Seth (In the Company of Snipers Book 17)

by Irish Winters

  Joachim reared back, his dark blue eyes bright with anger as the rest of his hard body shifted against her belly. “You are not a virgin?”

  Dev would’ve lied if it would’ve gotten her away from the steel rod in his pants poking her belly, but she’d already blown that option. Shaking her head, she determined to undermine whatever lies he’d been told. “No, Joachim, I’m a single mom with a minimum wage job and right now, my rent’s overdue. If you don’t let me go home soon, my four-year-old son will be scared, and I’ll lose my home.” Really soon! “Who told you I was a virgin? Sly Valentine?”

  His nostrils flared as his eyes scrolled over her face, over her chin, and down her neck to her non-existent cleavage. “Santa Madre de Dios. Four-years-old, eh?”

  Dev nodded, hoping that light in his eyes meant enlightenment instead of—that. Gooseflesh shivered up the back of her neck and over her shoulders. “Yes, and I’m in a committed relationship now. Want my fiancée’s name and number?”

  Joachim rolled one shoulder as if he were weighing his options. The tip of his tongue ran one lap around his lips before his teeth snared his bottom lip. “But I paid for a virgin,” he murmured as he ran a hand over his hair, pulling it over one shoulder. “That dirtbag lied to me.”

  Yeah, had to be Sly, but what the hell made him think he could sell her? The ass! This was lower than low. Feverishly grasping at straws, Dev nodded to get Joachim off of her and out the door. “Who… who lied to you? Sly? Was it him?”

  “Yes, my friend, Sylvester,” he replied, his tone filled with amazement as if he couldn’t believe Sly would ever lie. Give me a break. That was what Sly did best, which explained a lot.

  Dev said the first thing that came to her mind. “He’s not the most honest man.” Talk about an understatement. “Sly sold me to you? How much did you give him?”

  Instead of answering, Joachim leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for something beneath it. Unexpectedly, he grabbed her wrist, and—

  Snap. Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did. A metal cuff now graced her wrist. She swallowed hard as Joachim lifted to his knees and climbed off the bed.

  “Stay,” he bit out. “In a little while, I will deal with that liar, and when I come back, I will deal with you. Now I’ll ask you one last time, Angelique. Are you hungry?”

  Dev shook her head, afraid to meet his eyes. “No. I just want to go home.”

  That earned her a snort. “Not happening. I paid good money for you, and you will serve until I’m through with you.”

  When pigs fly…

  Chapter Thirty

  With his mission clear, Seth humped south by southeast, away from the Presidio Modelo, over grasslands, through forests and swamps, and onto the edge of the marshy inlet where Khadeem’s camp of hundreds now lay in smoking ruins. Damn. The Marines had been as lethal and as quick as a scythe the way they’d mowed through the enemy’s encampment and laid everything low.

  Rows of ragged young men now sat cross-legged on the ground with their wrists cuffed and their hands behind their heads, while scores of fully-armed, geared-up Marines patrolled the lines, fore and aft. As if any of these frightened kids knew how to escape. There wasn’t a fancy red beret in sight, and all their gray uniforms were muddied, bloodied, or both.

  “TEAM Agent Seth McCray!” Seth called out loud and clear as he breached the USMC perimeter. Now wasn’t the time to get shot. “Coming in!”

  Immediately, he found himself pushed to his knees and a dozen rifle barrels in his face. His wounded shoulder reminded him it didn’t like rough handling just as Corporal Johnny “Tex” Ritter pushed his way around his men. Just in time, too, as some jarhead’s thick knee had just speared Seth’s kidneys.

  “That’s him,” Ritter said quickly, peering past Seth into the trees and swamp behind him. “He was with Reynolds. They’re here to locate their missing agent. Cassidy Dancer. You’re former Army Seth McCray, right?”

  “Yes,” Seth replied, his hands behind his head as he waited for the gun barrels in his face to stand down.

  “Where’s your friend? Your boat?” the surly sergeant in charge asked as he leaned over and stared into Seth’s face. The guy was squared-jawed with the mandatory high and tight haircut of a professional ‘lifer’. Ritter had taken a step back, but he was another story. Intelligent eyes scrolled from his sergeant to Seth, yet he stood there and said nothing.

  “He should be off the island by now. I left him at the Presidio Modelo after we encountered and engaged a group of Khadeem’s men.”

  “You kill ’em?” the sergeant asked, the corner of his lip lifted in a sneer.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” Seth replied quickly. And I’ll never forgive myself. Marines didn’t understand anything less than the cold, hard truth, so he kept how he felt about what he’d done close to his chest for now.

  “Good,” the sergeant spat. “On your feet and report, McCray. Why the fuck are you here in Cuba in the middle of a top-secret operation no one’s supposed to know about, huh?”

  “Because this alleged war is a set-up, sir,” Seth replied as he shoved off the ground, his eyes forward and his spine ramrod stiff. This sergeant expected protocol, and by God, he was going to get it. “I’ve also uncovered intelligence that these men are not Saudi Nationals, sir. They’re just kids Khadeem sent to die, so he could start a war with the United States. Khadeem wants the Marine Corps to massacre these young men, sir. That’s his real plan. He wants you to look bad. He started this mess rolling when he sold his daughter to Prince Basheer Bagani, who in turn, traded her to Roland Montego, for what price, we don’t yet know. Then Khadeem garnered support in his country by lying to his people. He told them that America had kidnapped their princess, that we’d concealed her here in Cuba. He threw this army together and sent a bunch of kids to retrieve her, knowing full well that the USMC Company stationed at Naval Station Guantanamo, you, sir, would intercede swiftly and lethally.”

  “And we did. It’s what we do. And then he planned to scream massacre and foul play, is that what you believe’s happening?” The sergeant leaned in closer, the brim of his sweaty cap nearly against Seth’s forehead and his hot breath in Seth’s face. Man, he was built like a bulldog. Square jaw. Square head. Flat stubby nose that might’ve been broken a time or two. Or twelve. “You got proof?”

  “I do, sir. You already know none of these men were wearing body armor. They’re cannon fodder, nothing more. You’re a career warrior. You know these kids are greener than snot, that they’re not trained soldiers. You know just how dumb they are.”

  “I do, huh? Hmmm....” The sergeant ran a gloved hand under his chin and down his throat, flicking the sweat and grime of battle away with a snap of his wrist. “You’re right. None of the men we’ve questioned so far hasn’t turned to crap and cried like a baby. They fight like shit, and that explains why we now have two hundred and thirty-one assholes in custody. Jesus Christ, I didn’t come here to round up a bunch of prisoners of war!”

  “Sir, if I may ask, how many” —Seth coughed at his next word— “casualties?”

  “A dozen or so. Theirs, not ours,” the sergeant snapped, his chin up as he stared down his nose at Seth. “Christ, we couldn’t just mow them down. At first, we thought we were being overrun. Lost two damned good men, but when my men arrived and started laying down fire, the bastards’ first line caved. They turned and ran like a pack of sissies. You mean to tell me we were killing” —his head cocked to the side— “children?”

  Wow. How to tell a hardcore Devil Dog who’d been sent to Cuba on the President’s errand that, yes, he and his men had killed a dozen young men—children—who’d had no business taking on the Corps like they had. Most of them no doubt thought they were in for a treat, coming to a tropical island. But that wasn’t what the hardnosed man breathing down Seth’s neck wanted to hear.

  Instead of the blunt, straightforward approach, instead of saying that yes,
US Marines had murdered children—like America’s press no doubt would—Seth opted for, “I can’t say for sure, sir, but I do know the seven I killed at the Presidio Modelo were definitely unskilled kids. I questioned one before he died. All he knew was that he was there to save their princess. But you and I both know Princess Lianna isn’t in Cuba any longer.” Seth paused, not so sure what this hard-assed Marine knew. “Khadeem’s army might’ve had rifles, but they aren’t trained for combat, nor did they know how to defend themselves against one Army soldier.”

  “And that’d be you, huh? They went down easy, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “They didn’t have a clue,” Seth admitted, this line of questioning growing harder by the minute. The look on poor Rashid’s face when he died would haunt him forever.

  “Well, then… if a guy like you killed seven of them...” The sergeant paused, looked down the rows of prisoners, then singled one of the dark-haired men out and barked at Corporal Ritter. “Him. Take him to Major Delaney’s tent, and you,” he said to Seth. “Come with me.”

  Gladly. Seth rolled one shoulder and stepped forward, only to find himself escorted between four Marines, their weapons trained on him and nowhere to go but with them. No matter. This was about stopping a war, not proving who had a bigger dick.

  Shortly, Seth found himself standing at a desk opposite USMC Major Delaney, a stern, prematurely gray-haired man with smile lines etched at the corners of his bright blue eyes. “So, you’re the man who stopped the war?” he said as he lifted to his feet and extended one arm across the desk.

  Since the sergeant had already concluded introductions, Seth accepted the handshake. “Sure hope so, sir.”

  Wide-eyed and drenched in sweat, the unfortunate young man from Saudi waited under armed guard at the doorway, his gaze darting from left to right as if he’d expected something much worse in the tent than what he was seeing.

  “Sit.” Delaney gestured Seth toward the plastic, folding chair in front of the desk. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you, sir, yes,” Seth replied. He hadn’t spared time to drink or eat during his mad dash to prevent the killing of more innocents. Imagine his surprise when Delaney poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass tumbler and passed it over.

  Seth took one hard swallow, felt the burn all the way down to his gut, and set the glass on the desk with a decided, “I don’t suppose you could spare a bottle of water?”

  Delaney chuckled, gestured at the armed Marines hovering in the background and told them, “For hell’s sake, can’t you see the man’s thirsty? Get a couple bottles and bring a chair for that youngster. At least make him comfortable.”

  Bowing respectfully, the young man murmured a quiet, “Shukran.”

  Someone shoved another chair through the entrance of the tent and in came a harried Corporal Ritter. After a few words in Arabic, the prisoner accepted the already opened bottled water Ritter offered him between his manacled hands, tilted his head back, and swallowed.

  The sight of his neck muscles working as he quickly drained that bottle dry tore at Seth’s heart. This was just a thirsty kid, too far away from home and damned scared. His black, curly hair glistened with sweat. He probably didn’t understand a word of English, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be in Cuba anymore. Hell, this might even be his first time away from home.

  Three more bottles appeared out of nowhere, and Seth emptied the first with one long gulp. “It’s a long run from Nueva Gerona.”

  “You’re injured,” Delaney noticed.

  “No, sir, I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.”

  Delaney spiked a brow, his blue eyes twinkling. “You mean to tell me one of them got off a lucky shot?”

  “Something like that.”

  The man in charge grinned. “You’ve got the makings of a damned fine Marine, Agent McCray. You ever consider switching to the right team?”

  Seth shook his head, suppressing his own grin. “No, sir. I’ve already found the right TEAM. I’m sure you’ve heard of Alex Stewart.”

  “So you work for him,” Delaney said, nodding as the amber liquor swirled in his glass. Just then, the thwack-thwack-thwack of heavy air transport beat the sides of the tent. Delaney held his silence, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Once the noise abated to a steady thrum, which meant those choppers had landed and were staying awhile, Delaney said, “Stewart’s our poster boy for what to do right after you leave the Corps. How is that bastard, as big a shithead as ever?”

  Seth could’ve laughed out loud at Delaney’s spot-on description of his boss. Marines. Love ’em or hate ’em, they did make the world go round. “You know him?”

  “Never had the chance to work with Alex, but I know of him. He’s a legend, but how’s he to work for? I hear he’s a born leader.”

  “He is a good man,” Seth said thoughtfully. “Hard as a son-of-a-bitch, but rock solid when you need him. Wouldn’t work for anyone else, present company included, sir.”

  Delaney took the hit with grace. He downed what was left of his Scotch and turned to business. “You’re right,” he said, sticking his chin at the prisoner. “These kids aren’t trained and they’re not soldiers. Half of them don’t even know how to reload the weapons they’re armed with. We figure most are camel drivers, farmers, or school-aged kids.” To the prisoner, he asked, “What’s your name, son? Who’s your father? Your mother? How old are you?”

  Timidly, the boy’s shoulders lifted. His dark eyes widened as he looked to Corporal Ritter for interpretation. After a lengthy back and forth conversation in Arabic, the boy replied, “Husam al Din.”

  “His name means sword of faith, sir,” Ritter inserted before he spoke again to the boy in his language. Turning again to Delaney, Ritter said, “Husam’s mother was killed by a roadside bomb when she went to her sister’s wedding in Syria last spring. He hasn’t seen his father in years, not since the night the honorable Khadeem sent him to prison. His words, not mine, sir.”

  “Christ, the man’s probably dead by now,” Delaney growled. “Khadeem’s not known to be lenient with his enemies. When was that?”

  Ritter passed the question along, and Husam’s lashes fell. He swallowed hard and shook his head, mumbling as his gaze hit the floor. Poor kid looked lost.

  Corporal Ritter cleared his throat and explained, “Eleven years ago. Khadeem’s men took his father when Husam was just five. They came into his village one night, rounded up, and imprisoned all adult males. Now Husam works the camel market to keep his three younger sisters fed and clothed. They have no other family.”

  “Shit! This kid’s only sixteen?” Delaney growled. He glared at Seth and said, “See? This shit right here’s why we’re stuck in the Mideast, caught between assholes who murder their own people in the dark of night, then turn around come morning and praise Allah all the damned long day. Bastards, every last one of them.” His fingers thrummed the desktop until he asked, “What’d Khadeem promise Husam if he joined his army?”

  Gently, Ritter leaned forward and relayed the question, his palm on the poor kid’s quaking shoulder. Seth held his breath until at last, Ritter turned to Delaney and said, “Three goats, an acre of land, and a small house. Most likely a shack. That’s a small fortune for these people, but he also promised that his three sisters will never see the inside of prison like his father did.”

  “It takes a big brave man to threaten a kid,” Delaney hissed. “Damn Khadeem.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? Seth let out a breath, sick at heart for his part in the crimes perpetrated against these kids. “I killed seven of them,” he said, pretty certain that Eric hadn’t killed a one, that he hadn’t joined the fight quick enough back at the Presidio Modelo to have done anything more than show up when the damage was done.

  “What’s your point?” Delaney asked, his brow spiked. “These boys might be kids, but they were armed. Trust me, I get your drift, but shit happens in war, McCray. I’m sick a
bout the ones my men killed, too, but we didn’t send them here, and we sure as hell didn’t put weapons in their hands so they could kill us. But because of you and that ballsy boss of yours jerking my commander’s chain, I’ve got… what? Three hundred prisoners of war who are going to live?” He turned to the aide standing off to his side. “Is that count still right?”

  “Three hundred thirty-one alive, sir. Thirteen dead, twenty counting the men Agent McCray said he shot.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch. Khadeem sent three-hundred fifty-one children to fight a man’s war, the coward.” Delaney minced no words. “Then I say job well done, McCray. If you need a ride home, we’re transporting all prisoners to Guantanamo today. That’s why the choppers. The CIA wants these guys and the CIA can have them. If you hurry, you can ride out with the first group, then hitch the first available ride to the mainland.”

  Seth nodded even as Ritter led Husam outside, no doubt to sit and wait with his men until it was his turn to face the consequences at GITMO. Damned shame, but what could Seth do to help the kid? He was already carrying a butt load of guilt. Standing, he extended his hand. “Thank you, Major Delaney. It’s been an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Delaney’s grip was callused and firm. “Keep in touch, McCray, and tell that ornery boss of yours to look me up the next time he’s in GITMO. I’ll keep the lights on for him.”

  That made Seth grin. “I’m not sure he’ll ever be in GITMO, but I’ll tell him. Thanks again.”

  Corporal Ritter ducked into the tent in time to escort Seth to the helicopter. On the way, Seth asked, “So, what happens next? Interrogation? Waterboarding? Exactly what will the CIA do to these kids?”

  Ritter sucked in a deep breath before his cheeks hollowed as he blew it out. “They’ll all be interviewed, sir, but waterboarding’s a thing of the past. When we get kids like these, and trust me, we see a lot just like them, we work hard to either repatriate them, when possible, or they go into a version of the WPP once they’re interrogated and we’ve properly vetted them.”