Seek and Destroy (2 page)

    Silently locking the bipod in place, he lined the crosshairs across Khalil's chest. The apprehension threatened to surface again, but he pushed down the unease and steadied his hands.

    Time to do what he did best. "Target in sight," he mentioned, barely above a sigh.

    "Take him out. One shot. Make it clean." Weber paused and then added, "Not the chest. Too much of a chance it'll bounce off the vitals. Always give them a third eye."

    He acknowledged and repositioned the crosshairs before gently squeezing the trigger.

    
Pop.

    Khalil dropped like a sack of shit. Because of the silencer, the goons surrounding him had no idea where the shot came from. Half of them screamed and pointed toward the brush, while the other half pointed off toward the woods surrounding two-thirds of their compound. A few of them fell to their knees and cried out when they saw the puddle of blood forming under their boss' head.

    "Nice shot," Weber whispered. He heard him as if he'd shouted right into his ear.

    "Yes, it was." He turned and followed Weber back toward their rendezvous point. The sun shone directly overhead. The sweat in his eyes blinded him. He could just make out the blurred shadow of Weber up ahead.

    He smiled inwardly. He had no reason to be nervous. The unwarranted apprehension dissipated. Easy in. Easy out. He needed to learn to listen to his boss, to ignore that nagging feeling something bad was about to-

    He didn't have time to finish his thought before Weber went still and motioned for him to flatten out. With the hand signals they both knew in their sleep, Weber told him three men stumbled around in the grass ahead, casing the brush.

    Brush? Hardly. The men searched through the dead grass field. If they turned ninety degrees and simply lifted their gaze fifty feet in front of them, David and Weber would be toast. The grass didn't even remotely cover them.

    Oh shit. Weber started to reach for his Uzi as two of the men did, indeed, turn the needed ninety degrees, putting them in direct view.

    
Not a noise,
Weber signed.
Don't move. Don't even breathe.

    He forced a sense of calm. Panic didn't exist in a NASSD agent. Panic equaled death. One false move, one panic-induced meltdown and they were dead.

    Weber motioned for him to slowly back up. As deftly as possible, he did. And promptly snapped the loudest goddamn stick in existence.

    Pandemonium erupted. Weber jumped to his feet and started screaming something in Arabic. He made a mental note to learn the language once and for all. Weber had been talking to the locals the entire op and David hadn't a clue what he'd said. Very un-NASSD agent-like of him.

    He jumped to his feet and started screaming nonsense, mimicking Weber. He had no idea what he said, or if he said anything at all. But, apparently it worked. The men all dropped their weapons and raised their hands to the sky.

    Cool.

    He watched those in his peripherals, confirming they all, indeed, dropped their weapons. He blinked the burn back, the damn sweat blurring his vision. His unease grew to anxiety, which grew to full-blown fear. This
right here
explained why he had such an uneasy feeling. Two men with guns jump up and disarm an entire army after taking out their leader? It didn't make sense. The men should be pissed, ready to shoot the bastards who killed Khalil. They were trained to kill, not to give up at the first sign of a fight.

    No. It had to be a trap. He attempted to get Weber's attention with hand signals, but he wouldn't acknowledge. "Weber," he whispered into the lip-mic when the hand signal didn't work.

    Weber ignored him.

    "Weber," he pushed. "This is wrong."

    "Mirror my lead," Weber responded. He then started yelling something in Arabic and moved forward, herding all of the men together.

    He blinked again in an attempt to clear the sweat. Fighting against his body's need to keep them closed, he forced them back open. The dirt felt like eighty grit sandpaper scraping his eyes instead of his lids.

    Every internal alarm screamed to life.
Behind you
, his instincts shouted. He spun around. A man with a big ass gun had Weber in his sights. The man darted his eyes at David when he realized he'd been spotted.

    What happened next moved in slow motion. The man cocked his 8mm. David cocked his Uzi in return. As he looked into the man's eyes-black as coal and windows to a soul just as black-he realized what was about to happen.

    Oh Jesus.
No!

    He broke into a sprint as the rapport of the gun echoed into the hot afternoon. He jumped and pushed at Weber, taking the bullet meant for his mentor, his director, his best friend.

    The bullet ripped through his right shoulder. The sharp explosion of white-hot pain stabbed into his flesh. The Kevspa couldn't deflect an 8mm at this range. Nothing could. Instead of feeling another rip of agony as the bullet tore out the other side of his shoulder, he felt the jarring sensation of something blazing and very pissed off bounce down his ribcage.

    "Shit!" He spun and lost his balance. He tensed and involuntarily released the gun out of his hands. Weber straightened and fired for cover just as David went down.

    Shaking to control the pain as it tried to consume him into darkness, he rolled, coming back up with his gun in his left hand. He took out the front line, while Weber took out the next row.

    
Stay conscious. Stay conscious.

    He tried to stand but his knees wouldn't hold him. His vision blurred, but for an entirely different reason. The excruciating sensation of a fireball ripping through his body kept him down. His lungs refused to pull in any oxygen. He tasted his own blood. Forcing himself up, he made it to his knees but didn't have the strength to make it to his feet. He tried, but the pain blinded him, nauseated him, weakened him. Falling back down to his knees, he doubled over, holding himself up with his elbows. He started to shake.

    No, no, no! He refused to go down. Weber wouldn't be able to take out all of those men alone. David was his back up. Weber needed him. Wait. He took the lead on this, didn't he? Ah, nothing made sense. His brain wouldn't clear, the pain leaving room for nothing else.

    
Open your eyes, Snyder!

    More shots. They sounded so distant. He fought against the urge to close his eyes. He couldn't see, the focus simply not there. Pushing himself up to his knees, he blinked and spotted two men jumping off the porch to join in the fun.

    He raised the gun and fired until they both dropped. The air smelled like gunpowder as it fell silent. He panted against the pain, wanting to scream and give in to the all-consuming torture. He'd been shot before, but only in the arm. Clean exit, that one. A little patch job and he was as good as new.

    Something told him he wouldn't get off that lucky this time. He tried to stand, but his legs had other plans. Leaning on the stock of his gun, he took a shallow breath and felt the distinct gurgle. Shit. The bullet had punctured a lung.

    "Can you move?" Weber pulled him up, held him until he stood on his own. He swayed, but stayed on his feet.

    He started sweating again. A cold sweat that delivered with it chills stemming from his bones. He squinted to remain focused as the trees in front of them started to lose some their sharpness. His eyes just made out their guns.

    Guns? Since when did trees have guns?

    "We've got company. Stay with me, buddy. You up for another round?"

    "Uh huh," he mumbled. His gun felt like a lead weight in his useless arm, and he had no idea how much blood he'd already lost. From the way he felt like he just woke up from a seven-day drunk, he'd say he had another two minutes before he passed out.

    God willing.

    With more accuracy than he expected he'd have since he thought their 'friends' still looked like trees with guns, he kept his finger on the trigger until all the trees had fallen.

    "We need to move out before another wave of guerrillas find us."

    He knew better than to think Weber would give a shit about the wound. If he had the strength, he would have cold cocked the heartless bastard. Instead, he just wanted to collapse in his arms and close his eyes. He understood the haste to retreat, to focus on the wound once they were clear, but it pissed him off, nonetheless. He looked up to see a beautiful blue sky, a bright blazing sun. Funny how cold he felt. Five minutes ago the sun damn near melted the clothes to his skin.

    "Get up, Snyder."

    "I...am...up." The brightness of the day dulled. Nighttime must come early in the Middle East. He didn't remember it getting dark this early yesterday. The pain threatening to pull him into an abyss dulled.

    "Get up. That's an order!"

    "Just...sec..." Five minutes. He only needed five minutes to catch his breath.

    Weber cussed and tucked himself under David's arm, pulling him up and dragging him off toward the rendezvous point where the van waited for them. The jarring sent him into uncontrollable convulsions. The tidal wave of nausea consumed him and he started to gag.

    "Hang on, buddy. And if you puke on me, I'm gonna kick your ass."

    "Try...it..."

    They made it back to the van in record time for a man carrying dead weight. Weber threw open the back door and literally tossed him inside. He grunted as he landed with a thud. Weber followed and slammed the door closed behind him. "Go!"

    The van lurched to a start. He squinted up at the driver, recognized the silhouette. "Hey...JT."

    "What the hell? I told you to stay back, JT!" Weber barked at his wife.

    "I had to promise never to bake another birthday cake for Haynes before he finally agreed to let me do this. He's just on the other side of the hill waiting with the rest of the team." She paused. "Jesus, Snyder. You look like hell. How'd it go?" JT Weber asked as she drove like a bat out of hell. She'd obviously been taking lessons from her husband.

    "Piece of cake," Weber replied, the tone of his voice conveying an entirely different message.

    "What happened?"

    "Tr...Trees." David slurred his words.

    "Get us to that bird, JT. He's fading on us."

    He blinked when the van started to darken. And then it started to spin. He blinked again. He tried to open his eyes, but suddenly had fifty-pound weights attached to his lids. The van lost all its detail.

    He would not die, not here. Not now. He'd finally made lead at NASSD. It took him ten years. Ten goddamn years and he blew his first op as lead. Shit. "W-Weber?"

    "Yeah, buddy?"

    "Sorry." Sorry for letting you down. Sorry for not being more prepared. Sorry for getting shot.

    "Don't. You have nothing to be sorry about. Just stay with me." He then said something David didn't catch. The noises faded. The light faded.
He
faded.

    "Hang on, Snyder. We've got a bird waiting for us. JT's already radioed ahead. They know you're in bad shape."

    Bad shape? He didn't feel in bad shape. As a matter of fact, he didn't feel much of anything. Thank God. At least the pain had diminished. What an odd sensation. Like being shot full of Novocain. He took a breath to protest. It felt like someone held him underwater.

    He pushed to remain conscious. With his last drip of energy, he opened his eyes to slits and looked up at Weber. They didn't need to say a word. He saw it in Weber's eyes.

    He wasn't going to make it.

    He couldn't take it, seeing how his mistake affected Weber. He lost his focus and tried to take another breath. Shit. He couldn't breathe. He fought against the vise squeezing his chest, but didn't have the energy. A strange gurgling escaped his throat as he exhaled. "Can't-”

    Before he finished, the van faded into complete darkness, and he allowed that darkness to swallow him. The last thing he heard was Weber's voice ordering him to hold on.

    

    

    "I shouldn't have let you talk me out of this op." JT's voice pulled David out of his sleep. Still groggy, and not sure whether he should move let alone whether he wanted to, he remained still and listened.

    "I'm the boss," Weber replied.

    "I'm the wife of the boss," JT retorted.

    "All the more reason you don't need to be out there. Not in your condition."

    Condition? He tuned his ears into the juicy conversation between the director and his wife.

    "Sweetheart, you are pregnant."

    Holy hell. JT? Pregnant? He forced his eyes open to see Dan and JT pacing at the foot of what he guessed to be a hospital bed. Actually, JT sat. Weber paced, as usual whenever he had a lot on his mind.

    The Webers didn't notice him. "I know!" JT didn't seem pleased with the news. His gaze dropped to her abdomen, noticed how flat and toned it appeared under her BDUs. She must not be too far along. "The morning pukings and constant nausea remind me of that!"

    "You don't sound happy."

    "We wanted to wait, Dan!" JT flung her arms around as she talked, signaling her growing agitation. Okay, the time for eavesdropping needed to stop before he witnessed one of her panic-induced meltdowns. He'd been on the receiving end more than once and didn't even want to watch, let alone end up in the crossfire.

    David tried to raise his arm to catch their attention. The pain from his attempted movement clouded his vision with black dots, so intense it burned. He rested his arm and took a slight breath to speak. Tears sprang to his eyes. Even breathing hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.