Page 8 of Brawler
“Wait. Brawler’s a fortune teller?” Easy’s delighted voice drifted over him.
Dagger leaned in with a grin. “Gonna read our palms after the jump?”
“Better yet,” Shark rumbled, “tell me if I’m winning my next poker hand.”
Twister didn’t even look up from his gear. “Tell me if my future involves this conversation ending.”
Brawler shoved Flash’s shoulder without breaking his glare at the others. “One of these days, that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
Flash let the grin hold. He needed the noise, the ribbing, the ridiculousness. Otherwise, he’d still be in that clearing reaching for a woman who dissolved every time he got close, and he didn’t like the meaning of it. Was he chasing something he couldn’t have? He could feel the jungle waiting below, heavy and endless. If fate had anything to say about it, maybe the sky wouldn’t be empty this time.
Tex stood. “Jock up. We’re almost there.”
They rose quickly as the flight master cried, “Fifteen minutes out.” Reaching for his gear, Flash slipped on the thin black thermal suit, built for cold, designed for war, nonreflective. He tested his oxygen. Satisfied with the flow, the oxygen mask sealed with a hiss, filling his lungs with cold air.
The bird bucked in turbulence, the air inside already frigid despite the layers. Thirty thousand feet above the Ecuadorian jungle, and the living green below felt ancient enough to know his name.
The Nightstalkers had gotten them this far, SOAR always did, but once they stepped out, they were ghosts in enemy airspace. No cavalry behind them. No safety net.
He pulled the Ops-Core helmet down over his head, seating it snug against his skull, the weight familiar. NVGs mounted and locked.
Gloves, Nomex, warm enough for this altitude, thin enough to feel the trigger. He flexed his fingers, checked the grip on his MK18 before securing it across his chest. Sling tight. IR laser mounted and ready. The compact carbine was perfect for jungle, but the grenade launcher locked beneath its barrel gave him the extra bite that made him the team’s heavy hitter. Flash didn’t need to drag a machine gun through the bush. He carried his firepower in thirty-round bursts and forty-millimeter grenades.
His vest was already on, lightweight SAPI plates, mag pouches loaded, tourniquet hooked where muscle memory couldfind it blindly. Sidearm holstered on his thigh, suppressor in its pouch, his tactical knife within easy reach.
He clipped in his ruck, seventy pounds of ammo, demo, food, water, and survival gear, secured in its jump bag and hanging between his legs. The lowering line ran up to the harness so he could drop the bag before hitting the ground. He gave the straps a hard yank to be sure they wouldn’t shift.
“Turn,” Easy said from behind him.
Flash pivoted so Easy could run the standard back check. Buckles, chute rigging, oxygen connection, reserve lines. Easy slapped his shoulder once it was clean. Flash returned the favor, giving Easy’s rig a sharp tug at the oxygen line just to make him swear.
Beside him, Brawler crouched to snap the last clips on Beast’s harness. The sixty-five-pound Belgian Malinois looked almost bored, oxygen mask and doggles making him look like some sci-fi war dog from the future. Flash knew better. At one word from Brawler, Beast went ballistic, no more Mister Nice Dog.
Brawler’s voice was low, all business. “Dog secure. Last check.”
Flash leaned in, tugged at the clips over Beast’s shoulders. Solid. “Good to go.” He grinned. “Brawler, don’t forget to tuck your peasant skirt between your legs. You don’t want anyone on the ground taking a dirty peek on the way down.”
Brawler glanced up, one brow cocked.“Say that again when we land, pretty boy.”
“Pretty’s all you got on me,” Flash said, stepping past him.
“Don’t be jealous, Flash,” Easy shot back. “Just because you don’t have the legs for a shorter skirt.”
Shark rumbled a laugh. “If you two are wearing skirts, I’m gonna need to reevaluate this whole team dynamic.”
“Hell,” Twister said, with a slow grin, “long as Flash shaves his legs first, I’m fine with it.”
That got an immediate groan from Bondo. “Wait. Does that mean mini skirts are optional?”
“Yeah,” Dagger deadpanned, “if you want to freeze your ass off.” He glanced at Bondo. “Though yours might be worth the frostbite.”
Tex’s voice cut through the drone of the engines, amused. “Locked and loaded, boys. Let’s ride this rodeo.”
“Hoo-yah,” rolled down the line.
Flash intoned, “Remember, guys…ripcord is still your friend.”
Chuckles rippled through the comms, including the flight staff.
