Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (2 page)

I know that I will be called upon to perform tasks in isolation, far from familiar faces and voices, with the help and guidance of my God.

I will keep my mind and body clean, alert and strong, for this is my debt to those who depend upon me.

I will not fail those with whom I serve.

I will not bring shame upon myself or the forces.

I will maintain myself, my arms, and my equipment in an immaculate state as befits a Special Forces soldier.

I will never surrender though I be the last.

If I am taken, I pray that I may have the strength to spit upon my enemy.

My goal is to succeed in any mission—and live to succeed again.

I am a member of my nation’s chosen soldiery.

God grant that I may not be found wanting, that I will not fail this sacred trust.

“De Oppresso Liber”

G
rip of death. The icy maw of winter in the Hindu Kush crushed breath from lungs with hammering winds. Bone-numbing iciness. Snowdrifts that could bury an entire mountain face as quickly as it could a person. Bitter and cruel, winter in Afghanistan held nothing back. Much like the insurgents trying to stop Raptor from seeing Christmas. Between deadly crevasses and IED-laden roads, the mountain range was a veritable kill zone.

Staff Sergeant Brian “Hawk” Bledsoe scrambled for cover. Shoulder to the hill, he ignored the rocks digging into his joint. “What’d you see?” he shouted ahead.

Captain Dean Watters went to a knee three yards up, a small cleft the only protection against the rounds of the Taliban they’d happened upon. “Eight, maybe ten fighters,” the commander called over his shoulder.

As the communications sergeant of Raptor team, Brian was responsible for establishing and maintaining tactical and operational communications. He’d really like to communicate as much death to these death-loving Taliban as possible. “Mockingbird, this is Hawk. Raptor team is taking fire. Request air support.”

“Hawk, this is Mockingbird. Sorry, but negative on the air support.”

Brian’s gut tightened. “Mockingbird, I repeat—need
immediate
assist.”

“Raptor, your location is designated no-fly at this time.”

“What the—?”

“Raptor, advise you disengage and RTB. Mockingbird out.”

“Return to base,” Brian muttered. “If we could do that—”

Rock and dirt spat at him.

Brian buried his chin, hunching against the barrage of weapons’ fire. “If we die,” he shouted into the coms, “it’s your butt!” Snapping up his weapon, he cursed.

And immediately felt the disapproval of the team captain. Brian slid his gaze in that direction. Sure enough—a scowl. “We’re on our own,” Brian bit out as he shifted around and aimed his M4 over the limb of a snow-draped shrub. Scanning the hill above them, he groaned. Insurgents had the high ground. Meant they had the advantage, too.

Which meant Raptor had to find the dogs and rout them.

He threw himself up the footpath and behind a bramble of shrubs. In position, he eased his weapon through the icy tundra and again checked the hillside. A patch of tan—smooth and consistent—peeked out.

Brian eased back the trigger. Nice and easy. Three-round burst.

A body tumbled from a ledge.

Hooah
. One down, too many to go. He reacquired the location. Scanned left with his pulse whooshing in his ears. Two days. Two lousy days left before some R & R, and
now
they step into this mess? He continued searching for the terrorists. Rocks. Debris. A defiant sprig of green.

Gray!

Brian fired—and saw the small explosion of muzzle flash seconds before he felt the searing across his arm. With a hiss, he dropped back against the hill, rocks and twigs digging into his back as someone on Raptor returned fire.

“You okay?” Mitchell “Harrier” Black shouted.

“Fine.” Brian glanced down at his arm, the trail of blood small. “Just made me a little madder.”

“Pity the guy,” Harrier quipped.

“Nah,” Eamon Straider, the Australian SAS corporal they’d dubbed Titanis, said. “I just delivered him to his seventy-two virgins.”

“Hooah,” the captain murmured.

Falcon elbowed out of the rocky alcove in which he’d taken cover and started forward. “Let’s finish this. I’m ready to head home.”

Home. The guys all had somewhere to go, someone to spend the holidays with. Lucky ducks had—

“Hawk, your six!”

As the shouts of his call sign registered, so did the crunching of rocks behind him. Brian spun, coming up just in time to see something—
someone
—dropping on him. Adrenaline jacked, he knew this was fight or die! He lifted his arms.

Too late!

His head thudded against the rocks. Teeth clattered.

Weapon!

Brian grabbed the top end of the Talib’s AK-47 and jerked it forward, yanking his enemy with it—right into his fist. A solid crack sent the insurgent stumbling backward. Brian leapt after him. The guy had come to kill him. If he let him get away, the terrorist would find a way to finish the job. So Brian had to finish him first. He landed on the guy, skidding across the downsloping path. With a swift draw of his Cold Steel SRK, Brian ended the terrorist’s life.

Adrenaline spiked, he verified the man was dead before climbing off. Pops and cracks of weapons’ fire continued behind him. Adjusting his M4, he sized up the enemy positions. Where Raptor was pinned down. If they didn’t get to high ground, they’d be
ground
meat.

Grabbing a crevice with both hands, he hauled himself up. This was where his upper body strength, the way he worked off steam and frustration, benefitted him. He might not be as fast as Salvatore “Falcon” Russo, their team sergeant/daddy, but he had the strength to take down the worst of their enemies.

“Hawk!” Captain Watters’s shout chased him up the hillside. “Hawk, no!”

Too late. He was halfway up and angrier than ever. These terrorists screamed and demanded honor but fought without it. The way they hid like cowards and picked off his team, men who worked hard to help make Afghanistan successful and peaceful in its own right, ticked him off. “And what do we get,” he grunted as he dragged himself up the last stretch. “Shot!”

Hidden in a deep crevasse that gave him a sweet line of sight on the three shooters, he went to a knee. Propped himself up so he wouldn’t fall. Wind howled over his ears, despite the hat and helmet, as seconds clicked off, waiting for someone to fire at Raptor again so he could spot them.

Crack
.

Brian flicked his weapon’s reticle back to the left. Sighted the first one. Bravado would be the man’s fall—literally. He’d chosen a ledge that exposed him to Brian.
Adios!
He fired. The guy slumped as a crimson stain spread over the rocky edifice.

It took a second to locate the next shooter who’d taken cover, Brian imagined, when his friend went to hang with the virgins. He almost smiled. At least the guy wasn’t making it
too
easy for him. Evening his breathing, Brian took aim and eased back the trigger. The fighter twitched, lost his balance, and fell from his hiding spot.

Now, the third.

Thwack!

Snow and rock dribbled onto Brian’s forehead. With a curse, he took cover. Slipped down the crevasse. He scrabbled for traction. Caught himself with a toe in a small indention. His breath puffed before him. “Easy, easy,” he whispered. Controlled breathing wasn’t easy with his heart pumping twice its normal rate, but Brian focused. He eased down, propping himself forward, weapon trained out. Snow now dusted his muzzle.

More camouflage, he hoped. He slowed his breathing as he traced the rocks. The shrubs. More rocks.
Come out, come out, wherever you
—

Gotcha
.

Brian fired.

Shrieking, the man tumbled forward. The rocky ledge broke.

Pulse rapid-firing, Brian drew back. Stared. In a split-second recon, he saw what was coming. “Oh crap!” A dark line spread across the cleft.

Crack!

The ledge gave way.

“Go, go!” Brian shouted as he twisted around and leaned back, sliding down the treacherous incline. “Avalanche!”

A meaty roar preempted the terror that gripped him. Snow and rock exploded, and with it came the rumbling of a mountain. As if bemoaning the deaths of the insurgents.

Brian threw himself downward, shuffle-sliding down the loose rock and debris.
Keep moving, keep moving
. Like he needed to think it. He had to stay upright and ahead of the deadly elements. His calves burned as rocks and branches tore at his pants and scraped his flesh. Something punched the side of his face. He blinked and bit down hard as pain reverberated through his neck and back. But he didn’t stop.

Finally found traction. Grabbed the ledge and launched himself into the path of Raptor. His body pitched forward. A yank on his drag strap snapped him upright. He sprinted with Falcon, his heart thundering through his ears louder than the wind.

As the rumbling faded and the rocks settled, Brian glanced back. He slowed, his heart rate decelerating. A laugh escaped, disbelieving. He could’ve been buried alive. Once again, he’d cheated death.

“You stupid, insane idiot!” Falcon’s shout ripped through the sudden calm.

Brian ignored the team sergeant.

“What were you thinking?” This time it was Captain Watters. “I told you to
stay
.”

“Stay?” Brian warned himself to calm down as he walked toward their armored vehicle. “They were picking us off like dogs! If I hadn’t done something, we’d still be up there, and who knows what wounds and bodies we’d be carrying back.”

The captain’s eyes blazed. “It wasn’t your call!” Anger lurked behind the normally stoic gaze. “I need to know—”

“—pinned down and taking fire!” crackled through the coms, stunning them into silence. “Repeat: pinned down and taking fire. Request immediate assist!”

Chin tucked, Captain Watters’s gaze shifted down as he listened to the radio chatter.

Brian stilled at the shouted panic erupting through the coms.

“Unidentified caller, this is a U.S. military station. What is your location and designation?”

The captain snapped a finger toward him.

“On it.” Brian snatched out his military-grade GPS.

“Echo Company,” came the shrill voice of someone who identified himself as a private and provided the location.

“Dude.” Brian angled himself around, orienting the GPS. “They’re less than five klicks from us.” He stabbed a finger toward the east. “Over there.”

“Too far. Can’t see anything.” Captain Watters peered through his binoculars.

A strangled scream came through the coms. A string of expletives seared the communication. “They just killed the sergeant!” Whimpering. “Oh man. Oh man. I’m in charge now.”

“What? Is this place crawling with those demons?” Falcon hissed.

“We’ll need a medevac,” Harrier said, glancing in the direction of the attack.

The captain lifted his head but not his gaze. “Eagle—how are we on weapons?”

Staff Sergeant Todd Archer didn’t flinch. Weapons were his responsibility, and he had a finger on the ammo pulse. “Enough to engage but not for anything sustained.”

“Enough to get in and get out?”

“Won’t know till we try.”

“Help!” the voice exploded through the coms. “They just killed two more—oh God, help us!” All-out crying. “Only four of us left. And two are wounded.”

Captain Watters twisted, his face dark and shadowed.

Brian tensed, knowing the captain’s personal story of being ambushed in a convoy and spending months as a POW years ago, tortured and watching his team raped and murdered in front of him. But seriously? “What are we waiting for?”

“We need immediate evac!
Please!
” The team leader under attack provided his coordinates once again.

“That’s the village we were warned to stay out of,” Falcon said. “We go in there…even if we get them out alive, we’re dead meat back at SOCOM.”

“What was a team doing there in the first place?” Titanis gave a single shake of his head. “Sorry, mates. This doesn’t feel right.”

“When
does
combat feel right?” Brian tucked back his frustration and focused on the captain. The one who made the decisions. “We got some of our own in harm’s way. We don’t go in there, and they die…?”

“Hawk’s right. We’re wasting time and lives,” Captain Watters finally announced. “Let’s move!” As the captain keyed his mic, Falcon revved the engine and tore across the rugged terrain. “Mockingbird, this is Raptor Six Actual. We are en route to provide backup and aid to Echo Company.”

“Copy that Raptor Six Actual. I’ve notified Overlook and have been cleared to deploy Glory One. ETA in twelve.”

“Roger that, Mockingbird. Ready those birds for triage.”

Even as the MRAP trounced over the desertlike terrain, Brian felt his gut climb into his throat. Brothers-in-arms were in trouble. Taking heavy fire. He craned his neck and peered out the front armored windows, searching the monochromatic landscape for signs of the attack.