Dying to Score

DYING TO SCORE

A Black Ops, Inc story

Cindy Gerard

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

DYING TO SCORE

Copyright © 2014 by Cindy Gerard

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Photo Credits:

Couple © Ivan Montero / Dollar Photo Club

Tropical Bamboo © lazyllama / Dollar Photo Club

Oh, yeah.
 
Judging by the
chuck, chuck, chuck
of her custom AR-15, Tinkerbelle – Johnny Duane Reed's own personal transplant from Never Neverland – was kicking some serious fairy ass.
 
If help didn't arrive soon, though, preferably in the form of their Black Ops., Inc. extraction team, not only was he going to die in this snake-infested jungle, Tink was going to take the long good-bye with him.

The thought of losing her redoubled the pain that screamed through his shoulder where an AK round had ripped through flesh and bone, made a helluva big mess and put them both in a world of trouble.

"Shoulda clipped … your wings, Tink."
 
He shook his head and fought the darkness from the blood loss and the suffocating, wet jungle heat that threatened to drag him under.
 
"Told Nate … this … was a … bad idea.
 
Never shoulda … let you … come along … never shoulda-"

"Shut up.
 
Just shut up," his wife snapped.
 
She popped off another burst of return fire, answering the AK-47 rounds that flew at them from a gully fifty yards away.
 
"You don't get to talk anymore.
 
You don't get to do anything but lie still and put pressure on that damn bleeder."

That's my girl
, he thought as he closed his eyes and wrestled with the jolt of fire searing through his shoulder.
 
She don't take no lip from nooobody
.
 
But, damn, he shouldn't have folded when she'd begged to get out from behind the desk again.
 
He should have insisted she stay behind.

"Intel on Luis Reyes, big player in the Zeta, Mexican drug cartel," their boss, Nate Black, of Black Ops. Inc., had recapped the mission for the BOI team, "tells us Reyes has set up a sophisticated paramilitary training compound for his private army."

They'd been gearing up at the time as their flat-bottom speedboat delivered them to their infiltration point along the south bank of the Rio Usumacinta in central Guatemala.
 
An active waterway for drug smuggling, the Rio Usumacinta dissected a wild jungle that was a perfect spot for the cartel to set up camp.

"Not only are they training at the paramilitary compound, they're producing weapons," Nate had continued with a hard look as he ran through their mission one last time. "Your primary objectives are to infiltrate Reyes' camp, conduct a recon to confirm their ability to produce weapons, get a read on their inventory and get out.
 
We need a big score on this op.

"And people," Nate had added, glancing at the four-person BOI team consisting of Luke – Doc Holliday – Colter, Gabe – the Archangel – Jones, Johnny and Tink before the boat had pulled away and left them on the river bank, "let's make this an easy in, easy out, okay?"

Okay, Johnny thought, biting back another groan.

Easy in – check.

Easy out – not so much.

The team had infiltrated the seven hundred acre enemy encampment through dense, heavily forested terrain in less than two hours, gotten eyes on and confirmed the intel was accurate.
 
The facility included a firing range, a heavy breaching area, an urban training ground used to build explosives, processing and storage facilities, and a chopper landing pad.

It had been a smooth sailing, piece-of-cake mission … until a truck load of Reyes's thugs had barreled up, caught them inside a bomb prep building and opened fire.

Doc and Gabe had sprinted one direction, he and Tink the other.
 
And that's when he'd caught the round in his shoulder.
 
He and Tink had made it a hundred yards before the blood loss had forced them to stop and hunker down.

He fought to focus on his wife as she continued to cover Reyes's guns with her rifle fire.
 
Damn.
 
She was still too green for this kind of op … and yet,
she
was keeping
his
sorry ass alive.
 
If the bullet didn't end up killing him, the hit to his ego just might finish the job.

What a world.
 
Two years ago, if anyone had given Reed ten to one odds on his chances of someday bleeding out from an AK round in some Central American shit hole of a jungle, he'd have walked away from the bet.
 
In his line of work, a 'good' end just wasn't in the cards.
 
The law of averages said he'd buy the farm in a confrontation exactly like this: pinned down by enemy fire, chance of rescue, nada.

By the same token, if that same anyone had told him that his best chance for survival from said AK round came in the form of a hot, petite redhead who was built like a Vegas show girl, swore like a Force Recon Marine and flitted around like Tinkerbelle on speed, he'd have told them to go blow smoke up someone else's ass.

Taking that bet one step further, if that same farseeing SOB had told him he'd not only fall in love with that sexy little fairy but marry her, he'd have asked them exactly what kind of ganja they were smokin'.

Look at her, he thought with more pride than he'd ever thought he was capable of feeling.
 
Just freakin' look at her.
 
Laying on her belly, elbows planted in the dirt, sighting down the barrel of her AR-15 and holding off the baddest of the bad guys while bullets whizzed all around them.
 
She was a pint-sized warrior woman, fierce and fearless and ready to take on an entire battalion if she had to, to keep them both alive.
 
And she just might have to if help didn't arrive soon.

"God, do you have … any idea how much … you turn me on … right now?" Blood loss made him slur his words but that didn't stop him. "If you weren't … already my wife, I swear … I'd propose.
 
At the very least … proposition you."

"I said, shut up.
 
Save your strength, Reed, because if you die on me, so help me, I'll make you sorry you were ever born."

"That's … my girl," he ground out around a grimace then cursed his useless right arm.
 
He pressed harder on the compress, gritted his teeth against the ripping pain and prayed to God the quick clot Tink had emptied over the wound would do its thing soon.
 
Best guess – he was well over a pint low.
 
He needed to plug the leak fast.
 
And more grim news – he couldn't feel his hand any more.

This was bad.
 
This was so, freakin' bad.

∙ ∙ ∙

Crystal Debrowski Reed – aka: Tinkerbelle, aka: Tink, aka: Babe – bit down on her lower lip, swiped a trickle of sweat off her forehead with the back of a grubby arm and slowly swept the jungle through her rifle scope.
 
Several silent minutes had passed since they'd last taken fire.
 
No muzzle flashes.
 
No bang bangs.
 
All was quiet – for the moment.
 
But the bad guys were still out there.
 
No question about that.

She glanced over her shoulder at her husband where he lay on his back in the damp, decaying leaves and feted jungle heat.
 
His eyes were closed.
 
His mouth was clamped tight with pain.
 
The pasty pallor of his skin scared her to death.
 
She needed Doc to work his magic and fix Johnny up.
 
But Doc and Gabe were out of radio contact, only God knew where.
 
So it was up to her to keep him alive and keep Reyes's thugs at bay until they could hook up and get the heck out of here.

"Did I … mention," her husband asked with that crooked, arrogant, and totally smart-ass grin she'd fallen in love with, "that you …. are sooo turning me on right now?"

"Yeah, you mentioned it," she grumbled and kept her head on a swivel, checking 360 degrees around them at all times.
 
"Which just goes to show how much blood you've lost."

Looking like she did, she couldn't 'turn on' a light bulb let alone compel a second glance from this tall, blond and gorgeous elite operative who just happened to be her husband and who had better not, by God, die on her.

Her hair looked like it had been groomed by an orangutan.
 
Hell, it looked like orangutan hair – orange/red, short and spiky – and not in a glitz and glamour way that had originally turned the head of this sweet talking Texan.
 
Her face and arms were covered with camo paint, bug bites and blood.
 
Johnny's blood.

Oh, God
.
 
Her stomach sank as she thought of just how much blood he'd lost.
 
She could not lose this man. 
Please God, do not let me lose him.

"So … d'ya hear the one … about the mercenary … who walked into the—"

"Damn it, Reed," she sputtered, frustrated and afraid for him.
 
"You do
not
get to make me laugh, either.
 
You need to save your breath, not keep my spirits up.
 
I'm fine."

And she was.
 
Because she had to be.
 
She wasn't going to let her guard down.
 
She was going to hold on until help arrived because Reed could not, and
would
not die here.

"Gambler, Gambler, this is Tinkerbelle," she whispered, cupping her Micom 3 Pathfinder radio mike close to her mouth.
 
She had to risk raising Doc.
 
"Do you read me, over?"

Several silent seconds ticked off before she gave up on Doc and tried Gabe.

"Angel, Angel, this is Tink.
 
Do you read me, over?"

"Nothing?" Johnny asked after more tense seconds slogged by.

She compressed her lips and shook her head, trying to hide her growing desperation.
 

"Either they're … out of range," he said, "or they … can't respond."

Which she knew.
 
Which worried her even more.
 
If either Doc or Gabe were down, hit by enemy fire, the chances of any of them making it back to the extraction point were about as good as Reed making it an hour without flirting.

Trouble didn't get any bigger than this.
 
They weren't dealing with run of the mill hired guns.
 
They were dealing with Reyes's mercenaries, men who dealt in money and gold and lead.
 
This was their compound, their ground.
 
They owned it.
 
Anyone who came looking for trouble was going to get a face full of it.

Or in Johnny's case, a shoulder full.

"How many … left, do you figure?" Johnny asked as his head dropped back heavily onto the dirt.
 
Once again, his eyes were closed; his jaw was clenched tight in agony.
 

Crystal's chest tightened.
 
"In this group?
 
Three, maybe four.
 
But they're bound to have called in reinforcements from other parts of the camp."

"You need to … get out of here, Babe.
 
See if you … can hook up with … Doc and Gabe and … send them … back for me."
 

"You're delirious if you think I'm leaving you here alone.
 
You can't even shoulder your rifle to defend yourself."

"Cover me … with leaves.
 
They'll blow … right by me."

She shot him a look.
 
"You're over six feet tall.
 
There aren't enough leaves in Guatemala to cover you up.
 
Besides, unless that damn dog finds a rabbit to chase, he's going to sniff you out like rot on rancid meat."

"Nice analogy," he said on a weak laugh.

"You know what I meant."

"I do.
 
And you're right.
 
I forgot about … Fido."

'Fido' was a Rottweiler.
 
A big one.
 
So far the drug runners had kept him on a tight leash because they knew exactly where Tink and Johnny were pinned down: fifty yards from a direct hit.

But Johnny was dead right about one thing.
 
They had to move out while he still could.
 
He was fading fast.