Hidden Debt (Special Tactical Assault Group #1)

Prologue

“Hey man. Drop this at the post office on your way out.”

Grant McDowell looked up from lacing his boots just in time to catch the small package his teammate tossed in his direction.

“Yeah, no problem.” He glanced down at the address and cleared his throat. “Sending love notes to Everly?”

Jeremy Holland snorted from where he lay on his cot, playing a hack-and-slash game on an ancient Xbox that had seen better days. “Yeah, something like that,” he replied without looking up from the TV.

Grant turned the padded envelope over in his hand. Holland wouldn’t be so cavalier if he knew that his wife had a starring role in most of Grant’s dreams—sleeping and waking. “How’s she been?” He hoped his question sounded casual enough.

“Fine, I guess. Haven’t heard from her much.” Jeremy mashed the controller buttons frantically as his character was overpowered by a horde of ninja warriors. “Fuck!” He threw the controller, and it bounced off the soft wall of the tent and landed on the floor.

Grant raised an eyebrow, but let it drop.

No use lighting a match in a powder keg.

The entire team was on edge, and had been for days.

Special Tactical Assault Group missions were controlled and efficient, but this one had been a clusterfuck from the start.

Bad intel had cost them their target, and now they were here, at this godforsaken desert base that should’ve been shut down a decade ago.

STAG never lingered, and all of them were anxious to get the job done and get the hell out of here.

As soon as he was stateside, Grant was going to find the nearest willing woman and spend a few days clearing his head of the memories of this mission.

And thoughts of Everly Holland. He stood and tucked the envelope into his pants pocket, then glanced back towards his teammate and friend, still stretched out on the cot. “Heading out. Be back in a bit.”

Jeremy didn’t respond.

Stepping outside was like walking into an oven, and sweat instantly began to pool on Grant’s chest and back. He grimaced. Forget finding a woman—when this mission was over, he was hopping on a cruise ship to Alaska.

The envelope’s corner dug into his leg through the fabric of his pants, and that minor discomfort combined with the oppressive heat was enough to sharpen his annoyance into irritability. He didn’t even know where the fucking post office was, he realized. Shit.

He headed for the center of the base, scanning the sand-weathered buildings and tents as he passed, hoping to spot another soldier unlucky enough to be out during the hottest part of the day.

Someone who could provide directions. Nothing but empty doorways greeted him at every turn, and Grant cursed, wiping at the sweat now stinging his eyes.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, the sound rattling the ground beneath him, and he froze. Not thunder . Mortar rounds .

Every thought of the post office, the package, even the heat was forgotten as he whirled, trying to figure out where it had come from. Was it two warring factions out in the desert, fighting amongst themselves? Or—

Dread shot up his spine as an alarm cut through the din. That alarm sounded for only one thing: incoming fire.

He barely had time to take cover behind a concrete wall before a shell slammed into the ground where he’d been standing. Fuck. The base was taking fire, and he was stuck out here with no gear, no weapon—

Sand sprayed as artillery rained down around him.

Grant covered his head and waited for a break in the onslaught, an opportunity to make it back to his teammates and fight.

Another blast rolled through, and a sharp cry sounded over the noise.

He dared a glance over the wall to see a soldier he didn’t recognize sprawled in the road, blood gushing from a wound in his leg.

Grant launched himself over the wall and pressed his bare hand to the gaping wound on the man’s thigh, praying it would be enough to keep him from bleeding out.

“They hit headquarters,” the soldier—Landry, according to his name tape—gasped, his lips and face dangerously pale. Grant ripped the belt from his uniform and knelt beside him.

“How bad?” he bit out as he fastened the belt as tight as he could around Landry’s leg, above the wound.

“Bad.”

He had to get to his teammates, but leaving a fellow soldier was out of the question.

“Hang on, man. This is gonna hurt.” Grant bent Landry’s legs, crossing his feet, then hauled him up and over his shoulders in one smooth movement.

Shells continued to rain down as he ducked and ran back the way he’d come.

“Med station up there,” Landry said, his voice faint. His wrist strained against Grant’s grasp as he pointed at a small building up the road. Even at this distance, he could make out several figures swarming around, already triaging the wounded.

With his goal in sight, Grant pushed on, ignoring his screaming leg muscles.

Landry’s weight settled all the way against his shoulders, and he knew the man had lost consciousness.

He ran faster, no longer worried about jostling the shattered leg, and breathed a sigh of relief as he finally reached the med station.

“He’s bleeding out!” Grant yelled to no one in particular, rushing through the open doorway. The building was already packed with soldiers, every cot occupied.

“Right here.” A medic appeared at his side and motioned to the floor. She helped Grant unshoulder Landry as gently as he could, then knelt and began to cut away at his bloody pants leg.

“Tourniquet went on about 10 minutes ago,” he said.

The medic’s expression was grim. “We’ll take it from here.”

He peeled off his sweat-soaked uniform top and folded it up, sliding it underneath Landry’s head while the medic leaned over and fished out his dog tags. Grant swallowed hard and forced himself to look away. He’d done what he could, and now STAG needed him.

Shells still pelted the ground outside, and he darted between buildings, finally reaching the tents that made up STAG’s operating area. Clouds of fine sand hung suspended in the air, and Grant squinted into the gritty fog as he ran.

“McDowell!”

Holland stood unmoving in the doorway of their tent, his eyes glassy.

Grant made out his other teammates in the distance, Noah Taylor’s voice shouting orders in between explosions.

“Holland! What the hell are you doing? We gotta move!” Grant grabbed for Jeremy’s arm, but Holland jerked it away. “What the fuck, Holland? Now!”

“They’re here, man. They’re here.” Jeremy finally met Grant’s stare. “I fucked up.”

A whoosh sounded overhead, then another, and Grant braced himself for the impact. “What the hell are you talking about? Let’s go!” He was going to have to haul Holland’s comatose ass out of here before it was too late. “C’mon. Let’s get you home to Everly.”

Everly.

Her face, her smile, her laugh were the last things Grant thought of before a shell exploded just behind him, and he knew no more.