Fast Lane (SEAL Team Alpha Book 16)

by Zoe Dawson

  She scanned below with her NVGs as her copilot switched power on to the gunship’s weapon systems, arming them for attack.

  Her mission was time-driven, but she had a small window for an assault to protect Fast Lane’s flank.

  She bumped her gunship up, grabbing some altitude so she could get a better sight of the targets and start a diving gun-run. At the five-hundred-foot AGL apex of her climb, she shoved her cyclic forward, pushing the machine into the dive.

  Target, torque, and trim is what every gun pilot says to themselves just before an engagement of a target to ensure the attack helicopter is in a steady state position for accurately shooting.

  She lifted the safety guard on the minigun trigger, pressed it down, and slammed down a red stream of bullets through the pack of insurgents, mowing them down.

  She broke hard to her right to strip out of her dive trajectory. She lined up for another run and unleashed the power of her guns.

  Nightstalkers never missed.

  No one was left standing. She got the a-okay that enemies had been eliminated on the other side of the mountain.

  Her copilot flipped the master arm switch to safe.

  “Fast Lane, be advised we are coming in for a missile run against the structure. Danger close. Take cover.”

  “He’s too close, Annie.” That’s what they called her for a nickname. Just like Annie Oakley.

  “I know. I have a plan. Be ready.”

  “Copy that,” he said.

  She flew back to the sheer cliff face and instituted her plan. She hoped it worked or this expensive piece of machinery might end up as smoking parts, and they were all going to meet their maker.

  “I hope the government has insurance,” she said, and Flack released a throaty laugh with a quick cross for good measure.

  That was Solace’s voice over the comm. She was here in a chopper? He couldn’t hear anything above the gunfire that peppered his location. Soon they were going to stop shooting and investigate, and he wasn’t going to be able to hold them off. Luckily, his ex-wife was here.

  The thought of her bolstered him, sent adrenaline into his system. Damn, he was never so glad to hear her voice as he was at this moment.

  She was the cavalry.

  He held HM in his arms as if the closeness could revive him. But he’d saved Fast Lane’s life by deliberately putting himself in the line of fire, and here he was helplessly holding him, unable to bring the kid back. This was a special kind of pain, the kind of pain that lay heavily on his mind, heart, and soul.

  He watched the building closely and suddenly the shooting stopped. Fuck. This was it. They were coming after him. He was sure they would want to take him alive because Zasha had plans for him.

  But just as the door opened, he heard a low humming. Frowning, his attention went to the front of the cliff. He saw something revolving, something black and moving fast. Then, it appeared slowly and menacingly up and up until the bird of prey was hovering in the air.

  It was a chopper, but not one he could identify. Black, sleek, barely making any noise, bristling with weaponry.

  It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  “Take cover,” she said, her voice as calm and quiet as death.

  He ducked behind the boulders where he’d dragged HM’s body, and he didn’t know why, but he covered him.

  The blast rushed over Fast Lane, followed by a shock wave that hit him deep in the chest. The impact of the explosion spewed a cloud of debris and dust that swirled in the air.

  “Move, Ford! To the chopper!”

  He didn’t hesitate. He rolled HM onto his back and sprinted through the dust and debris toward the black devil that had just saved his life. As soon as he reached it, he set HM’s body inside and vaulted into the back.

  “I’m in. I’m in!” he shouted.

  The second Fast Lane was in the bird, she rose straight up with powerful thrusts of the roaring engines. There was no need for stealth now. As soon as she was hovering, she let go with a Hellfire missile right down their damn throats.

  She depressed the trigger, then immediately banked right and gunned the chopper away from the blast.

  The missile was on target. Out of the side of the chopper, she saw as it plowed into the center mass of the building, the explosion shooting high into the sky. Smoke boiled in a black cloud, orange flames chasing it from the fracture to the building’s foundation. No one could have survived that blast.

  “Eat fire, you bitch, and burn in hell,” she said triumphantly. “Fast Lane. Are you all right?

  “Yes. I’m good. You saved my ass.”

  “Copy that.” At the sound of his strained and hushed voice, tears burned in her eyes, and Solace used every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep her cool. Over the radio, she heard that his team had reached the LZ and caught the medevac. They were currently on their way to Jalalabad. With the faster speed of her aircraft, they would beat the medical chopper there. They were warming up a jet to transport the wounded to Landstuhl, Germany to receive top-notch medical care. Fast Lane must have received the report as well, but he didn’t say anything. “You have the controls, Flack.”

  “Copy. I have the controls, Annie.”

  She released her seat restraint and stepped over the instruments in the center separating her from her copilot.

  Fast Lane was slumped against the seats, his face obscured in shadow. She reached over and clipped herself to the safety harness and then did the same thing for him and HM’s lifeless body. He’d been shot in the throat, his trachea ripped away with the trajectory of the bullet, both carotid arteries decimated. He must have died instantly. That was at least a blessing.

  She noted there was blood all over Fast Lane, caked in his uniform, splattered on his face, all over his hands. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  He glanced up, stared at her for an instant, then looked back down. “Yes,” he snapped.

  Worried about him, Solace swallowed hard, knowing that he needed her now, even if he was acting like he didn’t. Damn macho SEAL mentality. Didn’t he know that she would never, ever judge him? And feeling pain and loss for his brother in arms was nothing to be ashamed about. She moved forward and settled on her knees closer to him. Reaching out, she gently closed HM’s sightless eyes, her heart twisting for his family. For his friends and for the Special Forces community. “Rest in peace,” she whispered.

  She looked down, clenching her jaw until the awful contraction in her throat eased, trying to will away the swell of tears. There was a long, strained silence, then she quickly wiped her face and sat down next to Fast Lane, covering his hand with hers. It was cold through the gloves.

  He didn’t respond, just clutched HM tighter. She longed to hold him, but he wasn’t open to that yet. She didn’t remove her hand, just curled her fingers around his and held on all the way back to J-Bad.

  As soon as the chopper landed at J-Bad’s runway, there were men there with a stretcher. At first Fast Lane didn’t move, and Solace shook him slightly. He turned to look at the men, and with a sigh, he released HM’s body.

  “Take care of him,” he growled.

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison as they started off toward a hangar.

  “We need to notify his mom,” Fast Lane said.

  “TOC has already done that. She’s on her way.”

  “I want to be there,” he said, but before he could even exit the helo, the medevac chopper touched down.

  More men rushed toward the chopper but stopped. There was shouting and a commotion.

  Fast Lane sprang out and strode toward the bird. Solace hastily removed her helmet and jumped out to follow. Pitbull was resisting, his chest heaving, blocking the opening, looking back into the chopper with a stricken look on his face.

  “He’s crashing!” she heard an unknown male voice.

  She came to the opening and saw Dodger on his back, his eyes closed, his skin ashen.

  Oh God.

  The fligh
t medic yanked open Dodger’s parka and shirt and started CPR. Saint, hyper-focused on his supine brother, held oxygen over his nose and mouth and squeezed. She saw his lips counting the reps of the medic. Her breath trapped in her lungs, she willed him to come back.

  The medic leaned close to his chest.

  “Come on, man. Don’t quit on me. You’re going home alive for us, for Anna, for your family,” Max’s anguished voice rasped in the stillness as every single person waited with bated breath and traumatized eyes. All of them were smudged with dirt, dust, and blood.

  “Dodger!” Hemingway called, his voice fracturing and raw. “Dammit. Don’t do this. Come back. Fuck!”

  Her heart jammed in her throat, a silent, senseless prayer circulating in her head. Please, please, please. Tension gripped her, and she felt like she was going to come out of her skin.

  Seconds felt like hours as the medic listened, then shouted, “Move. He’s back. We need to get him on that flight.”

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she focused on Dodger’s chest as it rose and fell. Giving herself a moment to calm down. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the chopper, letting the relief wash through her.

  When she opened them, Pitbull collapsed as men caught him and laid him on a stretcher. They took off at a run toward the jet. Hemingway, his left upper thigh bound, was handed out of the chopper to another stretcher, an IV at his collarbone. One of the guys held it high. Tears were running down his face, leaving tracks through blood and grime. They took off with him.

  Then Dodger was out, and the men wasted no time in transporting him to the jet. Moments after all three of them were loaded, the engines roared, and the C17 zoomed up into the red-streaked dawn sky.

  For several minutes, Fast Lane stared off into the brightening sky as if he was trying to ensure the aeromedical evacuation team onboard understood how important it was the men in their care made it to Germany alive, then he looked over at the hangar where they’d taken HM and the other KIA commandos.

  Softly, he said. “Hit the showers and get patched up if you’re injured. Get some rack time.”

  Saint squeezed Fast Lane’s shoulder as he passed.

  “Good to see you…sir.”

  Fast Lane nodded.

  Dragon just looked shell-shocked and didn’t move until Professor slung his arm around his neck and propelled him toward the barracks.

  Max covered his face and pressed his hand against the helo. His big, broad shoulders shook, and she could hear his choked cries. Fast Lane took a step, but Saint held up his hand, looking toward the barracks as a car pulled up, and a woman and two young girls got out.

  “We’ve got him, boss.” Saint set his arm around Max’s waist and with a gentle pull got him walking.

  “Briefing at 1600,” he said hoarsely.

  Saint looked back at Fast Lane and nodded, his voice soothing as he talked to Max until they were out of earshot.

  She should be taking her own shower and getting some rack time or at the very least briefing her commanding officer, but when Fast Lane started toward the hangar, she followed, unable to let him go it alone.

  When they approached, she could hear the soft, sniffling cries from HM’s mother and sisters. The body bags were laid out in front of the hangar door waiting for the next of kin to identify and claim the bodies. HM’s—his real name was Ikram Juma—face and shock of black hair were the only visible parts of his body. Rows of fluorescent lights threw an ineffective swatch of illumination into the darkness beyond the bodies, the heavy shadows in the rest of the building swallowing it up. There was something unnerving about the silence and shadows, something that kicked off a renewed ache in Solace’s chest.

  The cadaver attendants tried to spare the family the sight and memory of the horrific wound on his neck. The youngest sister was leaning her head against her mom’s hip, her eyes filled with tears. HM’s other sister had her arm firmly around her distraught mother.

  Mrs. Juma was bent over him gently pushing his hair back from his forehead as if she was trying to soothe him.

  She spoke softly in Pashto.

  When she heard them approach, she looked up. She went immediately to Fast Lane, and he took her into his arms. She cried against him for several minutes, his face was stony, his eyes hard. When she recovered her composure, she said, “Thank you for bringing my boy home.”

  He nodded. “I’m so sorry for your loss…our loss. He was a brave, strong kid. You should be proud of him.”

  She nodded, taking a shuddering breath.

  “Mitchell!” Solace turned to find her CO striding across the tarmac. “I was expecting your report.”

  She gave him a quick brief, and he smiled and nodded. “Do you think you neutralized the threat?”

  “Until we can get back there and gather DNA and evidence Zasha was in that structure, I can’t be sure. I sure hope so.”

  “Get some rest. We’ll have more information hopefully today. They’ve dispensed a team to get the evidence we need.”

  She nodded and then looked for Fast Lane. She caught a glimpse of him heading for TOC, and the look on his face made her panic. She took off at a run, her dread mounting. He was too calm. She was worried he was wired to blow.

  Her pulse heavy in her throat, she wiped her hands down the pants of the flight suit. She heard voices inside.

  She pulled open the door in time to see Fast Lane moving in on Rose across one of the worktables filled with papers and computers. Workers were scattering out of the way.

  Rose turned and froze. “Fast Lane.” Her face and eyes were heavy with sorrow, regret, and guilt.

  “What the fuck happened?” He stared at her with a hard, cold expression on his face, his jaw set, his eyes flat and hostile.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Rose took a shuddering breath and said in a thick voice, “I don’t know.”

  The rage exploded, and he twisted, sweeping papers off the workstation, sending them flying along with several mice and notebooks.

  His eyes blazing, the veins in his neck distended with fury, he shouted. “I want her, Rose! Find her. Fucking find her!”

  “That is enough!” Ruckus’s voice roared into the standoff between Fast Lane and Rose. “Stand down, Lieutenant.”

  His face carved with lines of deep pain, Fast Lane turned, his blazing eyes seeking out Ruckus. But there was no quarter in Fast Lane’s CO. His posture, look, and aura said he was in charge, and Fast Lane had better obey.

  “Now, Ford. Go cool off. Rose isn’t to blame here.”

  Fast Lane jammed his hands on his hips and tipped his head back, trying to level out his rapid breathing. He bent his head and rubbed his eyes with one hand. He looked at Solace, his expression set. Finally, he exhaled sharply and turned toward the door, his voice coolly impassive. “Find her, Rose.”

  The door slammed as he exited. Rose covered her face and broke down into sobs. Ruckus crossed the room and gathered her against him, patting her back. He looked at Solace, his silent message was clear. He shouldn’t be alone right now.

  As if her feet were released from being rooted to the floor, she turned and ran out of TOC toward the barracks and his room, adrenaline shooting into her system.

  The jolt of pure jet fuel got her up the stairs and in front of his door. Faced with being turned away by him, she closed her eyes, her frantically beating heart caught in her throat, determination bolstered her as she straightened and knocked.

  There was no sound from within, and she turned her head and stared out toward the compound, an awful sinking feeling rushing in to replace the tense apprehension. He wasn’t here? Where could he have gone?

  Refusing to give up, she knocked again, compelled to try again. When there was still no answer, she tried the doorknob, and it twisted in her hand.

  It was open. He had to be there. She entered and immediately heard the shower running. When she came around the corner, her breath caught. He was standing in the spray of the water, broken tiles in front of
him, his knuckles bleeding. One hand was pressed against the wall.

  She’d forgotten how shredded he was, and even after three years, he still looked magnificent. Hard muscle delineated every solid line of him from his broad shoulders to his wide chest, and his narrow waist, six-pack abs, taut butt, and heavy thighs.

  A man who was built for war and sin.

  He was bleeding from what looked like a bullet graze just below the thick muscle of his shoulder, his biceps standing out in bunched relief as he supported himself.

  He had that dark, dangerous gunslinger look, his jaw rigid and unshaven, his eyes narrowed in a steely-eyed squint. On the surface, he looked as hard as nails and almost threatening, but it was the tight compression lines bracketing his mouth and the emotionless expression in his eyes that made her heart falter.

  He stared at her for an instant, then said, “Get out.”

  “No.”

  The muscles in his jaw tensed, and for an instant, she thought he was going to physically remove her. But she raised her chin, knowing that he would never hurt her.

  He dropped his head and turned away, the big, heavy muscles of his back flexed as he washed his hair and the dirt, grime, and blood from his body. A painful ache unfolded in Solace’s chest. He was so devastated, so worried, so hurt both mentally and physically.

  A sick feeling washed over her, and she swallowed hard. She waited until the spasm passed. She kept her eyes on him, knowing that he was going to need a hell of a lot more than her silence and sympathy.

  Swallowing again, she eased in a steadying breath. “I’m sorry about Errol, Atticus, HM, the commandos and…Oliver,” she whispered, her voice breaking a little. “He’s got to make it.”

  He turned around to face her when she spoke, reaching for and wrapping a towel around his lower body. Fast Lane bent his head and braced his arm against the tile, and Solace saw his chest heave. And she knew. Knew. Without thinking, she crossed to him, a fierce protective feeling welling up inside her. She put her arms around him. He tried to pull away, but she pressed her face against him and tightened her hold, her throat clogged with tears. It tore her to shreds, knowing that he was traumatized, hurting like hell, and still refusing to let go and accept comfort from her, knowing that he wouldn’t share his grief with anyone.