CHAPTER 64
Special K
I’ve gone silent and I’ve turned inward.
The plan is in place. I know my role, so there’s no need for useless chit-chat. All that’s left now is the execution. And I’m ready.
Planning took less than forty minutes. We started with facial recognition and dermatrackers and went right into public real estate records and hacked into live satellite imagery.
We found the blueprints of the custom-built waterfront McMansion built by your basic friendly neighborhood Russian mobster.
Then we determined which nearby homes happened to be unoccupied.
We put together minute-by-minute weather forecasts along with wind speeds and directions.
We’ve made note of any public events that would result in large gatherings, shop closing hours, and every other minor detail that could impact how the mission will unfold.
Everything from here on out is second nature for us. We could do this shit in our sleep.
We’re five Navy SEALs who’ve seen it all. We’ve been pushed beyond our limits. We’ve been blown up, beaten and stabbed, and shot at. We’ve been asked to do the impossible because it’s a Tuesday and then asked to do it all over again because it’s Wednesday.
It’s who we are.
We own the night.
We will do this, and we’ll do it right.
We’ll get in. We’ll get Frankie out. And we’ll take down every last bastard in the place. And then we’ll slip away.
And when it’s all over, we’ll leave an anonymous tip with the Las Vegas FBI field office, alerting them to the fact that a cleanup is needed in aisle four.
But for the moment, we’re gathered in the weapons room at Cal’s house, where everyone’s just finished making last-minute checks to their loadout gear and night camouflage clothing. I’m ready to go. My kit’s resting against my right ankle on the floor as I sit in a folding chair.
“We’ll be outnumbered,” Cal says, as my brothers gather around.
I listen, my fingers steepled in front of me, my breathing slow and steady, and my heart rate in sync.
Anger is great for slowing the heart rate. Not blind anger, though. That can fuck with your arteries. But if there’s anger backed up with an unflinching certainty that injustice won’t see the light of the next day?
That shit’s Nirvana.
I know it’s the same for all my brothers.
Just like an elite athlete before a competition, I visualize what I’ll do with this anger inside me, how it will be cut loose on the world.
Clear as day, I see my fist connect with the Russian’s jaw—right on the button, I make contact, and he goes down for the count.
He’s a coward, a man who preys on women, so I know that he’ll try to slink away.
He won’t escape me. I’ll make him fight me.
And just like the coward that he is, he won’t fight fair. Neither will I. Warriors don’t give two fucks about fair. We only care about winning. And we will win.
I will win, and I will make sure Frankie is saved.
I touch the knife sheathed at my hip. I hope I’m not forced to shoot the Russian. I hope my knife, sharpened to perfection, will do the job for me.
Bullets are too impersonal. Too sterile. And this shit is about as personal as it gets.
The motherfucker has the woman I love, and he won’t get out of this alive.
“Satellite says we’ll be greeted by fifteen men patrolling the exterior,” Finn says, agreeing with Cal’s assertion that we’ll be outnumbered.
“They’re not just men,” Evander corrects him. “Intel says this bastard surrounds himself with ex-Russian military. An elite commando group. Remember that these men survived the restaurant firefight, and they survived for a reason.”
“High-res thermals show another fifteen inside the house, but it could be more,” Cal says. He rubs his chin the way he does when he’s mulling over our odds in his mind.
“They’ve got one chopper and two eight-seater planes,” Declan says, glancing at the imagery. “I’ll take them out while you focus on the lawn gnomes.”
“Roger that,” Finn says, tapping the table. “We slice like butter, and when the time is right, we make a holy racket.”
“But only if and when I give the signal,” Cal says.
“The all clear’s on me,” Evander tells Cal. “If the situation starts looking hairy, I’ll signal you that it’s racket time.”
Declan cracks his knuckles. “It’s been too long. I forgot how much I fuckin’ love a holy racket.
“We ready?” Cal asks.
I stand and grab my kit. “I’ve been ready, asswipes,” I complain. “You pussies love to hear yourselves yammer. This calls for more action and less jackin’ off.”
“Roger that,” Declan says. “No jackin’ off until our mission goals have been met and exceeded.”
We leave the room with our kits, dressed head-to-toe in night gear. We pass through the house, but on our way out, we’re greeted by the unexpected.
Victoria, Emma, Phoebe, and Summer are waiting for us in the living room. They stand close together in the darkened interior, solemn expressions on their faces.
I exhale sharply. Irritated. We don’t have time for this. They’re not overly emotional as women go, that’s true, but they’ve never seen us in loadout gear as a unit, and ready to rock n’ roll. I’m sure it’s intimidating. They might even try to stop us.
Or… maybe not.
Nobody looks nervous or worried. No one’s hysterical. Instead, they’re resolute.
They don’t say a word. They don’t reach out for a hug goodbye or shout out reminders to be careful. Instead, they’re gathered in a show of respect, arms slipped around each other’s waists. I glance at my brothers, who each stare straight ahead at the front door.
My sisters are here to offer their support, and something about it gets me choked up,
My brothers have chosen wisely. Their women are pillars of strength. Warriors, themselves, really. They nod to us, in sync, as we walk out the front door.
It’s two in the morning, and the chill of the night hits us when we step outside. We place our gear in the back of Cal’s Range Rover. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my father in the shadows in front of his house, watching. We lock eyes. He nods at me, and I nod back.
Cal gets us to the Sweetbriar Airpark in about fifteen minutes. Declan instructs him to pull up directly to the helicopter pad outside a small hangar I didn’t even know we use. It might even be new construction.
But as in all things aviation, that’s Declan’s wheelhouse.
He jumps out of the SUV and is nearly hopping up and down in excitement as we round the hangar toward the pad.
“Wait ‘til you get a load of this shit!” he says, laughing. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to put my new toy to the test, and hoo, boy—this is it. Let’s get this party started!”
We’re all standing still, staring.
“Honestly, I had my heart set on a B-52 Bomber,” Finn mumbles.
“Hangar’s too small for a B-52,” Evander says shaking his head. “And for real, I have no idea what I’m even looking at right now.”
“What the absolute fuck is this?” Cal asks. “Our plans called for a transport helo, not… whatever this is.”
“This beauty is my latest acquisition,” Declan explains, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Custom made to my specs. Extras that you couldn’t even come up with in your wildest dreams. You can thank me later.”
We walk toward it. The whole aircraft is coated in a dull matte finish of digitized camo print in grays, blacks, and blues. If it weren’t sitting in the middle of the pad with hangar lights shining directly on it, I don’t think we’d have even seen it.
Which is the whole point.
That said, it’s a shit-load smaller than any military chopper I’ve ever seen.
“What specs?” Finn demands. “When you said ‘toy’, I didn’t think you meant from the fucking toy store. Is this the actual Barbie Dreamhouse helicopter?”
Declan clutches at his chest. “You wound me, sir! Mavis may be small, but she’s mighty. And she is one mean cunt. You better believe me when I say she’s the meanest cunt there is.”
“Enough jacking off,” I say. “Let’s mount this cunt and zap us some Russians.”