Danger Close (Pathfinders #2)

Prologue

The hallway exploded with gunfire.

Ricky dropped low, squeezing three tight rounds into the first shape that moved at the far end of the corridor.

The flash of automatic fire lit up the plaster walls in stuttering bursts—like lightning through a tunnel.

Someone yelled in Russian. Another voice—closer—screamed as Marsh’s rifle barked sharp and fast.

The air stank of burnt gunpowder, wet wood, and old blood. The walls were too close, the sounds too loud. Ricky’s heart pounded behind his ribs like it was trying to escape.

“Left’s not clear!” Hogan shouted.

“Then we make it fucking clear,” Ricky growled, pushing off the wall and charging forward, rifle steady. A figure stepped from a doorway ahead—too slow. Ricky didn’t hesitate. One shot to the chest, one to the neck. The body crumpled sideways, twitching.

Bateman was behind him, slower than he should’ve been, limping hard. Ricky caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye—face pale, gritted with pain.

“On me!” Ricky barked. “Exit’s twenty feet!”

The steel door at the end of the hallway loomed like salvation. Marsh cleared a path to it, Dale laying down a wall of suppressing fire. Ricky reached it first, slammed his shoulder into the rusty frame, and the door screamed open into a wall of cold rain and deepening twilight.

They burst into the forest like ghosts set loose.

“Slow the fuck down,” came Bateman’s rough voice. “I’m not training for a goddamn marathon here, Ricky.”

Ricky didn’t look back. “Then maybe next time don’t get your ass kicked by a guy named after a salad.”

“His name was Sergei,” Anton muttered.

“Exactly.”

Ricky heard Marsh snort behind them. Bateman grumbled something unintelligible and kicked at a branch, nearly slipping in the mud. Ricky turned back just enough to steady him before he could fall.

“I’m fine,” Bateman snapped, brushing him off.

“No, you’re not. You’re half a step from face-planting into a puddle and I’m not carrying your concussed ass again,” Ricky replied, jaw tight. “Keep up but keep quiet.”

Bateman huffed in a painful breath. “You’re such a dick when you’re worried.”

Ignoring him, Ricky called out. “Van!”

“Yup” Van responded, not taking his eye from his scope, scanning behind them, watching their six like always.

“If he falls behind you and you get him in your scope, shoot him”

Bateman scowled. “Fucking nice.”

Ricky shrugged then moved forward. “No one ever called me nice, LT.”

The trees were tall and close, dripping with rain that fell like glass needles. The air was cooler out here, sharp with the smell of pine and wet dirt. The forest floor squelched underfoot, thick with rotting leaves and mud that sucked at his boots.

They walked on a little more

“You good?” Ricky called.

Bateman shot him a dirty look. “Do I look good?”

“You look like hell and smell worse. Keep moving.” Ricky had always thought honesty was the best policy.

They pushed forward into the trees. Twilight thickened by the second, shadows bleeding across the forest floor like spilled ink. Ricky took point again, the canopy overhead muting the rain but doing nothing for the visibility. He moved fast, scanning for movement, breath fogging in the damp air.

Then, ahead, the trees thinned, and the cracked line of an old road sliced through the woods like a scar.

Ricky froze. “Eyes on.”

The forest had gone still in the worst possible way. They came to the edge of the tree line beside the abandoned road, the cracked asphalt shining wet and black under the dying light. That’s when Ricky saw them—three figures at the far end of the road, rifles slung like they owned the place.

He threw a fist up, signaling stop.

The others stopped behind him.

Bateman hissed, “Contact?”

“Three. Maybe more in the trees. They’re waiting for us to step out.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Bateman muttered. “I always wanted to die wet, cold, and underdressed.”

Ricky shouldered his rifle. “We go left, take cover at that tree line and—”

A shout cracked the air. One of the enemy stepped forward, weapon raised.

“Move!” Ricky barked.

Gunfire erupted. Ricky pushed Bateman hard to the side just as the first bullet hissed past. Another came fast—and he turned into it, catching it clean through his shoulder.

The force staggered him, but he stayed upright. Pain bloomed hot and sharp down his side.

“Fuck!” Bateman yelled, dragging him toward cover. “Man down! What the hell was that, Ricky?”

“Better me than you,” Ricky grunted, blood already soaking his shirt. “You’ve already lost too much blood.”

They dropped behind a wrecked car at the road’s edge as Marsh, Van, and Hogan laid suppressing fire from the trees. Dale’s sharp command barked through the comms, and the team moved in unison like the fucking war gods they were.

It didn’t take long. Seconds of chaos and then it was quiet again, save for the rain and Bateman’s pissed-off breathing.

“You stupid, reckless, son of a bitch—what the fuck were you thinking?” Bateman demanded, crouched beside him. “That was a kill shot aimed for me!”

“Yeah. I noticed.” Ricky said dryly, trying not to think about how much that fucking hurt.

Bateman’s eyes flashed. “You’re smiling? Are you—Jesus, Ricky, don’t fucking die with that smug look on your face.”

Ricky chuckled, the sound tight and hoarse. “Relax. It’s just a shoulder. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“That’s not the point!” Bateman practically shouted. “You think throwing yourself in front of me proves something?”

“Yeah,” Ricky muttered, letting his head fall back against the wet metal behind them. “That I give a shit.”

Everyone went quiet.

Even Marsh, who was already pulling gauze and gloves from his kit, paused.

“That’s ... new,” Marsh said slowly.

“Shut up,” Ricky and Bateman said at the same time.

Marsh crouched beside him, shaking his head. “Damn, Bowen. Never thought I’d see the day you catch a bullet and feels at the same time.”

“I did not catch feels, you unsympathetic asshole,” Ricky grumbled.

“You’re bleeding and smiling,” Hogan added helpfully. “That’s worse.”

Ricky hissed as Marsh began cleaning the wound. “I’m just glad it was me and not him.”

Van rolled his eyes. “He’s delirious. He’s obviously dying.”

Ricky grinned even more. “I’m not dying.”

Bateman looked skeptical. “You’re still smiling. That’s a bad sign.”

Marsh chuckled. “You’ll live. But you’ll be a pain in the ass about it.”

Ricky closed his eyes for a second, letting the rain cool his burning skin. “Saw a farmhouse up the road. Not much to look at, small. Dry. Defensible. We can move there.”

Bateman leaned back, arms crossed, still scowling. “You don’t get to give orders when you’re shot.”

Ricky cracked one eye open and looked up at his superior officer. “Wanna carry me this time?”

Bateman grinned. “Touché.”

The team regrouped, weapons raised, eyes sharp.

They had ground to cover, a wounded man, and a hell of a lot of answers still out there.

But for now, they had each other.