Men of Mercy: The Complete Story

by Cross, Lindsay

  “Back off, Hoyt. The man hasn't seen you yet. You can't expect him not to react.”

  Hoyt glanced over his shoulder to see Jared walking toward him, his expression as locked down as a steel box. Hoyt was sick of that look, sick of his brother trying to hide his concern and failing.

  Hoyt jerked his attention back to Ethan, but Jared grabbed his arm and pulled him back. The contact made his skin crawl and he jerked away. He knew what people felt when they touched him. He felt every single scar that crisscrossed his flesh, and even though Jared had been the one to rescue him, Hoyt could barely tolerate close proximity to him. Let alone touching.

  He jerked away and turned to face Ethan, his feet planted shoulder width apart, hands down at his sides. “So, are you the reason for the meeting?”

  Ethan gave a hesitant nod, wisely choosing not to repeat his offer of help. “Yeah, all those hours of laying on my stomach in the sand finally paid off.”

  “About time. We've been tracking this asshole one year too many. You get a location? When do we leave?” Hoyt rubbed his hands together. Yes, he’d decided his best hope for rehab resided in the KA-BAR knife in his boot and his new Remington Modular Sniper Rifle. And if Ethan had located Al Seriq, Hoyt was about to do some intensive immersion therapy.

  He'd just broken in the sniper rifle on the range. The scope had a range of over two thousand yards. He'd be able to blow Al Seriq’s head off his shoulders from a good 1.2 miles away.

  His chest went tight with satisfaction. A buzz crawled through his veins, and he had to resist the urge to tilt his head back and sigh. Killing the terrorist would be better than relieving a never-ending hard-on. It would give him purpose again, a real reason to live.

  If he capped off that chapter, maybe he’d actually find it in himself to move on. He could finally stop thinking about Hayden and how her hair felt like cool satin shifting through his fingers. How her skin felt like the softest silk sliding beneath his palms. How her lips were just the right size for his, molding for his kisses...

  “I'm afraid we're not going anywhere,” Ethan said.

  “You might not be, but I'm on the next plane to the suck.”

  But Ethan shook his head, and just like that, Hoyt got that tight feeling in his chest again, only this time it had nothing to do with the high of death and everything to do with the heat of rage. He would go back overseas even if he had to buy his own ticket and fly with the civilians. He needed this, needed to get back in the game and get rid of whatever this itch was crawling around inside his body. What better way than to regain control, than to become a warrior again?

  And he would bulldoze anybody who dared to stand between him and the endgame.

  Hoyt started to take a menacing step forward, ready to prove just how serious he was, but Jared slammed a hand on his bicep and yanked him back. “Let him speak. I'm sure he wants to end this as much as you do.”

  Hoyt stumbled back, cursing the fact that his brother now had a solid thirty pounds on him. Another hangover from his incarceration at the VA unit. The food there was shit. Hell, it was the maggots that grew on shit. The result was that he'd lost a good twenty pounds of muscle. Something he was doing his damnedest to rebuild, but his stomach had shrunk and the protein shakes could only go so far. If he could get back in the war zone, in his element, he could rejoin his comrades and be fucking normal.

  Or at least big and bad enough to scare normal away. “I've got to go.” His voice dipped a little, but he told himself they hadn’t noticed.

  “You're not gonna want to go anywhere when you hear my report.”

  “So tell me.” Hoyt ground out, yanking his arm from Jared's grip.

  “He'll tell you when I’m good and ready for him to speak. Go sit down, the rest of the team is right behind me.” Colonel Mack Grey walked through the door, all business. The man always emanated a subtle aura of pure power. Whether he was in his dress blues or a military-tan pull over and jeans, like he was now, there was no mistaking him for anything but what he was - a natural commander.

  And like a good soldier, Hoyt snapped to attention and let his feet carry him to the chair at the far right corner of the table.

  Jared took the seat directly to his right and Ethan sat at the direct opposite end of the table, as far from the Crowe brothers as he could get. Hoyt felt a brief moment of regret. He'd never mentally or physically threatened a teammate before, never felt the urge. But he’d turned into a ticking nuke; he was just waiting for someone to hit the right button before he exploded.

  “Take your seats, and I'll get started.” Grey moved to the front of the table, on the opposite side of the room from the door, and set a small briefcase on the surface. The uncovered fluorescent lights buzzed and cracked overhead, seeming to warn them of bad news to come. The commander crossed his arms and stood still. Not giving away anything more than the deeper than usual lines around the corners of his gray eyes.

  Feet shuffled into the room, signaling the arrival of the rest of the team. Merc took the chair on Hoyt's left The huge spook was probably the only guy on the team besides his brother who was willing to risk getting anywhere close. Of course his lack of fear could be due to the fact he was the size of a tree trunk on steroids.

  Hunter and Ranger James, the first and second team leaders of TF-S, took the next seats down. Hunter had nearly lost his wife because of Al Seriq. Ranger had lost his best friend. Both men wanted revenge as much as Hoyt wanted a purpose.

  Riser Mallon and Aaron Speirs, TF-S's medics, filed in last. Each man carefully acknowledged his teammates, but most of them avoided eye contact with Hoyt.

  Every member of TF-S was highly trained in unconventional warfare and special reconnaissance. Each had his own sub-specialty within the group. Sniper, demolitions expert, interrogator, medic. When combined, they were a deadly unstoppable force.

  “I'll cut straight to the chase. Our boy Ethan here has been trailing Al Seriq for some time now. He finally caught him two days ago.” Grey unfolded his arms and clicked a remote. A head shot of the most wanted man in the world appeared on screen.

  Ethan joined the commander at the front of the table as Grey clicked over to a new picture. Hoyt froze. The men shifted in their seats. Tension crackled in the room. Ethan cleared his throat. “I found him like this. His second-in-command made a surprise coup. He executed Al Seriq in the traditional style and has assumed command of ISA.”

  Colonel Grey clicked the remote again. The screen flipped to a new, but almost equally familiar, face—Zafar el Abdul, the former second-in-command. “Zafar, as most of you know, is a little different than the man he toppled. He’s still a religious fanatic, but he's greedy.” Grey shifted and then clicked again. “And that greedy bastard just struck a deal with a certain infidel to hire mercenary groups. Any of you recognize this guy?”

  A black-and-white photo, grainy and obviously taken from a distance, appeared on the screen. The tension in the room exploded. Almost every member of TF-S jumped to their feet.

  “What the hell?” Aaron Spears was the first one to speak up.

  “I hope you've got a plane ready. I'm going to rip that asshole's head from his shoulders,” Hunter planted his fists on the table and leaned forward. His massive biceps strained the limits of his army-issue T-shirt.

  “Is he really alive?” Hoyt was the only one who hadn't stood, and he leaned back in his chair in stunned disbelief.

  “Sit down.” Grey waited for everyone to follow his command before continuing. “Facial recognition software confirms this is indeed Mr. J. Our theory that the ambush in the Indus Valley two years ago was all orchestrated by him is true. He faked his own death and has been in hiding since then.” Mr. J, TF-Scorpion’s original CIA liaison had not only betrayed his team, he’d tried to have them all murdered.

  Ranger turned to his brother and gave him a light tap on the shoulder. “So C.W. wasn't crazy when he told us Mr. J had contacted the MRG.”

  C.W. Videl, Hunter's new grandpa-in-law
, was the walking, talking version of a stereotypical, a-little-bit-nuts Vietnam veteran. His idea to start the Mississippi Revolutionary Group here in Mercy—a vigilante group intended to protect the citizens from the corrupt local police force—was what had drawn TF-S here in the first place. An idea that had nearly ended with a massive shipment of bombs to Al Seriq's hands and the death of Evie, Hunter's now wife.

  “That’s correct. Mr. J orchestrated the deal with the MRG.” The commander nodded to Hunter. “He was the one who made contact with Marcus Carvant and Sheriff Brown.”

  Marcus and Brown had been hired by Mr. J to help ensure the bombs ended up in Al Seriq’s possession.

  A deal that resulted in both men's deaths. A good thing as far as any of the members of TF-S were concerned.

  “And Shane?” Ranger rasped out. Shane Carter, a former sniper with TF-S and Ranger's best friend, had been taken captive in the disastrous ambush in which Mr. J had faked his death, only to reappear the next, a turned terrorist.

  The door slid open and a new man stepped into the large open room. Mr. K. His dull brown hair was as unmemorable as his smallish average frame and face. Even his suit was non-descript. The guys nodded at him as he joined them at the table.

  Grey shook his head and finally got around to answering Ranger’s question. “No. When Shane came back, he spoke Arabic. I think Al Seriq turned him. Besides, our old CIA liaison, Mr. J, was no fanatic.”

  “My team has been digging into Mr. J's old records,” Mr. K added, “and we discovered some offshore accounts he'd hidden. It seems my counterpart's main motivation was good old money.”

  Hoyt could barely hold back a sneer. Considering how their last experience working with the CIA had ended, he considered any member of their ranks about as trustworthy as a cobra coiled to strike. “And your motivation isn't?”

  Mr. K stiffened and flushed red, his bony shoulders lifting beneath his suit. “No, Mr. Crowe, believe it or not, I take Mr. J's betrayal as deeply as all of you do. He was my mentor when I joined up. He trained me. I want to take him down. That's the reason I asked to take over as liaison for your team.”

  “If you're so eager, why aren't we packing up to go get him?” Hoyt bit out. The ISA ambush orchestrated by Al Seriq had nearly killed all of them. Every man on the team was thirsty for vengeance.

  “I think you should wait for your commander to tell you.”

  Hoyt spun around to look at Colonel Grey. His normally expressionless mask had finally fallen. Hoyt tried to pinpoint the emotion he saw there. Agitation? Anxious? No, that was too mild. His commander looked afraid.

  Shit. This was not good. Not good at all. Mack Grey was the most intimidating soldier in the entire Special Forces. He didn't flinch at anything. Not death, not bombs and IEDs, not even at Hoyt and his gruesome face.

  But he was as pale as a damn ghost right now.

  “Zafar has put a hit out on TF-S. He knows we're the ones who stopped the weapons shipment from moving through Mercy. His newest hire knows every detail about your lives. Where you live. Where your families live.”

  No biggie, just every single soldier's worst nightmare.

  “Mr. K's team picked up some suspicious messages through ISA's social networks the same day Zafar hired Mr. J. His analysts were able to decode a few of the messages before Zafar shut the channels down.” Grey paced right, then left. Stirring up alarm with every step. When he stopped and turned to face his team, Hoyt knew it was time for the really bad news.

  Jared expelled a long breath and grabbed the table, his face hardening as every man fell silent. There was no need to speak. They had all felt this emotion before, and Hoyt had become intimately acquainted with it on several occasions.

  Fear.

  TF-S accepted the suicide missions no other branch of the military was willing to take, but they did it to protect their country and their families from the bad guys. They knew that if people like Al Seriq were allowed free reign in the Middle East, it would only be a matter of time before he found his way to the United States.

  But they did it under the cloak of obscurity. Their uniforms remained stripped down. They wore no dog tags. No patches of rank or branch. No nothing. It was an anonymity they’d come to rely on.

  “He's sending someone here isn't he?” Hoyt asked.

  Grey shook his head. “No, they're already here.”

  Chapter 5

  Hoyt turned the Jeep onto the main road running down the middle of Mercy proper. This section held all the typical staples of small-town life—Smith’s Hardware Store, check. Stellar Star Salon, check. New boutique with a French name no one in Mercy could pronounce, check. Picturesque wrought-iron lanterns casting a bright yellow glow every ten feet. Shiny cars parked in a precise line down the side. Manicured shrubs dividing the road. The crowd bubbling out of the little old movie theater—the women wearing new dresses and the men in creased slacks.

  This was the nice part of town.

  Hoyt kept going, faintly aware of Merc tapping on his magnesium-alloy, armor-protected laptop in the passenger seat beside him.

  He took a left onto South Main, clonked into a pot hole the size of a tar pit and cursed. That hit would require a visit to the auto shop for a realignment.

  A few hundred more pot holes dotted the road all the way into the horizon. They were like land mines waiting to take out the next vehicle daring enough to brave the crossing. Freaking North Korea could take notes from Mercy’s lack of maintenance.

  It didn’t take long for the neighborhood to change. The ancient stores lining this road had black bars on the windows and bright flashing signs advertising booze and beer. Women wearing low cut tops and miniskirts tottered on high heels, somehow managing to deftly maneuver the cracks and crackheads. Men in saggy jeans and oversized T-shirts swaggered in the mix. The lights on this street popped on and off, a few steady and dim, highlighting the seedier residents as they wavered in and out of the shadows.

  Hoyt and Merc had been assigned to go do a little recon. There were three names on their list of suspected sleeper cells. They were going to check out the first—the owner of the gas station on the way out of town. “You got the intel on this guy?”

  Less than a mile to go to the station.

  “Yeah, Raheem Jubar. Married, three kids. His wife, Masarra, is here on a spouse visa. Both of them are from Pakistan.” The bright screen of the laptop cast a dim glow of light on Merc in Hoyt’s peripheral vision. “No criminal history. Raheem is a distant cousin to Zafar, but they haven’t had any recent contact. He’s gone on two trips to his homeland in the past ten years. Nothing to raise suspicion.”

  “So basically he’s done nothing to stand out.”

  “Exactly.” Merc closed off the computer and pulled out his pistol, locked and loaded.

  The good sleeper cells flew low on the radar. They owned cell phones and sold beer and lottery tickets, they didn’t wave a red flag and declare war. That’s why they were so damn hard to I.D. That is, until they strapped on a vest filled with ball bearings hooked up to a remote cell phone for a kill switch.

  “What I wouldn’t give to go back to the days of George Washington. Everyone knew who their enemy was,” Merc said.

  “Yeah, they also lined up fifty feet apart and took pot shots without armor. No, thank you.”

  The run-down gas station appeared about a hundred yards out, a beacon of lights. There were two rows of pumps, each with two stations apiece. They were spaced close together, like there’d originally been only one row and the second had been crammed into the small space left between the station and the road.

  As Hoyt turned into the drive, his headlights illuminated a bright yellow Hummer parked on the inside row of pumps. The driver was inside, head hunched down behind the steering wheel. Hoyt slowed the Jeep and angled it toward the outside row, next to the low curb lining the edge of the lot.

  A Honda sedan with a few rust spots dotting the rear end was parked facing away from them, the driver’s side
door open. Hoyt made out the top of a dark head of hair as the man stood and went to check his pump.

  Male, Arabic, about twenty years old. Slim build, loose clothing.

  “Shit. That’s the second mark on the list.” Merc cocked his pistol. The man cast a quick narrowed glance at their Jeep and then looked away, pretending not to care.

  “You see that? He made us.” Hoyt eased the car to a stop but didn’t put it in park. He pulled out his own Beretta and cocked a round into the chamber.

  “Yep.”

  “You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  Another man of Middle Eastern descent emerged from the store, a bottle in one hand, the other in his pocket. “Got another possible bogey,” Hoyt said under his breath.

  “Fuck, what is this place? Their meeting ground?” Merc eased a hand to the door handle, ready to launch out of the vehicle.

  Hoyt instinctively tightened his grip on his pistol. The man from the store made eye contact with the Honda driver. The look was brief. “I don’t like this.”

  The Honda driver returned the gas hose to its slot, closed the gas cap, and turned to his open car door.

  The Hummer roared to life, its brilliant light bar shining on the old wood fence bordering the right side of the property. It eased into a wide arc and lined up right behind the Jeep. In the perfect position to ram them. Hoyt had a flash of fear. The Hummer was over two thousand pounds of reinforced steel doors and bullet-proof glass. And there was a black steel brush guard across the front. They could gun it and demolish the Jeep, effectively trapping them inside for a quick and easy kill shot.

  The Honda driver got in his car, shut the door, and slowly pulled out, curving out of the parking lot in a tight right turn. Hoyt eased onto the gas pedal, accelerating onto the road behind the Civic. The Hummer followed them out, its spotlights on, keeping a steady distance right behind him.

  “Gun it, man,” Merc said. “We’re not trying to hide from them.”