Chapter 3
“Thirty minutes!” The room instantly shifted. The philosophical conversation of earlier gave way to routine. Magazines clicked into pouches. Night vision goggles were checked. Helmets buckled. Weapons loaded, checked, then rechecked. Six men transformed from tired soldiers into professionals.
Soon, the team with the additional members from Praetorian were on their way to yet another mission.
The parameters were clear in each of their minds.
Mission success their goal. But every man on that helicopter knew that things could go FUBAR in an instant.
Including Hoot whose instincts were screaming at him.
Flint had noticed Hoot’s tension wasn’t the normal pre-mission nerves. He’d pulled his second in command aside before they’d even left the planning room. “What is it?”
Years of working side-by-side had honed their ability to interpret even the most minute of their partner’s non-verbal signals.
Decades of operational experience together had honed a deep trust, enabling them to rely on those unspoken cues.
Hoot knew that if he voiced true, verified concerns, Flint would work to postpone the mission.
Unfortunately, in this instance, Hoot couldn’t come up with a concrete answer to what was bothering him.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “Just a niggling feeling.”
“Anything concrete?”
Hoot shook his head. “No.”
“Okay then. I’ll tell the guys to use extra caution.”
As the helicopter flew closer to their target, the niggle grew like an itch he couldn’t reach. Flint gave him one final look as the helicopter approached their target. Notwithstanding his inner misgivings, the sole utterance that escaped his lips was “Charlie Mike.” Continue Mission.
The assault unfolded with practiced precision. The first compound fell in under thirty seconds. The second offered resistance. Suppressed gunfire echoed through narrow hallways. Targets dropped before they could react.
The team flowed from room to room like water finding cracks in stone. Still... the niggle lingered in Hoot. Something wasn’t right. Every instinct he’d honed over nearly twenty years whispered the same warning. Something was waiting. He just couldn’t find it.
Outside the final compound, Flint pulled the team together. “We split here.”
As a well-oiled team, they all nodded. The underground intelligence vault lay beneath the east wing. The HVT occupied secured rooms to the west.
“Voodoo, Atlas, Ma—you’ve got me.”
Flint looked toward the others. “Bullet. Dell. With me.” They’d gone over this mission, detail by detail. They each knew their roll. None needed the reminder of the split yet the order was still given verbally.
Bullet flashed Hoot’s team a grin. “Race you to extraction.”
Hoot managed one in return. “Don’t get cocky.”
“When have I ever?”
Voodoo snorted. “About every five minutes.”
Bullet laughed as the teams separated. The sound lingered with Hoot longer than it should have.
The western wing exploded into violence as automatic fire shredded plaster walls. Mud brick erupted into clouds of dust.
“They’re dug in,” Atlas shouted.
“No kidding”
The closer they came to the HVT, the fiercer the resistance became. As if every fighter in the compound had been ordered to die protecting one man.
The breach charge detonated and the door folded inward. Inside, the HVT reached for a pistol. He was too slow. Hoot slammed him face-first onto the floor and had him in plastic restraints in seconds.
“Package secure,” he reported.
Flint answered immediately. “Vault secure. PSG’s downloading now.”
Minutes later they moved toward the extraction zone. Atlas and Ma escorted the hooded HVT between them. Voodoo watched the rooftops. Hoot covered the rear. The helicopters were close enough now that he could hear the faint chop of rotor blades in the distance.
“Hoot!” The shout came from behind them. He turned to see Bullet running full speed toward them. Fast enough to live up to his nickname. His rifle was already coming to his shoulder. “Down!”
Hoot reacted on instinct, dropping into a crouch. Bullet fired. One shot. Then another. The suppressed rifle barked twice. A figure hidden beneath collapsed masonry pitched backward from a rooftop, rifle tumbling from his hands before he disappeared from sight.
Bullet reached them, breathing hard but grinning ear to ear. “Told you I’d win the race.”
Voodoo looked toward the rooftop. “Damn.”
Atlas let out a low whistle. “Nice shooting.”
Bullet shrugged with exaggerated modesty. “What can I say?” He tapped his own chest. “That’s my good deed for the day.” He pointed toward Hoot with a crooked smile. “Saved your hide.”
Hoot shook his head. “I had it.”
“Sure you did.” Bullet grinned wider. “Karma’s definitely putting that one in the plus column.”
Even Voodoo laughed. “For once, the kid might actually be right.”
Bullet spread his arms dramatically. “See? Good deeds—"
An unexpected non-suppressed rifle cracked. The sound split the night. Bullet jerked. His smile disappeared. For one impossible heartbeat, he simply stood there. Then blood blossomed across the front of his plate carrier. His knees buckled.
Hoot lunged forward. “Bullet!” He caught him before he hit the ground. The young SEAL’s weight crashed into him. “No...” Blood seeped between Hoot’s fingers as he searched desperately for the wound. “No, no, no...”
“Where?” Voodoo shouted.
Another burst of gunfire erupted as Atlas and Voodoo engaged the unseen shooter. Ma was beside him in an instant tearing open his med kit. Dell sprinted from the opposite direction with Flint’s team. Rounds cracked overhead. Someone yelled they’d found the sniper.
Hoot barely heard any of it. His world had narrowed to the young man in his arms. “Stay with me.”
Bullet coughed. Blood touched the corner of his mouth. His eyes struggled to focus until suddenly widening as if he’d just remembered something. Bullet’s gaze searched Hoot’s face with surprising determination. He struggled to speak, his lips forming shapes that never became sound.
“Don’t talk. We’re getting you home.”
The intensity of his stare was locked onto Hoot, conveying a sense of urgency, as if a crucial final word was waiting to be spoken. As Bullet’s lips moved, Hoot stooped, angling his ear towards the man’s whisper. One word. “Pray.”
Hoot frowned. “What?”
“P-Pray...” The word was barely audible and felt unfinished to Hoot.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.
” Bullet’s gaze intensified as if desperately urging him to understand.
Their hands were clasped together and Hoot could feel the strength draining from his teammate’s grip.
“Listen to me. We’ll pray,” he vowed, his voice breaking.
As much as you want. You hear me? We’re getting you home. ”
Bullet didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on Hoot for another second. Then... the tension left his body. The grip eased. The weight changed.
Every combat veteran knew that terrible shift. The exact instant life became memory. “No.”
Hands reached in. Bandages. Chest seals. Commands. It all swarmed around him. But Hoot already knew. The battlefield had gone strangely quiet. Someone rested a hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t remember who. He never remembered who.
And that unfinished sentence echoed through Hoot’s mind.
Hoot jerked awake with a ragged gasp. His bedroom was dark. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. His T-shirt clung to his skin. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Instinctively, he looked at his hands. No blood. Just trembling fingers. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring into the darkness.
Eight years.
Eight years, and the dream refused to leave him alone. It wasn’t history. Not really. The mission had happened. The HVT had been captured. The data secured. PSG celebrated a successful mission. The SEAL team was left with grief.
Hoot leaned forward, rubbing his face with both hands. He remembered the conversation before that mission as clearly as any firefight.
“Do you believe in karma?”
At the time, he’d said life kept score. Now he wondered if life even knew how to count. What kind of cosmic justice let a young man perform the most selfless act imaginable... Only to kill him seconds later?
If that was karma... Then karma was cruel.
Or blind.
Or both.
His room was silent except for the sound of his breathing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Bullet’s last word again.
Pray.
Hoot closed his eyes. He still didn’t know what Bullet had meant, but always felt there was more to it. For years, he’d struggled to make sense of it, to no avail.
But every time the dream came, it left him asking the same questions. He still didn’t know whether he believed in karma.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty. If karma had decided that Bullet’s life was worth less than his own... then karma was dead wrong.