He nodded. “Who are they again?”
Westin crooked his head and led the way back into the squat, sand colored building. “Another private security firm. The owner is Aiden Graham. Retired SEAL. One of the few groups I trust.”
“Aww, Westin. I didn’t know you cared.”
A large, bald man strode through the doorway, ducking down to avoid hitting his head. A dark beard, shot through with gray, covered the lower part of his face.
“I don’t, you asshole. Doesn’t mean I don’t trust you.” The two men shook hands.
Jordan held out his hand. “I’d say nice to meet you, but circumstances being what they are…”
Graham took his hand and raised his dark eyebrows. “Understand completely. You new to Titan? I don’t remember Westin mentioning you before.”
Jordan smirked. “Uh, no. I was appropriated from JSOC.”
Graham cocked an eyebrow at Westin. “You’re stealing from the Army now?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He’s on loan at the request of the family.”
Graham looked doubtful, but turned to the three men and one woman who followed him in. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the team. Turner Breslin, our pilot. Jeremy Owens, weapons and explosives, Harrison Byer, sharp shooter extraordinaire. And Paige Davis, Mistress of Mayhem in general. Don’t let her looks fool you, she’d just as soon cut you as look at you.” The woman in question rolled her eyes and flipped Graham the bird.
The group dropped their gear in the corner and gathered around the small table covered in printouts of maps and overhead imagery of the compound and surrounding area.
Westin pulled the largest overview from the pile and placed it on top. “Graham, you and your team will insert southwest of the compound, Titan will insert to the northeast.” He pointed out the designated points on the map. “We’ll breach the main gate and the southwest wall simultaneously. Intel indicates there are less than a dozen guards in the compound, but be prepared for more.”
“What kind of weapons do they have?” Owens asked.
“Unknown,” Westin said. “But expect the usual — AKs, hand guns, maybe a few RPGs.”
The two teams went over the plan several times, until everyone had it set in their heads. Leonidas would have the more difficult job of loading the group of hostages onto their helicopter and transporting them to the United Nations camp in Timbuktu. Even though the girls were reported to be from the same area as Emme’s clinic, they felt that was the better option to get them to safety.
Four hours later, Jordan shrugged into his vest and slug his rifle across his chest.
“Any questions?” Westin asked. Everyone remained silent. “Weapons hot. Let’s load up.”
They stalked out to the helicopters — the AH-6 Titan had brought and the UH-60 Leonidas had arrived on. Jordan perched on the edge of the crew opening, clipped his last-resort belt onto the tether, and braced his feet on the skids. The ground fell away as they lifted on. As soon as they cleared the outskirts of the airfield, he flipped his NVGs down and scanned his field of view.
“Comms check. Titan-one, check,” Westin called over the radio.
“Titan-two, check.”
“Titan-three, check.”
“Titan-four? Check.” He looked at Colby next to him and got thumbs up and grin in return.
“Three minutes to LZ.” Rocco’s calm voice came over his headset.
He shifted his neck side-to-side and took a few deep breaths. Focus. Just a normal mission. Nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before. Didn’t matter who the hostage was.
“Thirty seconds.”
Rocco descended to the landing zone fast and the ground approached quickly until they were a mere foot above the earth.
He unclipped his D-ring and jumped into the cloud of dust kicked up by the rotor blades. Six steps away, he took a knee, scanning his quadrant for activity. The helo lifted away. They jogged to their rally point, a hundred yards from the compound, and took prone positions.
“Titan set,” Westin said.
“Leonidas one minute out.”
