“Three tangos on the riser.”
“Watch the eastern flank.”
But the words blurred into static as his body locked onto the immediate threat. The air itself seemed to vibrate with the concussive thud of bullets chewing up the dirt around him. His adrenaline surged, his pulse hammered against his ribs, each beat a reminder that one wrong move, one hesitation, and this whole op could unravel into a bloodbath.
One second, Dawsyn, the reckless bastard, was moving like a shadow, his body a blur of controlled chaos as he weavedbetween cover, moving steadily toward the door to the main building of the compound. The next, a bullet caught him mid-stride, the impact spinning him like a top before he hit the ground hard. His left arm jerked violently, the limb suddenly useless, blood spraying in a dark arc that looked black in Rowan’s NVGs.
The wetthunkof the bullet hitting flesh was almost audible over the chaos, the sound sickeningly familiar. Dawsyn’s breath punched out of him in a grunt, but before Rowan could even process it, the idiot was already rolling, teeth bared against the pain, his good hand clawing for his sidearm. “Not to-fucking-day,” his voice a raw, static-laced growl in Rowan’s ear. Only Dawsyn could muster an attitude with a bullet in his arm.
“Fuck.”
“I’m good,” Dawsyn pressed his back to a wall and started laying down cover fire, one-handed. Go. Go.”
The mission clock was a metronome in his skull; each second was a second less Mikey had before one of the bastards they fought decided to take him out of the game. But even if his training demanded mission first, leaving one of his men injured went against everything that he was.
“Seven, Four’s down.” He forced his lungs to work and his fingers to stay loose on the trigger as he called in their medic. Edge would take care of Valley because they didn’t have much time before Mikey Wilson was as good as dead, if he wasn’t already. Rowan had to trust his team to protect their injured brother.
“Go, boss. Damn it, I’m good.”
“Don’t get dead,” Rowan ordered and surged forward behind Jericho, as his muzzle flashes lit up the night in erratic bursts, casting long, shifting shadows against the mud-brick walls. His finger squeezed the trigger in measured double-taps as they breached the building. The stench hit him like a wall.
What the hell were these motherfuckers doing in here?
The sour, rank smell of sweat, along with the cloying reek of unwashed bodies, and something rotten beneath it made both him and Jericho gag. “Jesus.”
“Dirty bastards.”
Rowan’s stomach lurched, but he swallowed it down, his NVGs flickering as they adjusted to the dim light filtering through the tattered blankets nailed over the windows. The flimsy fabric flapped wildly in the crossfire, and the team poured in behind him, their boots kicking up dust, their breaths ragged in his earpiece.
The building was a maze of shadows and half-seen shapes. A figure lunged from the left with a Makarov clenched in his hand. Rowan pivoted on instinct, his rifle barking twice in quick succession. The muzzle flash lit up the man’s face for a split second, his features twisted in surprise before the bullets punched into his chest. He staggered back, his mouth opening in a silent ‘oh’ as blood bloomed dark and wet across his shirt, then he crumpled to the ground. Rowan didn’t wait to watch him fall. His brain was already tracking the next threat. He lunged, his boot connecting with the man’s ribs with a sickening crunch. The guy gasped, his breath exploding out of him.
“Stay down, motherfucker.”
But the asshole didn’t listen. His hands clawed at Rowan’s vest, his plate carrier, anything he could grab. Rowan adjusted his NVGs with a sharp jerk of his head, the green-tinted world swimming for half a second before snapping back into focus. The man beneath him wasn’t Mikey—thank Christ—but his face was a mask of fury, his lips peeled back in a snarl as he spat something in Pashto, his free hand diving for his waistband. Rowan didn’t need to understand the words to know it was a threat.Knife or gun, it didn’t matter.
Him or my men…
My men every damn time.
Rowan took him out of the game before he could do any damage. He scanned the room, his weapon back up, as he moved along.
“Mikey! Yo, Wilson. Where the fuck you at?”
The gunfire outside was relentless, combined with running commentary from his team.
“QC2 Clear left.”
“Roger,”
“Watch the door, Edge needs cover.”
“On it.”
Beneath it all, Rowan barely made out a whisper of sound and caught the faintest scrape of movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Here.”
The word was barely audible over the chaos, but it hit Rowan like a bullet to the chest. He whirled toward it, with his weapon at ready position.
