by Angel Payne
No matter what, his A game was a requirement today. Intel had been received and validated, and they were ready to roll on it. An extremist group had infiltrated the village starting with the police department, who’d been extorting the merchants for protection money. Within the last week, the bastards had instigated phase two of their control, enforcing radical Sharia law to the point that girls were being sent home from school and the main road in town was a sea of burkas. According to their partners with the Indonesian Special Forces, this place was a happy and bustling place as little as three months ago. Now, the village’s vibe was subdued and depressed.
He was seriously ready to help change that.
He just wished he could be sure his partner was on the same page.
Okay, so Tait wasn’t returning to active duty as the guy he used to be. Kell had been told to expect that. Perhaps the smart-ass, I’ve-got-a-one-liner-for-that soldier might return some day, perhaps not. Nothing can be set in stone. That was how the shrinks-on-high had phrased it. They’d also attested that Tait was going stir-crazy at his desk assignment at Lewis-McChord, and that getting back into action might be the “best medicine” for the guy.
Kell grunted, thinking he should’ve pushed the idiots for a definition on that. Best medicine? For who and what, exactly? Tait’s brain had been scrambled eggs for a full year, following the explosion in LA that put Luna in a coma. The eggs became a full-on omelet six months ago, when the ordeal ended with the woman finally gaining consciousness, only to die in Tait’s arms an hour later.
So to put it succinctly, he had no idea what kind of soldier he was working with today. He and T-Bomb had run a solid month of training drills already at base, but there was a big difference between training and the real thing—usually about a gallon more adrenaline and a shitload more bad guys.
Today, that pot was even more crowded. The target was a parasite named Bayu Sharif, who’d appointed himself the village’s Chief of Police two months ago. If they took him out, the force would be thrown into chaos. The best place to do that was at the entrance of the police station, which faced the town’s main square. Though their partners with Indonesian Spec Ops would try to clear the plaza as much as possible, there was no guarantee they’d be completely successful. That meant every bullet out of his rifle had to be accurate enough to slay a lice egg on a monkey’s head.
That meant the guy who spotted that lice better know exactly what he was doing.
Fuck. He hated himself for harboring this doubt about Tait. Less than a year ago, T-Bomb was his balls-to-the-walls wingman. They had each other’s backs, be it in the mud of a jungle or the floor of a bar, eyeing the dangers of life and love for the other, literally risking their lives for each other. Tait’s passion for control, along with his obsession for detail, made him the perfect storm to balance Kell’s talents on the trigger. The battalion had taken to calling them the “bullet ninjas” because of the mission catchphrase they’d created together. Six-five-four, bastard hits the floor; three-two-one, we’re out and then we’re done. The ninjas were unstoppable. They were about to prove that to the world at the International Sniper Competition when their trip to Los Angeles, and Tait’s fixation with that woman, had changed everything.
Women. Fuck. Nice as diversions. Truly shitty as fixations.
Now, though the ninjas were back together physically, Kellan had no idea if they’d synch up again in other ways. They were holding position in a bell tower located four hundred yards up the hill from the town square. Though some ops like this were harder than others, Kell had been looking forward to taking out Sharif since tagging along on the recon team’s patrol last night and witnessing the man beating and raping one of his lieutenant’s wives. Apparently, the asshole thought nothing of targeting the older daughters in town, as well.
He voiced his opinion of that out loud. “It’s damn time to put this monster out of everyone’s misery.” When a contemplative silence was his only answer from Tait, he went on, “Once Sharif’s out, local Special Ops will lead the charge inside. It’ll be a cluster and a half, but Rhett and Rebel should have no trouble doubling back up here to grab us before anyone figures out where the shot came from.”
Tait did answer that one, barely moving from his stomach-down position behind his scope. “I was at the mission run-down too, Kell. And despite what you may think, I was paying attention.”
“Cool.” It was likely as close as he’d come to an apology. Sure, he had regrets, tons of them; it was just expressing the fuckers where his own mental omelets got made. He hoped Tait recalled that much.
The guy gave him hope by throwing over a smirk. A trace of the old T-Bomb peeked through as he drawled, “You look tense, Slash-aroo.” Using Kell’s call-sign in his unique way was another good sign. “You need to go let the snake in your pants do a little dance for a few minutes downstairs? I can watch the kid for you.” He nodded at Kellan’s brand-new Remington precision rifle.
“Bommer, I think you’d give BJs to half the battalion to get a few rounds with my new baby.” He sent a gloating grin. “But I’m the only bastard who touches her right now.”
“Pffft. That’s just because she doesn’t know any better.”
“Hey, when it’s right, it’s right. Nobody can control true love.”
The statement was like spilled neon paint. Once it was out, the damage was done—and impossible to ignore. Just like that, Tait’s face tightened and darkened, all traces of his sarcasm swept beneath the mask of loss that had defined it for so damn long. “That’s one nasty fucker of a truth, Sergeant Rush.”
Kell blew out hard air while screwing his lips together with equal frustration. “T…man, I didn’t mean to—”
“Of course you didn’t. Forget it.” But everything about his guttural tone said he hadn’t and wouldn’t. Nevertheless, Tait was back to strict business the next second, opening up the radio line to state, “This is T-Bomb. I have eyes on the target. Local police jeep approaching from the southwest at approximately forty-five KPH with the chief riding shotgun. Additional occupants are the driver plus one bandit in back, accompanied by a female who appears to be a local.” After a second, he muttered in a voice only Kellan could hear, “Christ, look at all that long black hair.”
In the best of all possible worlds, Kellan would have the chance to roll over and whack the back of the man’s helmet. Right after that, he’d growl at Tait to keep his sights on their black-hearted target instead of his black-haired companion, who was more than likely a prisoner instead of a passenger. But setting up a four-hundred-yard shot required complete control of one’s breathing, voice, muscles, and emotions. He was successful at doing just that, drawing in slow air as he refocused his scope on the entrance steps of the police station. As he released the air in a steady stream, he said, “You wanna keep your eyes on the front seat of that jeep, Sergeant Bommer, instead of the back?”
Tait wielded another long silence as retaliation to that. And yeah, this time, it was retaliation. Kell knew T-Bomb better than a brother. To Tait, being called openly on his shit was like having his nose rubbed in it. But sometimes rubbing a creature’s nose in its dung was the only way to teach the thing. Even then, it might take a few good nostrils full of crap to learn—and taking that time wasn’t a luxury they had at this point. Kell had no choice but to trust that Tait’s glance at that woman was just that. No trips to the intersection of Memory Lane and Luna Street today, buddy.
“Sniper ninjas, this is yellow team.” The voice was thick with an Indonesian accent. “We copy and confirm your visual. The jeep has passed by us at the south gate of town. Four heads inside the vehicle. Repeat, four heads.”
“Slash.” Tait’s mutter had a strange, almost conspiratorial undertone to it. “Hey…we’re only targeting Sharif on this hit, right?
He inhaled again, deep and slow, imagining focus and control coming in and his mounting vexation with Tait getting blown out. “That’s the plan, man.” Honest to fuck, he felt like a
character in a bad reenactment of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He had no idea, from one second to the next, which personality Tait was going to unleash on him. He just had to stay the course and maintain a Zen concentration, no matter which mutant finally showed. “But we’re not going to accomplish the plan without your eyes. You feeling me?”
Tait’s response, if it could be called that, was an updated announcement to everyone on radio. “The jeep’s proceeding as planned.” Okay, so it was Jekyll right now, returning with clinical severity. “Without any stops, estimated ETA at the station is less than five mikes.”
“Copy that, T-Bomb.” The voice belonged to Zeke, who was keeping watch over everything from the apartments over a bakery that overlooked the square. “Everything’s normal here, at least as far as those asshats will see. Some villagers have chosen to stay and help us maintain the illusion that everything’s hunky-dory in Sharia-ville.”
“Outstanding.” The declaration came from Captain Franzen this time. He was positioned in the alley behind the station, and would lead the Indonesian troops as soon as Sharif was down.
“Blue team reporting.” It was another Indonesian soldier. “Sharif’s jeep just passed us. They’re on final approach to the main square now.”
“Affirmative,” said Zeke. “We’ve got visual, too.”
“Making final adjustments.” Tait spoke it for both of them, letting Kell funnel his attention on dialing in the final increments on his Remington. Luckily, the guy’s Doc J side was holding. “Ninjas on the hill are going silent until the fire order.”
“Roger that, T-Bomb,” Franzen confirmed.
Kell heard Tait’s surreptitious rustlings. His elbows and knees scraped the cement as he moved around, focusing his scope. The sounds were comforting to him, the familiar cadence of his partner performing the sniper team version of a COA—covering our asses. “We’ve got a little breeze, Kell,” he murmured. “Adjust trajectory by two degrees.”
Kell dialed in the new settings.
“The jeep has stopped,” Zeke reported. “Driver’s exiting and helping Sharif’s little lady friend out.”
“Damn.”
Tait barely lifted the word above a breath, though Kell was sure every guy who could see her had repeated the word in his own way. The woman’s long black hair wasn’t visible anymore, because she’d wrapped a full sheath over her head—but there was nothing that could stop any of them from seeing her eyes in the little window. Both of them had been bludgeoned into slits, surrounded by severe tissue damage that was colored from bright blue to deep purple. Thanks to the power of Kellan’s scope, he also saw the misery that glittered in the dark eyes beneath the damage.
And he knew Tait could see the same thing. Goddamnit.
The man’s fury formed a palpable energy in the confines of the tiny tower. Kell was no official shrink, but even he connected the wires on this one. It made no difference that the woman didn’t physically evoke Luna beyond her hair. To Tait, it had been enough to throw out the desperate emotional ties, which included the horrified backlash upon seeing the evidence of Sharif’s abuse. Just like that, the omelet between the guy’s ears was officially ready for plate-up again.
Kell didn’t lift his eye from the rifle’s scope. “T, goddamnit, not now.”
“That filthy, fucking, shit-covered maggot.”
“Tait!”
“Blow his head off, Kell. Take it the fuck off!”
“Trying, man.” His shoulders rose and fell from the sudden spike in his tension level. Not good. “But T-Bomb, this isn’t called a team effort for—”
“Ninjas!” Franzen barked the demand. “You guys okay up there?”
Kellan gritted his teeth and ordered his heartbeat back into submission. “Working on some bumps,” he responded. “But yeah, ready to go.”
“You need to be solid on that green light, Slash.” It was Zeke’s voice this time. “Because Sharif’s exiting the jeep now and—”
“Shit!”
The expletive was repeated in its English and Indonesian forms at least a dozen more times over the radio. Kellan watched a viler version of it burst off Sharif’s lips before the man disappeared from his scope, apparently rushing after something.
Not something. Someone.
The mystery woman had broken free from the clutches of the driver and started running across the town’s square. Since nearly every civilian in the area was not only aware of the covert ops mission but sympathetic to it, a crowd quickly formed, urging her toward them. But it was swiftly clear that Sharif had jacked up more than the woman’s face. She couldn’t move faster than a painful shuffle.
Sharif, as spry as he was ugly, grabbed her before the townspeople did. As he stopped and secured her in his hold, his crooked police force spilled out of the station house, armed with rifles to keep the crowd at bay.
“Slash and T,” Franzen seethed. “We can give you another twenty seconds on this—maybe.”
“Take the damn shot!” Zeke bellowed.
“Working on it,” Kell bit back. “Talk to me, T-Bomb. Now. I’m dialing in on Sharif’s new twenty. I’ll do it without you, but I’d really like it if you’re along.”
All that answered him from five feet away were vicious huffs. Fuck. Hyde was back, and he wasn’t pretty. “If you’re dialed in wrong, you’ll hit her!”
“So get me lined up right.” He rechecked his coordinates. There were only a thousand and one things that could go wrong with the trajectory of this bullet in four hundred yards. This bullet. He was only going to get one shot. “I’ve got the wind and humidity figured in. And the MOA—”
“Is too low,” Tait cut in. “Higher, Kell.”
“What?” He rapidly did the math again. “No, T. It’s right. Minute of angle goes one-point-oh-forty-seven for every hundred yards. So I’ve adjusted—”
“Incorrectly.”
Tait’s snarl was so full of conviction that Kell was induced to do something really stupid. He looked up. His partner’s stare waited for him, not blinking and not backing down. The rest of his face was stamped with the same determination.
“The humidity’s going to drag it.” His tone walked on a solid slab of careful enunciation. “And twilight’s coming, affecting that tiny little factor called gravity.”
The clench under his jaw betrayed that he had more to say, but they didn’t have time for the sharing-is-caring therapy hour. Fuck, there wasn’t even time to clear up whether it was Jekyll or Hyde on tap now, and that scared the crap out of him. He had to simply trust that whoever was here had brought enough of his wingman and friend along—the guy in whom he was now sinking a terrifying chunk of trust.
Within three seconds, he was back at the rifle scope, hitting the new coordinates, confirming Sharif hadn’t moved.
He pulled a long breath in. Squeezed a little on the trigger. Breathed gently out.
“Taking the shot…now.”
He didn’t hit the woman.
He didn’t hit Sharif, either.
“What the hell?” came Zeke’s growl. “Slash, did you—where’d it—”
“Oh, my God.” The hoarse interjection was from one of the Indonesian squad leaders. Shouts from his squad were a chaotic din in the background. “Man down! One of ours. Sharif and his people have seen us, too. They’re onto us. They know we’re covert, and taking measures!”
“Move in!” Franzen’s shout was garbled by the force of his vehemence. “Altered alpha formation. I repeat, altered alpha formation flies now! We just treat Sharif as one of them now.”
“Roger,” came Zeke’s boom. “Zsycho and team are good to go from the northwest.”
“Do it,” Franz ordered. “Try to capture, not kill. Repeat, do not kill Sharif unless absolutely necessary. Turning this freak into a martyr while his men watch will only win new zealots for their cause. We’ll have to do this the messy way, but we’re gonna get it done.”
Kellan pushed to his feet and stumbled from his rifle on weak legs. He’d
missed shots before; everyone did. But not like this. Not like this. As he blinked in slow horror, he prayed that every time he reopened his eyes, the world would be different. He wouldn’t be standing here unable to control his breathing anymore—or the fury of glaring over to the man who’d once been his sharpest wingman. The guy he’d made the supreme mistake of trusting again.
Tait still sat on the ground, back propped against one of the tower’s parapets. The guy was silent, and had the gonads to look stunned, even a little contrite. Very good thing. If he said a word right now, Kell was pretty sure he’d ram the spotting scope up his goddamn ass.
He was certain there’d be time for conversation soon enough. As soon as Franzen finished with the “messy” shit in the square, he’d be calling for Kell and Tait’s asses, front and center. Kell wouldn’t be surprised if the man met them holding a huge knife—and a bucket in which to toss their balls as soon as he sliced the fuckers off.
* * * * *
“I’m actually gonna give you guys ten seconds not to feel like the biggest bags of fuck-up fudge on the planet.”
It wasn’t the opener Kellan had expected from their CO, who’d kept his formidable features in an impassive mask since entering his temporary office at the training base. Franzen didn’t gave little else away with the neutral tone of his statement, but the fact that he made Tait and Kell maintain their at-attention stances sent up another warning flag. Yep. The man was just biding time before whipping out the blade and ordering them to drop trou for the big slice.
“So,” Franz began, “our friend from the Indonesian force was only nicked. The kid’s gonna have a nice gouge in his ear to show off for the ladies, but other than that, he’s all right.”
“Thank fuck.” It rushed out before he could stop it. “Sorry, Captain,” he followed up in a rush. “It was a weight.”