“I thought—” Oliver shook his head and broke off. “I’m not sure how it went so wrong,” he said, barely above a whisper. Leaning forward on his crutches, he appeared reluctant to end their conversation.
“You chose to end us, Oli. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’m sorry you got shot. I’m glad you’re better,” he said, finding the repetition of words like a calming mantra.
Aberlour dragged his gaze away from Oli’s by sheer force of will and found Marcus smiling at him. A small, pained smile that conveyed warmth and understanding.
“That’s not what I did though—” Oliver protested, still whispering. “Just read it, please,” he insisted, shoving the paper back towards Aberlour, but Abe shook his head.
“I’m done with empty words, Darling. Either tell me or walk away.”
It was another ultimatum. He knew that, but this time, Aberlour was sure about what Oliver would choose.
Oli looked down at the piece of paper they kept trading back and forth but didn’t pull it back. Instead, he let it go, and Aberlour automatically reached for it. Then, Oli did exactly as Abe had expected: he turned and left.
“I hate it when mommy and daddy fight,” Carlos said, though the joke fell flat.
The mood in the room was extremely tense.
“I think you broke him,” JD finally said, staring at the open doorway Oliver had just limped through.
“He can join the club, then,” Aberlour said, concluding the discussion.
None of his men said anything else about it. JD turned the music back on, and packing for the mission resumed. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be, not without Oli, but it was as close to business as usual as they could expect.
Like spring, Aberlour kept telling himself. They felt like spring.
As Aberlour willed himself to get back to work, he looked down and found his hands—still clutching Oliver’s note—shaking. He was shaking, and had he been braver, he’d have thrown away the paper in his hand, just to see if it would miss the trash can.
He tucked it away instead.
One of the reasons Aberlour had been so adamantlyagainstthis whole operation was that it was set up like a SEAL op rather a Force Recon one. There was no sneaking behind enemy lines. No information to gather. It was simply a retrieval and execution mission. They were supposed to go in, blow everyone to bits, and get out. That was fine. Aberlour had no qualms about shooting assholes, but they weren’t trained for this.
For three years, they’d been drilled to take as few shots as possible. Their job had always been to gather intel, keep a low profile, and sneak out without anyone being any the wiser. They usually trudged through miles of uninhabited land to get to a remote destination and make their own way out. Now, they were being dropped in by helicopter, after dark, and would be flown out the same way once the enemy was annihilated. That was a SEAL or Green Beret operation. Army Ranger even. Every branch was more suited to this op than Force Recon Marines. Yet, it wastheirtarget they were getting back. A target they’d lost after their mission had been sold out and compromised. The blame wasn’t theirs, yet it was their lives on the line as they breached protocol to rescue their stranded target.
Aberlour had been flown in a few hours earlier. He was the only member of the op who would need to walk his way to the target. It was his sole job to take position as a sniper.
This too, had set him off. There was no doubt that Aberlour could shoot anything from any distance, but he wasn’t a marksman. He kept both hands in the shit show and led his men on the ground. Rarely, if ever, had he stared from afar through the lens of sniper rifle. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, it was simply that he hated it. Too far. He was too far. It was all he could think about as he waited for his men to sneak their way into the compound.
“Team Specter in position,” Marcus said over the comms.
The rest of Aberlour’s team had been dropped a few miles away from the underground encampment where they were keeping the mark. According to their intel, the installation should be protected by seven guards. Four patrolling the perimeter, three more inside. If the intel was correct, it was an easy enough job. Aberlour had the increasingly sinking feeling that itwasn’tright.
“Roger, Team Specter. Proceed,” a commander, miles away, instructed over the comms system. This too, was unorthodox. Recon teams were rarely, if ever, monitored by outside help. They usually went in alone, relying on each other to make it out, and no one else.
Aberlour watched as his men approached, their movements barely more than the ripples of leaves in the forest. Then, a shadow, nothing more, cutting an opening in the fence.
Team Specter moved in with practice ease, Marcus in the lead, Ghost bringing up the rear.
“I have eyes on Team Specter,” Aberlour said over the comms, reminding them of his presence. He watched the compound, his eyes darting from left to right, trying to make out any threat before it made itself known.
“Hold your fire, Captain Aberlour. You are not cleared to shoot.” That was General Baron. He’d have recognized the monotone voice anywhere.
Team Specter moved forward in formation, like a shadow in the night. Invisible, and as dangerous as the tip of a spear. Aberlour felt a surge of pride as he watched them. These men—his men, dangerous and stealthy, were a force to be reckoned with.
“Insurgent on the left. Walking the perimeter. Be advised, he’s 15 seconds out,” Aberlour said, as he watched the small man walk out of the shadows and straight towards Team Specter.
“Roger,” JD said. Twenty seconds later, Aberlour heard the muffled sound of a dying breath.
“Moving towards the compound,” Marcus advised.
