by Blue Saffire
Bishop and his team followed, limping a little as they moved at a snail’s pace to position themselves behind another building. Ben placed the man on the ground and checked him before standing tall.
Striker clenched his teeth and stared around at the guys, sending a prayer up to God or whoever was listening. They needed a break. This wasn’t how their mission should be going. Everything about this was screwed up. Their plans had been shot to hell.
Suddenly they were surrounded. Striker had little time to think. Bullets flew past, hitting the trees behind him. Bark exploded as the zing of rifle fire whizzed by.
Curse words filled his mind, but nothing escaped his lips. The only thing that mattered was getting out of here. Jackson moved first and kicked in the door of a building beside them. They rushed in and took up positions at the windows. He freaking hated being trapped in a building with little defensive advantage. His palms were damp with sweat, and his brain buzzed. Training took over, and he moved automatically into position, firing at the enemy.
They were smarter and better than this group attacking them. The other people may have the home field advantage, but Striker and his team would win.
It took them more than three hours to pick off enough of the enemy to move out. It was grueling work, but they took the time to treat their injured.
Jackson waved Striker over as he talked to Bishop. “We can’t move forward with your injured men.”
Bishop glanced around, resignation on his face. “We’ll stay behind.”
“Thank you,” Striker said. He made sure Bishop and his men had guns and ammunition. Striker hated leaving them, but he had little choice in the matter. Maybe they should have taken out the SAMs first, but then Bishop and his guys would be dead.
Striker and Jackson along with Ben, Brady, and Rand headed out. They moved slowly through the underbrush and past a stream. The sun was about to come up, exposing them to the enemy. They would have to find a protected place to hunker down for the day.
About that time Whitney spoke over his communication system. “It’s getting late. That sun will be showing everyone where you are.”
Striker knew Whitney was right, heck, he’d just been thinking the same thing. The need to move forward still drove him. “I know, but we need to take out that site.”
“Find a place to lay low for a few hours and rest,” Whitney said.
“Will do, boss. Any chance of them sending more in to help?”
“No can do. We have to take out that missile site. Once it’s gone, they’ll send a bird in.”
He knew a rescue was too much to hope for. After a few minutes of searching, they found a stone barn to hide in. Protected from the heat, and their enemies, they took turns sleeping and taking watch.
His stomach grumbled after he woke, and he consumed two packs of MREs, all the while wishing he was home with Shannon. She had wrapped his heart around her fingers and pulled the strings, not in an evil way, and he doubted she even noticed, but he was all tied up in her. She occupied a huge space in his mind. It was weird how before her, he’d been happy, but now that he knew she existed, he had to have her. She was the reason to exist.
The sky was getting darker, and Striker was ready to head out when a huge thunderstorm hit, making it impossible for them to move. The guys were antsy, and he didn’t blame them. Hell, he was antsy too and wanted to get this over and done with. Part of their crew had been hit hard; the mission was a failure so far. This group of idiots had placed themselves, and now others, in danger all because they didn’t want to stay at the embassy. If he were anywhere else but here, representing the US Army, he’d go off on a rant. This wasn’t the time or the place. He had to keep his cool because losing his mind while he was trying to protect people would end up hurting everyone in the end.
The storm cleared, and he rounded up his guys. They had five more miles to move before they hit the missile site. It was slow going with the water-logged mud, and streams that had gone from a trickle to near roaring rapids. It took them half the night to move the five miles.
Tired, he almost missed the clues when they were near their target. Another group of combatants was there. Striker and his team took cover, staying out of direct fire, but it was close. Some idiot fired an RPG at them, almost taking out the structure they were hiding behind.
“We have to end this,” Jackson said.
What an understatement. Being a snarky jerk wouldn’t help anyone, so he kept his voice even. “I know.” Striker moved into position, despite his throbbing headache. He blinked as he stared through his scope, hoping the pain wouldn’t mess him up. He needed all his focus, not just some of it.
More than twenty hours of heavy fire had drained them. Bishop’s crew was already injured, Whitney’s group was pinned in. Another RPG had struck the building they were holed up next to. The enemy was too close, and they would get resupplied, whereas his team wouldn’t, not until they took out the SAM site. There wouldn’t be another day of waiting. It was now or never.
His stomach tightened as he thought about what had to be done. Another RPG was fired and struck even closer. Dirt came down on them along with chunks of building. If only he could talk to Shannon one more time. He didn’t want to die here.
Striker pushed his pain away and concentrated. This was for Bishop and the guys. They had to get this unit offline. If he didn’t take this guy out, some of the men on his team would be dead and the embassy employees wouldn’t make it either. It was now or never.
12
A short break in the firefight had Striker moving into position. He blew out a breath as he lined up the sight on his rifle. The man with the RPG had the thing loaded and was preparing to fire.
Striker’s throat closed with fear. He squeezed the trigger, staying steady though he was in the open and could be taken out at any moment.
The blast from his rifle echoed across the field and then there was silence. Had he done it? Another volley from his team struck true. There was no answering fire from the enemy.
“Is he down?” Jackson asked.
Brady lifted up, moving so he could look out the window. “No clue. Give me a second.”
Striker grabbed his sight monocular and looked at the man who’d been shooting off that devil of an RPG. Sure enough, he was slumped over, his arms hanging at his side.
“I got him,” Striker said.
“Good job,” Jackson called out. “It’s time to move out and get rid of that missile site.”
Striker didn’t allow the relief to get in his way of doing his job. Though they’d cleared the playing field, he still kept watch for more combatants to show up. Warzones were full of danger, and one slipup was enough to get you killed. The odds of surviving blew with the wind, so he had to remain flexible and aware.
Twenty yards from the missile site, he froze. The air seemed thick with danger. His throat closed as fear and anticipation twisted together.
“Something is off,” Jackson whispered.
“Way off,” Brady added.
Striker saw two guys decked out with rifles. This shit got very real, very fast.
“Two on the left side of the door,” Striker said.
“I got the one on the right.” Brady aimed his rifle, ready to fire.
Striker lifted his gun and prepared to take out the guy on his left. “Ready in three, two, one.”
They both fired, and both men dropped to the ground. Brady chuckled and then patted Striker on the back.
“Perfect timing,” Brady said. “That was good.”
“It was. Thank you. Good shot.” Striker waited a few seconds to make sure they were in the clear. When nothing else moved around them, he stood and headed toward the missile launcher.
Brady placed C4 at the base of the launcher and wired the firing device. With this bad boy gone, their helicopters would be able to move in. Brady tapped him on the shoulder, and they took off, making their way back to the resort. When they were fifty yards away, Brady blew the charges.
It was rewarding to see their hard work pay off.
Whitney spoke over the headset. “Congratulations, you got it done.”
“Sure did. We’re headed back.” Striker took a step and paused. Something was wrong. He held up his hand, and the rest of the guys stilled.
“What do you see?” Jackson asked.
“I heard something. A twig snapped up ahead.”
“Shit, we have company.” Jackson dropped low and began firing.
Striker hit the dirt, wishing they had a wall to hide behind. Brady hit someone, and Jackson took out another person. Striker rose to his elbows and prepared to fire. The crunch of leaves to his right had him rolling over. The guy had snuck up on them.
The sight of a man holding a gun on him, his finger on the trigger, made Striker’s blood run cold. Shock hit him like a wave, and he hesitated just a second as the guy pulled the trigger. Striker returned fire, hitting the guy in the head.
Blood sprayed on Striker’s hand and the dirt beside him. He gulped in air, taking in the stench of unwashed bodies that mixed with blood and gunpowder. It filled his nostrils and made his head spin.
Was he in pain? He didn’t think so. He wiggled his toes and fingers, and they all worked.
“Jesus, anyone get hit?” Striker asked as he rolled over and climbed to his feet.
“I’m good,” Jackson said.
Brady didn’t say anything. Striker stared at his buddy, anger mixed with sadness as he noticed the blood pooling beneath his friend. Another good man died, leaving behind his family. Anger churned, and he wanted to strike back, but he had a mission here.
“Fuck,” Striker said. “They got Brady.”
Jackson cleared his throat, and Striker turned to him. The man’s lips were pressed in a thin line. “I’ll get him.” Jackson’s voice was low, his words crisp.
“What happened?” Whitney asked.
“Brady is dead.” Striker’s stomach clenched, and his head ached.
“Dammit.” Whitney echoed his pain.
Jackson bent low and picked up Brady. Striker took their packs as they made their way back to the resort, stopping by to check on the family Bishop had been headed to help before they’d been attacked.
The woman and daughter were in tears when they saw Striker and his team. They went by the building where Bishop and his wounded men were hiding. Striker helped Bishop to standing, and half carried, half supported him so he could walk out of the building. Whitney had moved the group of embassy employees to another building near the main building. The headache wasn’t over, but they weren’t being shot at, and the SAM site was gone.
Anger rode Striker hard, but it wasn’t his place to say anything to the pompous asshats who through stupidity had placed everyone in danger.
He mourned Brady. They had drifted apart after Brady’s last promotion, but in basic training, they’d been best friends and had good times together. After basic, they’d hung out quite a bit, enjoying the late-night chats after fun bar visits, and then the early-morning runs. After a few missions as Rangers, they’d grown to be family, actually closer than just regular family. He’d depended on Brady keeping him alive. Striker’s heart hollowed out. He’d failed his friend, just like he’d failed Dirk, who had died two weeks ago. It was a damn shame losing Dirk, just like it was a damn shame losing Brady.
Anger and pain swirled together. He didn’t want to lose any more of his friends. Whitney caught his eye and shook his head. Jesus, he wasn’t going to go off on these diplomats. It wouldn’t solve anything and might just end up with him in deep shit. No, he’d save his anger for later when he was home.
Jackson stumbled over and slunk down on the ground next to him. Neither of them spoke, but Jackson leaned up against him, resting his head on Striker’s shoulder. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t shed any tears here.
The whoop-whoop of helicopter blades brought relief. They’d escape this hellhole without losing any more men.
On the chopper, Whitney sat on one side, Jackson on the other. He leaned his head on Jackson this time and drifted off as they made their way to the ship sitting offshore. Eventually, they’d be flown to a base in Spain and then home.
On the ship, they ate then slept as they rested up against each other. The embassy employees weren’t going to Spain with them, and a few of the Rangers were headed off to other bases. He landed in Spain and loaded onto the bus that would take him back to his temporary quarters where he could shower before grabbing a meal. They’d be gone before the sunset, so he’d sleep on the plane. Jackson was with him, along with Whitney, Ben, and Rand. They were all dragging ass. The injured had been flown out on another helicopter after the doctor on the Navy ship had treated them.
“You got anything planned for next week, Striker?” Jackson asked as they sat down for eggs and bacon along with pancakes served on Army trays in the mess hall. The food was much better than the dishes they were eating on, and he wasn’t disappointed, finishing every last bite.
“Nothing special.” He lied. He wasn’t ready to tell the guys how close he was to having Shannon move in with him. She was too good to be true, and he didn’t want to jinx it. He’d told Lucas, his suitemate, but that was different. Lucas had to know since someone else would be moving in with him.
Whitney and Rand laughed and made rude gestures as Jackson talked about heading out to a bar to pick up some woman to screw. He chuckled along with them though his mind was on Shannon.
“I’m looking forward to getting drunk and making bad decisions after that mission,” Whitney said.
A few of the guys laughed, Striker gave a half-hearted chuckle. He doubted Whitney would make bad choices. He wasn’t like the rest of them. Sure, he fucked around, but Whitney was a stand-up guy.
Striker had grown up a punk loser from the wrong side of the tracks. The Army had been his only option for any sort of a future. With no money even for trade school, he’d taken his GED and left high school early. The first few years in the Army had been hell, but he’d impressed someone and been promoted. Ranger school had opened for him, and the decision was easy. He figured he would probably die soon anyway, so why not go for the hardest thing possible. After three years in as a Ranger and he hadn’t died, he decided staying in was a good idea. Now he was about to turn twenty-five, never married, and no kids. He was Army through and through, and then there was Shannon. She’d become important after only a few days with her. Once they spent some serious time together, he figured she would be the better part of his life.
He drew in a slow breath, praying Shannon would move in with him. His palms started to sweat, and his head spun. He would never let her go if he had her, but not in a creepy way; instead he would work his ass off to keep her happy because he knew that life without Shannon wouldn’t be worth much.
Six hours after they landed at the base in Spain, they loaded on a plane and took off for home. Touching down on American soil jolted him awake. Shannon’s graduation would be happening soon. He wanted to go, but he’d have to ask for leave, again.
He cleaned his gear, stowing his things in the proper place so the next time they went out, he’d have everything at the ready. He pulled out his phone and dialed Shannon. She didn’t answer. He called again; same result. He sent a text telling her he was home, but there was no response. His heart twisted, and his stomach ached as the hours passed and still his text went unanswered. With his paperwork done from the mission, he headed to the command room and ran into Jackson. His buddy was headed out for a night of drinking.
“Want to go?” Jackson asked.
“I have something else I need to attend to.”
“Sure, I’ll see you later.” Jackson bumped his fist before taking off.
The sadness from losing Brady still hung in the air. He saw it in the faces of his friends, heard it in their voices. It was difficult to get over losing men like Brady. He’d never get used to losing his buddies.
The need to see Shannon grew. He called her
after he dressed, but she didn’t answer. Panic flared.
“Jesus Christ, woman, where are you?”
Lance stepped in and paused. “Can’t get hold of her?”
“No, she won’t answer.”
“How long has it been? Didn’t you just get back?”
Striker blew out a breath and pulled a beer from their refrigerator. “Yeah, it hasn’t been that long. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
He took a long draw of the beer, watching as Lance grabbed his own and held it up so they could clink bottles. The sharp click reminded him of when he’d met Shannon. Maybe it had been too good to be true. Maybe, just maybe, she wanted nothing to do with him ever again.
13
Shannon had developed a pattern of staying late at school most nights because she didn’t want to be home. She left in the early-morning hours, trying to spend as little time as possible with her dad. Graduation day couldn’t come soon enough for her. A small part of her wanted to blow off her schoolwork, but she put in too much work to breeze through the end not caring. Because she did care, probably too much. If she passed with anything over a forty, she’d still be the top grade in the class. Maybe it was pride, or just her desire to do well, either way, she wanted the top grade.
Her father hadn’t changed much, not really, he just became more intense. He added chores to her busy schedule, then tried to make her life hell when she couldn’t possibly get them done. And he didn’t add them and let her know; he would wait until she was almost ready for bed before he told her some stupid task had to be accomplished before she headed to bed. Then he’d spew condescending rants at her. She was tired of it all and wanted to escape.
It was the Sunday before her last week of school, and she was in the middle of studying for her tests when her dad barged into her room, his eyes bright.
“Get out here, now.”
She glanced up, wishing she could tell him no. It was easier to give in to his crazy demands. Soon she’d be gone, and he wouldn’t be able to rule her life. She set her books aside, knowing she still had at least two hours of studying to get through all the information. The two tests on Monday weren’t as hard as the one she would have on Tuesday, but she still wanted to make a good grade
