SEAL Firsts

by Sharon Hamilton

  Next, they mounted the stairs without a sound, Kyle leading the way. They heard labored breathing and shallow coughing. And then came a faint cry, “Help.”

  They were in the master bedroom. There were two bodies on the bed. An older man had been shot in the chest, and was having trouble breathing. Kyle thought it might have been a direct hit near his heart, but noticed the blood had pooled left and the gunshot was luckily on the right. The frail woman next to him looked like she could be his mother. She was clearly dead. Her shocked expression was permanently etched on her face. The back of her head was wet and soppy with dark blood. They’d punched her in the nose before they’d killed her. A trickle of blood ran down the side of her mouth, onto the flowered bedspread.

  “Didn’t even tie her up,” Fredo said, and then he swore. “She was no threat to anybody.” Kyle knew it made Fredo sick to his stomach to see the elderly, especially women, abused. Kyle pointed down the hall, asking for Fredo to check out the rest of the floor.

  Stripping away the man’s shirt, Coop applied an occlusive dressing to the wound with chest seals.

  “Come on, buddy, don’t give out on me now.” Coop coaxed him to stay conscious. The man’s large eyes stared back, gasping for breath. The SEAL medic dug for his blow out kit, and then applied needle decompression to the right of the man’s sternum, which relieved the man’s breathing almost immediately. A hissing sound came from the 14-gauge needle. Coop re-checked the man’s blood pressure.

  “Coop?” Kyle asked. He needed a quick assessment.

  “Pretty bad, but if he gets to the hospital, he’ll be okay. I’ve stopped the bleeding for now, given some relief so his lungs don’t collapse, but this is only temporary. He’s bleeding on the inside and he’s in a lot of pain, and weak. Don’t think the bullet hit any other organ but the lung. We need an EMT. Can’t risk moving him with this chest tube.”

  Fredo had returned. “All clear. You want me to call it in?” he asked.

  Kyle gave a nod and Fredo dashed from the room.

  “Don’t touch anything except the phone, Fredo,” Kyle said to his back. He looked down at their patient. His chest rose and fell, the tube hissing with each breath. “Can he talk?”

  “Not sure. We can try.” Cooper moved the man’s head from side to side. “Hey, buddy, help’s on the way. You gotta try staying awake. Can you do that for me?”

  The man nodded his head. Sweat covered his forehead, but his color was coming back.

  “Who did this to you?” Kyle asked.

  The man’s eyes opened halfway. He scanned the two faces in front of him and then focused on Kyle. “You’re Christy’s SEAL, aren’t you?”

  Kyle winced. God, he wished he were. “Where is she?” he asked.

  “They took her.”

  “They?”

  “Three guys. One was in uniform.”

  “Military?”

  “No, khaki.” He coughed and spit blood.

  “Shit,” Cooper said. He shook his head, looking at Kyle. “No more talking.”

  “They left you a note…” The man was fighting for every word. He raised a bloody finger and pointed to the bureau. His arm collapsed back onto the bed.

  Fredo returned. “They’re on their way. Someone else had already reported the smoke.”

  “She…” The man was struggling to say something to Kyle.

  “Don’t. Don’t talk right now. The paramedics are on their way. Save your energy,” Coop said tenderly as he brushed back the graying hair from his forehead and checked the man’s eyes.

  “She loves you.” He wouldn’t stop staring at Kyle. “Please. You must save her.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here. Nothing more we can do for him,” Cooper said. He punched Kyle in the arm, which brought the SEAL back to reality. The man’s body had gone limp again.

  On the way out, Kyle picked up the envelope with his name written on it in Christy’s handwriting. He looked at the man on the bed and said a little prayer for him.

  A small explosion downstairs in the kitchen caught them all off guard.

  This was not a good sign.

  “Must’ve set a timed IED,” Fredo said from behind as they were jumping down the stairs. Kyle was worried more timed devices were set. Was this a trap?

  Gunny had the Tahoe running as the trio slid down along the stair railing, avoiding the stairs themselves. Sirens were coming from the bottom of the hill. They could see the red lights flashing. The big behemoth fire truck had to come up slow, honking and almost coming to a complete stop at each intersection along the way. Luckily, there were lots of intersections, even though the signs made cross traffic stop before proceeding across Stanyan. It gave Kyle and the crew barely enough time to get into the SUV.

  Gunny stepped on the gas and almost killed the engine. Everyone else slid down in their seats, ducking under the lid of their caps, and waited. At last, the sputtering truck, romanced by the steady stream of filthy diatribes from Gunny, lumbered up one block. Gunny turned, but continued to swear at the vehicle, telling it that it lacked a soul, that its newness was its flaw. He extolled the virtues of his old but reliable truck back home.

  “No special gas. Turns over every time. It’ll be running circles around you while you’re on your way to the junkyard.”

  They were headed down toward the bay, and then followed the meandering side street around a neighborhood dog park and then back down to 19th Avenue.

  When Kyle was sure they weren’t being followed, he sat up and others took his cue, doing the same.

  “You gonna open that love letter, Kyle?” Fredo wanted to know.

  Kyle’s palm smoothed over the script on the outside of the cream-colored vellum. He would have put it to his nose, if he’d been alone.

  His tongue flicked at his upper right lip as he carefully slit the letter open with his utility knife. He felt as if he were violating her, so he did it carefully. The quiet purr of the three-fifty V8 engine was the only noise Kyle heard. He didn’t even hear his own breath as he unfolded the stiff paper.

  Kyle,

  I’m writing this at the request of the Scorpion Kings. Caesar asks, commander to commander, that you meet him, or he says he will do things to me that will make it impossible to identify my body, except through DNA. (His words).

  He’s left you a note in a Taco Bell bag in a garbage can at the corner of 19th Avenue and Kearney, just outside Starbucks.

  You’ll be watched, so come alone and no one will get hurt.

  Christy—

  He was holding evidence in his hands. Evidence he was bad for all the women in his life. Evidence that yet another person was going to pay the price for his lack of judgment. Because he couldn’t get a grip on himself and just stay the hell away. He’d known getting involved with Christy was a mistake from the beginning. And now, because of his lack of control, his animal need, others were suffering. It was the heaviest burden he’d ever had to bear.

  He vowed when all of this was done, he’d stay as far away from Christy as he possibly could. Maybe he’d request one of the East Coast Teams. Yeah. But then he’d be leaving Fredo and Cooper. He could do it. And maybe they could go together. But he had to get away from her.

  He imagined how she was feeling right now. Scared to death. And his involvement with her had caused all this. He folded the letter without saying anything and tapped it against his other palm, looking out the windshield at pedestrians in the crosswalk as the vehicle stopped at a red light. It was an unusually warm San Francisco night.

  They were sitting ducks, he thought. They had the all firepower in the world, but were not able to use it. Even though there was always collateral damage, it was different here. These people he watched didn’t sign on for this. The gangly kids and couples and seniors walking their dogs this night were the ones he was supposed to be fighting to protect.

  The truck lurched forward, Kyle almost hitting his head against the windshield. When he turned to look at Gunny, he saw a pair of red,
rheumy eyes staring back at him.

  “You gonna leave me here holding my dick, or are we gonna go get these guys?”

  “Keep your hands on the steering wheel, Gunny,” Fredo shouted. “That ain’t nothin’ I wanna see in my lifetime.”

  Gunny ignored the insult and kept his gaze on Kyle. “Any day now. What’d they want?”

  “I’m supposed to go pick up a note in a garbage can on 19th Avenue.” Kyle turned to Fredo and Cooper. “By the Starbucks.”

  Cooper had his gloved hand outstretched. Kyle gave him the note.

  Fredo was whistling from the back seat. “No way you’re going alone.”

  “Have to.”

  “No fuckin’ way, Kyle,” Fredo insisted. “I’ll set you up with a wire. You’ll read their note out loud and we’ll be a block away, hearing every word.”

  “First I call Timmons,” Kyle said.

  Kyle was surprised to find Timmons in the office this late. He knew some brass were in the office with him, because his chief addressed him as Adele and said he was sorry the dinner plans he had with he and his wife were canceled. “That’s real sad about your mom. Hope your family can be of some comfort to you. Be safe, okay? We can reschedule for next week.”

  “You got big timers there?” Kyle asked.

  “Don’t worry about me, honey. You just go be with your family in this time of crisis and I’ll call you later.”

  Timmons hung up.

  Kyle let the team know about the call. It was the closest to a green light he was going to get from the US Navy.

  Fredo had Kyle fitted with a small Invisio earpiece with a microphone, so they could talk back and forth. The thing was so small, he didn’t like to use it on missions because occasionally it would get lodged into his ear too far and hurt like a son of a gun pulling it out. It also made him a bit hard of hearing, and he had to be careful not to talk too loud when under cover. But in this case, this small earpiece was way safer.

  Fredo had fashioned portable mikes mounted behind cheap, American flag pins he’d bought at a souvenir store on Coronado. He pinned one to Kyle’s chest on the right side so Kyle’s heartbeat wouldn’t interfere with the reception. They were that good.

  “This one is bait. They find it and think they’ve got the device, you feel me?” Fredo said.

  Kyle nodded.

  Fredo had gotten written up for pinning one of Carlisle’s flunkies. The whole team listened and recorded the young MA banging a pro for fifty bucks. CDs of the incident earned Fredo enough to pay for all the equipment. But he got a letter in his file. The young MA got himself transferred to a ship, he’d been so hounded by Team guys.

  “How many of these did you make?” Kyle asked as he tapped on the flag.

  Coop jumped violently out of his seat, hitting his head on the roof of the truck. He pulled off his headset. “Shit, shit, shit. That thing is strong.”

  Fredo frowned and looked back at Coop as if to tell him to grow up, but didn’t. He focused back on Kyle.

  “If you need to, you put this thing in under your collar, or your breast pocket if you don’t have time.”

  They dropped Kyle off at the corner, and he took a taxi the rest of the way to the Starbucks. He’d instructed the boys to stay several blocks behind, turn right before Kearney and parked within view of the garbage can. Kyle asked the cab to wait, figuring he’d need transportation.

  He fished through wrappers and wet semi-empty coffee cups. He found the bag down about a foot into the trash and pulled it out, earning him a scowl from an older, nearly hairless Chinese barber who watched him through the plate glass window of his shop.

  When he opened the bag, he found another note, but this time it was written on a yellow Post-It.

  “Keep the bag for prints,” he heard in his earpiece.

  “Go to the rear entrance of the Shoe Barn at 16th and Harrison.” He turned the note over. “Nothing else.”

  Kyle gave the directions to the driver, a portly black man, who chewed on a toothpick. He folded and stuffed the Taco Bell bag into his backpack.

  They arrived at the Shoe Barn, but the huge building, taking up a full city block, was boarded up. Half its windows were broken and replaced with plywood. However, some gaping holes remained. From the row of street people sitting out front with shopping carts filled with belongings and sleeping bags, Kyle realized this place was probably a makeshift hotel of sorts.

  Was Christy held in this grimy warehouse with the drunks and filth?

  Kyle instructed the driver to go around to the backside of the large building, where they found rollup garage doors spray-painted with gang graffiti and one metal exterior door.

  “Look man, I don’t want no trouble. This is a dangerous neighborhood,” the cabbie said.

  “No trouble. I’m supposed to meet someone here. But they might have left another note. Gotta be sure I don’t need another ride.”

  The driver harrumphed and put the cab in park, shaking his head. As Kyle started to get out, the driver called to him through the opened driver’s side window. “Hey, dude. How about I get paid for the two fares now.” His palm was outstretched.

  Kyle scanned the empty storage yard, pulled out his wallet, and handed the driver a couple of twenties. “Wait. If I don’t come out in five minutes, you can take off,” Kyle said.

  As soon as he was paid, the cabbie revved the engine, his tires spinning loose gravel all over Kyle. The cabbie took off like his life depended on it.

  “Fuck. Hope you guys are nearby. My driver just bailed on me. I’m behind the building.” He inhaled, not getting a response in his ear. “I’m going in.”

  Still nothing. As he touched the silver knob of the door, he heard the crackle in his ear. “We’re here.”

  The door was unlocked. Kyle stepped into a darkened expanse. Pigeons fluttered in the filtered light between a couple of dangling fluorescent fixtures. He heard water dripping somewhere, then the sound of a chair sliding on concrete. He heard footsteps as he unclipped his side arm, but didn’t unholster it.

  “Well, well, well. We meet at last.” The figure of a man appeared from the dark shadows in front of him, and said, “If you value your life, you’ll give me that weapon.”

  Chapter 35

  Kyle waited until the man stepped into the light created by a four-bulb fluorescent fixture that fluttered on one bulb. He was shorter than Kyle by several inches, with a buzz cut and a deep scar over his left eye that extended into a lopsided cavern in his cheek, as if a bullet had been dug out with a spoon. It was a prison wound. His neck and exposed forearms were covered in ink. Blurry and milky tattoos. Not many of them professional.

  Junkyard dog.

  The man’s upper torso was as hard as any of Kyle’s SEAL Team members, but the leathery skin was scarred and pockmarked. His arms were longer than the rest of him proportionally. Well developed guns, connected to gnarly fingers. He held a semiautomatic that Kyle recognized as an FN 5.7, which could hold 20 armor-piercing rounds. Across his chest was an AK-47 strap.

  The guy was connected. And armed for bloody battle.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Caesar Rodriguez.” A muscled forearm covered with tats of naked women extended, palm up. He wiggled his fingers, indicating he wanted Kyle’s gun.

  Kyle gave it to him. Caesar looked to his left and a young boy popped out of the shadows, grabbed the gun, and ran into the safety of darkness.

  “Now I will shake your hand,” Caesar said, “for saving my brother’s life.”

  Brother?

  “Excuse me?” Kyle asked. He stepped back and heard the sounds of safeties being released.

  “Stop right there, amigo.”

  Kyle did as he was told and froze in place. He was listening, searching for any small movement. He counted three, maybe four other breathing patterns.

  “Any friend to my brother is a friend to me.” Caesar extended his hand again, palm up. “We will finish the formalities, like two soldiers on the battlefield, t
hen we will talk and determine if we are enemies.”

  Kyle shook his hand, which was hard as a piece of wood, callused and scratchy. This was a man who was used to fighting barehanded, without the use of the military-issue gloves.

  Big box taught.

  “And here I thought you cared for the girl.” Kyle could see a flicker of panic in Caesar’s eyes. “We got her some place safe. Not sure about the baby, though.”

  Caesar withdrew his hand and grimaced in spite of himself. He was missing several upper teeth. The gaping smile chilled Kyle. The man had no soul. That meant he had no limits.

  “So who is your brother?” Kyle asked as he dropped his arm down by his side, resisting the temptation to wipe his hand on his pants.

  “Blood brother, really. Armando Guzman. I believe you know him, yes?”

  The creature was enjoying this too much, Kyle thought. His time would come. It dawned on him that’s why Armando was probably still alive. And why they’d killed the guy who’d overdosed Armando on heroin. This thug and Armando were childhood friends. Kyle had been told about them, how Armando had fought his way out of the street and eventually joined the Navy after he relocated his mom and sister. Pieces were clicking into place as a familiar face walked around Caesar, holding two white zip ties in his right hand.

  “We use these too, asshole,” Deputy Hilber whispered to the side of Kyle’s face. Before he could secure Kyle’s wrists, Caesar bid him to stop. Hilber definitely looked disappointed, but obeyed.

  “When you say we, you mean the San Diego Sheriff’s Office, or your vast criminal enterprise here in San Francisco,” Kyle said with mock respect.

  “You’ll see,” Hilber said, pulling Kyle by the shirt.

  “No need for that,” Caesar interjected. “Get your filthy hands off my guest.”

  “Well, he’s not my guest. I’d just as soon see these guys disappear.” Hilber sneered at his ally, who spat on his shoes and got a face full of hatred for his efforts.

  An unholy alliance. Divide and conquer. Kyle saw the power struggle already, and wondered who the warriors in the background were loyal to.