Breaking Through (Book 2 of the SEAL TEAM Heartbreakers)

by Reasor, Teresa

  Book 2 of the SEAL Team Heartbreakers Series

  BREAKING THROUGH

  TERESA J. REASOR

  Breaking Through

  Copyright 2012 by Teresa J. Reasor

  Cover Art by Tracy Stewart

  Edited by Faith Freewoman

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Contact Information: teresareasor@msn.com

  Teresa J. Reasor

  PO Box 124

  Corbin, KY 40702

  Publishing History: First Edition 2012

  ISBN10:0985006927

  ISBN13: 978-0-9850069-2-1

  Dedication

  To all the men and women of the armed forces who help to preserve our freedom. God Bless you.

  And to the Lethal Ladies. You are the bomb!

  And to my children, Sarah, Daniel, and Jennifer. I love you.

  Table Of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Teresa Reasor

  PROLOGUE

  Brett “Cutter” Weaver drew a deep breath and reached for patience. Jesus. Why couldn’t Derrick let it go? He’d been harping on it for the last ten minutes. Stewing about it for the last two hours.

  “Damn stupid you getting between me and the kid, Cutter.” Derrick Armstrong’s voice grated over the loud whomp-whomp of the helo’s propellers. “He hated us. You heard him. We were protecting his ass, and he fucking hated us for it.”

  Brett swiveled in his seat, pushed his face close to Derrick’s, and stared him in the eye. “If I hadn’t stepped in, your ass would be in the brig right now. Move. The. Fuck. On.”

  Derrick’s features hardened his expression sulky. “We’ll be facing him down the barrel of an AK-47 in less than a year. He’s probably working for al-Qaeda already.”

  Leaning back, Brett pinched the bridge of his nose. Probably so.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have kept Derrick from ripping the kid’s head off. But he was a kid.

  After the way Derrick had grabbed him, the boy had to have bruises. He had to be some important Iraqi citizen’s son, too. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been called out on protection detail just before this mission.

  The fifteen-year-old had hunkered sullen in the back seat for the last ten minutes of the ride, his eyes filled with hate and hurt.

  The helo hit a patch of turbulence and bounced. Brett braced his feet and his adrenaline jumped. He shook it off.

  Across the compartment from him, Greenback grabbed the edge of the metal seat to keep from being pitched head first onto the floor. “I want my fucking airfare back.”

  “You didn’t have to pay for this ride. Uncle Sam did,” Bowie shot back, his west Texas drawl thick as Greenback’s New Jersey accent.

  Brett blocked out the team’s good-natured banter. “You need to talk to Hawk about what happened or we’ll be up to our necks in shit. The kid’s bound to talk.”

  “It’s his word against ours, Cutter.”

  Brett’s stomach plummeted, and it had nothing to do with the rise and fall of the chopper. Was that what it had come to? His word against theirs?

  “I want you to put in for some counseling, Strong Man.”

  Derrick snorted. “That little bastard spent twenty minutes pissing on us and our country, and I’m the one who needs counseling? That’s bullshit.”

  “Did you get another letter from Marjorie?”

  Derrick’s expression went flat. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Every time you get a letter from home you get fucked up. If her letters make you—”

  “Leave it alone, Cutter.”

  Fuck. This was way out of his league. Though he’d had training, he was no psychologist. Derrick’s rage was out of control. He was close to slam-dunking his career right into the nearest latrine.

  Brett had to talk to Hawk about this.

  Otherwise, he’d see his own career trashed by association.

  Brett’s attention shifted across the helo to his other teammates. Hawk was looking over a schematic. Flash studied him and Derrick, a frown hardening his features.

  And what the hell was going on with Flash? He’d been stewing about something, too. Secretive. He’d had a hush-hush meeting a week ago and been different ever since. He’d even quit gambling. Something was up.

  When Brett had approached him about this sudden shift, he’d gotten the same three words kicked in his face, Leave it alone.

  Brett rolled his neck trying to relieve the tension in his shoulders. He had to take a step back and get his head into this mission.

  He ran both hands over his close-cropped hair. We’ve been down range too long. God, I want to go home.

  The landing controller’s voice came over the bitch box. “Ten minutes out.”

  “COM systems on,” Lieutenant Hawk Yazzie ordered.

  Brett breathed in the rubbery-smelling air, a blend of machine oil and ammo, and pulled on his gloves. He gripped Derrick’s shoulder. “Forget about the shit that happened this morning and get your head in the game. Everything else needs to stay on board this chopper.” He adjusted his throat mike.

  Derrick’s expression grew sullen but he nodded. “As long as you have my six we’re good, Cutter.”

  The sound of the CH47 Chinook’s propellers reverberated through the compartment as it hovered over the drop site. The rear hatch lowered. A crewmember tossed out th
e rappel rope, while another manned the machine gun mounted at the bay door.

  Hawk signaled and took position. The team rose as one. Hawk was first on the rope and down. Greenback, Bowie, Doc, and Flash slipped into the darkness behind him. Brett grabbed the rope and rappelled down, his gloves absorbing the heat and keeping his hands protected. Seconds behind him, Derrick’s feet hit the ground.

  “Down and clear,” Brett said into his COM.

  The downdraft from the helo’s props pounded them as it bugged out to the east. Brett ran west twenty yards looking for cover and dove behind a knoll of sand. In a country ninety-five percent desert and the other five percent sand with vegetation, you took whatever crappy cover you could find.

  As the dust devils settled, a taut waiting silence hung thick around them. Five minutes passed, ten, as they waited to see if the drop had been spotted.

  “Fall in,” Hawk’s voice whispered in his ear through the COM.

  They gathered in a designated area only a few hundred feet from their drop sight.

  “Cutter, take point,” Hawk said. “When we’re within distance, we’ll leap-frog in and out. Greenback, you have our back door. You know the drill.”

  The mile-long trek to their target area would be cakewalk until they reached the outskirts of town—as long as they didn’t run into any hostile patrols.

  Silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothing, dogged them all the way in. Brett fought to keep his mind on what lay ahead, but Derrick’s volatile actions and attitude weighed heavily in his thoughts. They’d been swim buddies all the way through BUD/S training. Derrick had changed since then. But so had he.

  Brett signaled a stop as he scanned the burned out shells of bombed buildings spanning the immediate horizon. How could the innocent civilians trapped between them and the Taliban or al-Qaeda keep from hating both sides? With their homes and businesses destroyed and their families displaced, it was no wonder some looked at every man in uniform with hate-filled eyes.

  And now some bomb-making terrorist fuckers had taken up residence.

  Brett went over the mission one last time in his head. Having all five men inside the structure was a risk, but it would take one man, or even two, too long to wire the structure and get out, leaving discovery a strong possibility. At least with five men they’d have a chance at shooting their way clear if everything went to hell.

  Flash, positioned atop one of the abandoned buildings, could cover them outside with his M-12 sniper rifle, and though Greenback was covering their back door, he’d take up a defensive position and keep the fuckers in crossfire.

  Knowing he had backup inside the building and out made it easier for Brett to focus.

  Using hand signals, Hawk conveyed his orders. They donned their NVGs. Light reflected easily off the sand, but within the unlit streets visibility would peter out. Brett led off, and they leap-frogged to the buildings, hugging the shadows and signaling to each other. They’d practiced the maneuver until it was second nature.

  Darkness lay like a threat over the streets as they worked their way north following the GPS coordinates secured by Intel. Six blocks into the district, the building came into view. Not a house, but a business of some kind.

  Greenback peeled off to the end of the block to guard their back door. Their escape route.

  Surrounded by the abandoned husks of empty buildings, the light bleeding from beneath heavy fabric on the second floor window screamed occupancy. Hawk signaled for them to fan out and take position.

  Placing every foot with care, Brett worked his way to the east corner of a building diagonal from his target area. He focused for a time on the rooftop sentries, then scanned the east side of the building. A window in the middle of the first floor was positioned where none of the sentries could observe it. If he could get it open, he could just waltz right in and set his charges.

  A figure slithered up to the opening. Jesus, Hawk was a smooth operator. In less than a minute he had cut the glass, disengaged the lock, and slid the window open. Then he shimmied into the room and disappeared. A prearranged click on the COM signaled he was on target.

  One of the sentries on the roof turned and ambled toward the other side of the building. Brett eased from his position. The unexpected crunch of concrete beneath a boot heel zapped his nerve endings. He froze. Controlling his breathing with a practiced effort, he shadowed back into the alley and against the wall.

  The tango walked past him, his rifle cradled in the bend of his arm. The pungent scent of his sweat blended with the oil used to clean his weapon.

  The man suddenly tensed. Who did he see?

  Brett eased his KA-BAR from its sheath. When the tango raised his rifle, Brett covered the man’s mouth with his gloved hand and plunged the knife into his back at an upward angle, piercing his heart. The terrorist’s grunt of pain was cut off. He dropped as though his legs had been kicked from beneath him. His body sagged. His rifle slid toward the ground. Brett jerked his hand upward, holding the body’s weight by the jaw and snagged the rifle sling with his other hand. The firearm pendulumed just above the ground. Holy fuck, that was close.

  Brett dragged the body into the alley and rolled it flush against the building, concealing the rifle behind it. He then wiped the KA-BAR clean with the tango’s shirt and replaced it in its sheath.

  How long before the man would be missed? Not long enough. Got to get moving.

  Two clicks sounded in his ear. Derrick had made it inside. So the guy had been aiming at him. Strong Man needed to practice his stealth skills.

  Watching for any movement on the roof, Brett eased from the alley and worked his way from shadow to shadow toward the building. He paused behind a small patch of scrub that offered only the minimum of cover, then broke into a full-out run and zigzagged across the last twelve feet, every inch of his body tensed for the strike of a bullet. Reaching the building, he flattened himself against the side of the structure. No cry of alarm followed. No one opened fire. He drew a deep breath and shook off the adrenaline humming through his body.

  He secured his rifle sling over his shoulder, gripped the bottom of the window, braced a foot on the rough concrete, and boosted himself up and into the opening. His pack dragged at the edge of the frame, making a soft sound like a zipper being worked. He froze, listening for any enemy response. Nothing. He wiggled gently, disengaging the pack, and climbed through.

  Although the lower floors remained pitch-black, his NVGs illuminated everything in green. Two tables separated by crates sat against one wall with rifle parts lined up carefully across them. The faint odor of machine oil hung close.

  He paused to click his COM system four times and moved on. He approached the door, leaned forward, and pressed an ear to the panel. Silence breathed back at him from the hall on the other side. Another series of clicks signaled Bowie’s entrance into the building.

  Brett eased open the door a slit and peered out. All clear. Sliding silently through the opening he turned left, hugging the wall as he crept down the hall. The last room on the left was his target. He pressed his ear to the door. Emptiness pinged back at him. And no light shone from beneath.

  Twisting the knob, he eased into the room and shut the door. Long rows of wooden boxes lined the interior. One lay open and next to it, a pile of packing material. Brett approached it. AK-47’s, lying in neat stacks and cushioned by straw, filled the crate.

  Bingo.

  He set aside his rifle and shook free of his pack. Drawing a deep breath, he worked the straps free and opened the flap. He pulled out his supplies and laid them on the floor in neat order. Moving quickly, he positioned plastic explosives against the interior weight-bearing walls. When set off, they would collapse the building inward and bury anyone inside. Just in case, he decided to create a circuit of charges with DET cord around the boxed weapons. He had just finished the last circuit when the door swung open.

  Every nerve in Brett’s body jumped to high alert. He grabbed his Sig Sauer sidearm an
d jerked it free.

  Recognition momentarily drained the strength from his arms and he lowered his weapon. Shit. He’d almost blown away one of his guys. What the fuck was going on? Hawk’s and Bowie’s charges were already set, Doc’s, too. He’d heard the clicks. What the fuck was Derrick doing here?

  Derrick pressed a finger to his lips and rested his ear against the door listening. He gave the all clear and signaled for him to hurry.

  Brett nodded, thrust his pistol into its holster, and turned back to the task of arming the charge. Derrick shouldn’t be here. This change in plan put them both at risk.

  Just get this done and get the fuck out of here.

  He checked his watch, then set and switched on the timer. Sensing quick movement to his right, he jerked to the left. A metal gunstock slammed into the side of his head with the force of a baseball bat, tearing the NVGs from his face. Blackness crashed over him.

  Three months later

  CHAPTER 1

  “It isn’t aphasia.”

  From his seat across the desk, Brett looked up. Dr. Stewart’s expression offered no clues as to how he should feel about his announcement. The doc’s normal hangdog expression remained the same.

  “That’s what I was told after I woke up from the coma, sir.” Brett said when the doc continued to wait for a response.

  “Any time there’s an injury to the brain, and there’s a problem with speech, there’s a list of things it can be. Aphasia is only one of them.”

  Brett nodded. “What does this new diagnosis mean?”

  “Well, Ensign, it means you’re not going to receive a medical discharge from the Navy. Yet.”

  Medical discharge. Medical discharge! The blood drained from Brett’s head. Nausea hit him like he’d been kicked in the nuts. “What do you mean yet? Nobody said anything about a discharge. I’m getting better. I’m working my way back.”

  “That’s why we don’t believe you’re experiencing aphasia. If you were, you wouldn’t be progressing, you’d be learning to cope.”