Page 89 of Tate
Ford wore his hair short but had let his whiskers grow into a dark shag and bore the wizened expression of a man who’d seen things that most people shouldn’t. One that Tate reluctantly recognized.
Tate nodded. “It was fun. Although really, it was only at Elgin that we conducted any airborne training.”
“I had a friend who was a Ranger,” said the petite brunette whom Ford had brought with him. Scarlett. Quiet, but watchful, she wore a rare smile and seemed a little buttoned up. She’d helped Ford clean up the grill mess today and later had made a taco salad for a quick dinner save, freeing Gerri to help with the casual rehearsal.
Gilly’s father was marrying them, but he and his family were staying at a hotel in nearby Geraldine. Tate was thinking about taking Glo in for dancing at the Bulldog Saloon later.
Maybe write a different ending to their last date, one that finished with him nearly punching Knox. Although later that night, he had cornered Glo in the pantry and right then, he realized that the woman had gotten under his skin.
It had only gotten worse, especially the way she snuggled against him, tucked under his arm, her body warm and smelling like sunshine and wildflowers and?—
“Actually, he was an interagency trainer. He did training on the reliability of local intel.” She looked at Ford. “Remember that? He told us a story about the ambush of an entire Ranger squad in Afghanistan?”
Ford just looked at her, nothing on his face, and Tate drew in a breath?—
Stop—
“It was a horrible story about this team leader who followed a bad tip from a local contact and led his team into an ambush. Five troops died?—”
“Four. Two got out,” Tate said quietly.
She looked over at him. “Oh, so you know the story?”
The family had gone quiet, and Ford looked up at him, a little pain in his eyes.
Tate swallowed, looked into the fire. Listened to it crackle.
He’d never told them—not even his father—the entire story. And if he had, maybe they’d stop looking at him like he was some kind of tragedy, some victim.
See the truth.
“It happened in the Paktia Province, in eastern Afghanistan. After the Taliban lost control of the area, it fell into chaos, and rival militias were fighting for control. There were also rumors that it was a safe haven for militants from one of the Taliban subgroups. One militant in particular—a leader—was hiding in a tiny village about twenty clicks into the mountains. The Rangers were going off the intel of a twelve-year-old boy who’d proven reliable in the past.”
He leaned away from Glo, picked up his skewer, and forced it into the flames of the fire, watching the tip glow. “He was a good kid. Played soccer with some of the younger troops, spoke English like a champ, and wanted to move to America someday. We trusted him.”
He felt the gazes on him but didn’t look away from the flames.
“There were a lot of skirmishes in the region, and then a local governor was killed by a Taliban suicide bomber, and HQ said we needed to root out the militants. We had acted off similar intel before—sparked by this kid and confirmed by other sources. This night…”
The flames had found the skewer, burning it to a fiery red. His voice had dropped, quiet, and he saw Jammas’s big brown eyes, nothing of guile in them.
“At first, I didn’t think Jammas knew it was a setup. And it certainly didn’t look that way—we had outside intel confirming the location of our target and had reconned the area for hours beforehand. Had seen a number of Taliban operators enter the mosque in question. So we felt secure in our assessment, and I gave the order to proceed.”
No one spoke.
“It was a classic ambush—I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. Worse, Jammas was right at the front. He ran into the mosque, and after a few minutes, poked his head back out, as if giving us the all clear. I figured out later that it was the signal not to us, but to the militants who were waiting for us to get into the open. Jammas was a good kid, but he didn’t have the strength to stand up to his family or whatever factions controlled his life. We weren’t five feet away when an RPG exploded the wall in front of us, and suddenly we were taking fire. We took cover in the mosque—which was not only empty but destroyed. Two of our guys were already wounded, and the militants were raking the building with fire. My radio man had been hit, and I was trying to get to him to call in support, but they shot in two 120mm mortar rounds and the building practically came down on top of us.”
He was right there, smelling the smoke, tasting the dirt in his mouth.
His voice turned whisper thin. “Then everything went quiet. I was hurt and stunned, and all I could hear was Jammas yelling at me to get up. He was trying to get me to run—they were raking us with gunfire.”
He looked away. “Jammas was shot. He died right there in my arms. And that’s when I realized that only Specialist Jordan, my radio guy, and I were alive.”
He felt Glo’s hand on his arm but didn’t move.
“I’d been shot too—my knee a complete wreck—but I knew we had to get moving if we wanted to live. I’m not sure why, but it took the Taliban a while to check on us. The walls had come down on top of us, so my men—and I—were buried. When I heard them coming, I put Jammas’s body over mine and pulled the debris around me.”
He just let the words land, not caring about the judgment. “I don’t know how, but they didn’t find me.”
