What the Heart Holds Safe
M. L. Buchman
Buchmann Bookworks, Inc.
Copyright 2016 Matthew Lieber Buchman
Published by Buchman Bookworks
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author.
Discover more by this author at: www.mlbuchman.com
Cover images: Athletic Young Man On Dusty Field © Bereta | Dreamstime
Storm Above The Town © Husakj | Dreamstime
Created with Vellum
Also by M. L. Buchman
The Night Stalkers
Main Flight
The Night Is Mine
I Own the Dawn
Wait Until Dark
Take Over at Midnight
Light Up the Night
Bring On the Dusk
By Break of Day
White House Holiday
Daniel’s Christmas
Frank’s Independence Day
Peter’s Christmas
Zachary’s Christmas
Roy’s Independence Day
and the Navy
Christmas at Steel Beach
Christmas at Peleliu Cove
5E
Target of the Heart
Target Lock on Love
Firehawks
Pure Heat
Full Blaze
Hot Point
Flash of Fire
Smokejumpers
Wildfire at Dawn
Wildfire at Larch Creek
Wildfire on the Skagit
Delta Force
Target Engaged
Heart Strike
Angelo’s Hearth
Where Dreams Are Born
Where Dreams Reside
Maria’s Christmas Table
Where Dreams Unfold
Where Dreams Are Written
Eagle Cove
Return to Eagle Cove
Recipe for Eagle Cove
Longing for Eagle Cove
Keepsake for Eagle Cove
Deities Anonymous
Cookbook from Hell: Reheated
Saviors 101
Dead Chef
Swap Out!
One Chef!
Two Chef!
SF/F Titles
Nara
Monk’s Maze
the Me and Elsie Chronicles
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One
The round that took out the US Army Ranger behind D.K. “Deek” Davies passed less than six inches from his ear. Not worth even noting except for the harsh supersonic snap as the bullet rushed by. Then the Ranger collapsed against him which screwed up his next shot, sending it high and to the right. Guy shouldn’t have been hovering so close that he collapsed forward when hit.
Deek shrugged, the Ranger slid off his shoulder and collapsed to the ground.
“Shit!”
It was Jimmy Borman. His eye was gone, blood dripping through the squeezed-tight eyelid, the other eye staring wide. A straight-in brain shot. Going home in a box.
“Shit!”
Jimmy had no more home that he did. Certainly not one to go back to.
Deek forced his breath to steady and put his eye back to the sniper scope.
“Shit!” Not Jimmy. Please. It couldn’t—
Deek had a shooter out there that he had to stay focused on so he didn’t allow himself to look down and confirm what he’d already seen. All he knew was that this goddamn Libyan sniper was going to go down and go down hard.
The question was, where had he gone?
The target couldn’t be dumb enough to stay in the same spot as his last shot, but Deek had to check anyway. Nope. Now he’d have to wait for their sniper to try for someone else before…
“Brand, get up here.”
While he was waiting for his fellow Delta Force operator to belly crawl across the roof from where he lay with the rest of the Ranger protection squad, he did look down. And cursed himself for doing so. He’d been thrilled to see Jimmy after eight years—the closest Deek ever had to a childhood friend. Embedded one fucking month and…this. Deek reached over and flipped open Borman’s heart pocket—the left breast pocket of his inner vest. (For now he’d just think of him as Borman. Keep the wall up, at least until this was done.) No letter, just the slick feel of a photo. Deek tugged it out to see who he’d left behind. Guy was real close-mouthed about whether or not he had a girl.
Deek had meant for it to be just a quick peek, praying there wouldn’t be a photo with kids. There wasn’t. It was Jimmy’s sister Cindy—so stunningly blond and happy. Oh Christ! If there was ever a woman he didn’t want to see again it was her. No such luck. It would be up to him to make The Call. Then the obligatory visit next time he was stateside. Some decent act—and that was a whole lot of suck. So much for keeping the fucking wall up.
Brand crawled up beside Borman, three more Rangers were hunkered down covering his six (making sure no one snuck up behind him while he was focusing on bagging the sniper out there). Brand started to roll Jimmy over.
“Too late for him.” Deek tucked Cindy’s photo into his own pocket and ignored Brand’s watchful gaze. He and Jimmy went way back, as far as Deek ever cared to remember, but there was no time to feel now. That was for later. Focus.
“Get his helmet and his rifle. Pop it up over that.” He nodded at a stretch of stone banister along the far end of the rooftop. “Duck and weave. Make it look quick but not too smart.”
When the helmet came free they both looked away to avoid seeing the bloody mess their friend had become. Borman had been tasked as Deek’s close-quarters protection while Deek was doing his countersniper gig and concentrating farther afield. Deek had been looking forward to recommending him for the next Delta testing cycle because the kid had made himself just that damn good. Not so much now.
Deek went back to the scope of his Tac-50 rifle and watched. A slow sweep of the general area. Still no movement. If he were an ISIS shooter— No! Don’t stereotype. If his opponent was a smart sniper instead of some dumb kid with a gun, the shooter would be headed…west. Get under the setting sun to blind Deek. It might work, if the sun were half an hour lower, but it wasn’t.
Valuing his fingers, Brand had jammed a knife into the bloody padding at the back of Borman’s helmet. He eased the helmet up, until barely visible over the wall, then pulled it back down.
Deek shifted his attention west. Maybe behind the tall planter…or the elephant statue. Libya was thick with ornate rooftop ornamentation, much of it riddled with bullet holes from Gaddafi’s fall and the disaster that had wracked the country ever since. Rooftop gardens, once the private sanctuaries of the rich and powerful, were now shredded sniper havens.
In his peripheral vision he could see Brand shifting Borman’s helmet sideways instead of ducking back down before moving. Then he eased the barrel of Borman’s M4 rifle up over the wall.
The sniper’s muzzle flash was less than two meters from where Deek had finally centered his scope. He shifted right, compensated an extra half mil mark for the afternoon breeze. Nine hundred meters. His sniper scope was zeroed at a thousand, close enough. In less than half a second, he had the first of three planned shots winging toward the sniper: round one if he stayed put…
Deek heard the crack of the sniper’s bullet passing by him—farther away this time—as he unleashed his second round.
Round two if the sniper stood up from his shot…
The incoming missed the decoy helmet and splatted on the wall of the building behind them, now just another new divot in the concrete. Get sloppy when
you rush, Mr. Shooter. Also not smart enough to send two bullets.
Deek stayed steady, waited an extra heartbeat, and fired the last one.
…and round three if the sniper continued moving to the west.
The sniper rose to a low crouch, Deek’s first shot—after point-four seconds of travel time—caught him in the abdomen. The second in the jaw. And he must have been tensed to jump to the west, because he managed a single stumbling step forward. His spotter rose to steady him and instead caught the slightly delayed third shot in the head—the two of them collapsed out of sight. The Tac-50’s half-inch rounds delivered enough energy, even at nine hundred yards, that neither of them were getting up ever again. Just like Borman.
He and Brand waited fifteen minutes, but no one else took the helmet bait that they tried twice more. The sniper had been potshotting the Parliamentary Building all day yesterday, taking out two representatives and a guard, as if the new government didn’t have enough problems in this clusterfuck of a country. Now at least this bastard was done with that shit, forever.
Between them they carried Borman (Borman, not Jimmy, getting that wall back up) down the three flights, letting the Rangers take the lead. Normally the Rangers would carry their own and Deek would have let them. But even if they hadn’t seen each other in eight years, this was Jimmy Borman and they had a history. He’d been there for Jimmy when he was a screwed up teen, and he was here for him now. Deek sat beside him when they piled into the pair of battered Kia Cerato sedans that had brought them here.
They hauled Jimmy into the safe house and slid him into a body bag. No embedded reporters here, so at least his death would have that much peace. He’d go down as a “training accident” in some other theater, because it was a public “fact” that Delta was not currently operating in Libya.
Now, finally, Deek could let himself feel. Could take time to remember. He’d liked Jimmy, ever since he was the obnoxious kid down the block always tagging after his big sister. He’d had “feisty little shit” down cold then. Eight years later, when he showed up as six-one of badass Army Ranger, he still had it down cold.
Somewhere along the way, he’d taken to tagging after Deek, two lost loners in teenage hell. And again this last month when their units joined up for a little housecleaning in one of the worst countries on the globe. Jimmy had eaten up everything Deek could tell him about Delta. He’d gone from scrawny shit to one tough dude; he said it came from following in Deek’s tracks, which was kind of cool.
They’d taken to exchanging hard punches and shouting, “Kick-ass bros!” whenever they headed out on a mission. Damn! Never again.
They slid Jimmy into the cool cellar until they could move him out under cover of darkness. When had little shit Jimmy Borman gotten so damn heavy?
And why did the one thin photograph in his pocket weigh ten times more?
Two
Cindy felt the man standing at the door to her office before she saw him. She instantly hit a hotkey to secure the military data and lock her screen before she turned. And then wished she hadn’t looked—wished she wasn’t in Africa at all.
Sergeant Derek Kyle Davies stood exactly on the threshold of her doorway, looking just as upset to be here as she was to have him here. The eight years since she’d last seen him had barely changed him at all. He was a little broader of shoulder and a little darker of expression, but she’d know him anywhere. She suspected that his years in Delta Force had done nothing to improve his limited range of expressive grunts.
Perfect.
That meant it was up to her. As usual.
“Hey, Deek.” She was the one who’d tagged him back in high school. The silent shadow boy who’d moved in with his drunk of a dad for the last two years of school after his drug-addict mom had walked in front of a train somewhere out west. Welcome to the South Bronx, sucker. Welcome to hell. Her first words to him, her only words for a long time. He’d said nothing back, just watched her with that same unwavering scrutiny that he watched her with now.
He took a step over the threshold, then stepped back.
“Goddamn it, Deek. Get your ass in here and sit down,” she waved at the folding steel chair beside her desk. Her office was just one in a long line of six-by-eight windowless plywood boxes each with an air vent. Hers was distinguished by a Xeroxed picture of the President the prior tenant had pinned up, complete with an evil Snidely Whiplash handlebar mustache and top hat, that she hadn’t bothered to take down.
He finally cleared the threshold, inspected the four walls as if it was a trap about to spring shut on him, then stepped to the chair. He spun it around with a kick and sat on it backwards, resting his crossed arms on the seat back. His presence in her doorway had filled the small room. Now the geometry was placing him much too close to her.
She wondered if waiting him out was worth the effort. He looked like hell, in both meanings. He’d always been handsome as hell, which was all the more powerful because he never leveraged it. The closer girls flocked, the more he retreated. If there’d been a Loners Club back in school, she, Deek, and her brother would have ruled it.
He also looked sadder than she’d ever seen him. Which—
“Oh no! You’re here about my Jimmy, aren’t you?”
Deek nodded once but didn’t speak.
“He’s been dead two months. I saw the action report,” she snapped a close-bitten nail against her computer screen, “before my commander brought the damned Chaplin in. What the hell took you so long? I’m not that hard to find.”
She was a forward operations controller for North Africa Special Operations. Her posting at Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti, Horn of Africa—the only permanent US military base on the whole continent—made her damned easy to find. Deek must have been through here a half dozen times since that operation.
That operation. Her job was coordinating information flow for Special Operations teams assigned to AFRICOM—the US military’s unified combatant command for all of Africa. She was the one who had placed the team on that roof. She hadn’t issued the order, but she’d chosen the roof, mapped the access points, even arranged for their cars. Though she hadn’t known which specific people went until the KIA list showed up at the end of the action report.
Sergeant James Borman. Killed in action (classified).
She hadn’t even known until this moment that Deek had been there. In retrospect she supposed that it made perfect sense. Jimmy had been so excited the last time she saw him, assigned to work with Derek Davies after not seeing him once in the years since graduation—Deek had taken his diploma down to the Times Square recruiting station and signed up that day.
And now he must be hurting as badly as she was. Maybe that explained the two months.
He fished into the left breast pocket of his camo jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. No, a photograph. He held it out by a corner trapped between the tips of two fingers. The office was so small that neither of them had to reach far for her to take it.
It was a picture of her, one that had been folded in half. She unfolded the other half though she already knew what she’d see.
Derek.
Making a goofy smile for the camera. No, for Jimmy, who was taking the photo. It was the only time that she’d ever seen him smile happily, and she’d only seen this one in the photo—not in real life.
She closed her eyes to block out Deek’s bright smile of ten years ago and the dark and steady gaze of the top Delta Force sniper sitting across from her today. She hadn’t cried at the news. She’d refused to cry. It was enough of a surprise that he hadn’t died in high school—the South Bronx was a dangerous as hell place to grow up. Even more for a boy like Jimmy. He’d made it out, mostly due to Deek. And done well, until—
A hand took hers, shocking her into opening her eyes and staring at Deek.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. Not one damned thing,” Deek’s voice was no more than a soft growl.
Cindy searched for something neutral to say, some way thr
ough the pain that ripped at her heart—an organ she’d carefully isolated and buried long ago. Especially around Deek.
“He was my guard. Sniper caught him. Single round from an unexpected angle. Damned good shot.” He grunted the last as a grudging compliment.
Cindy clawed for a breath and managed to gasp out, “Did you get him?” Even though she knew it from the action report, she needed to know, to hear it. Now. From Deek’s own mouth.
Deek nodded. “Him. And his spotter.”
“Good!” It was all she could manage. She wished Deek would let go of her hand because she didn’t have enough willpower to remove it on her own. The warm comfort was both sustaining her and battering down the walls of defense that an abusive father had helped her build. Abuse that she’d accepted in order to protect her little brother from further humiliation. It had continued all through her childhood and teens until one day it had suddenly stopped and he’d never touched her again. Nor had he gone back to abusing Jimmy. Somehow, they were suddenly free.
“That photo,” he nodded down toward her other hand. “It’s all he had on him.”
“Never was much for writing letters or even e-mails,” she managed, then looked down at the photo to look away from Deek. “That was a good day.”
And it had been. The three of them had taken the D-train all the way down to Central Park and spent the day pretending they were high-rollers. Riding the carousel. Eating ice cream as they walked through the Central Park Zoo. Watching the rich people race their model sailboats on the “Conservatory Water”—that name had made them all laugh, as if it was too important to be called a pond.
Jimmy had gotten the camera so close in their faces that she and Deek had to crowd together and there was no room for the background around the edges. She could still remember how Deek’s hand had felt tight around her waist. He was still the only man ever whose touch didn’t give her at least a brief jolt of the creeps. Nobody was as safe to be around as Derek Davies.
What the Heart Holds Safe (Delta Force Book 4) Page 1
