Page 4 of Shadow Games

Yeah, right. Sounded like some government gobbeldy-gook.

Wyatt hit the end call button and pocketed the phone.

“Get off my mountain, Mitch,” he said, circling the Jeep.

Mitch frowned and pushed open the door. “What do you mean get off the mountain? I'm supposed to help you.”

Wyatt snorted. “Do you seriously think I would let you at my back? After what you did at the trial. I have my backup.”

With a hand motion, Echo appeared out of the brush. Mitch visibly startled. He'd had no idea she'd been less than ten feet away, ready to take him down.

“You're making a mistake, Wyatt. I had no idea what Blade was doing.”

Wyatt didn’t believe him. “You knew he was responsible for those deaths.”

Mitch shook his head. “I didn't. You have to understand, Blade was my CO For five years. I had no idea what kind of man you were. You were only there a few months before it all went to hell. When Blade told me something, I took it as gospel. You know how it is. We live and die by our trust with each other.”

“Exactly,” Wyatt said. “Now fuck off.”

Without waiting for him to respond, Wyatt turned and headed toward his cabin, Echo at his side. Eventually, the Jeep started up and headed down the mountain. He only felt contempt for Mitch. If the jeep rolled off the mountain, he would not be upset.

He looked down at the dog. She returned his look adoringly, and for a moment, he debated leaving her here. Stroking down her dark head, he fondled her big ears. He wasn't sure he had the strength to lose another partner. She was the most valuable tool he had, though.

His sidearm was already on his hip. He carried it every day he went out into the forest, just for added security. Reaching into his closet, he pulled out a shoulder harness. It was a little easier to hide under cold-weather clothing. He also grabbed Echo’s tan ballistic vest, fitting it on her and snapping the buckles. She wagged her tail, knowing they were going on an adventure.

Ducking through the doorway, he grabbed his go-bag from the top shelf of the closet. Then he started stuffing a few things more inside. By the time he was done, it was loaded down. He went through the cabin draining his water lines so that they wouldn't freeze. Then he banked down the wood burner and buttoned things up. Crossing through the breezeway, he went into his wood shop. The wood burner was already cold because he hadn’t been in here yet today. There were projects needing completed, but they were going to have to wait until he got back. He stopped in the middle of the floor space and turned around. This had been his home for the past two years. He had literally built it from the ground up. It had been his haven.

With little effort, he brought Rowan’s face to mind. The thought of her in danger gave him the motivation to leave his haven. Snatching his keys off the wall he headed toward the lean-to where he parked his truck.

They had a lot of miles to get in today.

“Let's go, girl.”

2

Spruce Pines, North Carolina, was in the middle of nowhere. He’d picked it for exactly that reason. It took almost two hours to get down the mountain and back into cellphone service range. It took another two hours to get to the airport. The entire time he traveled, images from the incident more than two years ago flashed through his mind. It hadn't been pretty. Actually, it had been the most traumatic thing he'd ever lived through. He still had dreams about it.

He’d been sent to SEAL Team Five directly after BUDs training. It had been a fantastic team, and he’d thought he was doing a good job, but four-years in, the higher-ups did some shuffling, and he’d ended up on Team Seven. They were also based out of Coronado, so he didn’t have to move across the country or anything, but it was kind of an odd shift. The guys were okay, but there was an undercurrent he didn’t like. It jived with what he’d heard about the team before, that it was plagued with misconduct and inept leaders. Something seemed off about the entire group, and he hadn’t settled in well. It took him a while to realize that the lieutenant in charge of Foxtrot platoon was the one causing strife. Every deficiency the team had, Lieutenant Ken Rockwell had outed and belittled the operator for. Something as simple as fumbling a magazine into a rifle, or a missed checkpoint. Nothing was sacred to Ken. That acerbic humor was how he got his call-sign, Blade. Every word was cutting.

The man managed to pull the men together enough to get shit done, though. Blade relied on his size and fighting prowess to challenge and guide the sixteen-man platoon. The only reason Wyatt had a bit of an easier time was because of his own size. He was the tallest in the group, as well as the most agile. Blade had come after him a couple of times, and Wyatt had been more than happy to put the lieutenant in his place. Respectfully, of course. Eventually, they’d become wary friends.

In the field, Blade was a powerhouse. He ran missions like they needed to be run, and in spite of the antagonism, they had an incredible success rate.

His ego would get him into trouble, though. Blade couldn’t just take out a nest of insurgents. He had to take out the nest, then war whoop like he had done in single-handedly. Then move on looking for others. More than once, his antics had gotten them into hot water. It was stupid and reckless, and it had been a struggle for Wyatt to maintain a friendship with the man.

A platoon leader needed to be worthy of command, and Blade did just enough to skate by. Gillette, their overall team commander, seemed okay with everything Blade did with his platoon. Frank Gillette was old school, and Wyatt knew that Blade came from a long line of men who had served proudly. Did Frank know Blade’s dad or something? Same generation. And Frank treated Blade like he was his damn son.

The best part of being on Team Seven had been Switch. The Malinois had been a pistol to work with, sour from being passed around to too many handlers. From day one, Wyatt understood him. Switch seemed to sense that he had an advocate, and he flourished under Wyatt’s care. Within just a few weeks, they’d moved beyond all the remedial work and into serious training.

Wyatt had loved it. All his life he’d loved dogs and working with Switch had given him such a sense of satisfaction. The dog had seemed more secure and satisfied as well. He’d moved into the bunks with him, ate with him, and was generally his shadow. If Wyatt moved, Switch made a corresponding move. They could read each other like they’d been together for years rather than months.

Switch had hated Blade with a passion, even going so far as to piss on his rucksack and cot leg a time or two. Wyatt had laughed and so had most of the team, but there’d been a gleam in Blade’s eyes that he hadn’t liked, and he’d watched over Switch carefully. The dog was an asset of the Navy, but Wyatt wouldn’t put it past him to injure him for petty reasons.

Blade had waited for the opportune time to attack.

The op in Qala-e-Naw was supposed to have been a rescue. A group of aid workers had been taken, and they were being held hostage. SEAL Team Seven was to rescue them. Foxtrot platoon, specifically.

A giant sandstorm had moved in, obscuring vision and making travel deadly. The sandstorm should have been excellent cover for them to do their job. Instead, it hid treachery.

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