Breaking Free

by Teresa J. Reasor

  ****

  Damn, it felt good to be back in action. After only a week he was recovering his stamina and muscle tone. Having finished his reconnaissance, Hawk squatted within the cover of the thick brush, and eyed the block building they were using for the close quarter drill. The assignment was to surprise the pretend terrorists inside, capture them, and free the pretend hostages without a loss of life. He pondered several possible scenarios. Doc appeared next to him and Hawk signaled a withdrawal. They fell back to the road.

  Hawk checked the safety of his nine -millimeter sig, even though it was only loaded with simunition, and holstered it. He removed a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and sketched a map of the interior of the building. He spread it out on the hood of the armored Humvee and motioned for Strong Man, Doc, Flash, and Bowie to gather close.

  “There are six tangos and two hostages. The hostages are being held in the kitchen on the west side. This is the plan.”

  Doc and Strong Man disappeared into the brush going west. Flash and Bowie followed a few minutes later. Hawk worked his way north, using the clusters of palm as cover. Scoping out the front door, he watched as one of the tangos inside paused before the window to look out, then moved away.

  Crawling beneath the brush, Hawk worked his way to the corner of the yard. He removed the field binoculars from around his neck to check the position of the men inside. There were three in the front room but three others he couldn’t see. He narrowed his eyes against the reflective glare of the setting sun and clicked his radio, “Three tangos here.”

  Derrick’s voice came over the radio at a whisper. “One in sight here playing guard to the hostages.”

  “Two in the kitchen,” Doc’s voice said into his ear.

  Hawk clicked his radio once to let them know he understood. Crawling to a spot diagonal to the front windows, he looked one last time, then tucked the binoculars inside his shirt. The coast clear, Hawk leaped to his feet and ran the distance from the brush to the front door.

  Hugging the wall next to it, he removed his pack and retrieved the block of C-4 Bowie had given him and the hardware he needed to rig the detonation. Careful to visually measure the amount of explosive he intended to use, he pinched off small squares of the plastique, mashed them into the door hinges. He checked the wireless remote to make certain it was working, then hooked the detonator to the plastique and wired the rest of the circuit.

  He eased off the front stoop and bobbed up to look through the window to check the position of the men inside. He meant to blow the door off its hinges, not take out the front of the house or injure anyone inside the room. In a real scenario, he wouldn’t be so careful unless hostages were in the room.

  Hawk crawled around the edge of the house to the east corner bedroom. Popping up, he checked to make sure the room was empty then stood up. He removed his K-bar and dug at the putty that held one of the windowpanes into the frame. He cut it away then pulled the pane free. Inserting his hand, he unlocked the window and pushed it up.

  Muffled voices came through the bedroom door from the front room. He paused, checking to make sure none of the tangos were on their way to check out any sound he had made. Nothing.

  He shrugged free of his pack and eased it inside the room to one side of the window, then boosted himself over the edge into the house. Even the rustle of his clothing sounded loud and his every muscle tensed as he waited to see if his entrance had been heard. He clicked his radio, letting the men know he was in position.

  A few seconds passed then he heard the distinct reply from each of the other men. They were in position.

  Hawk pulled down the protective goggles, flipped the detonator on and pushed the button. A loud “whomp” shook the bedroom door. He dropped the detonator, and jerked the door open and instantaneously shot the first man he saw. A bright yellow spot of soap compound painted the front of the tango’s vest. “Down, get down.” The three other men in the room hugged the deck. A fourth ran into the room, his weapon drawn and Hawk turned taking him down.

  “Clear,” Hawk said.

  Doc’s voice came from the right.

  Hawk pushed the protective mask up then stumbled back at the impact as a simunition cartridge skimmed his cheek. His face stung like hell and he gritted his teeth against the pain. His vision obscured by the bright yellow compound, he ripped the safety helmet from his head. His eyes teared up. “Shit.”

  “All clear, the hostages are secure,“ Bowie’s voice said in his ear.

  “Hawk--” Doc appeared at his side and his expression going from amused to concerned in a nanosecond. “Christ! We have to get that shit out of your eyes.”

  “No, shit.” Half blinded by the soap, Hawk allowed Doc to lead him into the kitchen. He hung over the sink and rinsed his face and eyes over and over with water. The burning sensation finally eased but the welt on his cheek had begun to swell and it hurt like a son-of-bitch. Someone handed him a towel and he dried his face and hair with a couple of quick swipes.

  “Well, the good news is that you rescued the hostages, Lieutenant.” Lieutenant Arnold, team leader of the hostage team, said. “The bad news is you’ve been shot by one of your own men.” There was just enough smug amusement in the other man’s voice that it torked Hawk’s building anger to near explosion level. He shot Arnold a look that killed the asshole’s smile.

  He looked up to see his men clustered together in the kitchen, standing watch. He would not air his teams’ dirty laundry in front of another unit. He didn’t doubt for one minute he was being fucked with.

  “The loss of one man is not acceptable, we’ll be repeating a similar exercise at 0-eight-thirty tomorrow morning, until we get it right. And we’re going down to the shooting range and running practice drills until fifteen hundred today.”

  Silent, somber, the men filed out the back door of the house. “Will your team be available?” Hawk asked Arnold.

  “Yeah.” Arnold’s jocularity had done a one eighty and his features appeared somber. “Good thing it was a simunition round and not live ammo.”

  “Yeah. I got lucky.” Hawk set aside the towel on the counter.

  “We’ll be back in the morning.”

  “We’ll be ready,” Arnold said.

  Hawk nodded. He retrieved his pack from the bedroom and went out the door he’d blown open. His cheek throbbed like a toothache but his anger was worse.

  He had just enough time to regain control of his temper before he made it back to the Humvee. Doc and Bowie each straightened from their leaning position against the vehicle as he came into sight. Derrick, resting in the shade of a scraggly elm, got to his feet. Squatting next to him, Flash straightened and turned to face him.

  “You don’t fucking see me standing here because I’m dead. Dead by the hand of one of my own men.” He looked from one man to the other. “Who the fuck shot me?”

  “It was me, LT,” Flash stepped forward.

  A red haze of rage partially obscured Hawk’s vision. He lunged toward Flash, and it took every ounce of control he could muster not to beat the man into the ground. He thrust his face close to Flash’s and his gaze bore into his. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I tripped over Strong Man’s foot and my weapon discharged.”

  “That’s a fucking rookie mistake. A god damn rookie mistake.”

  Rage burned the back of his throat and had blood rushing to his ears. His cheek pounded as though someone were drilling into his face with a router.

  “The next time one of you shoots me, it damn well better be with live ammo and you better kill me, because when I get up, I’m going to rip your fucking head off.”

  “Get in the Humvee. We’re hitting the practice range. And tomorrow we’ll be doing the drill again.”