by Zoe Dawson
It had the muscle of its Black Hawk predecessor, bristled with armaments including laser-guided Hellfire missiles so sophisticated they could hit an ant on the ground in the dark, along with Hydra 70 rockets converted as a precision-kill weapon. The Hydra had a lower yield to prevent collateral damage. That especially came in handy when men she was pretty attached to were in the vicinity of her HVT. The smart helmet fed her the data she needed even in this pitch-black environment, her state-of-the-art NVGs letting her see in the dark. The tech had higher-resolution color imaging, extended-range radar and a wider field of view—a thermographic camera could precisely locate muzzle flashes. Added to all that firepower was the 30mm chain gun firing 300 rpms. The frame was specially made to protect them in a crash and the shielding was thick and strong enough to take many rounds. Even the rear rotor was encased in titanium, the main rotor out of the same strong metal.
This “secret weapon” was the reason she hadn’t been on deck to fly Fast Lane and his SEAL team and Afghan commandos. She had been gearing up to go into battle incognito if the mission went south.
And from the radio chatter, it had now turned into a rescue mission. Damn that fucking bitch. She settled deeper into her seat and the magnificent, priceless aircraft she had the good fortune to pilot. Then it happened as it usually did when she flew. She melded into a multi-ton machine and bent it to her will.
“If I have my way, no one walks away except our guys,” she said her terse words tasting brittle in her mouth.
Hemingway could barely breathe around the pain in his leg, and to a lesser degree, the left side of his body. The tourniquet’s band was so tight it was crushing nerves. Pressure had built and the pain was epic, like nothing he ever felt before. Nothing that even touched his stint in BUD/S. He thought that was bad. It was nothing. The dropping part of the rappel wasn’t tough, it was the push-off and the jarring as he came to rest on the next section of rock. He was doing his best with one good leg, but he felt it through his whole body.
He had been at the top of his class in everything and that included rappelling. It was a breeze for him. So, the struggle was real. The descent was grueling. It was hard enough for someone in top physical shape to scale down the steep rocks, but Hemingway had a bum leg. He had to take it slow. One push at a time, gather his courage for another push. Professor was right next to him. He had refused several times to go. Never leave a swim buddy. A lump formed in Hemingway’s throat. He loved his brothers.
He hoped he didn’t tumble off the mountain.
The only thing that mattered was making it to the bottom.
He was getting tired because he was going into shock. He knew it. But this was his only chance. There was no time for his buddies to lower him down this monstrosity of a drop, and he was aware they wouldn’t leave him regardless of what happened to him. He would not be the reason any of them died.
They had to get off the mountain to get rescued, and he wasn’t going to slow them down any more than he had to. Hemingway knew his leg was in bad shape, but he was going to stay positive.
He took a hard breath of air and pushed off, muffling the pain that radiated all across the nerve endings of each and every place on his body where the shrapnel had embedded. When he touched down, he lost his footing, the rock gave way. He called out and felt himself begin to fall away from the wall. Desperately, he reached for something to hang onto, and on his right side, Professor grasped him around the waist, anchoring him as Dragon clutched him on his injured side.
He gasped in pain and relief as his brothers held him enough for him to get his footing with his good leg.
“We’ve got you,” Dragon said, his face smudged with dirt and muck, his eyes fierce.
Hemingway’s eyes stung and his emotions jumbled up into a thick, stupid ball in his chest. He swallowed hard, tamping down the feelings. He didn’t have time to lose it. Pain spread across his chest, ribs, hip, thigh, calf, and foot. But they bolstered him until he was steady. He continued his descent with a quick thanks.
He couldn’t give up.
He had a dad who knew how to build his son’s character, infusing him with grit and steel. Hemingway had pushed through brutal football practices in the heat. He’d gone through the hardest, most intense psychological and physical training on the planet and got his trident. He’d survived his mother walking away. He had a sister who was as tough as his dad, as tough as any SEAL. She’d taught him what it meant to be truly loved and cared for.
He’d found Shea, and by beating all the odds, they had a love that was all-consuming, strong, and beautiful. He was going to fight to get back to her. His warrior queen, his touchstone, his wife. He’d learned so much from her courage, tenacity, and sheer guts.
He had teammates that would die for him. No question, no thought, no hesitation. Through BUD/S, he’d found out he was mentally tough and faced adversity head-on. He’d found his clan, his people, his brothers, his team! He was a fucking SEAL.
For them, Hemingway had to dig deep.
Hoo-yah!
“I’ve got a wedgie you wouldn’t believe,” Dodger said softly.
Max’s focus had been so completely on his rappelling and supporting all of his teammate’s muscle and weight, he was startled when Dodger’s mumbled words escaped his lips.
“You’ve got ropes around your ass, fucktard. Bunching is probably from that. You should do what I do.”
Dodger lifted his head, his blue eyes glazed. He was a bit out of it. That’s probably why he was talking nonsense, his British accent so thick, Max had to listen carefully.
“What’s that?”
“Go commando.”
“What? Doesn’t that chafe, man?”
“Vaseline is your friend,” Saint chimed in.
“You should go for compression shorts,” Pitbull muttered, his voice filled with pain.
“No, thank you,” Dragon said. “That shit melts to your skin. Rethink the undies, Pit.”
“Jock,” Hemingway chimed in. “Doubles as sexy when you see the little woman.”
“Personally, I prefer Underoos. It’s right in line with our SF mission-specific undergarment operating requirements. Also, I like the overall fit and comfort as well as the fact that I can harness the superpowers of whatever character my skivvies portray. I hear those D-guys wear the Garanimals.”
“No surprise there. They need help matching things up,” Hemingway said.
Pit growled. “I’m thinking freeballing may be the way to go. I’ll want more information on that later, Max.”
“Fuck you,” Max said deadpan.
All of them started laughing. Dodger clutched his side, his head dropping. He made a choking sound, gasping “Fuck me!” when he realized he was suspended in midair. He flailed for a moment, and Max had to press his body into the cliffside until he got him under control.
“You’re okay, man. I’ve got you. We’re going back to base, catching a helo. We’re getting you out of here.”
For a second, both of them just breathed hard. He could feel all his brothers tense, perched on the wall all around him.
Peripherally, he heard Saint’s voice. “Boss?” His voice was crisp. “We’re going slow. Max is still above me. But the rest of us are about halfway down.”
Dodger stopped moving. “We did have special underwear in SAS. They looked like black cycling shorts but are made from special ballistic material crafted from silk and synthetics, which is ultra-lightweight but can stop or mitigate the effects of small pieces of shrapnel and dirt traveling at high velocity after a blast. Supposedly, they are now the best equipped SF in the world.”
“I would have to argue that SEALs have the best equipment in the world,” Pitbull said, hefting his genitals.
Chuckles and headshaking commenced after that.
“I shared. Now you, Max. More info.”
He’d started moving again, trying to be as gentle as he could with the jumping out into midair, then coming down hard against the rocks.
/> “If you would shut up and let me concentrate so we both don’t go plummeting to our deaths, I would appreciate it.”
“Right. You’re cradling me like a precious child. You won’t let me fall, Max. You love me.”
“I did give you a wedgie,” Max pointed out.
Pitbull made kissing noises. “We all love you, Dodger.”
“So, what are the benefits?” Dodger persisted.
Max growled in annoyance. “When you get out of the hospital. I’m going to punch you in the face.”
“Uh-huh. You better not,” Dodger said, gasping a bit in pain at a hard landing Max couldn’t control. He swore softly, silently. He was trying to go fast due to the imminent arrival of their QRF and medevac choppers and the expediency for Dodger’s wound.
“Right. His badass Anna will kick your butt,” Saint said.
“Hiding behind her skirts, Dodger?” Max goaded him with a faint smile.
“Don’t forget. She’s the one who wears the spider-killing pants,” Pitbull said.
“As opposed to the Spiderman panties,” Professor said with a laugh.
“Shut the hell up.” He met Max’s gaze. They were close and Max couldn’t miss one nuance of this tough Brit’s expression. He was in pain, afraid, helpless, but he was holding up like a trooper. Comedy was the great equalizer. Max never expected anything less. “Max is going to enlighten us.” Dodger sounded weaker, his voice fading.
Max’s gut clenched. If anything happened to Dodger…if he… Max couldn’t finish the thought. His sister, Anna, would be beyond devastated. She would never be the same. He was sure of it. For her, he would do the impossible, like rappel down a hundred-foot cliff with a man strapped to his chest. He would throw his body over Dodger. He would give his life for this man…for any of them.
He had despaired when he’d first come to this team. Had thought about transferring. The leadership was solid as hell with Fast Lane at the helm. But there had been strong personalities, betrayal, secrets, lies, and tension had been the norm. Old members were afraid of trusting the new members, and the new members wanted something real and solid…not only a fighting force, but the brotherhood they craved. Now all that was gone. They had all meshed, bonded, and become the precision team that had been glimmering on the edges of their sights. They were all brothers.
So much had changed with the team and with him.
He thought about Renata then, and everything receded. The warmth of her love permeated every dark spot, bolstered him, and gave him the energy and focus to keep moving. His heart melted all over again for his beautiful wife. She was everything to him, but she was strong. Strong enough to lose him. His sister, Anna, she was a tough CIA operative, but he knew instinctively her heart couldn’t handle the loss of this man.
This man who had become more than a teammate, more than a brother. Dodger had been right—Max loved him, his tenacity, his dedication, his skill, his ability to find anything anywhere when they needed it, his sense of humor, and his British-ness. When he’d heard that Dodger had been wounded, a cold, ugly dread had traveled down his spine. He was as frantic as he could be and stayed as calm as he could. It was a dichotomy that he was constantly fighting. He wasn’t going to let Dodger down, and he wasn’t ever going to let his baby sister down.
“Fuck,” Max swore. “It feels good…free.”
“I would suggest you stay away from skinny jeans.”
More laughter. Finally, they had reached the bottom of the cliff.
That’s when Saint asked, “Where’s LT?”
Fast Lane, filled with pride, determination, and gut-wrenching fear for his teammates, was going to make sure he wasn’t one of Zasha’s casualties. Prepared to follow his guys off this damn mountain, he watched as the last man disappeared into the heavy haze from the smoke grenade. HM was still with him. The kid was like a limpet, always near so he could be sure he got all orders correct. He was the toughest, smartest, and conscientious terp Fast Lane had ever met in this godforsaken place.
The kid was holding it together after losing several of the tough commandos. He could see the grief in his eyes, but there was also resolve that sustained him. Fast Lane was sure he would make a fine SEAL.
“Saint?” Fast Lane said into his comm just as an RPG streaked to the place where Hemingway and Professor had vacated. Those bastards were trying to finish them off, but the two SEALs were already gone.
“Boss?”
“Sitrep?”
“We’re going slow. Max is still above me. But the rest of us are about halfway down.”
Fifty feet to go. That was still a hell of a lot. He looked at his dive watch. They had only six more minutes to get to the bottom and head for the choppers. He and HM had to get their asses over to the cliff and rappel down as quickly as possible.
This operation had turned into an untenable situation, and there was no fast way off the mountain to the medevac bird. There were few options. Going down that sheer cliff was their only salvation.
Fast Lane was angry that they didn’t accomplish their goals—that Zasha Vasiliev, their top HVT probably escaped. But Fast Lane wasn’t giving up. He realized they had to get off the mountain and get out of the valley. Now it was about saving lives.
“Let’s go, kid.”
As he rose, a round struck him in the chest. The blow knocked the wind out of him, forcing him to one knee. Then, HM hit him hard in his side and took him down. Fast Lane, breathing hard, slid his hand behind the shattered plate that stopped the bullet from tearing into his chest. He looked for blood. His hand came out clean. No blood.
He had to shake off the jolt. Taking a few deep breaths, he slid his almost spent magazine out of his rifle and replaced it with a fresh one. He had been hit. But his teammates had endured far worse. Then blood dripped onto his face, his neck. He looked up. HM was still on top of him, his eyes open, pupils fixed. The blood was coming from a hole in his neck.
When he saw HM’s lifeless body, he was startled. Then angry. Something snapped in him, and he shook the kid off. Danger-induced adrenaline shot into his bloodstream, on the heels of his fury that threatened to explode with every breath. He swore savagely, so damned mad he could barely see straight. He screamed in agony into the oncoming fire. “You fuckers! You fucking bitch!”
Without his usual control, he emptied the magazine into the bullet-ridden structure. He was breathing too hard, falling to his knees, losing his shit. His mind refused to function, and he stared down at the boy that wouldn’t ever get to become the man he deserved to be—no, that wasn’t right. HM was a man! Fast Lane’s brain worked to regain his grasp on reality. He was a leader! He was a SEAL! Get your shit together!
Someday, he was going to find and make Zasha pay for her crimes, but not now. Now he had to clear his system, or he would end up dying here in vain. HM had saved his life. Took the bullet meant for him. There was so much inside him, but he bottled it up and growled.
HM was in the dirt, and there was nothing Fast Lane could do to help him, except get his body back to base, to his mom and sisters. He pushed back the grief. He was all alone now and there was no way he was going to leave HM here in the snow and blood.
“TOC,” he whispered into his comm. “HM is down and I’m not leaving. Get me a way off this fucking mountain.”
“Ford!” Saint came on the comm. “Where the hell are you?”
Fast Lane closed his eyes, pushing the weakness away. “HM is dead.”
There was nothing but static and empty air as the whole team, everyone, absorbed that shocking information.
“Got it, one KIA,” Saint said.
“I’m not leaving him.” Fast Lane’s voice cracked from the pain that stabbed at his heart. There was silence again, and he knew what every one of those jackasses was thinking. “Don’t you fucking dare come back up this mountain.”
“We’re not fucking leaving you…sir,” Pitbull growled.
Damn these guys. He could almost laugh at the profanity and the r
espect. “You fucking are. Get your asses and those wounded to the LZ. Now. That’s a goddamned fucking order.”
10
Solace heard the exchanges over the radio and her lips compressed, a cold wash of dread snaking through her when she realized he was all alone on top of that killing mountain with a kid whom Fast Lane loved like a brother.
Poor HM. What a terrible tragedy. She narrowed her focus, searching the ground for any type of resistance. She wanted to unleash her 30mm chains and take down any threat to her ex-husband. The man had gotten to her in the short time she’d been in Jalalabad, but she realized it had started in Somalia. After he’d saved her life, she’d gone back to doing her duty, but she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. She had to admit to herself that there was still something very real and strong about her feelings for him. She couldn’t relegate them to nothing. She couldn’t do that.
That meant when this mission was over, they were going to have to have a discussion. He’d kissed her, but she still wasn’t sure if that had been a goodbye kiss or not.
Driven by a fearful kind of desperation, she opened up the chopper to its full capacity. He was going to need air cover and even though she had a specific job to do, she wasn’t sure how she was going to accomplish it with him still so close to the structure.
But she had her orders.
They were about five minutes early to the deadline Ruckus had set for her to obliterate Zasha’s cover. Down below her, she saw men climbing up toward Fast Lane. “Hang on,” she said, then into her comm she alerted the two little birds that were still in the vicinity to her plans to clear off the insurgents who were climbing up to kill Lieutenant Ford Nixon, using his refusal to leave a downed man behind against him. Not while she was in the air and still breathing.
She was already low enough to see her targets as she’d been flying a nap-of-the-earth tactic that kept her low to the ground.