OLD MONEY, DEADLY SECRETS (Blue Ridge Protectors #4)

1 - Dog

Dog had always been the one who patched things up when the world fell apart.

As the team’s medic, he was the quiet fixer, the guy who stemmed the bleeding and kept hearts beating when everything else went to hell.

Tonight, strapped into the Black Hawk with the desert night swallowing them whole, he felt that familiar weight on his shoulders.

They were hauling a family out of Syria, kids included, heading to Jordan, and Dog’s mind was already racing through potential injuries, contingencies for the flight.

But missions had a way of turning on you fast.

He sat wedged between Blast and Spider on the second bird.

Blast was a mountain of quiet strength, his presence as steady and unyielding as the explosives he mastered.

He spoke little, letting his actions do the talking.

Spider, lean and wiry, shifted restlessly beside him, eyes flickering with sharp calculation like a rat sizing up a maze.

Dog’s medical kit rested at his feet like a loyal shadow, worn and ready.

A few seats away, Sammy, Link’s sharp-eyed adopted son with a mop of unruly hair and quiet intensity, adjusted the radios with practiced fingers, his contributions already invaluable, honed by a year of training for this very night.

Dog kept a watchful eye on him, understanding Link’s reliance on Sammy’s unique insights, and the deep, personal reason the kid was here tonight, though the raw reality of the hot zone was still a harsh place for a kid, no matter how much grit he possessed.

Up front, Warden coordinated with the pilots, while the first Black Hawk, carrying Noor, Sammy’s mom, and their primary extraction, pulled ahead as a dark silhouette against the stars.

Dog hoped they would make it clean; his bird was the backup, loaded with the heavy hitters.

The night erupted in a fury of light and sound.

Tracers streaked from the Syrian desert below, red lines cutting through the darkness like predatory strikes.

Dog spotted them first, his stomach tightening with that primal warning.

“Incoming!” he shouted, but the words were swallowed by the chatter of machine guns and the whistle of rockets.

This wasn’t just a lucky shot; this was an ambush, sprung with chilling precision.

Someone knew. The air thickened with the metallic bite of danger, and his mind snapped into medic mode: assess, protect, treat.

The second Black Hawk swerved hard, the pilot yelling evasive maneuvers.

G-forces crushed Dog into his seat, his vision tunneling as the helicopter banked sharply.

He glanced at Sammy, who was braced against the bulkhead, eyes wide.

“Stay down, kid!” Dog barked, his own hands gripping the straps.

Through the window, he saw the first bird pull away successfully, banking toward the Jordanian border.

They were clear, but his team wasn’t so lucky.

A rocket screamed in, exploding against their tail rotor in a blinding flash.

The Black Hawk shuddered violently, engines wailing in protest as black smoke billowed from the rear.

“Hold on!” Warden roared, but it was futile.

The bird plummeted, twisting in the air like a wounded beast. Dog’s head snapped back on impact, pain flaring across his face from debris: cuts and bruises that he’d deal with later.

His leg slammed hard against a jagged piece of the shattered floor, a dull, burning ache flaring immediately but swallowed by adrenaline.

The crash was a thunderous roar: metal screeching, sand exploding in a choking cloud, and the horrific grind of rotors shearing off.

For a heartbeat, everything was chaos. Dog unbuckled, his body moving on autopilot despite the ringing in his ears, the blood trickling down his forehead, and a sharp ache blooming in his leg where something had slammed hard just moments before.

Bruised, maybe a sprain, he thought grimly, but nothing broken. Can’t afford to be sidelined now.

The cabin was a twisted wreck: seats ripped loose, equipment scattered.

Blast lay nearby, his leg shattered at an unnatural angle, bone protruding through his fatigues.

Dog’s eyes zeroed in: compound fracture, risk of shock.

He had to act fast. Dropping to Blast’s side, Dog applied a tourniquet and began splinting the leg, his hands steady amid the groans of metal and distant shouts.

“Sammy!” Dog called, scanning the dim interior.

The boy was alive, his leg pinned under a chunk of fuselage but struggling.

“Leg stuck,” Sammy gasped, voice weak but steady.

Dog nodded grimly. “Hang tight, kid. I need to check on the others first.” Focusing quickly, he prioritized stabilizing the most critical injuries.

Spider groaned, his arm trapped under bent metal.

Dog strained to pull at the wreckage, his muscles screaming.

“Hang in there, Spider,” he grunted, face contorted with effort.

“I’ll get you out.” Warden slumped nearby, a deep gash on his temple leaking blood, unconscious against the ruptured bulk.

Tank…Dog’s gut twisted as he glanced over.

Tank was trapped beneath collapsed debris, his head at an impossible angle.

No life there. Dog forced himself to focus, compartmentalizing the loss as gunfire rattled in the distance. Faisal’s men were approaching.

Then, through the haze of smoke and sand, Dog spotted movement: figures racing toward them from the direction of the border.

Reinforcements from their own team. Link!

Jax! Shadow! he realized, recognizing their silhouettes in the flickering light.

They must have landed safely and run back, covering the half-mile across the treacherous desert.

Jax was first on the scene, dropping to his knees beside Blast, medkit spilling open as he took over the stabilization.

Shadow moved with Link, the two of them pulling at sections of fused metal to clear the path.

Link’s voice cut through the roar: “Dog! Nova!” He was scrambling deeper into the cabin, his face a mask of determination and terror. Dog looked up, still straining to free Spider, his own body a bloody mess of cuts and bruises. “Spider’s pinned!” he called back, gesturing to the wreckage.

Nearby, Nova pushed herself up slowly, one hand pressed to a bleeding gash on her temple, her injured gun arm hanging useless at her side.

Her eyes met Link’s, sharp and blazing despite the pain.

She let out a grim laugh, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Of all the ways to get knocked out, I have to take a hit to the damn trigger finger. Figures.”

Link’s tactical mind was in overdrive, Dog could see it: cataloging injuries, threats, the whole scene. But Link’s focus shifted, his voice cracking as he roared, “SAMMY! ANSWER ME!” He started to move, scanning the heaps of twisted steel with wild desperation.

Dog’s heart twisted. He knew Sammy was alive, at least moments ago, and still conscious when he’d checked. “He’s over here, Link! Leg’s pinned by fuselage, but he was awake!” Dog yelled, pointing towards the back where he’d last seen him, his own hands still straining to free Spider.

Link’s head snapped toward Dog’s direction, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. He dove into the shadows, his scanning now focused, following Dog’s guidance through the smoke and jumbled wreckage.

A volley of machine-gun fire stitched across the wreckage, forcing everyone to duck.

Faisal’s men were closing in, bullets whining off the metal.

Link hit the ground behind a piece of fuselage, Jax and Shadow returning fire with precise bursts, pinning down the attackers.

Dog used the cover to finish freeing Spider, his heart pounding as he checked the man’s vitals.

In the midst of it, Link’s eyes, straining through the dim light and swirling dust, finally locked onto something protruding from the chaotic pile of metal where Dog had pointed: a small boot, half-buried under a jagged piece of the tail rotor, its sole barely visible.

It was just an inch of worn leather and rubber, but it was enough.

“Sammy!” Link gasped, lunging forward despite the danger.

Dog watched, a mix of relief and tension washing over him; the kid was found, but the fight wasn’t over yet.

The night shattered again with the thunder of incoming helicopters, searchlights cutting through the dust. SEALs fast-roped down, securing the site as suppressed fire drove back the enemy.

Dog slumped against the wreckage, his work far from done, but a spark of hope ignited.

He’d keep patching them up, no matter what. That’s what he did.

Two days later, Ramstein AFB

The sterile air of the medical bay couldn’t wash away the grit of combat, nor could it diminish the ache in Dog’s chest as he stepped into the quiet of the ward.

Warden stood at the foot of a gurney where Tank’s body lay, the sheet covering the fallen warrior both an emblem of sacrifice and a reminder of everything they had lost. Dog approached quietly, sensing that the moment required space.

“I have to go,” Warden finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m escorting Tank home.”

Dog nodded, the gravity of the situation settling over them both like a heavy blanket. “You’re the best man for it,” he said, his voice steady. “He deserves that honor.”

Warden rubbed a hand over his weary face. “I need some time for myself after this to sort through it all. I’ll have my phone with me.”

“Just take care of yourself, okay?” Dog replied, locking eyes with him. “You’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you.”

Warden offered a tight, humorless smile, appreciating the sentiment but unable to fully absorb it. “I know, Dog. But right now, being around people, it’s the last thing I need. After I see Tank’s family in Ohio and lay him to rest, I’m heading north.”

“Where to?” Dog asked, his tone shifting to quiet concern.

“Maine,” Warden replied, his gaze dropping back to the stark white sheet. “My grandfather’s old place. Deep in the woods of Franklin County, up near Kibby Mountain.”

Dog raised an eyebrow. “The prepper compound?”

“He preferred ‘self-reliant retreat,’” Warden corrected mildly, though they both knew better.

His grandfather had built the place completely off the grid, tucked into the unforgiving wilderness just miles from the Canadian border.

It was a masterpiece of paranoia and preparation.

He had deliberately situated the heavy timber cabin at the base of a sheer, seventy-foot granite cliff face.

It provided a natural, impassable wall at their backs, shielding them from the brutal winter winds and ensuring no one could ever sneak up from behind.

With the dense forest funneled into a single, highly defensible access trail in the front, it was less a vacation home and more a fortress disguised as a hunting lodge.

“It’s quiet,” Warden continued, the thought of the whispering pines offering a microscopic sliver of peace to his chaotic mind. “No neighbors. No grid. Just a wood stove, a root cellar, and enough space to breathe without feeling like the walls are closing in.”

Dog gave Warden’s shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. “Take as long as you need, brother. Give Tank’s folks our best. And when you’re sitting up there against that mountain, just remember to actually come back down.”

“I will,” Warden said softly, his eyes tracing the outline of his fallen friend one last time. “Eventually.”

Dog watched as Warden turned toward the door, steeling himself for the journey ahead.

In that moment, the two men shared an understanding: one forged in the fires of battle and tempered by loss.

As Warden stepped away, Dog felt the leaden pressure settle on his shoulders again.

He would still be there, holding the team together in the aftermath, even as Warden sought his own path through the darkness.