“Copy.” The terrain in this region was one hell of a motherfucking adversity. He shifted his MK18 Mod 1 carbine on its sling and pushed on. If Theo didn’t see anything of concern ahead, he’d take it as a win, but knew better than to tempt fate by commenting on it.
I’m getting too old for rucking it in this shithole.
By the time the compound’s squat, ugly cluster of mud-brick buildings ringed by a twelve-foot wall topped with rusted barbed wire loomed ahead, he was ready to go home, put his feet up in front of the fire, and hibernate for the next couple of years. But somewhere inside those walls, Michael James Wilson was either still breathing and counting on someone coming to pull him out and bring him home, or the poor bastard was already rotting in a hole in the ground.
Ahead of Rowan, Dawsyn paused mid-step, crouched down, and held up a closed fist. “Two tangos, north side, patrolling the perimeter.”
Rowan acknowledged with a flick of his wrist. He flipped his view to infrared, and thermal signatures flickered, showing two distinct heat blooms moving in lazy, unsuspecting arcs along the wall. One stopped, the orange glow of a cigarette cherry flaring bright in the lens of his NVGs as the guard cupped his hands around the flame. The other kept walking, his rifle slung low, muzzle pointed at the dirt like he was already half-asleep.
Dawsyn’s voice crackled in Rowan’s earpiece, the transmission so low it was almost subliminal. “Seahorse One, Tango on the left’s got a Motorola clipped to his vest. Radio chatter means reinforcements. Five should take him first. But it’s your call.”
“Copy.” Rowan’s men faded into the surrounding landscape. As the comms clicks confirmed everyone was in place, he pressed a button on his wrist computer, synchronizing it with the guys so everyone was running on the exact same timeframe. “Hit it, Seahorse Five,” he ordered. “Three, tango number two is yours.”
“Roger, sir.”
“On it, boss.”
Rowan watched as Jericho’s suppressed shot coughed a mutedphut, and the guard dropped over the edge of the wall as his partner reached the corner where he could disappear from view. Colson’s round followed a split second later, dropping him, too.
Rowan cocked his head to one side, listening for any shouts or cries of alarm, and breathed a sigh of relief when all he heard was silence.
If the wildlife had gone silent as they have now, I’d be all over it like a scabby rash.
A single click sounded in his ear. Rowan made a mental note that Bronx was confirming the south side was clear. It was swiftly followed by Calloway’s double click from the east side.
Rowan keyed his mic, his thumb pressing the PTT button on his chest rig. “All stations, Seahorse One. Breach in three. Valley, Scout get your eyes on the courtyard. Watch for second-story windows.” His voice was a gravelly murmur, barely above a whisper, but the acknowledgment clicks hummed in his ear like a chorus of insects.
They reached the wall, and Dawsyn pressed the breaching charge of C4, molded it into a precise, directional blast against the wooden gate, the adhesive backing hissing faintly as itbonded to the sunbaked timber. Rowan flipped on his laser and started counting down with his fingers as the team tensed around him.
Three.
Two.
One.
The explosion ripped through the night, a concussivewhumpthat sent a shockwave rolling outward, splinters and dust spraying in a violent halo. Rowan was already moving through the smoke before it had a chance to clear. His NVGs cut through the haze, and the courtyard snapped into focus. He clocked the three tangos near the main building, their AKs slung lazily over their shoulders and cigarettes dangling from their lips.
Picked a hell of a time for a smoke break, assholes.
One turned, his mouth opening to shout a warning, but Rowan’s first three-round burst stitched across his torso, the 5.56mm rounds punching through, and the impact spun him half-around before he collapsed. Jericho’s shot dropped the second, the suppressedpfftof his SCAR-H sounding a heartbeat later. The third tango dove for cover behind a rusted-out Toyota pickup.
Balls. Shoulda hit him, too.
Gunfire erupted from the buildings and muzzle flashes lit up the compound in strobing bursts.
“Bring it. Let’s dance, motherfuckers.” Rowan sidestepped, his reticle, jumping from target to target, his body moving on instinct. A figure lunged from a doorway with an AK raised, but his rounds punched into the man’s sternum, and the weapon skittered across the dirt as he went down.
“Left side, boss,” Jericho’s voice snapped over comms.
Rowan pivoted, his boot heels digging into the loose gravel. Two hostiles sprinted from a side building, their silhouettes stark against the mud-brick walls. He fired and missed, “shit,” the round kicked up dust at their feet.
“Got him,” Dawsyn called a split second before the man jerked, spun around and crumpled. The asshole on his heels made it to cover behind a stack of wooden crates, his AK spitting return fire.
“Frag out!” Bronx’s warning was barely out before the grenade arced through the air. The blast lit the night, a brilliant orange flash followed by the deep boom of the explosion, as debris rained down in a shower of wood and metal.
The flash seared Rowan’s vision, a jagged strobe of white-hot light that painted the compound’s crumbling walls in stark relief before plunging everything back into the suffocating dark. His earpiece erupted in a cacophony of voices.
“Contact right.”
