Chapter Sixty-Three
Noah
Blood thunders in my ears, my chest heaving under the weight of my protective gear as my fingers curl around my weapon in an iron grip.
Commands buzz through my earpiece from West, telling me it was clear to enter the building and take out our targets.
I give the hand signal to Dean to go, and I kick the door in.
Two men jump in surprise and reach for their weapons, but we are too quick.
I take out both of them as Dean and Mason clear the other rooms. I know I have mere seconds to find our high value target and take him out before he gets a chance to run or have his gun ready to use on us.
I kick open the closed door and see him.
It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting us. We observed this man’s habits and daily routines to the second because, as predicted, he was getting out of the shower and turning in for the night.
I don’t give him a second to react. I lift my weapon, aim, and shoot. He falls to the ground with a bullet to the head.
“HVT neutralized,” I say into my radio, my breathing heavy and ragged. Sweat drips down my back as the adrenaline starts to ease.
Dean’s voice confirms the place is clear and our job is done, then the race is on to get back to the helicopter and get the fuck out of here.
“The bird is two minutes out,” West says through the radio, and I pick up my pace to get out of the building along with the rest of the team and head towards where the helicopter, the bird, comes into view through the night sky.
When it lands, West is on it, pulling us in, and as soon as the last boot is on, he calls, “Mission complete, RTB,” Meaning we are done—we did what we came to do, and now it was time to go back to base, and finally home.
I sag into my seat, lifting my safety goggles and taking the bottle of water Dean tosses my way.
“We fucking did it, boys. Last mission complete.” One of the newer team members, Sanford, yells from behind me, and his lack of experience on these missions is evident because there is an unspoken rule that we don’t celebrate until we are back to the safety of the base because, even in the sky, under the cover of darkness, we are still in danger.
And, as if Sanford had jinxed us, a loud crack jars us, the helicopter jolts and we are thrown from our seats.
“Bird is hit. I repeat, bird is hit,” our pilot announces into the radio, his voice calm despite what’s happening.
“We’re under attack,” West barks.
My stomach bottoms out as we begin to dip.
“Brace for impact, I repeat, brace for impact. Crash imminent.” The shouts.
For the first time since joining the special forces, I am dragged back to the time we came under fire when we lost Scotty.
As if my body remembered the adrenaline rush, the paralyzing fear, I brace as chaos erupts around me, because the urge to stay alive has never been stronger.
I don’t want to die a hero. I selfishly wanted to make it out alive.
Gunshots, the noise of the rotor blades failing, and the panicked demands of West ring in my ears, and as my stomach lurches.
The possibility of death now staring me in the face, I place my hand over my chest where the images of my unborn daughter and Tori reside and say a hushed prayer that I’ll make it out of here alive and back to them.