wasn’t.
One klick away, their beard
ed target, Mohammed Turik, lay flat to the ground, his weapon of choice aimed toward the roof of the dilapidated and bombed out Darul Aman Palace. The only movement between the three of them was the black-and-white checkered keffiyeh wrapped over Turik’s head and around his neck. The end of it lifted with the wind, giving the Taliban assassin prone position away. If Eric had his way, that keffiyeh would soon become this sniper’s death shroud.
“Bastard’s got NVGs,” Seth reported, a twinge of disbelief in his voice.
Eric let the implied hint to hurry roll off his shoulders. Seth blew out a big sigh, spiking Eric’s irritation further. If he made this shot, it would be the biggest miracle ever given the mental state of the man beside him.
Seth hadn’t been himself since that last firefight—in his hometown of Chicago, of all places. He’d never gone through the hell of combat during his single rotation in Afghanistan. No. He’d waited until he was back home to get caught in the middle of a gang war in the murder capital of the United States, the Windy City itself.
The worst part was that he’d been an innocent bystander, out with his buddies at a local bar at the wrong time. The only thing that went down right that night was that he’d been armed. Illegally, yes, given Illinois’ no concealed carry permit law. Yet somehow, that good thing turned into a really bad thing. He’d shot one of the gangbangers, a teenage girl, out of self-defense. She’d meant to kill him, the painted-pink pistol in her hot little hand proved it.
Seth seemed to have forgotten that one little detail. All he remembered was the look on her face when he’d ended her. Now his nerves were shot. None of the other agents on The TEAM wanted to work with him, not on a hot op like this one. They needed someone reliable. It damned sure wasn’t Seth.
Eric pushed his opinion of his junior agent out of his mind and let the nature of his soul take over. The breeze had died. No movement caught his eye, but Turik was still out there. Eric could feel him.
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