Scars of Fate (The Brave Delta Force Division #7)
1. Lucas
LUCAS
SOMEWHERE NEAR THE IRANIAN BORDER
The world smelled like smoke.
Not campfire smoke.
Cities burning.
I crouched behind the shattered wall of what had once been a school, my rifle resting against the broken concrete as explosions echoed beyond the hills.
Children’s drawings still clung to a cracked classroom wall.
Bright stick figures.
Blue skies.
Yellow suns.
The ceiling above them no longer existed.
War never cared who painted the pictures.
A helicopter rumbled overhead.
Not ours.
“Movement.”
Russ Duncan’s quiet voice came through my earpiece.
I shifted my scope toward the road winding through the ruined village.
Two military trucks rolled past, armed soldiers packed into their beds.
“They’re heading east,” Russ said.
“Let them.”
I didn’t take my eye off the scope.
“Our people aren’t with them.”
Silence answered.
Every man on the Brave trusted my instincts.
I trusted facts.
And the facts told me something was wrong.
The intelligence briefing had been rushed.
A humanitarian convoy had disappeared three days ago.
Aid workers.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Journalists.
No government wanted to admit they were even here.
Which meant if the Brave failed…
No one was coming.
Adam Stoker’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Brave, satellite confirms heat signatures inside the compound.”
I studied the weathered building through my scope.
Once it had probably been a textile warehouse.
Now sandbags surrounded every entrance. Machine-gun nests overlooked the courtyard, and men with rifles patrolled the roof.
Too many guards.
Too few prisoners.
“How many hostages?” I asked.
“We’re still uncertain.”
I frowned.
“You don’t know?”
“We’ve confirmed at least one American.”
“Name?”
A pause.
“Unknown.”
I lowered my rifle.
“Unknown?”
“The source never obtained the prisoners’ identities before disappearing.”
Fantastic.
Another intelligence failure.
I glanced toward Russ, crouched behind a collapsed truck fifty yards away.
He shrugged.
Welcome to politics.
I’d spent twenty-two years in special operations.
Long enough to know politicians always wanted miracles without giving soldiers what they needed to deliver them.
Adam’s voice returned over the radio.
“The mission hasn’t changed.”
“It has for me.”
I rose into a crouch.
“I don’t walk in blind.”
“You won’t.”
Another pause.
“We intercepted communications an hour ago.”
I waited.
“The prisoners are scheduled to be moved tonight.”
“Destination?”
“We don’t know.”
Of course they didn’t.
If that convoy disappeared into the mountains, finding those hostages again would become nearly impossible.
I’d heard enough.
“We move.”
“Agreed,” Russ answered immediately.
The rest of the Brave checked in over the radio, one after another.
No hesitation.
No speeches.
Just professionals preparing for another impossible mission.
I glanced once more toward the ruined school.
Toward the tiny drawing of a family still taped to the cracked wall.
A mother.
A father.
A little girl holding both their hands beneath a bright yellow sun.
Someone had believed this place was safe once.
I hoped they’d escaped before the bombs fell.
“Gear check,” I ordered.
Suppressor.
Night vision.
Extra magazines.
Medical kit.
Everything sat exactly where it belonged.
Everything except the one thing I’d buried years ago.
The belief that everyone could be saved.
That lesson had cost me my marriage.
Cost me the only woman I’d ever loved.
I shoved the thought away before it could take hold.
Wynn belonged to another life.
Another world.
One I’d spent years convincing myself no longer existed.
“Brave,” Adam said quietly over the radio. “Bring them home.”
I pulled my night-vision goggles into place as darkness swallowed the broken landscape.
“We always do.”
I gave the signal.
Six operators from the Brave slipped silently toward the compound.
None of us knew that one of the people waiting behind those walls was about to change my life forever.