DOUBLE CROSS
(Hard Target #1)
By
Silver James
DOUBLE CROSS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
DOUBLE CROSS
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Silver James
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact: [email protected]
Cover design © by Clary Carey, [email protected]
Image: © meirion, www.depositphotos.com
Edited by Gregory Alan
Published digitally in the United States of America
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
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
Dear Reader:
BOOKS
Acknowledgements
About the Author
BOOK LINKS:
Chapter 1
MASTER CHIEF Duke Reagan and the rest of SEAL Team Atlantis waited on the beach, wearing dress uniforms for the first time in ages. Their new CO was due to arrive in a matter of minutes. None of them were happy about this occasion, but this was the Navy. They needed an OIC—Officer in Charge since their former commander was killed on their last mission.
Luckily, no one up the chain of command questioned their account of the events in the western Virginia countryside. According to their report, Lieutenant Carter had died in the line of duty protecting his team—a lie that tasted like vinegar to all of them, but they had no alternative given the circumstances. All those alleged home-grown terrorists had died, every man, woman, and child, going out like the Branch Davidians in a blaze of glory. So read the official version anyway. The fire their EOD specialist John “Copper” Coppola and a former Army Special Forces demolition expert known as “Boomer” started was so hot there’d been no remains to examine. There’d been only enough left of Carter for DNA identification.
The low rumble of a helo vibrated the air, and Duke double checked his men. Petty Officers Dalton “Cali Boy” Thomas and Alex “Tank” Russell straightened under his gaze. The California surfer and the muscle-bound behemoth—one was the team’s navigator, the other their heavy weapons expert. Wayne “Poison” Ivey, corpsman, stood next to Dan “Cookie Monster” Baker, combat engineer. Copper fidgeted while trying to listen to Roger “Wilco” Wright, the communications specialist, as he spoke to the chopper via radio. They’d do. Every last one of them. They’d also give their lives for each other. A motley crew brought together in a clandestine lab in the bowels of Area 51 in Nevada, the ensuing years had honed them into a brotherhood dedicated to the SEAL Code.
Duke considered the first line of that code: Loyalty to Country, Team and Teammate. Yeah. That defined this highly specialized team. They were tight-knit, without all the support and administrative backup which went with regular SEAL teams. SEAL Team Atlantis was an anomaly—small, independent, and its members no longer quite human. Genetically enhanced, they had an advantage over regular SEALs—they could breathe underwater. They also had other talents—talents they kept to themselves.
The helo appeared, coming in low over the ocean. SEAL Team Atlantis came to attention, slitting their eyes against the sand kicked up by the craft’s rotors. The engine whined before going silent as the rotors finally swung to a desultory stop. The cabin door slid open and a man in dress whites stepped out. A full commander. Hard on his heels followed a lieutenant and two swabbies wearing the black armbands of the Shore Police.
Duke ran through all the permutations of what might be happening, and none of the scenarios boded well for his team. The commander approached and stopped, waiting for Duke’s salute. After the formalities, the man identified as Commander Allen, according to his nameplate, turned and took a several steps along the beach.
“Walk with me, Master Chief Reagan.”
The commander headed off up the beach. Duke hesitated a few seconds before going after him, catching up with a couple of long strides.
“Things are changing, Master Chief. We need to utilize your unit in more efficient ways.”
Duke kept pace but didn’t speak. “The lieutenant will be here for administrative purposes only. The shore patrol is here for guard duty. We can’t leave this base unsecured between missions.”
“Sir?”
“The world is in flames, Master Chief, and we need SEAL Team Atlantis to help put them out. The team will be very busy in the months to come.”
“Yes, sir.” Duke kept his poker face in place. The commander’s statement sounded far too much like the “official” rhetoric spewed by military press spokesmen to feel comfortable. “We’re prepared to go where needed, commander.”
Allen steered back toward the waiting helo. “Good, because you leave in twenty-four hours. The lieutenant has your orders and mission details. There’s a warlord in Africa who’s gotten too big for his britches.”
CORY CURLED into a fetal ball, her silent screams still echoing in her memory. Her heart thudded, pounding a rhythm far too erratic to be healthy. Damn nightmares. She held onto her sanity and sense of self by her torn and bloody fingernails. Dr. Coreen Prince, MD. Doctors for International Children’s Aid. DICA was supposed to keep her safe. Keep the clinic safe. Of course they were. But they didn’t. The guards deserted her at the first sign of trouble and here she was, on a forced march across the African wilds in southern Sudan, at the mercy of a vicious warlord, cut off from any chance of help.
The odor of blood, guts, and septic wounds flooded her nostrils causing her to gag. The too-sweet stench of death lingered in the air. Faces wavered in the shadows, pale ghosts of the children who’d died despite her attempts to save them. The raiders slit the throats of those too sick or injured to travel. The girls had been hauled off screaming, sold into slavery. The boys were beaten and brutalized in preparation for their training as soldiers.
She dry heaved, her stomach empty. No one was coming to rescue her. No one could find her. That she hadn’t been raped and murdered was a testament to her skills as a doctor. The mercenary leader’s son had a septic leg wound. So far, she’d been able to treat it without resorting to amputation or his death. If either occurred, her life was forfeit. Cory remained whole and mostly healthy so long as she performed her duties as a doctor and managed to work a miracle.
“Mganga. Mganga! You come quick.”
She rolled to her feet. The boy gestured with his rifle. “Hurry, Mganga. Son of Cudjo bad.”
Mganga. Healer. She didn’t feel much like one at the moment. They’d been walking for days. She was filthy. She stank of sweat and old pus. Thoughts of a hot bath, clean sheets on a soft bed, and fresh clothes tormented her. Better than the voices of the dead and dying. Better than the cries of children too young to face th
e evil that took them in the night.
Grabbing her medical pack, she stumbled toward the makeshift tent where the rebel leader’s son rested. Lifting the flap, the air reeked of putrid meat and rotten eggs. Her stomach roiled again and she gagged. If the man died, surely her death warrant would be signed. The heavy pack slid off her shoulder as she knelt beside him. His dark eyes glittered in the firelight, and beads of sweat rolled down his face. The antibiotics weren’t working. The poultices used by a local herbalist did nothing to draw out the infection. She had only one choice left.
Cory pushed sweat-dampened hair off her forehead. She scrapped and cleaned the wound, debriding it to the best of her ability under the circumstances. And then she did the unthinkable—heating a guard’s knife in the fire and cauterizing the wound. The stench of burnt meat and the patient’s screams haunted her as she stumbled from the tent.
Someone pushed a tin cup of water into her hands, but she almost dropped it from a combination of sheer exhaustion and the hot metal. At least they’d boiled the water, if the temperature of the cup was any indication. She could drink and hope dysentery or something worse didn’t lurk in the liquid she needed to survive. She sank to the ground and gulped it while the soldiers broke camp.
A boot to her ribs jerked her awake. Rough hands hauled her to her feet. She shouldered the medical pack and blindly stumbled in the direction her guard pointed. One foot in front of the other. If she was to survive, she had to keep walking.
DUKE IGNORED the itch between his shoulder blades. He had no time for little distractions after lying in the African bush for several hours watching the rebel encampment. Or, for that matter, big ones like the child soldiers and the politics driving their leaders sleeping in the hollow beneath his vantage point.
According to the mission briefing and some scuttlebutt he picked up on the trip over, Central Command had been waiting for an excuse to move on the warlord known as Cudjo. Duke snickered, picturing the dog from the horror movie. The SOB was just as bloodthirsty and not nearly as cuddly. The US had no legal reason to go after the bastard despite the fact he’d ordered the murders of hundreds of natives, sold little girls into prostitution, and turned little boys into so much cannon fodder as child soldiers.
Somehow, Cudjo had finally stepped over some politician’s invisible line in the sand—a line The Powers That Be decided to actually act on for a change. He glanced over at the Cali Boy, his current spotter. In the thicket behind them, the team relaxed, either sacked out or screwing off. Copper fiddled with blasting caps, pissed he couldn’t blow up the village. Cookie Monster was drawing up plans to create water retention ponds for the village’s farmers. The guy was great when it came to winning hearts and minds. This trip, the team wouldn’t be in country long enough. Hopefully.
Their orders were explicit—assassinate Cudjo and get the hell out. Too bad the mission was turning out to be a major cluster fuck. First, their insertion point was off. Cudjo had left the area a week before their arrival. For two weeks, they followed a trail of destruction. Along the way, the team came across a destroyed medical clinic run by an international aid organization. The villagers who’d crept out of hiding insisted the doctor was still alive—a white woman taken by Cudjo’s men. Central Command blew off the info. Duke decided he’d cross that bridge if and when they found this alleged western doctor.
SEAL Team Atlantis finally located the warlord. Cudjo and his thugs had taken up residence is this mud-hut village and appeared to be living the high life while the people they ran off starved out in the bush. All Duke wanted to do was put a bullet in the fucker’s brain and get the hell back to civilization. He imagined a weekend of R and R in Key West, his ass parked on a bar stool at Mother Goose’s, an unending supply of icy-cold beer appearing in front of him. Insects buzzed and one landed on his bare arm leaving a sting behind. God but he hated the endless sea of grass, hills, and bugs. The only worse place he could be was the jungle. Or the desert. Yeah, the desert was worse—all that grit and sand and heat.
Duke glanced up at the stars to gauge the moon’s position rather than uncovering the diver’s watch on his wrist. That was another problem. They’d dropped into this little slice of hell on the dark of the moon. Now the countryside was lit up under that full moon shining overhead. He figured it was a little before midnight. He still had a long night ahead of him and a longer day tomorrow. Next to him, Dalton’s chin dipped to his chest, eyes closed, breathing regular. Yeah, it was that time since nothing was stirring below. Duke settled in and drifted into a light combat sleep. If anything moved, he’d be alert instantly.
Less than thirty minutes later shouts in the village roused him. He watched through the night vision scope on his sniper rifle. Two men dragged a third into a hut. A boy on guard duty—he couldn’t be more than eight or nine—scrambled toward a nearby hut.
This was Duke’s first chance to get a better count of how many occupied the tiny village as people appeared. The team had arrived after dark and set up the sniper’s roost. There’d been very little activity down below. With the yelling, people appeared as torches and lights flared. Many of the huts had been burned and the place looked deserted but for Cudjo’s soldiers, so he figured the odds of civilians, besides the doctor, if she was actually there, were slim.
The boy reappeared, wildly waving his weapon to threaten the next person ducking through the narrow doorway—the good doctor herself. She looked like hell and carried a pack—likely some sort of medical kit. Dark-colored splotches, visible through the scope, stained her shirt. Probably blood. Hers or someone else’s? Duke couldn’t tell.
He assessed his target through the scope. Tall, she towered over the child soldier, and when she arrived at the second hut, could look the two adults standing outside in the eye. Even through the ghostly green and white images in the night vision scope, he could tell she was white. Fuck. He didn’t need this complication.
A soft brush against his shoulder—Dalton letting him know he was awake and had seen the doctor too. Her presence called for a change of plans. Maybe Copper would get his wish after all. An explosion could be just the diversion they needed. Tank and Poison, the team’s heavy weapons expert and corpsman, could snatch the doc, while Duke covered the team’s retreat. With luck, they’d take out Cudjo with the blast. He tapped the tiny radio transmitter clipped to his desert fatigues and issued new orders.
While he continued watching the village below his vantage point, the others in the team scrambled to follow orders with practiced precision. Step one, infiltrate the place. Step two, plant explosives. Step three, rescue the girl. Step four, get the hell outta Dodge. No sweat. They had this.
Chapter 2
CORY STUMBLED back to the hut. The man had died, but her captors didn’t seem surprised or, more important to her health and welfare, they didn’t seem to care. Sleep. She was desperate for it but terrified she wouldn’t wake up again. The little boy who had summoned her slept outside her hut, curled up around his rifle. She stepped over his thin body and ducked inside. An arm snaked around her waist as a large hand covered her mouth. She struggled, screaming only in her head.
Words whispered against her ear, as soft as the breeze sighing through savanna grass. “Shhh. We’re here to help. Do you speak English?”
American. The man was an American. Cory shuddered but stopped fighting. Her eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight drifting in through the half-collapsed roof, and she saw a second man, huge and powerfully built, watching out one of the windows. The hand on her mouth loosened its grip, and she nodded her understanding.
“What’s in the pack?” her savior sighed into her ear.
She mouthed her answer against his palm. “Medical supplies.”
“Roger that. We’ll take it with us.”
He eased it off her shoulder and tossed it to the other man, who caught it easily, and slung it over his own shoulder. Cory did her best not to slump against the man behind her. The adrenaline spike was fading, and she wouldn�
��t stay upright much longer.
Cory gasped as the ground beneath her rumbled and lifted. Her ears rang from the explosion’s concussion as the sky lit up. A detached portion of her brain wondered if maybe dragons did exist outside the imagination while the part of her consciousness concerned with survival urged her to curl up in a ball. She didn’t have the chance because the two men each grabbed an arm and hustled her through the door.
The boy reared up in front of them. The big man on her right snatched the gun from the child and kept moving. Cory managed to glance back over her shoulder to make sure the little guy was okay. He stood there looking bewildered and lost. She didn’t have time to worry about him as the men dragged her around the hut and forced her into a run. Gunshots echoed and bullets ricocheted. She stumbled but her rescuers kept her upright even if her feet only touched ground every third step.
They topped a low hill and plunged down the other side. The big guy let go of her arm, but the man on her left continued running, pulling her along with him. She tripped on the uneven ground, found her balance and despite the burning in her lungs, kept pumping her legs to keep up.
More men materialized around her. Big. Bulky. They wore combat packs and carried weapons. How could they run this fast, weighed down as they were? Her world narrowed to one foot pounding the ground and then the next. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her breathing turned to sobs. Still, she ran. She had no choice. To falter meant Cudjo’s men recapturing her. To fall meant death.
Cory lost track of time, lost feeling from her hips down, lost all sense of direction, of thought. She was reduced to the very basics—a terrified animal running for her life.
DUKE SQUEEZED the trigger, took down a pursuing target, acquired the next one, squeezed again. Over and over until the men in the village got smart enough to stay out of sight. He was up and moving, stowing his sniper rifle as he ran. Dalton watched his six. With his MK15 secured, Duke switched to his FN SCAR assault rifle and matched his strides to Dalton’s. They could run all night if they needed to. As they caught up to the others and he got his first good look at the doctor, he knew that wouldn’t be an option.
Double Cross (Hard Target Book 1) Page 1