CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARSHALL
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“Looks like I lied,” I say to Rodriques as he turns his head.
No surprises, Adams . He’d asked me, and I’d said this would be a clean job.
He’s clearly pissed with Miller, and so am I. But what’s done is done and as soldiers we have to pivot when things don’t go to plan.
I still have a target breathing.
I need to get down on the ground to find my target. I can’t just head home and be all like, sorry, he ran away. That’s not how these things work.
My job is to get this mission done and then return. Not beforehand.
Hopefully not in a body bag.
Unfortunately, I don’t have backup and Delta Force has completed their mission. I’m unsure what support I have now. I’m not an enlisted US soldier so unless their instructions were to remain with me until the job is done, I might be on my own.
The gunfire slows down and we hear vehicles starting up.
Shit.
“I’ve got to move.” I scramble to my feet and just as I’m about to take off, Rodriques pulls me down. Which isn’t an easy thing to do. I have about twenty pounds on the guy.
On most guys.
But then again, he might have a higher percentage of muscle than me being on active duty. I’ll leave that part out of my report.
“Tell me this fucker is dying for national security reasons.”
“Try global.” I grind out.
It takes him less than five seconds to make a decision. Then with a couple of basic hand and arm signals to his team, I know he’s pivoting.
And I’ll have backup.
“New mission.” Rodriques orders then his eyes land on me. “We need an identity.”
I make my own fast decision. If the uranium gets into the hands of Iran, then the world is fucked. Nobody should have nuclear weapons. It’s a dead man’s war.
It’s a species eliminator.
Put in the hands of proven and historical radical evil such as those in positions of power in Iran, it would be the end game.
For all of us.
Right now, I’m the one man on the planet who has been empowered to stop it. So, fuck security clearance, I need the help of these Tier One operators. This is what they do.
Why they haven’t is above my pay grade.
I rip out my phone and swipe, showing him the photo.
Rodriques studies it for two seconds, nods, then hands it to Lieutenants Forte and Mickelson.
“Yeah, I saw him,” Forte says.
“Let’s go. Taylor, you keep Lieutenant Miller with you and sober him up. Radio in for a retrieval in twenty-four hours if we aren’t back.”
Fuck me. This was supposed to be an in-and-out job. That drunk asshole fucked this up for all of us. We’re lucky no one got a bullet, and no missile launchers have been set off.
Yet.
“He doesn’t deserve to be here,” Miller grumbles, and it’s becoming clearer just how intoxicated he is.
How did we not notice? Then again he’s probably been sipping away for hours, and dehydration tipped him over the edge.
The four of us—Forte, Mickelson, Rodriques, and I—grab our weapons and race down the hill.
“White shirt,” Forte calls out. “He’s getting in the SUV.”
Shit.
“We need a vehicle,” Rodriques calls out as we reach the road and the SUV tires spin, dust flying in the air.
We run toward the cars that are parked in front of the houses and start yanking on the handles.
Shots are still being fired at us, so I duck and curse until finally Mickelson yells. “Got one!”
We clamber into the old truck as he gets it started, then, foot to the floor, the roar of the engine fills the air as we race away and out across the desert.
Farther from Trina.
Farther from home.
I tug my satellite phone out of my pack and send a message to Josh. He won’t be happy.
Fuck, I’m not happy.
Ahmad Al-Kharafi has enough of a lead on us in the modern vehicle that we trail behind them as we follow.
“Faster.” Forte bangs on the dash.
“Dude this isn’t a Maser-fucking-rati.” Mickelson laughs.
Rodriques smirks.
I rip out a handgun and lean out the window. Someone tugs on my pants to stop me falling out and I aim.
One tire goes out.
“Nice,” Forte says, and as we finally make ground on them, the assholes begin shooting at us.
I am climbing back inside the vehicle when a bullet grazes my arm.
“Ah shit,” I yell and grab at the flesh wound. “Jesus motherfucker.”
The truck bounces and pain shoots through my shoulder. It’s not my first bullet wound and likely won’t be my last.
“Stay back a little. Let them run out of bullets.” Rodriques instructs as he grips the back of Mickelson’s seat and leans forward to look at my wound.
Then my phone beeps.
Josh. With an order to call. It’s now or never, so I press dial and put the phone to my ear.
“Marshall,” Josh answers. “What’s happening?”
“I’m shot.” I yell. “I’m with Delta Force, and we are in pursuit following Ahmad Al-Kharafi across the desert.”
Silence.
“That wasn’t the plan,” he responds, and I hear the worry in his voice.
“Yeah, we’re pivoting.” I groan.
The loud engine doesn’t allow me to hear everything clearly, but I hear him curse and I’m certain I heard Aidan, too.
“How bad?” Josh asks.
I glance down at my arm, but it’s too dark to see. The pain is fucking terrible, and from the amount of sticky blood on my fingers I know it’s a little worse than just a graze.
“Flesh wound. Maybe a little deeper,” I reply.
“What do you need?” Josh demands.
A helicopter, three course meal, and a pina fucking colada would be nice right about now. So would Trina’s gorgeous body sliding down onto my cock.
I’m not a dying man, at least not yet, but he asked.
“Few stitches would be good, but what we really need is backup.” I tell him. “If you can pull some strings and get a Black Hawk out here that would be a game changer.”
We all know getting one into Iran airspace is fucking risky. It’s why we came in on foot over the past few days. That and we were obviously coming in covertly.
It’s not impossible.
Not when you have a valuable Delta team and a wounded private operative on their own in the dessert.
“Situation and coordinates?” Josh replies, not wasting time.
Mickelson yells them out.
“Roger that.” Josh’s voice is getting crackly.
“We’re heading east,” I say and share the vehicle details then clarify. “We’ll stay on them with our priority being to eliminate the target.”
Rodriques takes the phone as we hit a bump and it wobbles in my hand, then puts it on the speaker.
“Lieutenant Jose Rodriques here from Delta Force.”
“Josh Black, Navy SEAL,” he responds.
Rodriques smiles at me. “I know who you are, man. Most of us do.”
Josh is silent.
Humble motherfucker.
“Adams needs medical assistance. We have some supplies, but our team has broken up. If you can get air support as close as possible, as soon as possible, we’ll get your boy back home.”
Am I that bad?
Light headedness kicks in.
Yeah, fuck, I might be.
“Don’t die, Marshall, or I’ll kick your fucking ass,” Adian says in the background.
Shit. I do not want my mother getting a phone call. Not after leaving the military and knowing she currently thinks I’m on US soil sipping green sludge in some ridiculous LA café.
I can’t exactly email them and tell them when I leave for these operations.
And I don’t want Trina knowing about this. She’s already running scared.
I am determined to fuck that sexy woman.
“Wait as long as you can before calling my folks.” I hear Adian cursing again. “And tell Trina that was one hell of a kiss. Next time.”
I’m going to fight to stay alive.
She’s my north goddamn star.
The thing about not being enlisted is you don’t have a letter ready to go. Almost all soldiers do. Army, Navy, whatever. You have your letter.
I ripped mine up.
Even when I knew I was coming over here this week, I didn’t bother preparing anything. Fucking Miller. It would have been a clean shot and we’d be on our way home.
Forte reaches over the front seat, banging his head on the roof, and starts wrapping my arm with a bandage.
“We’ll get your boy home. This is what we do,” he yells as more gunfire hits the vehicle.
“Make sure you do. I’ll pull all the strings I can. You’ll have your chopper,” Josh says firmly. “And Marshall, you can take Trina home to meet your mom when you get back.”
I snort.
That would be like dragging a thrashing alligator through the marshes to Disney World.
But I’m up for the challenge.