Colorado Wild - Colorado Heart 1

by Sara York

  "What do you mean, Tucker is missing?"

  Plates and silverware clattered to the ground. Everyone froze, even Duff looked up from his call, zeroing in on Billy. Grant jumped up along with Roger and helped Billy clean up the mess. Duff turned away from them and moved to the room where Roger would spend the night. Billy's face had turned pale, his smile gone.

  " Are you okay, Billy?" Grant asked.

  He stared at Grant for two beats before nodding and moving to the door. The reaction wasn't normal for a trained solider. Billy shouldn't be flustered, unless there was something more going on.

  Duff came out of the room, his face red and his lips pressed together. "They lost Tucker."

  "What happened?" Grant asked.

  "He set up across the street. They were all in place—Marshal and Zander on top of the building. Then hell broke loose. Another group was after our target. They attacked, set off a bomb in the hotel. Zander and Marshal hightailed it out of there. They were supposed to rendezvous with Tucker two miles away. He didn't show. They backtracked his route and found his clothes scattered through the park. There was blood, a significant amount from what they said."

  Grant drew in a slow breath. "Did they find his body?"

  Duff shook his head. "No, no body, they did retrieve the clothes though."

  "He's out there." Grant grimaced, his gaze settling on Billy.

  "Maybe, maybe not." Duff turned to Roger who'd been taking it all in but saying nothing. "Sorry, we're going to have to cut our discussion short. We'll talk tomorrow. We'll get your decision in the morning."

  "Wait, is there anything I can do to help? I can't just sit around here while you're searching for your team member—my team member."

  "It's going to be an intense couple of hours. We need to get our guys out of the country safely."

  Roger placed his hand on Duff's arm and glanced a Billy. "Please. I'll do anything."

  Duff shook his head. "I don't see how—"

  "I'm good with computers," Roger offered.

  "He's already decided he's going to stay, Duff. We could use someone combing through the city's cameras, searching for any sign of Tucker."

  "Fine, but first." Duff turned to the folder he'd given Roger earlier and pulled out a piece of paper, the contract, which spelled out the dangers and the restrictions Roger would have to live with for the rest of his life. They were a team and that meant complete loyalty. Even though they didn't know each other, they had to have trust. "Sign the contract. Then you're in."

  Roger took the sheet of paper, his eyes roving from left to right, taking in the stipulations. Grant had read the sheet of paper twice before signing. Some guys spent minutes staring at the contract, others just seconds.

  "Grant, bring him to the command center once he's signed."

  "Yes, sir."

  Grant spun around, finding the signed piece of paper in his face. "Let's get to work." Roger strode to the door, waiting for Grant to follow. Grant gathered the sheets of paper, sticking them back in the file. He glanced around the room, wondering if Tucker would ever see this place again.

  "I'll make the introductions quick. You've already met Billy. Mike and James are here too. All three guys are some of the best men I've ever served with. Tucker is an amazing man. I sure as fuck pray he turns up alive. Then there's Marshal and Zander. Every man at Wild Bluff is top quality—the best. You're lucky to have been asked to join us."

  "Thank you. I'm honored."

  Sincerity shone in Roger's eyes and Grant believed that the man meant it. The honor of belonging to this group hit Grant again as he led Roger to the command center. When he opened the door, activity buzzed around them. Each man was at a computer, their fingers flying across the keys. Grant led Roger to a monitor in the corner. "Everyone, this is Roger. Not much of an intro, but we'll talk after we find Tucker."

  "I'm Mike," a tall guy with dark hair waved. Roger nodded to him, then turned his attention to the guy next to him.

  "I'm James. We'll have a drink around the fire later."

  Roger liked this crew. Though he hadn't been around them long enough to make a judgment, he appreciated what he saw. Each man was intent on the computer in front of him, competence seemed second nature in this crisis. Grant handed him a photo. The man stood over six feet tall, had reddish-blond hair and blue eyes. His skin was pale and freckles dotted his cheeks.

  "This is Tucker. Search through the images from the cameras around their target."

  "What city?"

  "Moscow. We don't have authorization to use their traffic cameras. That's not going to bug you, is it?"

  "I'm fine with it. I'll start digging and see what I can find."

  "Mike, give him the access codes." Grant took off across the room, stopping to talk to each man before taking a seat next to Duff. After entering the access information, Roger scrolled thorough the list of cameras available to him, picking a few that were close to the intersection where the operation was supposed to happen. He looked for about five minutes without success when he shook his head and turned to stare at Grant.

  "Do you need something?" Grant asked.

  "The VK. You know, Europe's answer to Facebook, do I have access to an account?"

  Grant jumped up, shaking his head as he grabbed an iPad, scrolling through screens. "Do you read Russian?"

  "Yes. I'll see if there are any images uploaded. We might stand a better chance finding him there." Roger looked over Grant's shoulder, glad to see that they had a profile already established on VK. Grant handed him the device and he took it, scrolling through the feed, finding what he wanted. Two pictures had been snapped in the last thirty minutes that led him to other people who'd snapped photos. Twenty-five photos later he thought he spied Tucker. He uploaded the photo to the computer sitting in front of him, displaying the image on the large monitor. Tucker was dressed like all the other protesters, white T-shirt underneath a dark sweater and a knit cap covering his head.

  Roger stared at the guy's jaw line then flipped to another photo on the iPad, uploading this photo to the computer too. With the larger image he could see more details. The man looked like Tucker, but he was very pale and his eyes drooped.

  "Hey, I think I have him," Roger called out.

  Billy was first behind him, his sigh full of emotion. James and Mike reached him when Grant did. Duff was last. It took three seconds for Duff to pull out his phone. Roger looked around at their faces, wondering if he'd really identified Tucker.

  Grant's gaze locked with his and he nodded. "It's him. It's Tucker."

  Everyone was silent as they listened to Duff. "We've found him." Silence hung in the air. "Let me see what we can figure out."

  Duff turned toward him. "I need a location."

  "It's near the Kremlin in Red Square. There's a small glimpse of the surrounding buildings. It makes sense. The hotel was near. This protest could have sprung up because of the bomb," Grant said.

  "I'll send Marshal and Zander into the mix. Hopefully they'll find him."

  The wait was excruciating. Billy stared at the computer, his fingers laced in his lap so tight Roger wondered if he'd be able to unclasp them. James and Mike sat off to the side, neither one speaking. Duff paced and Grant sat with his head in his hands. Roger wished he were out in the field. Sitting here in this ranch house felt like he was doing nothing. From the news feed running in the background, he figured out he was still in the United Sates. He let his gaze roam over the room, taking in little hints as he tried to decipher where they were.

  James caught him staring at a map and came over. "We're in Colorado."

  "What?" Roger glanced at the other men, relieved that none of them were upset.

  "South of Colorado Springs. We'll go over more details in the morning. Thanks for your help. Hopefully they can get Tucker out."

  "Sure." Roger relaxed for the first time since he arrived. Colorado wasn't bad. It could be worse, and now he knew a little bit more about the men and the place, which seemed t
o be his new home. Now, if he could figure out Grant, he'd be happy.

  Chapter Three

  Zander wove through the crowd. It was barely eight and already hundreds of people were gathered, protesting the bombings, the weather, Russia, and homosexuals. He cringed, hating that he could never travel to Russia and be open about who he was. They hated the homosexuals but the straight men were pigs, using women like doormats then throwing them out when they were done. It disgusted him that they could be so stupid about their morals and yet when you looked deeply, they had none.

  He pushed away his hatred for Russia and focused on finding Tucker. Duff had sent them a photo of Tucker in his new clothes. Zander moved around the crowd, searching for the angle of the building from the photo. After ten minutes he was about to give up when he saw a man he recognized.

  Zander called Marshal. "I've got him."

  "Good. Meet me on the southwest corner."

  The line disconnected and Zander swooped in, chanting in Russian so he didn't attract attention. Tucker didn't look good, his cheeks had no color and he seemed out of it, mumbling in English instead of Russian. "Shit."

  Zander looped his arm around Tucker, noticing the dark stain on his sweater. Hopefully no police would notice. If he found a coat lying around, he'd take it. Tucker allowed him to lead him across the plaza to the south. He spied Marshal but didn't go directly to him since the cops were swarming in that area. They walked two blocks and the traffic cleared enough for them to catch a cab. Marshal had caught up to them by that time and they all three piled into the back of the taxi, Marshal handing Tucker a coat that he used to cover his arm.

  The hotel where they were currently staying could have been compromised so Zander rattled off the address for another hotel, their backup, and the driver zoomed off, driving like most crazy Russian cabbies.

  When they arrived at the new hotel, Zander helped Tucker out of the car while Marshal checked in, using fake IDs he had concealed in the bottom of his bag. They immediately headed upstairs. Once in the room, Zander closed the door and helped Tucker to the bathroom.

  "Fuck, Tucker, what the hell happened?"

  "Shot, it fucking hurts. I thought they followed me but I got lost in the crowd after I stripped and put on new clothes."

  "Hell, let's get you out of them. Marshal, do you have the kit?"

  "Of course." Marshal unzipped the bottom of his bag, pulling out the medical kit they always traveled with.

  "Okay, off with that shirt."

  Zander pulled off his shirt, wincing as Tucker cried out. Zander readied a syringe with fentanyl citrate, shoving the needle in Tucker's arm before he could raise any objections.

  "Ouch." Tucker tried to rub his arm but he stopped when he saw the blood.

  "Sorry." Marshal shook his head. "Not really. You went off and got shot, you're lucky you lived."

  "Did he die?" Tucker asked.

  "No clue, we've been too worried about you to check." Zander scrubbed his hands, hating that he was going to have to operate on his friend in this dingy little motel room.

  "This is going to hurt, don't curse in English. I don't want the neighbors to get any ideas that you're American."

  Tucker dipped his chin, his eyes looked feverish and his cheeks hollow. They needed to transfuse some blood and he knew from experience that he wouldn't be a match. It would have to come from Marshal. "Okay, I'll try to remember," Tucker whispered.

  "Marshal, come hold him down."

  Zander stared at the wound, shaking his head. There was an exit wound, but it was acting as if foreign debris were lodged in the hole. He pulled on gloves and looked at the instruments. Operating wasn't something he enjoyed. Never having gone to medical school left him feeling inadequate. Of course, Tucker would die if he didn't do something and going to a hospital was out of the question. They could go to the embassy, but they'd never be allowed back into Russia. They were more than just undercover, they were ghosts and the US government didn't claim them and wouldn't.

  With as much care as he could muster, Zander probed the hole. Nothing hard drew his attention. "I need this washed. Marshal, pour some vodka over the wound."

  Tucker cringed as the wound was flushed with alcohol, sweat popped out on his face. With the blood gone, Zander could see into the hole. He poked around, spying a piece of something. After grabbing a long instrument that looked like scissors but was really tiny pinchers, he reached in carefully, grasping onto the foreign object. It came easily but more blood flowed.

  "Looks like part of the tree blew into you when you were hit. More alcohol, Marshal." After cleaning the wound a second time, Zander declared it good enough. He stitched the vein that had been nicked, stopping most of the bleeding. Tucker's breathing was shallow and Zander didn't like what he saw, but there wasn't much he could do other than transfuse which added a whole new level of difficulty.

  "What's your blood type, Tucker?"

  "A positive."

  "Marshal, I already know, but I'm just making sure."

  "A positive." Marshal pulled off his shirt and tapped his arm. "Hook us up."

  "Will do." Zander set up the tubing for donating blood between the two. He'd only done this one other time during training. By no means was it optimal. Tucker lay down on the floor and Marshal sat on the bed above him. Donating like this wasn't the best idea, but in a pinch it would do. Marshal flinched when he stuck him, but he said nothing as he watched his blood flow to Tucker.

  "Just keep pumping your fist, Marshal. I'll try to judge based on time and not take too much."

  "Thanks." Marshal smiled down at Tucker. "You owe me big time."

  Tucker smiled back. "I always do. Thanks, big guy."

  "Anytime."

  Zander waited ten minutes then disconnected the flow from Marshal first, pushing all of the blood in the tube into Tucker's veins. Tucker looked better, but he needed to rest and to eat some good food. After the blood transfusion, Zander gave Tucker a shot of antibiotics and some more pain medicine. He wrapped the wound and cleaned up the mess he'd made.

  Marshal stared up at him, his eyes unfocused for a second. "We sanitized the last hotel before we left?"

  "Yes, our bags are in a locker at the Leningradsky station. The area will clear by tonight and I'll grab them before we leave." Zander picked up the last of the items from the surgery and checked again. If he was going to leave the hotel room, he needed to make sure he had everything that needed to be thrown away.

  "You okay?" Marshal asked.

  "Yeah, I just hate having to operate. I'm not the best. I stitched him up, but it freaks me out every time."

  "You did the best when we did medical training. I'd rather have you operate on me than any of the other guys."

  Tucker snoozed peacefully, his breathing had evened out. "I'm glad it wasn't his guts that were damaged. It was only one vein and I think I closed it okay."

  "I'm sure you did fine. He's lucky you were on the mission with us."

  "He's going to have one hell of a scar."

  "Yeah, but you know Tucker, he'll spin some story to the girls and have them eating out of his hand."

  Zander huffed out a breath and shook his head. "Yeah, but he never turns those great stories into anything."

  "What do you mean?" Marshal asked.

  "How many of those girls has Tucker slept with?"

  Zander stared at the sleeping man, noting the hard line of his jaw, his muscled torso and the smattering of blond hair running down below the waistband of his pants. In all the years he'd know Tucker, the guy hadn't once been with a girl. He danced with them, flirted like crazy, even kissed a few, but at the end of the night, Tuck always went home alone.

  "I'm headed out to find food. I'll be back soon."

  "Hey Zander, don't say anything to Tuck about the girls."

  "I won't. Call if trouble comes looking for you."

  Zander made his way back to the street then searched for a place to grab something warm with meat. None of them liked Ru
ssian food, but they needed to keep their strength up. Tomorrow morning, they'd take a train to Saint Petersburg then exit to Finland. Once in Finland, they'd catch a flight to the USA. Tucker had to look good. If he looked sick by the time they boarded the plane, one of the flight attendants might say something.

  The streets had cleared some, but he didn't like the feeling he was getting from the city. He found a burger joint and ordered four to go. He picked up some chips and a few drinks. Tucker probably wouldn't want to eat, but he had to consume something or he wouldn’t get his color back.

  Zander paid and hurried back to the hotel. Tucker was awake when he came in. The man's eyes looked a little glassy and Zander prepped another dose of antibiotics for him. "Tuck, how 'ya feeling?"

  "Like a truck ran over me." Tucker tried to sit up straighter but he barely moved. Marshal helped him before handing him a burger and a drink.

  "Eat it all. I need you to be healthy." Marshal sat beside Tucker, helping him with the burger.

  Zander gave Tucker the shot then settled in beside them, scarfing down a burger. They'd had missions fail before but he'd never been on a mission where one of his team members was shot. Stress had him in knots, and he tried to push it away, but being a man down sucked. He had to keep his wits about him or risk it all.

  *~*~*

  When the guys in Russia found Tucker, Roger headed back to his room. Emotions from finding a guy he didn't know twisted in his gut. Living at the ranch would be a change. As a SEAL, he'd spent years following the rules and going by guidelines established by the government.

  His new team members were in Russia to kill a man. He needed more information before he made a judgment. Maybe this is what Duff was talking about. There were levels of trust that had to be developed to accept a unit like this. Killing was serious and that was what these guys specialized in. If he stayed, he'd have to trust these men. Of course, after seeing a small piece of their operation he doubted that they'd let him leave. He had signed the contract, but that didn't mean they'd actually let him leave.

  The day had been long even if you didn't count him being drugged and flown across the US. His muscles ached and his head hurt. He stretched his arms over his head then bent at his waist, working out the kinks before moving to the outer room to turn off the lights. Both Duff and Grant had said this wouldn’t be his room once he accepted the position but he had nowhere else to go.