Fast Lane (SEAL Team Alpha Book 16)

by Zoe Dawson

  He climbed into the helo, putting all his personal feelings and emotions aside.

  They were going hunting.

  7

  Professor was aware that he didn’t know jack shit. As he listened to the pilot speak over the radio as the SOARS guys went through their preflight checklist, he watched the exchange between Fast Lane and Solace Mitchell. Hemingway had told him that Solace was Fast Lane’s ex-wife. There was a lot of speculation going on between the SEALs that he was still in love with her.

  Chuckling to himself, Professor decided that Fast Lane’s guys were a bunch of gossiping knuckleheads. He enjoyed each member’s personality, and he had to agree with their assumption.

  Professor wasn’t as seasoned as some of the members on Fast Lane’s team, but he’d been under the leadership of Adrian “Rock” Lane. He had been in fierce firefights, executed sweeps through insurgent strongholds, done plenty of jungle, urban, ocean, and desert fighting. But this would be his first cold-weather insertion. He was chosen because he was a breacher like 2-Stroke and could fill in while the SEAL was on another assignment. The heavy rotors of the choppers started to turn, a rumble singing through the metal of the body of the bird, exhaust and oil mixing in with the scent of men and equipment packed into a small space, something Professor was used to. They were minutes away from taking off.

  With Rock heavy on his mind, he wanted to do his leader proud, not to mention his swim buddy and BUD/S roommate, Hemingway, was also on this team. He’d have Hemingway’s back anytime, anyplace.

  As the chopper rose up into the dark sky, the stars a breathtaking twinkle of cold, white light in the expansive bowl above them, he watched as Fast Lane took one last look at that SOARS beauty as she walked away.

  It was clear there was history there. It inevitably made him think of Julia. He was pathetic. The woman had made her choice without any input from him. Maybe all along he had been under a delusion. Her abrupt decision had just caught him completely off guard.

  He'd grown up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the site of two of America’s most prestigious universities—MIT and Harvard. His parents were professors at a small university, his mom in the English department, and his father was in the prestigious law school. As early as he could remember, Harvard had been his expected destiny. He’d followed along under the gentle pressure of his mom and dad, collecting a scholarship and graduating in three years with a degree in Economics and a minor in poetry.

  Music had also been a big part of his life, with a lot of his music teachers trying to push him toward a degree in music or even performance, but his parents wouldn’t have approved of that. Professor loved to sing, and rock was his favorite, but he also liked ballads. He was self-taught on the guitar and piano. When he’d been into his last year of the Rhodes scholarship, he had become antsy and dissatisfied, wanting to do something other than study and be an egghead.

  When he’d given everything up to pursue becoming a SEAL, his relationship with his parents had suffered. They had come around a little but were still disappointed with his choices. He couldn’t seem to understand. Wasn’t serving his country more important than personal pursuits?

  HM leaned over and through the comm said, “Everyone is ready for this battle. The evil woman will be killed or captured.”

  Fast Lane had a special spot for the terp and allowed him to ride with them to the LZ. Professor nodded, noting that the kid seemed focused and steady. He was aware that terps were a different breed of Afghan, and that Special Forces relied heavily on them to get their job done. They risked their lives, often having to hide their identities from both terrorists and the Taliban who supported them. They and their families were always under the gun because of their collaboration with Americans. Professor respected HM, not only for his amazing leadership skills with the Afghan troops, but his ability to know the terrain, make decisions on the fly, and communicate precisely to both save lives and get the job done. But, damn, the kid looked so young. He smiled at how HM was one hundred percent on their side.

  As the choppers skimmed the mountains to fly into the bowl of the valley, the snow-covered peaks towered below the skids. That’s when the trip got bumpy. Professor heard the SOARS guys talking, and they were consummate professionals as they kept communication going between the two Black Hawks.

  With the war for US troops primarily over in the region, he hoped that the country could finally find peace after years and years of chaos. It was even more imperative that they stop Vasiliev and Angar Said. They were the bad actors who had stirred up a hornet’s nest. Their strategy was to use any fighting force to get them to their goals. Each of the team members under Fast Lane’s command had a target on their backs. Vasiliev wanted all of them dead.

  You first, he thought with a sharp smile.

  Professor had a sixth sense about descending in a helicopter and knew it was happening before the pilot called out the time for landing. All the SEALs and HM set their NVGs over their eyes to acclimate to the pitch-black outside. He glanced past HM, everything now in the ghostly green of the goggles, allowing them all the advantage of seeing in the dark.

  As the helo landed, Professor grabbed his sixty-five-pound pack and prepared to leave the aircraft. The plan had been for them to land the choppers a click from the targeted structure that sat up on a small hill and hike the rest of the way.

  The floor of the valley stretched for several miles, a stream that ran through it about the width of a two-lane road. Between them and their destination was an ice- and snow-covered landscape, rocks and gravel—ankle-breaking terrain.

  This was why I joined. Fighting terrorists who had promised more attacks against the West was his motivation, and he was proud to answer the call.

  The climb would be brutal, especially with his pack and the numbing cold. Most of the mountain passes were closed during the winter because of snow. But this is what he had trained for.

  They were walking the trail to the enemy compound where intel said they were creating uranium for dirty bombs to attack the US and its allies. He thought only of his teammates and the mission now. There was no room for error.

  Fast Lane scanned the area: a lot of ridgelines and hard ground to cover. The United States and its allies had suffered some major losses in this valley—Fenty, Keating, Murphy, Dietz, and Axelson, a full QRF team. Too many Army, Navy, and Marine Corps casualties. Zasha knew what she was doing when she’d lured them here. He had no doubt that she had lured them with her threats. He knew her well enough that she would carry out her objectives unless they stopped her.

  Ruckus had assured him they had the best possible intel, as any team would prefer to know the area they were fighting in like the back of their hands.

  They’d had collaborating information from multiple other sources, including several Taliban captured in the past. Ruckus was a seasoned leader, one who didn’t rely on anything but facts and strong intel. He wouldn’t let Fast Lane and his team into any situation he wouldn’t have taken his own team. It was the benefit of having a man at the helm who knew everything there was to know about being in the thick of battle.

  Special operations missions relied heavily on intelligence reports, especially when the troops involved were in small groups and far from base. Human intelligence or HUMINT was the information gathered by people on the ground, and it wasn’t limited to the local populace. Anyone with eyes and ears could be an asset, like Rose Sinema.

  Signal intelligence, or SIGINT was collected by eavesdropping on radio and telephone transmissions, or any device that produced a signal, and geospatial intelligence or GEOINT was collected from satellite imagery and related sources. Ruckus was an expert at interpreting its value.

  His guys were taking a knee as the Black Hawks dispensed the manpower, already in a defensive stance, their rifles at the ready, pointed in all directions.

  He ducked as rotor wash kicked up snow and debris, which swirled around him. As soon as all the troops were out, the Black Hawks peeled away and
ascended into the dark sky. Once the echoes of the thumping rotors faded, a silence fell like a blanket over the valley. It was almost spooky. The Afghan commandos murmured amongst themselves, but his team was silent.

  The mountains rose high into the sky, almost cutting off the stars, and the sheer rock offered no cover. This was pure Zasha. She thought she could intimidate them by the terrain, the legendary danger of this place, and the lack of tactical advantage.

  There was no movement, no sound. It was as if they stood in a void. “Move out,” Fast Lane said into his mic, keeping his voice low. Sound echoed in this valley.

  Pitbull took point and the Afghan commandos mixed in with the SEALs, HM right in front of Fast Lane.

  They moved across the valley floor pretty quickly but had to slow when they reached the bottom of the ridge where the structure was located. They started to climb.

  The slopes were steep, and the rucks were heavy. Pitbull trod carefully for fear they might trigger a Soviet-era landmine, fall down the mountain, or, at the very least, sprain an ankle.

  It was a frigid twenty degrees, and the rough climb was brutal. There was no chatter. When they reached a thicket of Afghan pines, the rest of the team following in staggered formation behind, Pitbull stopped, then crouched. The whole line of men tensed. What had he found?

  “Footprints, LT. This is off the beaten path.”

  “Noted,” Fast Lane responded. This meant there had been patrols around here. Zasha would be remiss if she hadn’t scoped out every approach to her clandestine lab. It’s something he would have done.

  “Push on. Eyes peeled, head on a swivel, boys.” Fast Lane could hear HM repeating his directions to the Afghan troops.

  Fast Lane kept his rifle primed across his body, his finger alongside the trigger guard, his instincts on high alert. Finally, they reached the top of the hill and Pitbull crouched. The whole line of men went to their knee. Pitbull surveyed the area, a wide clearing on a flat ridgeline, the structure made out of something metallic but camouflaged to look like a mud hut. It sloped downward from north to south and had a tiny goat trail running along its eastern edge.

  Fast Lane issued orders. “Dragon, take two commandos and set up your sniper nest to the right, same for Hemingway, but to the left, take Professor with you.” Fast Lane was glad to see there were trees and heavy brush in one direction and a few smaller trees, several large boulders, and the remains of a stone wall marked the other side.

  “TOC,” he said into his radio, and Ruckus acknowledged immediately. Fast Lane continued, “We are in position. No heat signatures. It looks completely abandoned. Footprints around the perimeter. This may be nothing but a dead zone.”

  “Copy that,” Ruckus said. “Investigate and report. Air support and QRF standing by.”

  “Copy that,” Fast Lane said. “Fan out and take your positions. We’re going to go poke this bear.” He turned and looked at Pitbull. “Go and check it out. The rest of you, cover him.”

  Pitbull’s instincts were drawn so tight, he felt it in his shoulders. The valley floor had been so quiet.

  Too quiet.

  When the helicopters disappeared, so did the noise. He was on point because Pitbull had a sixth sense and felt it to his core when something was wrong. Out of place. This was one of those times. It was his job to be aware so that he could warn his brothers and the commandos of any danger to them.

  Even with the rugged terrain taking up a lot of his attention, careful with his footing in the treacherous landscape, he couldn’t afford any kind of misstep, mental or physical that would cause himself harm. Rocks were everywhere down here in this death bowl. Focus was everything.

  Pitbull had been to Afghanistan. He’d fought here, but never in Nuristan Province. It was a shock to actually see these mountains up close and personal. He, like his teammates, had studied the satellite images, which made the mountain ranges appear ordinary. When the Black Hawk landed, it was obvious the pictures didn’t do the real thing justice. Fuck me, was his first thought. When he saw how steep they were, or how the surrounding peaks towered over the Shok Valley, his gut clenched. It was a good thing they brought climbing gear. He had it in his head that they were going to ranges that were in the Hindu Kush, some of the highest elevations in the world, but the reality of this place was beyond his imagination.

  Except as daunting as the terrain was, it was more unsettling to Pitbull that he didn’t hear any noise. Something just doesn’t feel right, he thought. Villages dotted every nook and cranny of this valley, and there was nothing but deafening silence—no sheep or goats or people making a sound. Nothing but the cut of the hushed, icy wind.

  Everything about him was focused on the mission. Get in, get the job done, get his team out in one piece, get home. Mission, team, and family. That’s all that mattered. His body and mind might belong to Special Forces, but his heart and his soul were connected to Mak and Samantha.

  He and Mak had been talking about having another child. In her past, she had lost her son, and it was a hard subject for her to discuss, but his Mak was as brave as they came. She loved Samantha as if she was her own child, and Pitbull was always in awe of how she constantly surprised and delighted him.

  The thought of having children with her was a joy he hadn’t ever contemplated. Finding out he was the father of Samantha had thrown his whole world into chaos. He and Mak had to overcome so much in their lives. His secondary mission was always to get back to them in one piece.

  Zasha Vasiliev endangered them all, and she had to be stopped. She was running rampant without the master holding her leash. Going after her had to be done. If not by them, then by others who would come after them.

  She could not succeed in her vendetta against the world and specifically against Fast Lane and his team.

  His gut told him something wasn’t right with this whole mission, but he had his orders—to check out the apparently empty structure. He moved forward, the windows looking like empty eye sockets smeared over with grime and dirt.

  Or was it a slumbering beast just waiting for its prey to make one wrong move?

  It was time to find out.

  Pitbull moved from cover, staying in a low position, his knees bent as he moved silently forward. His eyes behind his NVGs detected no movement. Where were they? What kind of shit was this? Was she messing with their heads, drawing them here just to play games, cause the waste of manpower and money? To what end?

  His senses on high alert, he moved steadily forward.

  With his cutting-edge, panoramic NVGs he had a wide view of the area, and with the thermal built into the scopes, he could see the moment heat signatures became visible.

  So, his only warning that things were about to get hairy was just a glimpse of an orange heat signature. Before he could voice what he spotted, something hit his chest with the force of a battering ram, and it was lights out.

  Awareness tingled down Karasu’s spine, a tightness between her shoulders alerting her to the change in the atmosphere. Death was in the air.

  The shadows had lengthened, the early-evening silence perforated by the chirp of birds getting ready to sleep. There was nothing but stillness, yet she knew there was danger close. She could feel it alerting her senses, curling around her gut and tightening. There was going to be another attack, and it was going to be a full-out blitz. She knew it. Without a sound, she moved toward her partner. “Hey, slacker. Wake up.”

  Volk’s eye popped open. Karasu snorted. This guy could rest anywhere, even standing up, but no one could get past him. He was always aware.

  “What’s up, pretty bird?”

  She snorted again. “First off, stop that shit. We’re not together.” Volk was devastatingly handsome with dark curly hair, striking cobalt blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. He was so complex yet simple at the same time—highly intelligent, charismatic, sterling sense of humor, just a downright badass. He was a sponge for knowledge and read most anything he could get his hands on. He was
from the vaunted 75th Ranger Regiment. She had affection for him and trusted him to have her back in any and all situations. There just wasn’t anything more.

  “We fuck.”

  “Fucked. Twice. That’s biological. Keep your eye on the ball. People’s lives are at stake.”

  “I will if you will.”

  “What?”

  “The SEAL…what indeed.”

  “That’s nothing,” she said, passing it off as casual by waving her hand airily. But she felt anything but casual, anything but airy. She was weighted down with a reaction that she, the mighty Karasu, couldn’t control or diffuse. Ever since she’d laid eyes on Preacher, she had been caught in this crazy, body and mind-stealing undertow. She could hardly breathe thinking about him, his big body on top of hers as they had grappled. The scent, feel, and weight of him had been as threatening as a genuine risk.

  Volk’s eyes narrowed, and he looked away, out toward the darkening grounds of this massive estate. “You haven’t ever been one for glossing, but okay, partner.” He pushed away from the wall, his dark clothes blending in with the shadows. “I get it,” he rasped. Other than the men who lurked in her past, Volk was the only one who knew what she had been through and how she had escaped. “Denial is a big river.”

  Then he was gone. If there were baddies out there, Volk would find them.

  She would bet her life there were. Plenty of them. The black-ops type who had done much to perpetuate the fear of anything Bosnian. She was sure they were here to annihilate all of them, the shade of Darko Stjepanić ghosting around here with his kill squad. He would have happily sanctioned the death of his own flesh and blood…had…he had sanctioned the death of his brother-in-law and his sister. Now his nephew, who had the decency to stand up to him, liberated and saved the lives of a Navy SEAL and a CIA operative, was in ruthless gun sights.

  She was going to make sure no one even touched a hair on that kid’s head.