Special Forces_Operation Alpha_Handling Haven_A Deimos/Trident Security/Delta Team Crossover Read online

  There had to be victims still inside, injured or stunned from the initial explosion, who couldn’t escape on their own, and from the look of things, everyone else was trying to save their own hides. Since Trident Security was in the private sector, and the US government could deny knowing why they were there, them exposing themselves was the better option. The Delta Team, however, was comprised of active-duty Army personnel, and it would be a lot harder to explain why they were on foreign soil, covertly surrounding the compound with heavy-duty firearms. Those inside, though, could still maintain their covers and help the injured. It only took a split second for Sawyer to answer his teammate. “Agreed, Boomer. Ghost, can your team cover our sixes and watch for the principals? We’ll try to get as many of them out, but this is probably a diversion. I don’t want my team caught with their pants down.”

  “Affirmative,” Delta’s team leader responded, his raspy voice a result of the smoke. “Jungle Cats, maintain . . . cough . . . positions and make sure the frogs are . . . cough . . . covered. Monkey Suits, if you can hear me, help evacuate the injured. Everyone keep your eyes open for the missing principals. Snow White and Prince Charming are on their way out with Sleepy. Grumpy, they’re all yours.” The senator and his wife had been briefed that if there was an emergency they were to go straight to their limousine with the closest Delta operative, where another one would be waiting to drive them to safety.

  “Alpha & Omega, move in. Keep your faces covered. Jackass and Sweetheart, find the damn principals and get them out of there.” Sawyer pulled on the balaclava he’d yanked out of one of the many pockets in his camo pants. While his teams had applied face paint, just as Frisco, Hollywood, and the other Deltas in the jungle had, they didn’t want to be caught on camera where facial recognition software could possibly help identify them. Many of the uninjured, but stunned, wedding guests milling about the large lawn were already recording the turmoil on their cell phones. It was a fair bet the videos would be on YouTube within minutes.

  As Sawyer stood and tucked his weapon in its holster on his right hip, a flash of gold caught Frisco’s attention. There she was, the woman from the picture, materializing from the crowd with her “date,” urging him to run straight toward where Frisco and the others were still hidden amidst the foliage. They were both covered in dirt, soot, and blood, and the brunette was barefoot and limping, although it didn’t look like it was slowing her down much. Frisco was about to announce he had eyes on the principals, when a loud crack rang out above all the other noise—to the trained ear it was the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired. He watched in horror as the woman’s back bowed from the impact, and she fell forward, her face contorting in pain.

  “Shit!” Frisco was on his feet and running before she’d completely fallen onto the grass beneath her, with Hollywood and Sawyer on his heels, the latter shouting out orders to the combined team members. The redheaded kid realized the woman protecting him was down, and he skidded to a halt, his feet coming out from under him. Landing on his ass, he twisted around and began to crawl back to her. Another gun report, this one distinctly from a long-range rifle, echoed from somewhere behind and to the right of Frisco, followed by a voice coming over the comms. “Alpha Four, threat from library window eliminated.” Whatever his name was, he had to be a sniper on one of Sawyer’s teams.

  Some of the guests realized shots were being fired and that started everyone freaking out and ducking or diving to the ground to make themselves less of a target. Crying and sobs became screams of alarm again. No one knew where to run, so they were slamming into and tripping over each other in their fright.

  Frisco dodged around several people running for the cover the trees behind him could provide. As he neared the downed couple, he swung his Colt-M4 around to his back by its strap so it was out of the way. Sliding like a baseball player trying to beat a tag at home plate, he stretched out next to the injured woman, confident the two other men had his six. They stood over them, their weapons at the ready, scanning for more threats, as he got to his knees. The female operative’s wide-eyed charge had been about to roll her over, but Frisco stopped him. “Wait!” He eyed the bullet hole in the back of her dress, in the region of her midline, lumbar spine. Shit, that’s not good! “Come over to my side and grab her legs. We’ll roll her as one unit.”

  While the shaken geek obeyed the order, crawling over to kneel next to the woman’s hips and thighs, Frisco reached across her back and grasped her opposite shoulder with one hand and her waist with the other. After making sure the other man was ready, he said, “On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three.”

  As they gently rolled her over, another explosion shook the ground. Screams of terror followed as the crowd started running again, this time toward the parking lot and their vehicles, which most couldn’t access due to the valets having their keys. But several limousines were already barreling toward the exit and the roadway beyond. Brisk intel was reported over the comm units followed by more gunfire. Apparently, whatever was happening was on the far side of the compound, and Frisco prayed it stayed there as he stared into the wounded woman’s face.

  She grabbed his arm, her pretty, brown eyes and pale face were filled with pain and . . . resignation? Her voice was raspy and weak. “L-Leave me.”

  “Not on your life, darling. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

  She shook her head. “No. C-Can’t move my legs. Leave m-me.”

  Shock and anger rose within him as what she was telling him sank in. She was paralyzed and wanted him to leave her to die—to be killed by whomever was behind the attack, whether swiftly or following hours of torture. Like fucking hell!

  As the gunfire grew louder, Sawyer snapped into his microphone, “Babs! Get the fuck in here! West lawn—critical extraction!”

  A female voice answered over the sounds of a chopper’s rotor blade, “Coming in hard and fast, Boss-man.”

  It was nice to know someone had brought the big toys. Behind his teammate, Hollywood fired his weapon. “Get her up, Frisco! Tangos are moving in. We gotta get out of here fast!”

  “I can’t! She can’t move her legs!”

  “Pick her up! The damage is already done!” To anyone else, his teammate’s words would probably sound harsh and callous. But Frisco had heard the regret in them along with the unspoken message that if they didn’t get her out of there fast, things would get a lot worse—for all of them. He didn’t have a choice. There was no way he was leaving her to die—no way any of them would.

  A rapid thumping, signaling the approach of a helicopter, increased as did the gunfire. A Blackhawk appeared low above the treeline and, indeed, it was coming in “hard and fast.” Thankfully, most of the guests had run for their lives by this point so the grassy expanse between the burning mansion and the jungle was basically clear for the pilot to land. A few stragglers quickly got out of the way, unsure if this was a new attack. Hollywood and Sawyer were both now firing their weapons at targets as several bullets hit the dirt not far from the ragtag group. All around the six-acre property, Delta, Trident, and Deimos team members were engaging the enemy that seemed to grow in numbers. It was unclear how many of them were actually just the hired security for the event, who had no idea who the good guys were and weren’t, and were shooting at anyone with a weapon. Unlucky for them, there was no way to tell the difference between the tangos and the armed innocents, either.

  Frisco knew they were out of time and options. Ignoring the pain and fear etched on the injured woman’s face and her repeated pleas for him to leave her, he got to his feet, gestured for the geek to move out of the way, and grasped her right ankle. The maneuver he was about to do was called a Ranger Roll and one he’d practiced many times with his teammates. It was the fastest way to pick up an unconscious or incapacitated person while under fire. Dropping his right shoulder, he did a quick somersault over her left hip, bringing her lower body with him. When he rolled back onto his knees, he had her in a fireman’s carry as she hu
ng limply across his shoulders.

  Sawyer reached down and grabbed the redhead by the collar of his tuxedo jacket, dragging him to his feet. “Get up and on the fucking chopper, Reardon! Move!”

  Not waiting to see if the others were following, Frisco stood and ran toward the Blackhawk as it touched down less than twenty yards away, ducking low to avoid the rapidly moving rotor blades. The rear door was open, and a man, dressed in black, wearing a balaclava, covered Frisco and the others with a mounted M-60 machine gun, as they hightailed it across the lawn. As they neared, Sawyer ran past everyone and vaulted through the open door, before turning around and holding out his hand to Frisco. The two men grasped each other’s forearms, and Sawyer yanked him and the woman into the rear bay. Hollywood practically threw Reardon into the chopper before jumping in himself.

  “Go, Babs! Go!” Sawyer yelled to his female pilot.

  As Frisco lowered the injured operative to the floor as gently as he could, the Blackhawk lifted off the ground. Just as fast as it had landed, it was back up in the air, banking toward the treeline again. The Trident team leader yelled again, this time into the comm’s microphone, “Alpha, Omega, Delta, principals secure. Ghost, Devil Dog’s taking my lead down there. We’ve got Hollywood and whatever Taint-waffle’s name is again. We’re medevacing to our standby.”

  Kneeling next to the woman, Frisco realized she was no longer responsive. Her eyes were shut, and her head was rolled to the side. His heart leaped into his throat until he realized she was still breathing. She’d either passed out from blood loss or the pain—it didn’t matter which, but it was probably better that she was out. The man who’d already been on the chopper ripped off his face mask and dragged a large medical duffel out from under the row of jump seats. He and Sawyer worked together to cut the woman’s dress so they could assess her injuries. Frisco spotted a trauma blanket tucked in the duffel among the medical equipment and snatched it. Tearing open the package, he spread it out and covered her nearly naked body after they saw there was no exit wound on her chest, abdomen, or flanks. The bullet was still inside her somewhere—that could either be a good or bad thing, but one they couldn’t rectify in the airborne tin can. Rolling her as one unit, the three trained operatives located the wound on her lower back. It’d matched up with the hole in her now discarded dress, right near her spine.

  “Just get her stabilized, Skipper,” Sawyer ordered the man who’d been posted on the helicopter, before addressing the others. “We’re heading for Kearsage.”

  Frisco had figured that was their initial destination. The Navy’s third Wasp-class amphibious assault ship USS Kearsage, was currently located in the Arabian Sea. The crew had been ordered to take position in international waters, offshore from Mumbai, in case Delta needed them. Apparently, it’d been arranged for Sawyer’s team and Deimos to use the ship, with its advanced medical services, as well. At least someone had known there’d be more than one military branch or government agency working this mission from hell. The doctors onboard would be able to perform surgery and stabilize Haven. From there, they’d fly her out on an Osprey to an airbase where she’d be transferred onto a plane en route to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, the US military hospital in Germany—if she survived until then. Frisco’s heart clenched at the thought.

  Hollywood poured Quikclot powder onto the wound, slowing the blood flow, then placed a trauma dressing over it, before they rolled her onto her back again. Skipper started an IV in her left arm. There was nothing else any of them could do until they reached the ship except remove as many slivers of glass as they could from her feet and arms and clean the wounds. Reardon sat on the edge of one of the jump seats, unashamed tears rolling down his face as he held the unconscious woman’s hand as she lay at his feet. The worry in his voice was clear as he yelled to her over the sounds of the rotors slicing through the air. “Haven, you’re gonna be okay. You hear me, Haven? You’re gonna be okay.”

  Unwilling to sever the connection he’d begun to feel toward her the moment he’d looked into her eyes, Frisco held her other hand the entire trip—and prayed.

  Four

  T hree hours later, Frisco, Hollywood, Reardon, Sawyer, his operative, Kip “Skipper” Morrison, and the chopper pilot, Tempest “Babs” Van Buren sat in Kearsage’s mess hall, waiting for news about Jane Jones—that was the only name for Haven that had been given to the staff who knew better than to dispute it. There would be no record of her ever having been aboard, and all the medical documents in her chart would leave with her. The crew was steadily bringing the ship closer to the Persian Gulf, northwest of the Arabian Sea. The less time Haven spent in the air following surgery, the better. Frisco just prayed she made it that far. She hadn’t regained consciousness before being led into surgery.

  Glancing at Van Buren, a retired Air Force pilot in her early or midthirties, Frisco had to agree with her handle, which was short for “bad-ass bitch.” She’d flown like the hounds of Hell were nipping at their tail rotor, getting them to Kearsage in record time, before battling some nasty crosswinds and high seas left over from an earlier storm during the landing. Even some of the ship’s crew had remarked it was some of the best flying they’d ever seen under those conditions. The only person who hadn’t agreed was Reardon who’d tossed his cookies a few times into a barf bag Sawyer had thrust into his hands.

  It wasn’t until after Haven was being whisked away on the gurney, which had been waiting for their arrival, that Frisco had gotten a good look at the other woman. As the brunette climbed out of the pilot’s seat, he’d caught a glimpse of her titanium left leg. Later, Sawyer had told him how she’d lost it when an RPG had struck her helicopter in Afghanistan as she was extracting a bunch of Marines from a hot zone. Despite her leg being mangled, she’d managed to fly the damaged bird far enough away from the enemy before crash landing it. Every single one of the Marines had survived with, at worst, a few broken bones. By the time a second rescue crew had retrieved them, they’d had to apply a tourniquet to Babs’s leg to keep her from bleeding to death. At the hospital, the limb had needed to be amputated just below the knee. After giving her time to recover and get her disability discharge, Sawyer had approached the woman, who’d flown him and others from SEAL Team Four on numerous missions. He’d offered her a job as both a helo pilot and fleet mechanic at Trident. Frisco had been impressed to learn the private company had its own Sikorsky MH-X Silent Hawk—an extremely expensive toy. Unfortunately, though, for this mission on the other side of the world, they’d had to borrow the Blackhawk from allies in the region. It must have cost a small fortune or a lot of payback markers to arrange it.

  Taking another swig of the disgusting swill they called coffee around there, Frisco grimaced. Usually the Navy vessels had awesome coffee, but this tasted like it’d been brewed with a dirty sock for a filter. It was the middle of the night, and they’d been offered bunks to crash in, but everyone wanted to wait until the surgery was over. Aside from a few crew members coming in and out for various reasons, the six of them were alone. They’d been able to take showers and change into sweatpants and T-shirts purchased from the ship’s store on Trident’s tab. Sawyer and Hollywood were both catching a combat nap in chairs to his left. Across the room, Reardon, Skipper, and Babs were monitoring the news the crew had patched into a closed-circuit-TV via the ship’s satellite feed, even though the reception was sketchy at times.

  The BBC was covering the story of the tragedy in India at what some people, newspapers, and magazines had been referring to, prior to today, as the Royal Wedding of the Year. So far, a reported twenty-seven people were dead, including the groom’s father and brother, and scores were injured. Most of the deaths, some bodies burned beyond recognition, had occurred in the cigar bar, which’d been down the hall from the library where Haven and Reardon had been standing. The numbers were expected to rise as the authorities began to sift through the rubble of the mansion that had almost completely burned down after the two explosions had destroy
ed several rooms.

  There was wide speculation about the tuxedoed men with guns found dead in the carnage of the building. Several hadn’t been identified as being on the venue’s security detail. There were also questions about the masked, militarized men, who’d emerged from the jungle, some of whom had been swooped up by a helicopter while kidnapping a couple. The others had disappeared back the way they’d come after the chopper had taken off. Some people were saying they’d been members of ISIS, others were blaming al Qaeda, and a few were saying it’d been British Special Forces getting revenge for recent attacks in London. It was almost surprising no one had suggested they’d been aliens from another planet. Frisco knew the Indian authorities would never be able to prove who’d actually been involved—Delta, Deimos, and Trident were that freaking good. Nothing had been left behind that could come back and bite them on the ass.

  Frisco’s mind kept flashing back to the moment when he’d realized Haven had been begging him to leave her to die. What had been going through her brain, at that very moment, to be filled with so much despair she’d given up hope in less time than most people decided what was for dinner, he didn’t know. Leaving her hadn’t been an option, whether she’d been dead already or just suffering from a hangnail. But the look of resignation in her eyes as she’d pleaded with him would haunt him to his dying day.

  Multiple footsteps approaching had Frisco glancing toward the entrance to the mess hall. Ghost, Fletch, and a couple he didn’t know walked in. The commanding officer of the ship had dispatched a chopper to retrieve them at Sawyer’s request. Apparently, the retired SEAL had a lot of pull in the Navy—either that or he had friends in high places. Like the six that’d been onboard Kearsage for several hours, the new arrivals had found somewhere to shower and change into comfortable civilian clothing. It was common to arrange for a safe house somewhere near the mission target in case things went to shit like they’d done earlier in the evening.