Chapter 2 #2
Sammy hesitated, then nodded.
Rhys smiled softly. “You got this. Remember all the training you’ve done since you’ve been at the farm. You’re ready. Bring your mom back, Sam.”
Sammy bumped fists with Rhys, steadying himself.
“Load up!” Link’s voice cut through the morning din.
Bear stepped away from the SUV and gave Link a meaty hand on the shoulder before locking eyes with Sammy.
“Bring her home, son. We’ll hold the fort.”
Flora didn’t wait; she pulled Sammy into a tight, fierce hug, soft and steady. A hug that he imagined his mom’s would feel like after all those years apart.
“Be safe,” she whispered, releasing him before any awkwardness could grow.
Link pulled Moose aside, his brow lifting in surprise. “I didn’t expect you and Elena to come all the way from Tennessee,” he said quietly. “I heard your mom’s recovering from her accident. How is she holding up?”
Moose hesitated a moment before replying. “She’s healing…getting back on her feet. She still gets lost sometimes, drifting away with the music in her head. But she’s steady. We built her a music studio now—something to keep her from wandering.”
He paused, a bit of pride in his voice. “With Hank and Sadie’s help, we’re building a school on the farm for kids with special needs and neurodivergence. It’s focused on teaching living skills and helping them blend into society.”
Link’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s amazing.”
Moose shrugged, eyes tired but steady. “Hank and Bear set up that fancy communication center at her place in Tennessee so I could play big shot tech guy while you’re off doing the hero thing.
I’ve had to learn enough to not completely mess it up, don’t expect me to start hacking into anything top secret anytime soon.
” He shot Link a grin. “But hey, somebody’s gotta do the boring grunt work while you’re off saving the world. ”
Link laughed, the appreciation clear in his gaze. “I owe you one, Moose. Covering the computer systems made this possible. Means I can focus on bringing Sammy and his mom back safely.”
Moose gave a brief nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just doing my part.”
Link grinned, teasing, “I never thought you’d be able to tell a mouse from a keyboard.”
Moose chuckled, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m still figuring out how to keep all the cables untangled.”
Then Moose added, “Once you’re back, Elena and I are moving back to Mountain View Farms. We’ve designed a large home so Elena can finally chase her dream, creating a group home for kids aging out of foster care.”
Link looked momentarily surprised, running a hand through his hair. “Man, I’ve had my head buried in this mission for the last three months, and now look at you! Damn, we have a lot of catching up to do when I get back.”
They exchanged a look loaded with unspoken respect before rejoining the group, ready for what came next.
Sammy hoisted his pack, glancing back at the scene, the family gathered, a wall behind him.
A nod, and he climbed into the truck.
Shortly after, the armored SUV rumbled away from Mountain View Farms, winding through country roads toward a private airstrip.
Sammy boarded swiftly; the plane’s engines hummed, lifting them toward dusty lands below.
Inside the cramped plane, the outside world blurred into a hazy sun-drenched smear, then darkened as hours passed.
Link settled into a window seat. He glanced around the plane, seeing that everyone was settled in, he pulled out his tablet and began reviewing updates from Swede.
Sammy slid beside him, the worn seat creaking slightly beneath his weight.
His fingers tapped nervously on his thigh, the rhythmic clicking nearly drowned by the constant drone of the plane’s engines vibrating through the metal floor and walls.
Sparse emergency lights cast a cold glow, flickering just enough to outline the rows of seats and the packed gear stashed overhead.
Across the aisle, Shadow and Jax spoke quietly, their voices steady but low, weaving through the hum and occasional thuds of turbulence. The faint smell of engine oil and recycled air mingled with the sharp tang of sweat from the soldiers around them.
Jax smiled wryly, his breath fogging slightly in the cool cabin air as he recounted a past mission gone sideways: the blaring alarms, the dead radios that cut off all communication, and the desperate alternate route that saved lives but cost them dearly in nerve.
Shadow nodded grimly, his eyes shadowed in the low light as he warned Sammy of the chaos ahead: shifting plans, fractured trust among allies, and dangers lurking beyond every corner.
Sammy forced a faint smile, drawing strength from their steady presence and stories. He was not alone in this.
Link caught his eye from across the aisle, his gaze firm yet filled with quiet resolve.
“Blue Ridge Protectors isn’t just a team,” Link said softly, the words carrying over the engine’s roar. “It’s family.”
Sammy pictured the farmhouse rising against the Virginia hills, children laughing, dogs barking in the fresh morning air.
“The farm is home. It’s what we’re fighting for.”
Jax grinned, the faint flicker of hope lighting his tired face.
“When this is over, we’ll have stories of our own.”
The hum of the engines became a steady drone as the hours stretched on.
Around them, the others began to drift: some settling into quiet sleep, others flipping through worn books or burying themselves in music through headphones.
The cabin’s muted lighting softened, shadows lengthening as time slipped away.
Sammy leaned back, eyes closing briefly as memories of the farm mingled with the endless sky outside the windows.
After what felt like an eternity, the plane shuddered gently, signaling the start of descent.
Link closed his eyes for a moment, muscles tensing as he braced for what lay ahead.
“All sharp eyes,” he said quietly. “We move as tourists, not soldiers. Keep it low key. Stick to the plan.”
Jax smirked, breaking the tension. “Like the farm, but with less lawn mowing, more firefights.”
Shadow nodded, voice low. “The only easy day was yesterday. Adapt and survive.”
Strapped into his seat on the plane, Sammy pressed his hand against his pocket, feeling the familiar bulge of the wooden bead beneath his fingers: mission ready.
Link squeezed his shoulder. “Stay sharp.”
The plane touched down on Basra’s outskirts with a jarring thud, the tires grinding against cracked asphalt.
The cold, recycled air of the cabin was swiftly replaced by a hot, dusty weight that clung to Sammy’s skin like a heavy cloak.
The sun hung low, casting bruised purple and fiery orange hues across the horizon as twilight seeped into the city’s edges.
A lean fixer waited nearby, his worn leather jacket stiff from the heat. The sharp scent of gasoline and street spices mingled in the dry air as he motioned them toward a nondescript van parked discreetly among battered cars. “Supplies inside. Move small, move quiet,” the man instructed.
Link’s nod was curt. “Warden’s SEAL team has everything staged.”
Sammy helped load crates stamped “household goods,” his fingers tracing the rough burlap as he silently acknowledged the true contents hidden within. The crates carried more than everyday supplies, they were lifelines.
Before they left the airfield, he slipped a folded note into a narrow crevice between two weathered shipping containers.
This was an old, familiar hiding spot that street kids like Tariq had been using for years to swap messages.
The crevice was worn smooth from countless hands before his, and a small, discreet symbol was scrawled on the front, an unmistakable sign known among them all.
Beneath it, the signature "Samir" confirmed the sender’s identity.
The simple message read: “Need to meet. Old water tower. Nightfall.” He trusted that Tariq would find it without a second thought.
They slipped through the congested, chaotic traffic, the roar of engines and distant calls weaving a tapestry of urban life. The van rumbled to a stop in front of a faded safe house, walls cracked and paint peeling under layers of dust.
Inside, a concealed basement door creaked open, revealing caches of gear: gleaming rifles lined up with meticulous care, medical kits smelling faintly of antiseptic, and rugged packs softened by wear. The faint metallic tang of weapons mixed with the earthy scent of concrete and old plywood.
Link’s hand brushed over a scuffed wooden table, the surface scarred from years of use. “This is our base. We suit up and wait.”
Sammy inhaled deeply, tasting the grit of dust and the sharpness of oil and sweat. His nerves coiled tight like a spring, but beneath the tension, his resolve hardened into steel.
Link handed him a rugged, worn knife—its handle smoothed by years of use. “You’re not a soldier. This is your weapon. Be smart.”
Sammy nodded, sliding the knife into its sheath, the leather cold and familiar against his fingers.
“Comms open with me and Swede. Your eyes are weapons too.” The earpiece clicked on, a faint electronic whisper blending with the hum of the safe house stirring to life.
Night fully cloaked Basra outside as the team moved with practiced silence. Shadow and Jax checked their gear methodically, their movements sure and steady.
Link pulled Sammy near a grated window, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warm air pressing in from outside. “We’re visitors until the time comes. Blend in. Stay sharp.”
“When’s that?” Sammy asked quietly, eyes scanning the shadowed street beyond.
“When the recon has us ready,” Link said, voice low but resolute. “Ummi’s counting on us. Watch each other. Finish this.”