Page 23 of Hazard

As a SEAL he’d only put into practice what he’d studied about Stoicism, a philosophy he was very fond of, and had helped him immensely through BUD/S, a process that had been the most punishing thing he’d ever actively and eagerly volunteered for. It was a practice in the development of self-control, dealing primarily with emotions, especially ones that were debilitating like anger, fear, and lust in its many forms.

In this instance, he needed every coping mechanism he’d ever learned to respond courageously when he was fearful, and calmly when he was angry. If he lost his shit now, he would lose his brothers.

He preferred engaging in a direct firefight or even an ambush than dealing with indirect fire or an IED. As a SEAL, he was trained to react and counterattack, giving what he considered control over the situation. But right now, he was running and gunning, controlling his emotions during extreme danger, including his fury and his anxiety for his guys, immediately assessing the situation and reacting within his limitations in the face of death.

Gunfire peppered the air, zinging and whistling around him, the leaves dancing from the impact. He plowed through the jungle in a strategic arch that would take him back to his teammates pinned down in the warehouse. Well aware a moving target was harder to hit, he couldn’t communicate with Iceman without stopping, and that wasn’t an option at the moment, not with the cartel boys on his heels. Breakneck really liked breathing.

He wasn’t exactly winded, but the heat and humidity, even in the dark of night, took its toll. Breakneck jumped over dense plants, rocks, pushing at branches, barreling through vines and vegetation. He had a distinct advantage over the goons that chased him. His NVGs made night into day. He grinned, murmuring to himself “Catch me if you can.”

His immediate assessment of the situation was a royal goatscrew of monumental proportions. The cartel had duped them, lured them, and closed the trap. He aimed to turn those tables on the bastards. Through the green glow of his NVGs he saw what he’d been looking for, a clot of thick vegetation that would make a beautiful hidey-hole so he could begin his Turn the Tables Mission. He never stopped running, just dropped down to his hip, the bulky weight of his pack helping gravity, and like a baseball player sliding into home base, smooth as molasses. He slithered into the brush, pulled his pistol, screwed on the silencer and waited.

His teammates were surrounded, and their overwatch was on the run. It was clear to him that not only had the cartel known the SEALs would be here, but that they deployed a dog. They had slyly lain in wait downwind from Bones’s nose, springing this surprise on them.

The irony wasn’t lost on him, and payback was a lethal bitch.

He heard them crashing past, counting softly. One, two, three, four, five. Five. That was manageable. He shrugged out of his pack, and his shirt and vest. With quick flicks of his wrists, he removed his boots and socks, leaving him in nothing but his black T-shirt and camo pants. He would feel the ground better, connect to the earth, and make absolutely no noise, making him swift and deadly. Crawling out from under his cover, he holstered his pistol, and pulled out his combat knife.

He caught up to the fifth man, who was laboring. Not many people trained as hard as Navy SEALs, and from the sound of it, this man was gasping for breath. Breakneck lunged and tackled him, set his knee in the middle of his back, grabbed a handful of hair in his fist, and swiped the knife across his throat, all in five seconds flat. Looking up, he checked to make sure none of the others had stopped, but the makeshift path they had made through the jungle was undisturbed.

He wiped the blood on the guy's shirt and rose. Four to go. Speed was of the essence and those goons would realize they were chasing air soon. It was time to bring this to a swift close. He had to get back to his brothers. He took off again, dispatching the fourth guy who was totally winded and resting, and the third guy who was trying to keep up with the two leaders.

No more time to spare, he shouted at the top of his lungs in a long, drawn-out scream. That would get their attention. He slipped into the shadows, every cell in his body primed like a panther in the dark.

When they materialized, slowing down to see their people on the ground, they looked around. Breakneck stepped out of cover. Moving lightning quick, he disarmed the first man in a red shirt, chucking his weapons into the brush. The second man brought up his rifle, but Breakneck threw his knife and the man gurgled as it embedded in his throat, and he dropped down to the ground. Red Shirt lunged at him with a flash of metal. Breakneck danced away, pivoting and catching the man’s blade hand at the elbow, letting the man’s momentum carry his face straight into Breakneck’s flat palm. The crunching sound told him the guy’s nose was broken and the look on his face was fleeting confusion as to why he was dying.

Breakneck never looked away. His heritage taught him how to hunt and that every creature’s soul was sacred. When he took a man’s life, he owed them his attention. He’d taken something special, robbed them of their very existence. But there was no remorse. This man and his friends had decided that drug running was more important than human life, choosing violence instead of giving back to the world. Red Shirt dropped to the ground.

With the suppressed pistol, he put two head shots into each man, then grabbed up his knife and wiped it clean again. He turned toward the furious battle.

His brothers were in grave trouble, every one of them a wonderful burden on his heart. When he reached his gear, after redressing, and checking his weapon, he pressed his comm. “Iceman?”

Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming open came from his right. Hazard turned his head to find one of the CNP members running out, the shouts of his teammates trying to stop him, but it was too late. He didn’t get far as bullets riddled him, and he dropped to the ground.

His life wasn’t sacrificed in vain. All the attention of the cartel focused on that poor soul gave Hazard a window of opportunity and the best chance for not only him but everyone in that warehouse to live.

He rose into a crouch and ran to the trees. No one took notice. They were too focused on the warehouse, too focused on the fact that their quarry was seemingly powerless. How wrong they would find out they were. They were throwing lead like they had an infinite cache, fucking gun runners of the world, supplying criminals, insurgents, and lunatics with weapons.

He moved silently toward the gunfire, the trees giving him the cover he hoped. He only heard an occasional thunk. He pressed his body up against the trees as he leap-frogged through them until he got to the perimeter’s edge.

There was more cover, but it was on the other side of a swarth of open space, but if he could get over there, it would give him a better vantage point.

On a good day, they would be connected to TOC, and he would have called in air support, navigated them to this position and taken these bastards out. But today wasn’t that day. The cartel was determined, merciless, and planned to make an example out of their SEAL team as a show of force, that they wouldn’t be cowed, and justice was nothing more than something to spit at.

He was well aware that exposing himself could possibly draw their attention, and once he did, he would be cut off and effectively pinned down, but that didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was getting the vital information they needed to assess the situation and counterattack.

The only shred of advantage he had was that he could see them clearly, but they would be hard-pressed to see him. Sliding against the tree, he made his move, racing across the divide and into the cover of the trees.

He crouched, adrenaline pouring into his system, his heart pounding with the thrill of sneaking up on this force, but then his mouth went dry, and his blood froze. He reached for the radio.

But was preempted by their silent teammate. When he heard Break’s voice, relief rushed through him.

“Iceman?”

“Junior, you’re giving me gray hairs.”

“Sorry about that, boss. Had a situation.”

“You good?”

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