“Okay,” Chris said, still aiming the light at the closed doors.
Seth sent a glare at Eric. “They’re locked. What do you think? Grenade or a hundred rounds?”
“Fire in the hole,” Eric answered, motioning for Chris to join him. “Come on, everyone. We’re going around the corner where we’ll be safe. Send a message to those bastards, Seth. Light ’em up.”
Good answer. Seth waited until Chris and everyone else had retreated safely out of sight and beyond the blast zone. But shit, he was sick and tired of Montego’s rat bastard buddies. Approaching the door again, he splayed both palms over the rusted metal, wishing he had x-ray vision. Crouching, he ran his fingers along the threshold. Damn. There was no space for his flex neck spy cam. He and everyone with him really were trapped. Like rats.
Like hell.
The doors were rusty, and every door had hinges. Carefully, Seth retrieved one of the two aerosol cans of freeze-spray from his gear bag. After he donned a pair of leather gloves and a pair of photochromic safety glasses, he applied a good dose of the spray to both sides of the doorframe. Then he backed off from ground zero, crouched against the nearest wall, and curled both arms over his face and head in case the hinges exploded.
Metal, especially compromised metal, cracked under pressure, and this doorjamb was crackling plenty. This particular blend of freeze-spray contained not only dimethyl ether, but also propane, making it downright lethal in the right hands. Doctors used a much weaker version of it to treat warts and cancer cells, but the military grade version was blow-your-hands-off wicked. And Seth wanted to blow whoever was waiting for him on the other side of these doors, straight to hell.
In very few seconds, the distinctive popping sounds coming from the distressed metal hinges told Seth it was go-time. In one fluid motion, the spray can went back into his bag. His assault rifle slid over his shoulder and into his arms like a pet dragon, ready to breathe fire and mayhem.
The women in the dark hall behind him were quiet, and they were his last thought. He was doing this for them and Scottie. For every other battered woman in harm’s way. For Devereaux. For Lianna and Christopher and Cassidy. Seth pushed off the balls of his feet and charged into the centerline of those doors. Throwing his weight into it, he lead with his left shoulder while he aimed to kill anything that got in his way.
He was NOT blinded by the light that hit him square in the face once those doors burst off their hinges, though. Uh-uh. The safety glasses he’d snapped on had instantly compensated for the sudden shift from dark to bright, shielding his retinas from the sunlight now streaming through the dilapidated roof on the other side of those doors. The clear-as-day vision allowed him to accurately see the seven men in gray uniforms, all with rifles raised and ready to fire at him. Not Americans. Not Cubans. But every last one of them was decked out in red berets with some piece of shit Arabic symbol front and center over their black brows.
The Saudis seemed surprised. Some dropped their mouths as if they’d never seen a pissed off American soldier before. Toby Keith’s rowdy chorus, “How do you like me now?” rang out like a rebel cry in Seth’s head as he hit the dirt running.
Sliding like Babe Ruth into home base, he laid down a healthy round of rapid-fire, rotating his rifle from left to right as, still on his butt, he breached his enemy’s perimeter.
The Saudis were damned slow to respond, no doubt because he’d gotten in too close and too personal, way too fast. Nearly at the nearest guy’s knees before the bastard aimed and fired, the prison ground turned into an old west shooting gallery with the Saudis at Seth’s right, firing into their own guys on his left. They’d panicked. They were killing each other, firing wildly like a bunch of idiots.
Someone got off a lucky shot that actually ripped high into Seth’s shoulder like a hornet, but by the time he looked back to see how many, if any, of those badasses were left, the game was over.
Eric was the only one standing, the AR in his hands smoking almost as much as he was. “You’re an idiot!” he hissed as he stalked toward Seth, his jaw set hard and his brows clenched like one dark thundercloud over two blazing mad eyes. “You could’ve been killed, you dumb shit!”
Seth nodded as he shoved up off his knees, the hammering in his chest making it hard to breathe. “Well, yeah, but I knew what I was doing. They didn’t,” he said as he nodded to the losing team, on his way back to Eric.
One Saudi soldier clutched his pant leg as Seth passed by. Begrudgingly, Seth dropped to one knee beside the guy and asked, “You got something you want to say, asshole?”
After a drawn-out gurgling groan, the poor guy spat a river of blood along with, “Who… who are you?”
Seth cocked his head. He’d expected some terrorist rhetoric, ‘death to the infidels’, or some bullshit rant about ‘Allah’s will’, not a frightened question in broken English. “Me? I’m nobody, but who the hell are you?”
“Rashid…” the guy whispered, wheezing through the multiple bullet holes in his chest.
Seth took a second look at the man he’d bested. Shit, Rashid was no more than a kid, maybe eighteen. Maybe younger. Swallowing hard, Seth glanced over his wounded shoulder at the others sprawled around him. None of them were geared up. They wore no tactical vests. No body armor. Nothing to shield them from the killing effects of modern-day warfare. But they were all dying. It didn’t make sense. This Saudi army was nothing more than a bunch of kids with guns?
God, not again. “How old are you?” Seth had to know.
Rashid held up three bloody fingers. “Fif… teen.”
Holy shit. “Why are you guys in Cuba?” Seth asked more gently, needing to understand what the hell was going on. “Why’d you ambush me, Rashid? Why’d you take our female agent prisoner?”
“Must… save…” Wheeze. Spit. Groan. “Princess… Lianna…” With those final words, Rashid expired on a hiss.
Thoughtfully, Seth closed the younger man’s eyes before he looked up at Eric, who still surveyed the carnage, ever watchful. Ever faithful. Ever covering Seth’s six like a brother. But that was what military training did to a man. It turned him into a skilled, professional warrior. A guard dog. A killer. Something these kids obviously were not.
Shit. I’ve killed a child, children. Again.
Rattled to his soul, Seth told Eric, “I don’t get it. Khadeem sent kids to save the daughter he betrayed, but he sent them without sufficient protection or training. Look at them. None of them are soldiers. They’re not wearing bulletproof… anything. Not even a vest or body armor.” Exasperated with himself as much as the psycho on the other side of the world, Seth said, “Khadeem sent these—these children—to die for a cause he knew wasn’t true.”
Eric’s shoulders lifted as if he didn’t care, but Seth knew better. Eric’s love for his fellow man knew no bounds, but he also prioritized that love. His brothers and sisters always came first. “Like Alex says, once a bastard, always a bastard. Seems to me Khadeem wanted what you’d call plausible deniability. If his own people, his army, thought America was behind Princess Lianna’s disappearance, then why aren’t they Stateside blowing up airports and churches and… shit. Why are they here?”
“Apparently because…” Seth’s head jerked up. “Shit, Eric. Khadeem knew he could never get his men into America. He didn’t send them to retrieve Lianna. That’s not what this is about. He sent them here to die. Don’t you see? Two wrongs don’t make a right, but Jesus H. Christ! What he’s done to his daughter and these boys will start a war with America. He told his army to come save his daughter, but that’s what he really wants—war. We’ve got to get to FAST. Now! They’ve got to stop fighting before they do exactly what Khadeem expects. It’s not even a fair fight. Those Marines will kill every last one of these poor dumb kids, and then—”
“And then we’ll be at war with Saudi Arabia, every country that backs them, including Russia, and—”
“And shit!” Seth hissed, on his f
eet now and pissed at the treacherous snake behind this evil plan. “Khadeem’s one sick bastard, Eric. We’re not fighting Saudi Arabia, though I have no doubt that’s what Khadeem hopes to achieve. No, these aren’t the king’s soldiers. These are the sons of Khadeem’s tribesmen.”
Jerking his satphone out of his pocket, Seth stuffed the battery into its slot and did what he should’ve done a day ago. He called home.
“Stewart,” Alex bit out.
Without any preliminaries, Seth stated emphatically, “Boss, I need you to call your highest-ranking USMC buddy and tell him to direct FAST to cease and desist all military action on Isla de la Juventud. Right damned now, Boss! FAST needs to stop killing, because—these kids are not Saudis! Understood? They’re untrained teenagers. We called this all wrong. Khadeem sent unskilled young men without protection, and … Shit! Just fuckin’ disengage before we get sucked into another war!”
The line went dead, and Seth wasn’t sure if Alex hung up on him or what. Seth had never spoken to his boss like that. His thumb hit redial, and once again he got his boss, but all he heard was the one-sided conversation of one angry son-of-a-bitch telling another, “You heard me, General Pratt. I’ve got boots inside Cuba, and my guy’s telling me… Yes, I trust my man! He’s the best man I’ve got! Now, sir! Call your FAST commander right damned now and end this mess before it blows up in our face. This battle is not, I repeat, not what we think it is!”
The best man I’ve got? Me? Holy shit. Alex had just done precisely what Seth asked—and more. Instantly. No questions asked. For some crazy, inexplicable reason, tears stung the rims of Seth’s eyeballs. He brushed them away, but holy shit. Alex—listened.
Seth’s phone clicked and rattled a couple times before Alex came on the line and snarled, “What now?”
“Thanks,” was all Seth could manage, but it came out so quiet, he wasn’t sure Alex heard him.
The huffing and heavy breathing coming over the line told Seth his boss was one fired up badass, but Alex finally calmed enough to say, “Well done, Seth. Tell Eric I’m sending reinforcements. We’ll be watching for him. Have you located Cassidy yet?”
“Yes, Boss. We’ve got her. We were in the middle of exfil when we encountered a group of seven, umm, shit. Kids...” Whom I killed. “She’s unconscious right now, Boss, but there’s a boat waiting offshore for us. Eric’ll get her there. Should be home before sunset if all goes well.”
“I’ll have a team and an ambulance standing by to receive, just tell me where and when.”
“Copy that,” Seth said meekly, wishing Alex would get off the line before he caught on.
But Alex had an uncanny knack for reaching across a thousand miles and touching a guy, either with venom or with something much more powerful. And that was what Seth was afraid of, that—other weapon, the concise scalpel Alex wielded like a surgeon.
“Let it go, son,” Alex said, his voice gentled and soft. Downright kind.
Seth bowed his head like a kid and swallowed hard. The sting of Alex’s venom he could’ve handled, not—this.
“You had no way to know who you were facing, not as quickly as things spun up down there. Let it go and don’t carry these ghosts with you, too. Those kids were armed, young, and scared. On adrenaline alone, they would’ve killed Eric, Cassidy, and everyone with you.”
Seth nodded, though his boss couldn’t see him, but yeah. In his head Seth knew he should let the deaths of these innocents go. Those kids would’ve killed him, no questions asked. They might’ve bragged around the campfire tonight about the dumbass American they’d shot, about what a fool he’d been to charge into the middle of them like he did. They might’ve told each other all the lies and crap boys forced to become men told each other at the end of the day. But try telling Seth’s heart that. In the end, those men he’d killed were somebody’s little kids.
Damned if Eric didn’t make everything worse when his big hand landed firm and brotherly between Seth’s shoulder blades like it had so many times in the past. “You’re a good and decent man, Seth,” he said quietly. “I’m damned proud to work with you.”
Shrugging yet another nightmare off, Seth turned to the other man in his life whom he respected more than most. “The press will be all over this if the Marines massacre Khadeem’s men. You know that, don’t you? They’ll spin this to their own political agenda, and whatever we do here today will be the only thing that’ll make or break their lies.”
Eric nodded. Usually a positive guy, he’d grown more and more grim, almost morose, the longer this rescue mission took. “I’ve got to get Cassidy to the boat. The women and the boy, too. They can’t wait, and they need off this island.”
“Christopher. His name’s Christopher, Eric.” That seemed more important now than ever.
Eric tugged a plastic wrapped blow-out kit up from one of his many pockets and handed it over. “You’re wounded, Seth. Take a minute to patch yourself up before it gets infected.”
Seth stuffed the kit into his rear pocket. “Will you be okay?” He had to know.
Eric gave him one curt nod before he turned to where Chris and the women now huddled around Cassidy at the shattered doorway.
“You go with Eric from now on,” Seth told the brave little soldier still pointing his flashlight at Seth. “He’ll get you home to your mom and dad, to your teacher, Mr. Cousins. He’ll make sure you go on that field trip, too.” He’ll make sure you grow up to be a better man than most.
Chris nodded. Eric crouched to lift Cassidy up into his arms, and that was how Seth left them. Behind.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dev opened her eyes to a brand-new day, her head finally clear of murk and shadows. Her stomach growled, and she desperately needed another sip of that delicious coconut water, but she wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t all been part of a dream.
Lifting to her elbows, she surveyed the tidy but cramped quarters she found herself in. This was the heaven she’d imagined? Ah-uh. Looked more like a cheap hotel room complete with a hint of gray on the ceiling from painted-over mold. Not what she expected at all. Where was the priest, doctor, or the guy with a good heart who’d rescued her?
It was dark. The curtains were drawn tight and the only light in the place glimmered from beneath the bathroom door. Lying under a sheet on a lumpy mattress, Dev smoothed one hand down her thigh. Thank God, her shorts and shirt were still where they belonged.
“You’re safe. Are you hungry?” her benefactor asked, still keeping to the farthest shadows of the room. She knew he wasn’t Sly or that rat bastard Bagani by the definite Spanish accent, not like that made Dev feel much better. This place wasn’t a hospital where an injured woman found alongside the road should’ve been taken, and any guy who lurked in the corner like a vampire was no Good Samaritan out to do a good deed. Definitely not a priest.
“Where am I?” she asked quietly. And who the hell are you?
A grunt came back to her. That he hadn’t answered her simple question was alarming enough, but instead of whimpering, Dev swallowed her fear and firmly projected her intentions. “I’m leaving.”
Adding credence to that statement, she tossed the bed cover aside, set both feet to a matted carpet and said, “Thank you for helping me. I appreciate all you’ve done. Really, I do, but I’m going now.” And you can’t stop me.
“You’re not going anywhere.” His tone shifted from feigned kindness to grim, yet still he wasn’t brave enough to face her. The coward. What was that all about?
Dev stood, instantly gauging the running distance to the door. She could make it. Opening the door would cost her precious seconds. It might be locked, but all she needed was enough time to scream for help.
“Sit,” he snapped.
Pissed that he thought he could threaten her, she turned on him. “I said I’m leaving and—”
And damn he was fast, one moment hidden, the next looming over her on the mattress where he’d shoved her like a bear
with a kitten, his knees on both sides of her hips and his breath in her face. The rank odor of sweat mixed with beer stifled her as long, golden-red hair draped off his shoulders and fell onto her cheeks and into her opened mouth.
Huffing, she blew the oily stands away and sealed her lips, her heart jackhammering up so high in her throat, surely he could hear it. Yet he said nothing, just studied her with an intensity so fierce she could feel the desperation in it.
“I am not most men,” he growled. Whatever that meant.
‘No, you’re an ass,’ she thought but asked, “Who… who are you then? A kidnapper?”
“Joachim,” he said as his nose dipped into the crook of her neck and he nuzzled her like the dog he was. “Just Joachim. That’s all you need to know.”
First names only, how cliché? God, give me strength, she prayed as she stared at the mottled ceiling. “H-how’d you find me?”
“I’m never far from the man I serve,” he muttered, his breath as rank as a dog’s.
“And that would be?” She hated to ask.
He just grunted, the scrape from the scruff on his ugly face on her tender skin unbearable.
“M-my name is Devereaux Shepherd,” she breathed, hating the hitch in her voice as much as the heat rolling off his body. But the more this creep knew about her, the better her chances of surviving whatever he had in mind, right? That was what other survivors all said. “B-but m-my friends call me—”
“Angelique,” he hissed, his breath warm and thick as he tongued a line up her neck to her ear. “From now on, you will be Angelique. It will be my pet name for you, and no one else shall call you that but me. Only me.”
This fruitcake was seriously off his rocker.
“Angelique and Joachim will go down in history as the most famous lovers of all time, even more famous than Bonnie and Clyde.”
Okay, that came way out of left field. What was this guy, c-c-crazy? “No, Joachim, I’m Devereaux Shepherd, and I have a little boy waiting for me at home, and he needs me, and I—”
Seth (In the Company of Snipers Book 17) Page 23
