Page 50 of Delta: Retribution

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Insurgent attacks were a given at that particular corner of the Khyber Pass. It was one of the oldest routes in history, with stories of bloodshed over centuries to prove it. Michael had died, along with others on his SEAL team, while on a transport job. They hadn’t been on an operation. They hadn’t been targeting a cell. At least, not at that moment. They were doing the most basic of good things for nomadic tribes in the area: helping NATO forces disperse food.

Just thinking about it made anger blossom in Trace’s chest. He knew the land, knew the exact spot where Michael’s armored vehicle had been blown sky-high. The most upsetting part was that, at that moment, he’d been there making a gesture of goodwill.

Trace could barely swallow as they approached the unmarked spot. Nomads had torn the vehicle apart, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. Why they had to scavenge and take the dog tags from the bodies, Trace would never understand.

But on that route, that day, there was no gesture of goodwill planned—nothing that said, “Here’s an olive branch.” No, today, they had tracked down the weapon Romatar had sold to a Pakistani militant who was moving into Afghanistan. Today was the day that they would take home the weapon that Marlena had designed, and none of their forces would be harmed. So help him God, no one else he knew would die at that spot.

“Reeves,” his CO growled in his earpiece. “NoIin team, asshole. You follow the job; you do as you’re told. Do you read me, soldier?”

He took in the familiar faces of the men who thought he’d abandoned them. “Ten-four.”

No one had said anything when he was helicoptered in. Not a “Hey, hello, where the fuck have you been?” Nothing—and that hurt. But fuck it; he deserved to have the team give him the middle finger as ascrew-you, welcome-homegesture.

In his earpiece, he heard the strike go into action. “Scout, we have a confirmation?”

“That’s affirmative.”

They’d been scattered and hidden in the rocky cliffs on both sides of the road. When the Pakistani vehicle passed, they’d intercept it. First stopping the vehicle by sniper fire then swarming from all sides. There was no telling how fragile the weapon was, and everyone was uneasy.

“Half a click. Two vehicles. Four tangoes, armed in the lead pickup. The second vehicle is a covered truck. No man count.”

Time ticked by. The harsh sun had melted behind the cliffs, exposing the men to biting cold winds.

“Fifty yards.”

Trace could hear the trucks. The sounds of engines roaming down the road in the dark night echoed in his ears.

“Three, two, one.”

Two snipers blew out the vehicle tires. The team on foot went into action. They hit the targets, subdued the drivers, disarmed the terrorists, and disposed of the threats. Trace growled through the action, fighting his way to search for the weapon. Praying they had it—

A hand snagged his barely healed shoulder, and white pain shot through his arm, spinning him. Hand-to-hand fighting wasn’t what he expected, but that was fine. Blow for blow, Trace battled, needing to reach for his sidearm and end it. They tumbled over a rocky edge. His attacker held tight, and they rolled down the black abyss and landed on jagged rocks, dirt crunching around them. He took a breath and focused on his attacker. A knife glinted off the moonlight as the man dove for Trace’s chest.

“Not today, fucker.” With a quick catch of his arm, the knife clattered to the ground, and Trace wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, twisting and dropping the body. “Thanks for playing.”

Bent over, he breathed hard, swallowing away the dirt and blood in his mouth and wondering how far down he’d fallen. Operation Cinderella played out in his earpiece.

And then he noticed a tiny hut a dozen yards down. The slightest bit of candlelight lit the inside of the shabby building, and quiet taps and clinks sounded in the wind. His eyes squinted. Moonlight and stars caught on something swaying in the wind. Trace was drawn to it, slipping farther away as the SEAL team he’d abandoned ended the fight above.

“Reeves, report.”

He edged closer to the hut, not mumbling a damn word.

“Goddamn it, Reeves. You better be dead,” his CO shouted into his earpiece.

Ignoring the guy wasn’t the right move. Former teammates checked in and recounted what they thought had happened. “He went over the edge.”

“Reeves went hand to hand.”

“Where the hell is Reeves?”

Calls for him to check in were ignored.Damn it to hell. He was doing wrong by them again, but there was something to that shack.

He took a breath. “Reeves here. Alive.” Not that they cared, he was sure. “Coming up in two.”

But he kept going down. On the front of the hut, cola cans and pieces of armored vehicles were strung up like dream catchers on tinsel wire. Finally at the front of the hut, Trace kept one hand on his sidearm and knocked with the other, unable to stop himself. Two boys—young teenagers, most likely, but so malnourished he couldn’t tell—opened the door, with their own rusted weapons pointed at him.

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