by Elle James
Brotherhood Protectors Series Book #1
New York Times & USA Today
Bestselling Author
ELLE JAMES
Chapter 1
“Montana, take point,” Big Bird said. “You’ll need to move in fast, once I take out the guard.”
Henry “Hank” Patterson, aka Montana, adjusted his night vision goggles, gripped his M4A1 rifle with the SOP Mod upgrade and rose from his concealed position on the edge of the Iraqi village. U.S. Army intelligence guys had it from a trusted source that an influential leader of the ISIS movement had set up shop in the former home of the now dead Sheik Ghazi Sattar, a paramount chief of the Rishawi tribe. The once palatial estate had taken mortar fire from the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria—or ISIS—rebels. The sheik and his fighters had succumbed to the overpowering forces and died in battle.
In the process, ISIS had gained a stronghold in the village and captured an aid worker the U.S. government wanted returned. When ISIS offered the aid worker in exchange for captured members of their party, the current administration held to its stand that it didn’t negotiate with terrorists.
That’s where the navy SEALs came in. Under the cover of night, armed with limited intel and specialized sound-suppressed weapons, SEAL Team 10 was to infiltrate the compound, kill the leader, Abu Sayyaf, and liberate the aid worker, who happened to be the Secretary of Defense’s niece.
Piece of cake, Montana assured himself. This was what he lived for. Or at least he’d been telling himself that for the past year. He was coming up on the anniversary of his enlistment, and he had to decide whether to get out of the military or re-up. Reenlistment meant more wear and tear on his body and more chances of being shot, blown up or bored out of his mind. When they were called to duty, the missions were intense, yet the downtime gave him too much time to think.
Besides, he wasn’t getting any younger. If he didn’t leave active duty, he’d end up training SEALs, rather than conducting missions. That would give him even more time to think about what could have been back in his home state.
How many years had it been since he’d visited home? Eight? Ten? Hell, it had been eleven years since he’d been back to Montana. He could remember that defining night like it was yesterday. He’d just broken up with Sadie. He was hurting and wondering if they were insane to give up the best thing that had ever happened to them. Then he and his father had a big blow out. His father called him a lazy, good-for-nothing son and told him to get to work or get out.
Looking back, breaking up with Sadie had been the best thing, all the way around. She’d gone on to become a Hollywood mega-star, and Montana had gotten the hell away from his father, joined the Navy and become a member of an elite force. Life had turned out pretty good for them both.
So why did he still think about home…and Sadie? Hell, he knew why. Every time his reenlistment came up, he started thinking about home. Most of his friends from high school were married and had children. He’d always wanted kids, but SEALs made crummy parents and spouses. They were gone most of the time, sometimes without a way to contact loved ones back home.
“Be ready.” Lieutenant Mike lay next to Montana. “Big Bird, hold your fire until I give the cue.”
“Roger,” Big Bird responded.
New to the team, Lt. Mike wasn’t new to being a SEAL. With four years and ten deployments under his belt, he was a seasoned warrior, although his recent marriage seemed to have slowed him down. He wasn’t as quick to leap into a bad situation. And if rumor had it right, his wife was expecting their first child.
“Let’s do it,” Lt. Mike said.
The muted thump of Big Bird’s rifle discharging was Montana’s signal to take off.
The ISIS guard who had been pacing the top of a roof slumped forward and fell to the ground with a soft whomp.
Montana held his breath, straining his ears for the shout of alarm that didn’t come. With the sentry eliminated, Montana had a clear path to the wall. He took off running, hunkered low, his weapon ready, his gaze scanning the top of the wall, searching for the tell-tale green heat signature of a warm body through his night vision goggles.
Swede and Stingray were right behind him.
His skin crawled and his gut clenched. Something didn’t feel right. But the mission had to move forward. They had an enemy target to acquire and a woman to rescue before they could go home to Virginia.
Montana knelt at the base of the wall, slung his rifle over his arm, cupped his hands and bent low.
Swede ran up to him, stepped into his cupped hands and launched himself into the air. He hooked his arms over the top, dragged himself over and dropped to the ground below.
Stingray came next, then Nacho, Irish and Lt. Mike.
Big Bird would remain on top of a nearby building and be their eyes and ears for anyone approaching the compound. He’d also provide cover fire for them as they exited with the aid worker.
Lieutenant Mike, the newest member of the team, paused at the top of the wall and reached a hand down to Montana, pulling him up and over.
Swede and Nacho had already moved forward to the main building, one side of which was caved in, like an open wound. The remaining walls bore pockmarks from bullets and shrapnel. The huge wooden door still stood, closed and strangely unguarded.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Swede whispered into Montana’s headset.
“Stay the course,” Lt. Mike responded.
“Going in,” Swede acknowledged and slipped into the broken corner of the structure, climbing over the half-wall still standing.
Nacho waited a moment until Swede said, “Clear.”
Nacho hopped over the wall and through the crumbled bricks, disappearing into the gaping hole.
Lt. Mike went next, then Montana. Irish brought up the rear.
Once inside, what walls still stood seemed to close in on Montana.
Lt. Mike forged ahead, hurrying past the crumbled bricks and mortar.
Swede and Nacho stood at a door leading deeper into the once ornate residence. Swede wedged a knife into the doorjamb, while Nacho aimed his rifle at the door, ready for anything. A quick jab and the lock gave. Swede nodded to Nacho, yanked open the door and stood back. Nothing happened. Nacho dove through the opening and to the side, leaving room for Swede to follow. Lt. Mike entered next.
The team moved through the building, room by room.
“There’s nobody here,” Montana said.
“Then why the guard on top of the building?” Big Bird asked, still connected via the two-way radios in their helmets.
“Suppose it’s a trap?” Irish asked.
“We have to check all rooms.” Lt. Mike said.
Montana fought a groan. The place had to be over twelve thousand square feet. And that didn’t include any underground bunkers that might be a part of the former Sheik’s defense plan. Lt. Mike was right. If they didn’t check all the rooms, they couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty their ISIS target and the captured aid worker were not there.
Once they’d completed checking the ground floor and upper levels, they started down a set of stairs. These steps weren’t finished in the opulent granite tiles of the main level. They were plain concrete, leading to a steel door, heavily reinforced.
Montana took the lead again, fixed C-4 explosives near the handle and pushed a detonator into the clay-like substance.
Everyone backed up the stairs to the main level and held their hands over their ears.
Montana pressed the detonation button. A dull thump shook the floor beneath his feet. A cloud of dust puffed up the staircase.
Lt. Mike held up a hand. “Let it clear a little.” Finally, he lowered his hand and led the way back down the stairs to the door.
It hung open on its hinges, a dark, ragged hole blown through the metal. The entrance led to a tunnel-like hallway with doors on either side. Yellowed, florescent lights flickered in the ceiling. Another door marked the end of the long hallway.
The team split, each clearing the rooms, one at a time. None were locked, but the locking mechanisms were on the outsides of the doors. A chill slithered down the back of Montana’s neck, partly because of the coolness in the basement and partly from knowing the sheik had probably used the rooms to incarcerate people. Nothing in any of the rooms indicated the aid worker had been imprisoned there.
At the end of the corridor, the final door was locked. Once again, Montana set the charge, the team hid behind the doors of the cell-like rooms, waiting for the charge to blow. Montana only used enough explosive to dislodge the lock mechanism, no more. He didn’t want to destroy the structure of the underground portion of the building and risk trapping his team or causing them injury with the concussion.
“You have a gift.” Nacho grinned as he passed Montana and followed Lt. Mike into a much narrower tunnel.
“We’re in a tunnel beneath the compound,” Lt. Mike said into the two-way radio.
Montana doubted Big Bird would hear on the outside. Where the tunnel would lead, they’d know soon enough. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t have a sniper on the other end providing cover for them when they emerged from whatever building.
His gut twisting, his nerves stretched, Montana clenched his weapon, holding it at the ready as he continued forward. If they had any chance of rescuing the aid worker, it had to be soon. ISIS rebels had a habit of torturing and killing anyone they could use as an example, rather than hanging on to them. Prisoners only slowed the attack and hampered their determination to take everything in their paths.
The tunnel opened into the bowels of what appeared to be a warehouse.
“I feel like we’re on a wild goose chase,” Swede muttered.
“And the goose is leading us to the slaughter. Not the other way around,” Irish concurred.
They climbed a set of stairs to a huge, empty room.
“Damn,” Swede said and bent to a dark lump on the ground.
Nacho released a string of profanity in Spanish.
“We’ve found the aid worker.”
What Montana had assumed was a pile of rags, was in fact a woman, her clothes torn, her body ravaged, her face battered. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling.
Swede knelt beside her and touched his fingers to the base of her throat.
Montana’s stomach roiled at the sight of the woman’s damaged body. He could have told Swede she was already dead. What a waste of life. And for what? “We need to get out of here.”
The sound of footsteps made Montana glance up. A man stood on a catwalk twenty feet above them. He shouted something in Pashtu, ending in Allah, pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it into the middle of the team.
“Fuck!” Montana yanked his weapon around and shot the man. He fell to the ground, but killing him was a little too late.
The grenade rolled toward Swede, still crouched beside the woman’s body.
“Get down!” Lt. Mike shouted, and then threw himself over the grenade.
Montana shouted, “No!” as the grenade exploded beneath their leader.
The force of the concussion reverberated throughout the room, knocking Montana to the ground. His last thoughts were of the home and the girl he’d once loved.
About the Author
ELLE JAMES also writing as MYLA JACKSON is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of books including cowboys, intrigues and paranormal adventures that keep her readers on the edges of their seats. When she’s not at her computer, she’s traveling, snow skiing, boating, or riding her ATV, dreaming up new stories. Learn more about Elle James at www.ellejames.com
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Or visit her alter ego Myla Jackson at mylajackson.com
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