Hot Target. Elle James
rifles with the Special Forces Modification kit, he and Tank eased around the corner of a building in a small village in the troubled Helmand Province of Afghanistan.
Army Intelligence operatives had indicated the Pakistan-based Haqqani followers had set up a remote base of operations in the village located in the rugged hills north of Kandahar.
Caveman’s job was to provide cover to his teammates as they moved ahead of him. Then they would cover for him until he reached a relatively secure location, thus leapfrogging through the village to their target, the biggest building at the center, where intel reported the Haqqani rebels had set up shop.
Caveman hunkered low, scanning the path ahead and the rooftops of the buildings for gun-toting enemy combatants. So far, so good. Through his night-vision goggles, he tracked the progress of the seven members of his squad working their way slowly toward the target.
An eighth green blip appeared ahead of his team and his arm swung wide.
“We’ve got incoming!” Caveman aimed his weapon at the eighth green heat signature and pulled the trigger. It was too late. A bright flash blinded him through the goggles, followed by the ear-rupturing concussion of a grenade. He jerked his goggles up over his helmet, cursing. When he blinked his eyes to regain his night vision, he stared at the scene in front of him.
All seven members of his squad lay on the ground, some moving, others not.
No! His job was to provide cover. They couldn’t be dead. They had to be alive. He leaped to his feet.
Then, as if someone opened the door to a hive of bees, enemy combatants swarmed from around the corners into the street, carrying AK-47s.
With the majority of his squad down, maybe dead, maybe alive, Caveman didn’t have any other choice.
He set his weapon on automatic, pulled his 9-millimeter pistol from the holster on his hip and stepped out of the cover of the building.
“What the hell are you doing?” Whiskey had shouted.
“Showing no mercy,” he shouted through gritted teeth. He charged forward like John Wayne on the warpath, shooting from both hips, taking out one enemy rebel after the other.
Something hit him square in his armor-plated chest, knocking him backward a step. It hurt like hell and made his breath lodge in his lungs, but it didn’t stop him. He forged his way toward the enemy, firing until he ran out of ammo. Dropping to the ground, he slammed magazines into the rifle and the pistol and rolled to a prone position, aimed and fired, taking down as many of the enemy as he could. He’d be damned if even one of them survived.
When there were only two combatants left in the street, Caveman lurched to his feet and went after them. He wouldn’t rest until the last one died.
He hadn’t slowed as he rounded the corner. A bullet had hit him in the leg. Caveman grunted. He would have gone down, but the adrenaline in his veins surged, pushing him to his destination. He aimed his pistol at the shooter who’d plugged his leg and caught him between the eyes. Another bogey shot at him from above.
Caveman dove to the ground and rolled behind a stack of crates. Pain stabbed him in the shoulder and the leg, and warm wetness dripped down both. He leaned around the crates, pulled his night-vision goggles in place, located the shooter on the rooftop and took him out.
With the streets clear, he had a straight path to the original target. Holstering his handgun, he pulled a grenade out of his vest, pushed to his feet and staggered a few steps, pain slicing through him. He could barely feel his leg and really didn’t give a damn.
Two steps, three... One after the other took him to the biggest structure in the neighborhood. As he rounded the corner, one of the two guards protecting the doorway fired at him.
The man’s bullet hit the stucco beside him.
Caveman jerked back behind the corner, stuck his M4A1 around the corner and fired off a burst. Then he leaped out, threw himself to the ground, rolled and came up firing. Within moments, the two guards were dead.
The door was locked or barred from the inside. Pulling the pin on the grenade, Caveman dropped it in front of the barrier and then stepped back around the corner, covering his ears.
The blast shook the building and spewed dust and wooden splinters. Back at the front entrance, Caveman kicked the door the rest of the way in and entered the building.
Going from room to room, he fired his weapon, taking out every male occupant in his path. When he reached the last door, he kicked it open and stood back.
The expected gunfire riddled the wall opposite the door.
After the gunfire ceased, Caveman spun around and opened fire on the occupants of the room until no one stood or attempted escape.
His task complete, he radioed the platoon leader. “Eight down. Come get us.” Only after each one of his enemies was dead did he allow himself to crumple to the ground. As if every bone in his body suddenly melted into goo, Caveman had no way left to hold himself up. Still armed with his M4A1, he sat in the big room and stared down at his leg. Blood flowed far too quickly. In the back of his mind, he knew he had to do something or he’d pass out and die. But every movement now took a monumental amount of effort, and gray fog gathered at the edges of his vision. He couldn’t pass out now, his buddies needed him. They could be dead or dying. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t straighten, couldn’t rise to his feet. The abyss claimed him, dragging him to the depths of despair.
* * *
“CAVEMAN,” A VOICE SAID.
He dragged himself back from the edge of a very dark, extremely deep pool that was his past—a different time...a terrible place. He shook his head to clear the memories and glanced across the room at his new boss for the duration of this temporary assignment. “I’m sorry, sir. You were saying?”
The leader of Homeland Security’s Special Task Force Safe Haven, Kevin Garner, narrowed his eyes. “How long did you say it’s been since you were cleared for duty?”
“Two weeks,” Caveman responded.
Kevin’s frown deepened. “And when was the last time you met with a shrink?”
“All through the twelve weeks of physical therapy. She cleared me two weeks ago.” His jaw tightened. “I’m fully capable of performing whatever assignment is given to me as a Delta Force soldier. I don’t know why I’ve been assigned to this backcountry boondoggle.”
Kevin’s shrewd gaze studied Caveman so hard he could have been staring at him under a microscope. “Any TBI with your injury?”
“I was shot in the leg, not the head. No traumatic brain injury.” Anger spiked with the need to get outside and breathe fresh air. Not that the air in the loft over the Blue Moose Tavern in Grizzly Pass, Wyoming, was stale. It was just that whenever Caveman was inside for extended periods, he got really twitchy. Claustrophobia, the therapist had called it. Probably brought on by PTSD.
A bunch of hooey, if you asked Caveman. Something the therapist could use against him to delay his return to the front. And by God, he’d get back to the front soon, if he had to stow away on a C-130 bound for Afghanistan. The enemy had to pay for the deaths of his friends; the members of his squad deserved retribution. Only one other man had survived, Whiskey, and he’d lost an eye in the firefight.
The slapping sound of a file folder hitting a tabletop made Caveman jump.
“That’s your assignment,” Kevin said. “RJ Khalig, pipeline inspector. He’s had a few threats lately. I want you to touch bases with him and provide protection until we can figure out who’s threatening him.”
Caveman glared at the file. “I’m no bodyguard. I shoot people for a living.”
“You know the stakes from our meeting a couple days ago in this same room, and you’ve seen what some of the people in this area are capable of. As I said then, we think terrorist cells are stirring up already volatile