THE EDGE OF TRUST (TEAM EDGE)

by KT Bryan

  Jenkins went next. Then Nick.

  Wolf, Chase, and Lito scrambled up at warp speed.

  Shane’s turn. His boot caught on a clump of grass and he went down on one knee.

  In the next instant everything went to hell, life changed, the tide turned.

  A dark-skinned man dressed in desert camouflage stood up from behind a berm on Jake’s right.

  Sunlight glinted off steel. Jake blinked. Turned his head.

  And saw a sniper rifle sighted directly on Shane.

  Not yet on board the helo, Shane was only two meters away and fully exposed.

  “Shaaannneee!” Jake yelled, screaming for Shane to move, to get down, to get the hell out of the line of fire, but the helo rotors drowned out his words.

  Jake pulled his weapon. Raised it.

  Chase and Lito moved, scrambled, trying to get to Shane.

  Wolf was almost on board. Two rungs left.

  Shane gained his footing and ran.

  Jake sighted in.

  The Arab and Jake both fired.

  Shane took a hit and spun, falling backward into Chase.

  The sniper took a head shot, jerked once, then fell to his knees and dropped face first onto the sand.

  Jake didn’t think, didn’t feel rage or even justification, because, Christ Almighty, the bullet that hit Shane had probably done some major damage.

  Let it be a minor flesh wound--

  Another grenade cannoned into the earth. The sun-scorched sand exploded around Jake, stinging his eyes and face.

  A few more steps. All he needed was a few more steps.

  He spit out a mouthful of grit, watched Wolf pull himself up and over the side. Lito shouldered Shane and climbed up next. Chase clambered after them.

  His turn. The prop wash from the rotors was horrendous. He streaked to the ladder, and just as he was about four rungs up, a ripple of warning zipped up his spine.

  He shouted, signaling frantically to the pilot to take off, heedless of the fact that he was hanging halfway down the ladder.

  A third grenade launched. This time it missed contact with the chopper, and its fuel tank, by inches. The chopper bucked and shuddered, then made a sharp left bank. The ladder whipped through the air with enough gravitational force to jerk Jake’s feet and right hand free.

  Holy hell. The only thing between him and death was his tightly clenched left hand. Which totally sucked under the circumstances because, one--he was right handed, and two--his left hand was starting to sweat.

  His feet couldn’t quite make contact, and just as he reached for the rung with his right hand, the chopper nosed down.

  He missed.

  If he didn’t grab onto something soon, he was going to drop. He glanced down several hundred feet and then really started to sweat. Roger Ramjet wasn’t flying over the ocean, which was what he should have been doing, and which would have been a not-as-likely-to-die scenario if Jake had fallen--but no, the pilot was headed straight over a rocky ridge.

  Fuck. He should’ve listened to his mother and gone to law school.

  Gravity pulled at every muscle and tendon as the chopper gained speed.

  Shouts from above caused him to look up. Wolf was halfway down the ladder and harnessed in like some kind of knight swooping to the rescue. Thank God, because Jake didn’t think he could hold on much longer. Swinging helplessly by one hand, he made another attempt to grab hold. He swung his right arm upward. Wolf, practically sideways now, caught Jake’s hand and held tight. With a grunt and heave, he hauled Jake up.

  The instant he was pulled into the chopper, he wished they’d been one minute faster. Shane lay unmoving on the floor of the helo.

  “Status?”

  The look Nick gave him made Jake’s blood run cold. “Got a through and through of the femoral artery.”

  Son of a bitch.

  He barely heard Nick talking over the buzzing in his ears. “--bled out. Nothing left I could do. I’m sorry, L.C.”

  Shane was gone. Just like that. Jesus, it hardly seemed possible. Just last night they were joking and cutting up – he was calling Shane a cowpie because he wanted to live on a ranch in Texas and raise cows and kids. And Shane was telling him where he could stuff it, along with a few choice words about his mother not knowing who his father was. Of course, Shane knew that was a load of crap because he’d met both of Jake’s parents at about a million Kincaid family barbecues.

  Oh God, Jessi...

  One minute. One minute might have done it. Lifetimes could be lived in one minute. And lives lost.

  They’d only needed to be one minute ahead of the game and Shane would’ve had his pastures and plenty of kids to fill ‘em.

  And Jessi would still have her brother.

  Jake raised a despondent gaze toward Nick. “It’s my fault. I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve been faster.” He slammed his fist down. “Damn it! Damn it!” And then, God help him, tears burned the back of his eyes.

  It was something his men had never seen before and after a second of shocked silence, everyone started speaking at once.

  “It wasn’t your fault, sir. Our intel said secure--”

  “Those bastards!”

  “There’s no way you could have known--”

  “Nobody knew--”

  “You did what you could--”

  Jake closed his eyes, listening to the wind and the thrap of the rotors, and wondered how the hell Jessi was going to live through yet another loss.

  <><><>

  Sunday, April 16th 9:40 p.m.

  Supermodel Nicole Edge trudged up the third flight of stairs in Ashley’s run-down apartment building, glad to finally be alone. No flashbulbs, no reporters, no sleazy paparazzi, no one in the place but her.

  The razzle-dazzle of haute couture had lost its shine, and Nikki was closer than ever to leaving that world behind. Yes, it used to be glamorous, exciting, at times exotic, but now it just felt shallow. Shallow and boring. Smile down the runway, stop, turn, hand on waist, another turn, another frozen smile, then hurry behind the curtain to change into yet another barely-there gown, outfit, or weird-as-hell get-up some outré designer thought looked good on stick people.

  Fashion modeling was worse. She didn’t like leering, touchy-feely photographers. Or over-bright, over-hot lights. She didn’t like jumping, leaning, falling, running, or whatever tortuous moves the photographer had decided might be cool. All in too-tight, too-small outfits that some office-ensconced editor thought looked “gorgeous, dahling”.

  Fur in August. Skimpy thong swimsuits in March. If she wasn’t sweating in sand, she was shivering in snow. She’d turned thirty last month and her willingness to please at any price had come to a screeching halt.

  The only reason she still modeled at all was because the money she made kept her halfway house funded. Maybe that was self-serving, but so what. As long as designers were willing to pay her, she was going to take their money and keep paying it forward. Other than her family, Renewed Hope was the most important thing in her life.

  Important to her and to at least seventy other girls and women who, without it, might never have traveled the road to recovery. So far, since she’d opened Renewed Hope four years ago, she’d only lost two people. Both teen-aged girls. Both too far gone, too deep into addiction and denial to help.

  Ashley Grayson was one of her success stories. Brought in by her parents as a last ditch effort to save her at the ripe old age of twenty, Ashley had weighed in at a whopping ninety pounds. Hostile, aggressive, and beyond hyper, all five feet five inches of her had been nothing but skin and bones, thanks to meth, coke, and pretty much any club drug Ashley could get her hands on.

  But she’d made it. In a year’s time, she’d gained fifty pounds, stayed clean, her self-esteem had gone from zero to a thousand, and she’d become one of Nikki’s dearest friends.

  Ashley was a little bit young, a little bit silly, but life was wonderful once again, and Nikki loved her like a sister.

&nbs
p; A very alone, very single, very pregnant sister. By the time her due date arrived, Ashley was never going to make it up and down all these blasted steps. Hopefully Nikki could talk her into moving out of this crummy apartment building before she delivered. With no elevator whatsoever, toting a baby, and all that baby’s gear, was going to be miserable.

  The third floor landing was plastered in cheap, thin carpeting that looked like it had come straight off a 1970’s clearance rack. The idiot decorator for this joint had to have been blind, stingy, and falling down drunk. Blue paisley carpet, icky yellow walls, and puke green doors that opened outward instead of inward.

  Two doors stood to Nikki’s left, two to her right. She went left and knocked on 3D wondering whether Ashley was going to want pizza or Chinese for dinner. It was after nine already and Nikki was starving.

  She was just about to try the knob and holler a greeting when the door flew open, hitting her like an anvil smack in the forehead. Stars flashed, blinked, became bright flickering lights. Small shimmery suns danced against the dull yellow walls.

  Nikki stood there dumbstruck, dizzy, trying to gather her wits as somebody darted past her, giving the door another hard shove as they went. This time she hit the wall behind her with a loud thump. “Ow! Hey!”

  Footsteps pounded down the stairs and she lunged for the railing, ready to give whoever’d just bashed her a piece of her mind.

  But whoever it was, was long gone.

  She turned back to the apartment and thought, crap, Ashley, who’re you hanging with these days?

  Nikki pulled the front door fully open and squinted into the dark living room. Which in and of itself was odd. Ashley hated the dark and usually had every light in the place blazing. But only one small lamp was on, casting a dim yellowish glow over the top of a worn desk cluttered with college textbooks and papers. Combine the lack of light with the guy who’d just slammed her into the wall and a trickle of unease started a slow crawl up her spine.

  Something was wrong.

  Nikki moved through the living room, rubbing her forehead and flipping on lights as she went. “Ash, what’s going on? You and Mr. Manners have an argument?”

  No answer.

  The fact that Ashley hadn’t come bounding out to greet her was weird. Nikki slowed her steps and looked around. The light over the kitchen stove was off. Nikki didn’t think the stove light had been turned off since Ashley had moved in two years ago. Maybe the bulb had finally burned itself out.

  Or maybe not.

  But everything else looked normal and in place so where was her bouncy friend? “Ashley?”

  No answer. Again. And for a split second she tasted fear.

  Relax, she’s probably in the shower, or maybe taking a bubble bath. That’s something women did when boyfriends split, right? Relaxed up to their chins in bubbles and downed a nice bottle of White Zin? Or in Ashley’s case, a whole gallon of juice.

  Nikki didn’t have far to go to reach the bedroom. The entire apartment consisted of one bedroom, one bathroom, a living room and kitchen with a small dining area off to the side. Except for the desk, and some odd odor she couldn’t discern, the entire place was as clean and tidy as ever.

  So what was that smell? It was like rusted metal, maybe copper. With some kind of musky undertone. Whatever it was, it gained strength as Nikki approached the bedroom.

  She swung the door open. The smell grew stronger, almost overwhelming now and stopped her cold. There were no bedside lamps on, and no light shone from under the bathroom door.

  She flipped the wall-switch and the lamp closest to the doorway came on, bathing the bedroom with warm, mellow light.

  She froze. Let her eyes believe what her mind refused.

  Blood.

  On the walls. The bed. The floor.

  And...holy God. Ashley.

  Sprawled on the bed. Naked. Still. Hands tied above her head.

  The fear became real, heaving, rolling through her stomach. The room spun.

  “Ashley?” She started to rush to the bed. Stopped.

  The scene set in her mind and she saw. Guts. Intestines. Evisceration. A dried white rose on her chest. Gold cross around her neck.

  The Savior.

  Retching, Nikki’s legs buckled and she crumpled next to the bed. Right next to Ashley’s wide-open eyes and gaping mouth. Right next to the dead fetus shoved to the floor like so much trash.

  Nikki’s stomach heaved, and the fear became terror.

  Her mind shimmered.

  Michael. Michael, please don’t--

  Not Michael. Ashley.

  Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she flipped open her cellphone and dialed 911.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I'm an action, adventure, suspense (with a hint of romance) writer who enjoys good wine, great art, Tuscany, and a touch of mayhem. (You never know what you might see when you wake up suddenly in the dark.) I’m the author of TEAM EDGE.

  I currently live in Georgia with my family, one overweight German shepherd and three very spoiled cats. I have a varied background in the military, the airlines, antiques, and medicine. My favorite career is writing and sharing stories with readers and fellow writers.

  I’d love to hear from you, so if you’d like, please leave me a note on my website www.ktbryan.net. Thanks so much!!

  Twitter: KTBryan1

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