Page 6 of Legacy's Call

“Dude, if this is legit, Tillman and his sons need to be strip searched and their clothes completely disassembled in a search. He’s acting too calm after giving up his bargaining chip. He has at least one copy, if not more. Make sure we have the facilities to do that when we land.”

“I copy.”

Ronan closed his eyes. It was his turn to get some shuteye. Wraith would keep an eye on the team and personnel they’d rescued.

“Skipper?”

Ronan’s eyes popped open immediately. How long had he slept? He glanced at Wraith. “An hour.” The man answered the question he hadn’t asked.

“Go ahead,” he croaked.

“Sorry for waking you up. The information is legit, and you have a mission change.”

All the team’s eyes slotted to him. “What information can you give me?”

“There’ll be a plane on the ground when you land. Friendly forces will handle the delivery of your target and the others. You’ll get on the other plane and head to Syria. Once you arrive at Al-Tanf Garrison, report to the communications building for a mission brief.”

“Roger. Resupply and ammo?”

“Acquired and flying in. You’ll have them before you leave Al-Tanf,” Dude informed him.

“Roger that. Everyone copy?”

He got nods from his team. “ETA to LZ?”

CCS answered, “Forty-five minutes.”

He glanced at his team. “Get some rest. I’ve got them.” He patted his automatic at his hip, making sure Tillman and his boys saw the action.

He sensed his team settle back and take the rest when they could. Learning to fall asleep on command had taken some training, but now, every last one could close their eyes and sleep on command.

He stared at Tillman and wondered where the copy of the information was hidden.

“The quiet son,” Wraith said from beside him. “He’s got the information.”

Ronan chuckled. “Get the fuck out of my head and get some rest.”

Wraith gave a twitch of a smile, his eyes closed. “Roger that.”

Ronan strolled downthe corridor of the communications building at Al-Tanf Garrison. When he reached the SCIF, a secure compartmentalized information facility, he stowed all his comm gear and gave his identification to the guard outside the door. After they confirmed he had the clearance and needed to be in the facility, they signed him in and led him to a small, closet-sized conference room. He snorted as he folded into the small chair and shut the door behind him. The video screen was in hold mode until the SCIF operator connected the secure transmission. Secure comms were only between Ronan and his team via Guardian’s earpieces. About a decade ago, Guardian had acquired frequencies for use that only the highest classification of clearances knew about. Guardian and POTUS could communicate via the proprietary secure comm systems. However, when the need arose, such as a comprehensive mission briefing, SCIFs were still used.

The screen activated, and Jacob King frowned. “Ronan, where the hell are you, a coffin?”

“Yeah, almost.” Ronan chuckled, glancing at the white foam tile that covered the walls. “I think it was a broom closet that’s been repurposed. What do you have for us?”

“An ugly situation. But before I get to that … You were right. Tillman’s son had another SD card on him, which had information not included on the original disk. Good work.”

“Wraith called it.”

Jacob gave a small smile and looked down at his desk. The man was a legend at Guardian. Hell, all the Kings were, but Jacob had cut his teeth with the original Alpha team and he was the default expert for all current team leaders. His history with the company could fill volumes and probably did somewhere in the dusty halls of his father’s business. Jacob sighed. “And now, back to the business at hand. We’ve been requested to secure an IDP that Children’s Hope International is operating so they can draw down and close up. In the past two months, seven of their aid workers have been tortured and murdered. Convoys taking displaced people to safety have been attacked.”

“The fuckers are targeting NGO’s now?” Non-governmental organizations had been working to save internally displaced people, or IDPs, for years now. They were the only ones that seemed to be helping because the Syrian Government hadn’t done a damn thing to help the women and children torn from their homes by war.

“So it seems.” Jacob nodded. “We’ve got some in-country militia trying to help, but they are clueless about how to do so. Your team is the closest, so you get to organize the chaos. It could take a hot minute before I get you any more help. We’re stretched thin.”

“Uncle Jacob, no one says a hot minute anymore.” Ronan laughed when his honorary uncle flipped him off.

“You know what I mean.”

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