Breaking Out
Book 6 of the SEAL Team Heartbreakers
Teresa J. Reasor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Breaking Out
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Teresa J. Reasor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tracy Stewart
Edited by Faith Freewoman
Teresa J. Reasor
PO Box 124
Corbin, KY 40702
Publishing History: First Edition 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1-940047-07-2
ISBN-10: 1-940047-07-2
Kindle Edition
Dedication
To the MWDs (Military Working Dogs), and their trainers and handlers. Thank you for your service, and for putting your lives at risk to protect so many others.
If you’re moved to support these wonderful dogs, go to facebook.com/MilitaryDogs for more information.
Also. For our military veterans who suffer from PTSD there is a program that provides service dogs for them. They rescue appropriate dogs from high-kill shelters and train them. If you’re interested you can check them out at: www.k9sforwarriors.org.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
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
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Books By Teresa J. Reasor
Prologue
‡
Ensign Zachary O’Connor, aka Doc, stood inside the shadows between the two buildings. He had to shake off this distraction and shut his thoughts off to everything but the mission.
He could not think about Patricia and the distance she was forcing between them. Not while he was standing out here with enough C-4 and blasting caps on his back to ionize himself. The trip on the chopper had already given him too much time to plan reasons for them to stay together once he got home to see her.
He and his teammates were nearing the end of their deployment, and the final few weeks were wearing on everyone. He had to forget about the things that could go wrong and think about getting this shit done. A sliver of moon shone in the star-studded sky, the weak light it cast providing shadowy cover on the east side of the structure he was scoping out.
He’d slip inside the building, do his work, then get out, and just think about making it home. That’s all he needed to do. He breathed in the soupy, lukewarm air, and wanted to gag. Why was it the entire country reeked of sewage?
He scanned the hundred-foot span between him and the building. Without the Night Vision Goggles (NVGs), he’d never have noticed when his teammate Daniel Rivera, aka Bowie, slithered up to the window diagonal to his position. Despite the weight of Bowie’s pack and his combat assault rifle, he moved like a gymnast when he heaved himself up through the opening and disappeared into the darkness.
Doc grunted in satisfaction. No reason to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bowie had already done the hard part. He’d breach the building through the same window.
He eyed the distance between his position and the window and waited for the rooftop patrol’s attention to wander elsewhere. The sentry moved to the corner and looked north. Doc followed Bowie’s path across the sun-baked sandy soil, hugging every clump of brush and shadow. Once he reached the side of the building, he paused for half a second to scan his surroundings. The blacked-out windows of the buildings surrounding them stared back.
Doc heaved himself up and through the window, caught his weight on his hands on the floor and wriggled his way in. His pack slid forward and he held it stationary with the back of his head. Not his most graceful entrance, but it had been silent.
Climbing to his feet, he wiped his gritty fingertips, the only part of his hands not covered by gloves, on the rear pockets of his BDUs. He moved to the door and eased it open.
The hall stood empty. He slipped through the door and, placing each foot with care, walked down the hall. He paused when the passageway angled to the right and darted a look around the dark corner. Nothing. Good. He slinked around the bend and paused outside the second door on the right. Every nerve came to life while he slowed his breathing and concentrated on hearing any movement from inside. Silence. He twisted the knob and the door swung open. He hustled inside and closed it.
The room glowed pale green through the NVGs. Crates lined the walls, making it feel cave-like, and the smell of machine oil and gunpowder permeated the room. At least the smell affirmed their Intel. Al-Qaida terrorists were using the building as an armory.
And the terrorists had chosen the building because it sat in the heart of an entire neighborhood of families. Probably their own. The fuckers knew Americans wouldn’t drop a bomb, because they would want to preserve and protect the same families these Al-Qaida bastards were willing to sacrifice.
Goddamn them. He couldn’t understand their mind-set. He’d give his life to protect his family. They’d sacrifice theirs…
He didn’t have time to argue with himself about the fucked-up thinking of these terrorist cocksuckers. Forget about this shit and get down to business.
God, he hated working with explosives. The other guys loved blowing shit up. He couldn’t feel the same way. Being the medic of the team, he’d dealt too many times with the carnage left behind after IEDs ripped guys apart. Seeing the aftermath had made him wary. The C-4 they were using to bring down the building wasn’t what spooked him. The stuff could burn like a log if he set it on fire, but it wouldn’t blow up until he added the blasting caps he was carrying… In fact, just one of those blasting caps could do significant damage and set off the entire cache in his pack.
He dragged in deep breaths to stifle the rush of anxiety. Sweat rolled down his sides. As soon as they returned to base, he’d email Patricia and feel better. The thought steadied him, and his hands only shook a little while he set his supplies out and paused to check the stability of the stacked crates in his way. Moving them would take too long and be too noisy.
He rested a booted foot on one of the wooden boxes and shifted his weight atop it in increments. The lid gave a little, but seemed strong enough to support him. He tucked the hated blasting caps into one of the many pockets in his BDUs and laid the bars of C-4 atop the crates. He climbed the first tier. The lid of the top box wobbled, and he eased it aside. It was packed with rifles. How many were in the room?
And what else might there be?
They were sitting on top of one huge IED with the fuse in their hands. He reached into his front pocket for his cell phone and took a quick pic of the interior of the crate, then another to document the crates in the room. Satisfaction blocked out some of his anxiety while he mashed several blocks of plastic explosive along the weight-bearing wall behind the boxes.
Working quickly, he linked the explosives, embedded the last blasting cap, and hooked it to the timer, finishing the circuit. He glanced at his dive watch. The clock had to be set at just the right second so they’d all go off at once. The steel supports of the building created too much interference for them to use a remote to set off the explosion. This would give them time to bug out and be long gone before the building collapsed.
Clicks on his com system signaled his team members, first Hawk, then Bowie, exiting the building. Need to get a move on.
The sound of voices outside the door sent an electric charge through his system, and he jerked his sidearm free. With the stacks of crates in the room lining the walls, there was nowhere to hide. If they opened the door, they wouldn’t see the charges, but they’d damn sure see him.
Gingerly, he stepped down off the boxes, placing one foot, then the other, on the floor. Even the rustle of his clothing sounded loud. The voices receded. He snagged his pack, which still held his med kit and other supplies, and slipped it onto his shoulders, grabbed his assault rifle, and sidestepped to the window.
If all hell broke loose, he’d take his chances outside the building, away from the explosives. Every bump of the wooden frame as he raised the window sounded like a sonic boom. He slid, legs first, out the window, then lowered himself to the ground.
The crunch of the sandy grit beneath his boots grated as loud as an avalanche. He froze and waited while he scanned the area. The buildings around him seemed to lean in, waiting, watching. Nothing moved, and he sneaked from shadow to shadow, away from the building and back to his position across the street, just catty-corner to the structure’s façade. It wasn’t until he was under the cover of a broken masonry wall that he signaled his all clear on the com.
Derrick Armstrong, aka Strong Man’s signal followed a few seconds later.
Fifteen seconds passed, then fifteen more. Cutter. Where the hell was Cutter? Shit!
Derrick broke radio silence. “Cutter’s a no-show.”
Every nerve in Doc’s body went taut, prickles of concern racing over his skin, all his attention on the building. How the fuck could Strong Man’s voice be so calm?
His commanding officer, Lieutenant Hawk Yazzie, replied over the com, quiet, controlled. “Cutter, come in, over.”
Silence.
“Last location, over?” Hawk asked.
Derrick’s tone remained flat. “Ground floor. I thought he was right behind me.”
Greenback, Oliver Shaker, the teammate protecting their back door cut in, “Five minutes.”
A slight movement diagonal from his position drew Doc’s attention. He focused on the spot, and the NVG-green illumination picked out a shadow shuffling along the side of the building just behind some scrub. A guy with a Boonie hat hiked himself up over the edge of the window, his hat fell off, and his hair, light in color, shone in the odd, greenish glow. Was it Cutter? Why the fuck was he going back inside the building?
“I’m going back in for him, over,” Hawk’s decisive voice cut through the silence.
No. If it was Cutter climbing inside the building… Maybe… Why the fuck would he go into a building set to explode? Was it Strong Man? If it was, why hadn’t he acknowledged he was entering the building?
He needed to say something to rescind Hawk’s decision. He needed to break radio silence and see if it was Derrick. He needed to fucking do something.
Doc’s heart started doing a salsa dance, and he broke out in a cold sweat. Jesus Christ. He stared at the building. The lookouts on top paced back and forth. How the hell had any of them gotten inside without alerting them? In his mind’s eye, he saw the minutes ticking down on the timers, then all those boxes of weapons, stacked one atop the other.
They weren’t going to make it home. Not if those boxes held anything but rifles.
Every muscle in his body froze. Even his vocal chords had locked.
The sound of machine-gun fire dragged him back to the here and now. Like a drunk he staggered to his feet, fumbled for his rifle. He had to do something.
Hawk crashed through the front door of the structure, a limp body hanging over his shoulder. The rooftop guards aimed their weapons down and bullets ricocheted off the uneven, battered street. Doc pulled the trigger and peppered the upper ridge of the building with return fire.
The explosives went off inside, cascading into the rumble of a locomotive bearing down on them. The ground heaved, throwing him back.
Seconds later, Bowie, coated in gray dust and looking like a ghost, reached in and dragged him to his feet. “Brett’s hurt bad. Get a move on.”
Chapter 1
‡
The drone of the C-130 transport’s engine vibrated beneath Ensign Zach O’Connor’s feet, the sound so loud it made talking without the com system inside his helmet impossible. If he wasn’t busy sucking in the pure oxygen. He’d be falling fast during the first part of the dive, and he wanted no part of the bends.
The neoprene suit under his flight suit held the heat in and protected him from the plummeting temperatures outside the aircraft while it climbed to their target altitude. He rubbed the duct tape he’d used to seal the seam between the wrists of his suit and his gloves. The wind was an icy bitch and could cause frostbite on even a thin strip of exposed skin.
Their jump had been scheduled for zero three hundred, to simulate a night insertion, but they’d gotten a late start and now fought the clock to get this practice dive behind them before sunup.
Even without the urgency of a mission, it was still a dangerous part of training, and the men were quieter than usual, most of them focused on their gear. Each of them carried seventy pounds of equipment, everything they’d need for a regular mission.
Once they exited the aircraft and fell a hundred feet or so, the trip down would be a long, slow float to the ground. With Hawk in the lead, they’d follow him down to the coordinates in the desert.
“Five minutes,” the pilot’s voice came over the com system.
Lieutenant Hawk Yazzie signaled for the team to take their jump positions and check their gear. Zach checked his oxygen flow, put on his goggles, and took his position behind Bowie, Ensign Dan Rivera, then “Greenback” Oliver Shaker settled in behind him, and the rest fell in. Hawk walked down the line and got a thumbs-up from each of the men before returning to his position at the head.
“Twenty-five thousand feet and holding. Thirty seconds out.” One of the flight crew took a position next to Hawk and prepared to close the ramp once they had deployed. The crewman pushed the release. A loud buzzer sounded, and the cargo ramp cranked open. The wind blasted through the interior of the C-130 like a cyclone, dragging at their clothes and whipping at their gear. The dark sky was turning purplish-blue. The sun, a promise just below the horizon, cast a dusky glow.
The pilot’s voice fed through his helmet. “Almost over the drop site. Five seconds.”
The wait was the worst part. Five seconds seemed like an hour when you had yourself psyched to jump.
“Jump’s a go.”
Hawk showed no hesitation when he rushed forward and fell into midair. His chute deployed five seconds later. Bowie followed.
Zach’s heart raced as fast as t
he air whirling around him. He didn’t allow himself to think about everything that could go wrong, only the things he was trained to do. With a running jump, he dropped over the edge of the platform and into the empty sky. He waited five seconds, then pulled the ripcord. The impact of his parachute opening called a halt to the seventy pounds of momentum his gear created, drove his harness straps up into groin, giving his junk a hard squeeze, and yanked him upward. He grunted in pain and breathed an oath. Damn, he’d be feeling the aftereffects for the next couple of days. He might be singing in a higher key, too.
He looked down and saw the indistinct shape of Bowe’s parachute below him. Checking his altimeter and GPS, he saw it would take some time to reach the ground, and their plan was to travel thirty miles to the landing site by manipulating the air currents.
“Sound off,” Hawk’s voice came over the com.
Since this was a practice run they kept their call signs brief.
“Alpha 2, on course,” Bowie answered.
“Alpha 3, on course,” Zach said.
“Greenback” Oliver Shaker, “Lang” Chief Petty Officer Langley Marks, “Bullet” Seaman Jeff Sizemore, “Box” Seaman Jack Logan, and “Celt” Seaman Kelsey Tyler sang out in turn. Everyone was in position and doing well.
If someone wasn’t, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot they could do about it. They’d never locate him in the dark. It would be up to the team member to fall back on his training and deal with it. They had to maintain radio silence unless they were reporting information about the dive. If it were a mission, he’d be going over the things he needed to do the moment he hit the ground, and keeping an eye peeled for trouble below.
As it was, a hundred things flitted through his mind that had nothing to do with the dive. He needed to do some work on the boat. And call Kathleen, his sister, to come over for a meal some time this week, since it had been almost three weeks since they’d seen each other. And how pathetic was it that his sister was the only woman in his life at the moment?
Breaking Out (Military Romantic Suspense) (SEAL Team Heartbreakers Book 6) Page 1