Chapter 1 #2
Another hostile leaned out a window, but Swanson’s burst cut him down before Jerry could fully line up the shot. “I had him, Pie,” Jerry broadcast.
“Too slow,” Swanson replied.
“Lentus est teres,” Jerry said, Latin meaning slow is smooth.
As the team claimed the building, a Humvee crested the hill.
Irritation crawled up Jerry’s neck. DHS had pitched this op as a quick snatch-and-grab.
Nab a known Al-Shabaab informant, get in and out.
No muss. No fuss. At no time did they suggest a firefight in a nowhere village miles from Djibouti.
At least his team had come prepared and knew how to respond.
Norton broadcast, “Bandit. Rooftop. My two o’clock. Over.”
Jerry pivoted and scanned the building facing their objective until he detected movement on the rooftop.
He captured the movement in his crosshairs, seeing only a red-checked headpiece flapping in the wind.
His finger tightened on the target, but he did not fire.
Then his scope filled with the sight of a child, perhaps eight or nine years old, a boy, peering over the escarpment with eyes full of fear and curiosity.
“Six. Bravo Four. Bandit is a non-combatant. Not an aggressor. Maintaining overwatch. Over.”
Jerry kept the child trained in his crosshairs. The bad guys had used all kinds of dirty tricks in the past, and he knew if the situation changed, he would do what needed to be done, much as he did not desire that outcome. Duty always trumped personal preference.
The team cleared the building. As they moved through the structure, the men below began to yell, “Clear!” Finally, Norton broadcast, “All clear. But stay frosty.”
The boy in his crosshairs dashed away, presumably back inside his own building now that there remained little “excitement” to see across the street.
With a sigh of relief, Jerry carefully laid Cassie on her side, mindful of the optics, and visually scanned the entire area, hypervigilant against any unforeseen opposition.
He would not put it past these terrorists to use women and children as human shields or walking IEDs.
“Pie, Maguire, Daddy requests the pleasure of your company. Over,” Sanders drawled over the radio.
“Roger,” Jerry said. He picked Cassie up and tucked her into the pit of his shoulder. One last sweep through the scope—clear—then he shifted, slung Cassie, pulled his gloves on this time, and started climbing down.
Suddenly, shocking pain tore through his left biceps, a searing punch that stole his grip. He heard the echo of the shot only after the bullet tore through his flesh. Had that kid come back and shot him?
He crashed to the ground, dust exploding around him. Blood soaked his sleeve fast—too fast. The bullet must have hit the brachial artery. “Man down. I’m hit!” he barked, clamping his right hand over the wound as bullets shredded the tree trunk above him.
“Identify hostile! Identify hostile!” Norton ordered over their comms, the sound very loud in Jerry’s ear.
The reports from the semi-automatic fire sounded wrong.
They were not the now familiar thundercrack of Kalashnikov 7.
62 supersonic rounds. They sounded much more familiar, like 5. 56 NATO rounds.
“Probing fire,” Swanson broadcast, then his M249 roared, but he had no target, and no enemy appeared.
Blood oozed between Jerry’s fingers, more with each heartbeat, as Osbourne slid in beside him, ripping open his kit.
“Not like you to go running into bullets,” Osbourne quipped, a wry grin flashing.
“You know me. Attention seeker,” Jerry muttered, but his voice sounded weak, strange to his ears.
“Always that one diva in every crowd,” Osbourne shot back, gray-green eyes focused, hands steady. He tore open Jerry’s sleeve and observed the wound. “Jerry, you might be in the hurt locker, buddy.”
Jerry nodded. “Calamitas virtutis occasio est.” Calamity is virtue’s opportunity.
The incoming fire ceased. Jerry estimated at least 30 rounds had come in his direction. Then more fire came in, shredding the tree above where Jerry had formerly perched.
Norton’s voice came over the comms. “Hobbes. Shut that idiot down. Now!”
Osbourne raised an eyebrow. “Artery’s nicked—I need to clamp it.” He paused. “It’s gonna hurt.”
“Expect so,” Jerry said, spots dancing in his vision, nausea churning his gut.
“Semper Gumby, Jerry,” Osbourne breathed before he got to work. Stay flexible.
Shock dulled the pain—he didn’t feel Osbourne’s clamp, just a vague, uncomfortable pressure. Orders crackled from Norton, but it all came through his earpiece as if from a hazy distance.
“Are you kidding me? Come here!” Calvin “Hobbes” Brock screamed over the comms. Jerry looked up in time to see Brock rip the M16 rifle right out of the hands of the DHS “observer” who stood in front of the recently arrived Humvee firing into the tree, then grapple the man to the ground.
“Oh, man. That is not going to end well,” Osbourne said. Jerry and Osbourne watched Hobbes, wearing armored gloves, calmly punch the downed man in the face with a timed precision that echoed his boxing days as a youth in the Bronx. “Oh, that will definitely leave a mark.”
Norton transmitted again, “Doc. Sitrep? Over.”
Osbourne replied, “Hit an artery. Gonna need medevac most ricky-tick, Boss. Over.”
After a brief moment of silence over the comms during which Jerry felt certain Captain Norton had just verbally expressed his true and sincere feelings on the matter, he transmitted, “Roger. Stay on Bravo Four. I’ll call it in. Out.”
Jerry said, “You cannot be serious. Did that Five Eleven Tactical fashion model actually fire his weapon? And hit me? I got shot by a brown shirt?”
“Just the usual friendly inter-agency rivalry.” Osbourne keyed his microphone. “Daddy? I do believe Hobbes found the shooter. Want me to call him off? Over.”
After a brief pause, Norton replied, “I have no idea what you mean, Ozzy. I don’t see a thing.”
“Roger that, Six,” Osbourne grinned. “I will render aid once our highly skilled and properly trained DHS partner finishes accidentally falling out of his vehicle.”
“Negative, Doc. Stay on Jerry. They can clean up their own mess,” Norton replied. Then he ordered, “Hobbes, check his ID before you scramble his face too much. Over.”
Through blurred eyes, he saw Osbourne rip the cap off a hypodermic needle, felt the cool swab to his right arm just before a tiny prick. “Bird’s on the way. Stay conscious, and try not to bleed so much. Your dry-cleaning bill is going to be massive.”
“Shot by DHS about 8,000 miles from their nearest legitimate jurisdiction,” Jerry said. “Imagine that.”
Osbourne said, “Stranger things have happened.”
“I’m sure,” Jerry quipped. “Just not to me and not today.”
Uncomfortable burning from the injection site finally reached his heart. The first heartbeat transformed the burning sensation into a warmth that spread through his entire body, flooding his veins, easing the fight in his chest. “Maybe tell me a joke to keep me entertained while I wait.”
Osbourne chuckled. “What do you call a sniper who gets himself sniped?”
Jerry grinned. “A liability?”
Osbourne mocked disappointment. “Aw. You heard this one already.”
Jerry closed his eyes, a silent prayer that he would open them again flickering in the back of his mind.
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center,
Landstuhl Army Base, Germany
As she scrubbed out at the big metal sink, First Lieutenant Olivia “Olive” Duncan bopped her head to the beat of the music coming from her earbuds.
She’d just assisted on a chest wound. Shrapnel from an IED lodged into the thoracic cavity of a barely twenty-year-old private while fighting in an undisclosed location.
They’d had to work fast, combating the loss of blood in the field and the time it took to get him to Germany.
She smiled, thinking of the private lying in recovery. He would have some scars to show off and a story or two to tell if he were permitted and felt so inclined.
For two years, she’d worked as a surgical nurse in Landstuhl, catching patients from Europe and Asia’s hotspots.
She couldn’t have imagined this life back in her Auburn University ROTC days.
Living in Germany gave her easy access to so much of Europe, and she spent every single day off traveling to the next place on her bucket list, including the Brandenburg Gate and Neuschwanstein Castle.
She would miss living here when her time ended.
She dried her hands with coarse paper towels, glancing at the clock—1400 hours, aka 2:00 PM Central European Time.
She had two hours left on her shift. Through the glass window, she could see the surgical board and scanned it while tossing the used towels into the trash.
She could spare five minutes for a vending machine sandwich.
She tugged off her surgical cap and unwound her long braid, letting the red plait fall down her back.
She rolled her shoulders to loosen the tight muscles and rolled her head on her neck, already imagining the salty bite of processed turkey on that vending machine sandwich.
She wouldn’t even read the list of ingredients this time.
Hand on the door, she paused as Captain Nathan Adams called from behind her, “Good work in there, Lieutenant.”
She popped her earbuds out, and he repeated himself. “Thanks,” she said, half-turning. “You too.”
He nodded at the clock. “Took a little longer than expected. We missed lunch. Want to grab something with me?”
Captain Adams, ROTC at the University of Oregon, Olympic silver medalist in track, medical school graduate from Johns Hopkins, tall and dark-haired—he had set the nursing ranks buzzing since his arrival.
His attention straightened her shoulders, a faint flush warming her face, but she shook her head.
She had a very iron-clad no-fraternization rule.
Even for charming, tall, dark, and handsome docs.
Oh, but was that temptation she had to push aside?
“No, thanks,” she said with a smile. “Have my heart set on a special meal right now.”
Her stomach rumbled, loud enough to mock her, and she prayed he hadn’t heard. Before she could slip out, the trauma bay’s alert buzzer blared, announcing an incoming critical. She snatched up her stethoscope from the sink shelf and jogged after Adams, his long stride forcing her to half-run.