Special Forces: The Operator

by Cindy Dees

  That got a squawk of surprise out of his supervisor. “What the hell’s going on up there?”

  “Later,” Avi bit out. “We’ve got a man down and a scene to secure.”

  The paperwork on this op was going to be epic. But thankfully, Torsten had had the good sense to insist on getting plentiful evidence on the attack before turning his Medusas loose.

  It took about ten minutes for a helicopter to show up and do a tricky hovering maneuver, holding the skids mere inches off the roof. The inflatable main portion of the roof was not built to take the weight of a chopper, and the hardened area with the ventilation equipment was too crowded for the helicopter’s blades. The Medusas made a makeshift litter by linking their arms underneath Torsten’s body, picked him up, and ran him over to the chopper. Lynx climbed in first, protecting Torsten’s tracheotomy.

  Avi was not surprised to see the IV tube in Torsten’s arm now hooked up to Lynx’s own forearm. Special operators took care of their own.

  The chopper lifted away in a violent downwash, and they all ducked and ran back to the hot zone to finish securing the tanks of gas. He hesitated to imagine what lethal poison Mahmoud had gotten his hands on. The bastard had the money and backing of the Iranian government, which surely had access to the worst chemicals on earth from some of its less savory allies.

  It took nearly an hour for the scene to be cordoned off, handed over to the hazmat guys, and for him to make an initial report to Otto Schweimburg, who showed up in person with a huge contingent of IOC security people to take over the scene.

  The German announced, “I’m placing all of you under arrest pending a full report on what the hell just happened up here. You had no authority—”

  Avi cut him off. “I had authority from my government to neutralize an international terrorist who was number one on our watch list. We will be happy to turn over photographic evidence to you of the attack that was attempted up here tonight. Just keep in mind, we not only did your job for you, but we also saved the lives of thirty-thousand people in the building beneath our feet.”

  That seemed to take a bit of the starch out of Otto’s spine.

  Avi continued grimly, “And as for your arrest, we’ve got a man down. We’ll be at the hospital until we know he’s going to be all right. After that, you may feel free to arrest and question us to your heart’s content. But until then, get out of our way. We have somewhere to be.”

  Otto actually stepped back, or maybe fell back in the face of Avi’s verbal onslaught. But either way, Avi barged past him and felt the Medusas following close on his heels.

  They retraced their steps down the long stairwell, under the stadium, and out to the loading dock, where their vehicles were now hemmed in by a traffic jam of emergency response vehicles.

  “We’ll never get our cars out of this mess,” Rebel said in dismay.

  He nodded and wove through the worst of the press of ambulances, fire trucks, and Olympic security vehicles to a SWAT van at the edge of the crowd. He knocked on the back door, and a fully armored SWAT officer opened up.

  “Any chance we can make our weapons safe in your vehicle and beg a ride to the hospital? One of our guys was shot and has been airlifted out.”

  “Yeah, mate. Get in,” the SWAT guy replied.

  It was a tight squeeze with a SWAT team on the benches lining the sides of the vehicle and the Medusas sitting on the steel floor. As the vehicle sped away from the scene, the Medusas unloaded and cleared their weapons.

  At last, the adrenaline charge of the op began to drain out of his blood, leaving Avi both exhilarated and exhausted. “Everyone okay?” he asked over his microphone.

  The Medusas had performed brilliantly tonight, but they were a young team and relatively inexperienced as Spec Ops went. They all checked in, sounding calm and unrattled by the bloody encounter.

  Torsten had trained them well. It was one thing to stand off and shoot at distant targets that were more moving objects than actual human beings. But hand-to-hand combat was up close and personal. You had to look a guy in the eye as you gutted him. The act of killing another human being in a situation like that took some real steel in a person’s psyche. But these Medusas had it.

  Not that he’d doubted it for a second. Rebel had proven her mettle to him time and again over the past several weeks.

  He had to find a way to hang on to her. He would never, ever find another woman like her.

  * * *

  Rebel took the SWAT guy behind her up on his offer to lean back against his shins. As her jacked-up combat senses came back down to normal, utter exhaustion of mind and body set in. She would never forget seeing Avi charge out of their hiding spot, attacking that hostile by hand, and then seeing another shooter come up behind him. Her whole future life had flashed before her eyes as that shooter laid into Avi, firing a barrage of lead at the man she loved.

  And then, seeing Avi go down—she’d died right there, with him.

  She’d never experienced anything to compare to the rage and despair of that moment, and she hoped never to experience it again. Even that horrible moment of silence when Torsten had failed to check in on the radios hadn’t been as bad.

  She closed her eyes and let her head fall onto her knees, which she hugged close to her chest. The anonymous man at her back reached forward and massaged her shoulders, and she let his hands work some of the tension from her neck.

  They arrived at the hospital and she stood up wearily, sparing a nod of thanks to the guy, who nodded back. People in their line of work understood each other without words in situations like this.

  The Medusas piled out of the van and stripped out of the rest of their tactical gear, handing over flak vests, utility belts, knives, pistols and their assault rifles. It took a few minutes for the SWAT team leader to write out a receipt for all the equipment and hand it to Avi with a reassurance that it would all be cleaned and locked up for them at Sydney police headquarters. They could come by and pick it up whenever they were ready.

  Rebel fell in beside Avi as he led the way into the emergency room. Nurses, patients and family members in the waiting room reacted with visible alarm as they strode in.

  Even without their gear, she supposed they made for an intimidating sight. Most of them were spattered with blood, and they all had to look fully as grim as she felt.

  “How is Gunnar Torsten doing?” Avi asked the nurse who stepped forward hesitantly to ask if she could help them. “He was medevaced in by helicopter about an hour ago.”

  With a glance over their shoulders at the frightened faces in the lobby, the nurse wisely said, “Why don’t you all come with me?”

  She put them in a large examining room with three beds in it. “I’ll call up to surgery and see if I can get you a report. Meanwhile, are any of you injured? That’s a lot of blood on your clothing.”

  Avi snorted. “You ought to see the other guys.”

  The Medusas chuckled as a group, and Rebel felt more of the night’s strain draining away. Man, Avi was good. He knew exactly how to handle a team coming off an extremely violent mission.

  The nurse came back into the room and Rebel stared apprehensively at the woman along with the rest of her teammates.

  “Your colleague has extensive internal bleeding and is going to be in surgery for some hours to come, but the surgical team has every reason to believe he’ll live.”

  Rebel’s whole body felt like it crumpled, her relief was so great.

  Strong arms went around her, and Avi pulled her tight against his big body. Unashamedly, she put her arms around his waist and hugged him back.

  “Walk with me,” Avi murmured.

  They slipped out of the examining room, leaving the others to get looked over by a nurse for any minor cuts and wounds. They walked down a long hall until they found a bench seat in front of a large window. Avi guided her down to it and to
ok both of her hands in his.

  “Rebel, I don’t care what it takes. I have to find a way to be with you. Up there on that roof tonight, when I thought I was going to die, my only regret was that I wasn’t going to be able to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  He took a deep breath and continued, “Look. I know this is fast. But as it turns out, I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. I’m sure you’re the one woman for me. And I’ll do whatever you need me to do, be whomever you need me to be. But I can’t lose you. I love you.”

  Rebel’s heart did a weird flip-flop and then felt like it grew about three times larger in her chest.

  “Rebel, I know you’re cautious emotionally. And I know I’m asking you to take a giant leap of faith and trust me. To trust in us. To believe in us. But I’m willing to wait for you, and to fight for you. As long as it takes for you to have me.”

  She stared down at their intertwined hands, his big and tanned and callused, hers smaller, but also callused and capable. They were so alike, the two of them. They fit each other.

  Perfectly.

  She knew in her heart of hearts that he was right. That they would be great together. But still. It was a giant leap of faith for her to open up to him all the way. He was asking for forever.

  Could she do it—

  Oh, who was she kidding?

  She looked up, gazing into his dark, soulful eyes. Eyes she could joyfully lose herself in. “Of course I’ll have you. You’re perfect, Avi Bronson.”

  He stood up in a rush and swept her into his arms. He kissed her so passionately, so thoroughly, she lost all ability to think. Heck, to breathe. All she could do was feel—his love, his care, his happiness.

  And it was wonderful. And it was all hers.

  Epilogue

  Avi pushed Gunnar in his wheelchair outside into the humidity and heat. If this was winter in Louisiana, he hated to think about what summer was going to be like. The good news: he would be here, with Rebel, to find out.

  “You’re clear on the exercise today?” Gunnar asked him.

  “Yup. I’ve got it. We’ll split into tracker teams and hunt each other down. It’ll be fun,” Avi commented as the Medusas piled out of the training building behind him.

  “Man, I can’t wait to get out of this thing and get back in the field with you guys,” Gunnar groused.

  “Patience, brother. Your doctors said you’ll make a full recovery if and only if you give the inflammation around your spine time to heal.”

  The bullet that had lodged perilously close to Gunnar’s spine had been successfully removed, but the soft tissue damage was taking a while to recover. In the meantime, Gun had asked him to take a temporary assignment to the United States to work as a foreign-liaison-training officer with the Medusas.

  Which was just as well. There had, indeed, been protests lodged by the Iranian government and a fair bit of political flap after eight of its operatives were killed in Sydney. Rebel’s videos had quickly quieted their outcry, however.

  As for the gas in the tanks, it had been deadly Agent VX, one of the most toxic nerve gases ever created. One lungful would kill anyone. The amount in the tanks would have taken out everyone in the field house without question. Even if some of the athletes and spectators had made it out alive, they all would have been dead in a few hours.

  Avi’s superiors felt it would be prudent for him to lie low for a while, get out of the Middle East and off the Iranians’ radar. So, this mission to help train the Medusas and share Israeli commando techniques at a supersecret training facility completely off the grid of any foreign government had been the perfect solution.

  Not to mention, he got to spend a full year here with Rebel, which also carried him through his last year of service before becoming eligible to retire from the Israeli Army. His plan was to leave active duty with the IDF and accept the permanent training position Gunnar had already offered him with the Medusas.

  As for Rebel, she was coming along nicely in learning to embrace happiness. They’d moved into a little house and were building a life together. He did the cooking, of course, but she made it a cozy, loving home.

  In fact, tonight, he was going to present her with the engagement ring currently tucked in his pocket and make it official. And then he would have his very own Medusa to love, honor and cherish.

  Forever.

  He couldn’t wait.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Rancher’s Hostage Rescue by Beth Cornelison.

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  Rancher’s Hostage Rescue

  by Beth Cornelison

  Prologue

  The plan was ready. His weapon cleaned, primed, loaded. His target identified and surveilled. His escape mapped out. Contingencies decided. The time had come.

  He stashed his gun in an accessible place on his person, then covered it with his long shirt, his jacket. By this time tomorrow, he’d be out of state, on his way to his next small-town target as he made his way to the Mexican border. To freedom.

  Wayne Moore strapped on his grandfather’s watch, the only thing he had left of his grampa’s. His father had given it to him just days before he’d died. Wayne acknowledged the familiar tangle of regret, longing and disgust he experienced when remembering his father. A complicated legacy. A love-hate relationship. Jacob Moore had taught him well. Some lessons were learned on their homemade backyard shooting range and some at his father’s side as they held up gas stations, diners and liquor stores. Others were taught with fists and belts. His dad’s last lesson had been taught through his failure.

  Wayne shook his head, remembering. His father had gotten careless, cocky. Had taken on a large city bank without adequate backup, without considering all the ramifications and obstacles. Had seen only his past successes and the promise of a bigger payday. He’d paid for his hubris with his life, shot by the security officer as soon as he fired his own weapon.

  Lesson learned. Stick to small jobs. Keep it simple.

  Small-town banks had smaller payouts, but also a smaller risk of capture. And the number-one goal, above the take, was not to be captured. Stay out of jail and be free to do another job on another day. Wayne wasn’t sure how many days he had left, but if he didn’t get some money for all his medical bills, they were sure to end sooner rather than later.

  After a last check of his supplies, his weapons, his escape plan, Wayne climbed in his old beater sedan and headed for his target.

  Chapter 1

  Five excruciating months had p
assed since Helen had been murdered. Five months of grief, loneliness and, most of all, guilt. He hadn’t taken her life, but that didn’t exonerate him from his other wrongs. He’d taken her for granted, not given her what she deserved, acted the fool when he’d had a good woman who loved him.

  Dave Giblan sat at Helen’s graveside, his bad leg stretched in front of him and the moisture from the latest spring rain soaking through his jeans. He made biweekly visits to her grave, often bringing flowers to brighten the still-raw earth from her burial. Flowers he should have given her more often while she was alive. Instead, he’d laughed at his boss’s advice to show Helen his feelings, his appreciation of her. Now it was too late.

  Grunting as he shoved to his feet, he swiped at the damp seat of his jeans and whispered, “Bye, Helen.” Turning, he headed back to his pickup. He still had a slight limp, minor pain and stiffness following the surgery to repair his broken leg last December. The accident, a fall from a ladder, had been so random, so senseless...and just a few days before Helen was murdered. He lost both his girlfriend and his job within days of each other.

  The McCalls swore that he’d have a job again when his leg was fully healed, and he could do the work of a ranch hand again. But since making that promise, they’d hired two new hands. Although he’d heard the Double M was climbing out of the financial quicksand it had been sinking in, he was skeptical they had the means to pay a third hand. Especially one who had a limp that may or may not ever go away.

  He moved slowly down the grassy cemetery hill, using the cane he’d borrowed from the McCalls for use on uneven terrain. The handcrafted wooden cane with a simple scalloped design near the hand grip had belonged to the late father of the senior McCall, Michael.