Montana SEAL (13 page)

E
LLE JAMES
also writing as MYLA JACKSON is a
New York Times
and
USA Today
Bestselling author of books including cowboys, intrigues and paranormal adventures that keep her readers on the edges of their seats. With over eighty works in a variety of sub-genres and lengths she has published with Harlequin, Samhain, Ellora’s Cave, Kensington, Cleis Press, and Avon. When she’s not at her computer, she’s traveling, snow skiing, boating, or riding her ATV, dreaming up new stories. Learn more about Elle James at
www.ellejames.com

R
eed Tucker
, Tuck to his buddies, tugged at the tie on his U.S. Navy service dress blue uniform, and his gut knotted as he entered the rehabilitation center of the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland.

He’d never run from anything, not a machine gun pinning his unit to a position, a fight where he was outnumbered, or an argument he truly believed in. But the sights, smells, and sounds inside the walls of the rehabilitation center made him want to get the hell out of the facility faster than a cat with its tail on fire.

But he couldn’t leave. Not yet. This was graduation day for Reaper, aka Cory Nipton, his best friend and former teammate on SEAL Team 10. Reaper was being released from the rehabilitation center after enduring something even tougher than BUD/s training, the twenty-four week Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training designed to weed out the true SEALs from the wannabes.

But Reaper’s release from rehab wasn’t the only event that brought Tuck there that day. He was going to a wedding. His heart twisted, his palms grew clammy, and he clutched the ring box in his left hand as regret warred with guilt, creating a vile taste in his mouth.

Reaper was marrying Delaney, the only woman Tuck had ever trusted with his heart. The only woman who’d forced him to get over his past and dare to dream of a future. She was the woman he could see himself spending the rest of his life with. And today she was promising to love, honor, and cherish his best friend—a better man than Tuck by far. A hero who’d lost his right arm because Tuck hadn’t given him sufficient cover. Cory deserved all the happiness he could get after being medically discharged out of the only family he’d ever known. The Navy SEALs.

His hand on the door to the room where the wedding was to take place, Tuck squared his shoulders and stepped into his future.

Two months earlier

Tuck glanced to his left and right. The members of Strike Force Dragon sat or stood, tense, holding onto whatever they could as the MH-60M Black Hawk dipped into the valley between two hilltops, less than a click away from the dark, quiet village. The only thing different about this mission was that, since the one before, he’d slept with the Pilot in Command of the helicopter.

Most men knew her as Razor, the call sign they used for the only female pilot flying infiltration and extraction missions for the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR), Army Captain Delaney O’Connell.

Through his NVGs he picked up the bright green signature of a lookout on top of one of the buildings.

Within seconds, shots were fired at them, tracer rounds flaring in the dark. The helicopter remained just out of range of the man’s rifle shots, but it wouldn’t be long before a Taliban machine gunner with long-range capability was alerted with the potential of lobbing rocket-propelled grenades their way.

Wasting no time, the helicopter sank to a level just above the drop zone (DZ). While it hovered the men fast-roped down.

As soon as his boots hit the ground, Tuck brought up his M4A1 in the ready position and ran toward the sniper on the rooftop, zigzagging to avoid being locked in the enemy crosshairs.

Reaper, Big Bird, Gator, Fish, and Dustman spread out to the sides and followed.

When they were in range, Reaper took a knee and employed his uncanny ability as a sharpshooter to knock off the sentry on the rooftop.

The team continued forward into the walled town, going from building to building, until they reached the one they were after. In the center of the compound, high walls surrounded one particular brick and mud structure.

Big Bird bent and cupped his hands.

Tuck planted his boot in the man’s massive paws and, with Big Bird’s help, launched himself to the top of the wall, dropping down on the other side in a crouch. Weapon pointing at the building, finger on the trigger, Tuck scanned the courtyard for potential threat. People moved past windows inside. So far, no one had stepped outside to check out the disturbance. Only a matter of time. “Clear,” he said into his headset.

As Dustman topped the wall, a man emerged from the side of the structure and fired on them.

Without hesitation, Tuck fired off a silent round, downing the man with one bullet.

Dustman dropped to the ground beside him and gave him a thumbs up, taking the position by the wall so Tuck could move to the corner where the dead man lay.

As they’d discussed in the operations briefing, they only had three minutes to get into the compound, retrieve their target, and get out. Kill anyone in the way, but bring out the target alive.

Once four of the six-man team were inside the wall, they breached the doorway and entered, moving from room to room. If someone or something moved, they had only a millisecond to decide whether or not to shoot.

Tuck opened the first room. Inside, small green heat signatures glowed in his NVGs. Children sleeping on mats on the floor. He eased shut the door, jamming a wedge in the gap to keep them from getting out too soon.

He moved on to the next room. When he opened the door, a woman rose from a pallet, wearing a long black burka. When she lifted her hand like she held a gun, Tuck fired, taking her down before she could pull the trigger.

As he continued in the lead position down the narrow hallway, Tuck’s adrenaline hammered blood through his veins and honed his senses. His wits in hyper-alert status, his finger rested a hair’s breadth away from again pulling the trigger. This was the life he was made for. Defending his country, seeking out his enemies and destroying them with a swift, deadly strike. His job was risky, dangerous, and deadly.

A man emerged from a room down the hall.

Tuck’s nerves spiked. He had only a fraction of a second to identify him.

Not his target.

He pulled the trigger and nailed him with another silent round. The man slumped to the floor, his cry for help nothing more than a startled gasp.

The door he’d emerged from flew open and men bearing guns poured out.

Tuck spoke quietly into his headset. “Get down.” He didn’t bother to look back. His team would follow his orders without hesitation. He dropped with them, his M4A1 in front of him, and fired at the kneecaps of the men filling the hallway.

One by one, they went down, discharging their weapons, the bullets going wide and high.

In Pashto, the language spoken by most of the population of Afghanistan and Pakistan, Tuck told them to lay down their weapons.

When one of the injured enemies sat up and took aim, Tuck fired another round, putting him out of the game.

The injured enemy soldiers threw down their guns.

“Gator, clean up out here,” Tuck whispered into his mic. “Reaper and Big Bird, you’re with me.”

In the lead, Tuck stepped around the fallen Taliban and entered the room in a low crouch, ducking to the right. Nothing moved. Another door led into yet another unknown space. Tuck dove into the room and rolled to the side, weapon up.

As he entered, a man with an AK47 fired off a burst of rounds that whizzed past Tuck’s ears, missing him, but not by much. The man shouted for Tuck to drop his weapon.

Tuck fired at the shooter’s chest. He fell to the ground, revealing the man he’d been protecting. Their target, the Taliban leader they’d been briefed on. He stood straight, a pistol aimed at Tuck.

Though he wanted to pull the trigger, Tuck couldn’t shoot. His mission was to bring him out alive.

His hesitation cost him. A round, fired pointblank, hit him in the chest and flung him backward to land on his ass. If not for the armor plate protecting him, he’d be a dead man. He lay still for a moment, struggling to regulate his breathing.

Reaper used the stun gun, firing off a round that hit dead on and had the man flat on his back and twitching in seconds. “You okay?” He extended his hand to help Tuck to his feet.

“Yeah.” Tuck motioned to Big Bird. “Take him.”

The biggest, strongest man of the team, Big Bird lifted their target and flung him over his shoulder.

Still fighting to catch his breath, Tuck led the way back to the fence. Once outside the building, he scanned his surroundings and then checked back up at the top of the roof. No signs of enemy snipers. But that didn’t mean they were in the clear. They still had to navigate their way out of town and get back to the helicopter.

Leading the way, with Gator and Fish guarding the rear, Tuck hurried back along the narrow street to the outer walls of the village where the helicopter hovered nearby, waiting for their signal.

Tuck blinked the flashlight outfitted with a red lens at the hovering aircraft and it moved in, setting down for the briefest of moments, enough to get the six-man team inside. He reached over the back of the seat to the pilot and shouted, “Go!”

The Black Hawk lurched into the air, rising up and moving forward at the same time, hurrying to gain as much altitude as possible as they disappeared into the night sky, out of enemy sight and weapons range.

Not until they were well out of reach did Tuck release the breath he’d been holding and take stock of his team and their prisoner. All of them made it out alive and intact. That’s the way he liked it. He’d been the only one who would have sustained injury if he hadn’t been equipped with armor plating.

The co-pilot handed Tuck an aviation headset and he slipped it on.

“Nine minutes, twenty-five seconds.” Gunnery Sergeant Sullivan’s raspy voice sounded in Tuck’s ear. “Better, but still not fast enough.”

This had been a training mission, one they’d repeated five times in the past two weeks. Someone wanted them to get it right. The team was improving, but still needed to be quieter, faster, and more aware when the mission was real. The people they’d shot tonight had only been tagged with lasers. If this mission went live, the ammunition used against them would be live rounds.

Leaning back, Tuck held up nine fingers for his team to see and understand the repercussions of wearing out their welcome in a Taliban-held village.

The men nodded. Noise from the rotors precluded talking inside the chopper. When they got back to the base at Little Creek, Virginia, they’d debrief before being dismissed for the night and hitting the club.

They’d played the same scenario five times, improving with each iteration. All six members of the team were highly skilled Navy SEALs. The cream of the crop, the most highly disciplined officers and enlisted men from the Navy.

Like Tuck, the team was tired of playing pretend. They wanted to get in and do the job. But, like most missions, they didn’t know when they would go, who their target would be, or where they’d have to go to take him out. Only time and their commanding officers would tell. Only when they were about two hours out would they get their final orders and all the details.

In the meantime, they’d be off duty until the following morning’s PT, unless orders came in that night. It happened. But if Tuck waited around his apartment for it to come about, he’d go stir-crazy. Besides, he wanted to see O’Connell and pick up where they’d left off the night before.

Back at base, Delaney O’Connell climbed out of the pilot’s seat and grabbed her flight bag. Adrenaline still thrumming through her veins, she knew going back to her apartment for the night wasn’t an option.

Her co-pilot, Lt. Mark Doggett, aka K-9, fell in step beside her. “The team’s headed to DD’s Corral for a beer and some dancing. I know you don’t usually like to hang out, but it’s been a tough week. Wanna go?”

“Sure,” she said, a little too quickly. Any other time, she’d have cut him off with a quick, but polite,
no.
But if she went back to her apartment alone, Tuck might show up and what good would that bring? Somehow, she’d fallen off the abstinence wagon with a vengeance and she was having a hard time getting back on.

“Great.” K-9 cleared his throat. “Do you need a ride?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to drive myself.”

“Probably a good idea. These Navy guys work hard and play harder.”

As well she knew. Tuck had played her in bed like a musician played an electric guitar, hitting every one of her chords like a master.

Her body quivered with remembered excitement, her core heating to combustible levels. Maybe going to the club was a bad idea. If Tuck was there…

She squared her shoulders. They didn’t call her Razor for nothing. She would cut him off like she’d done so many others who’d tried getting too close. And soon. Walking away from a physical relationship was a hell of a lot easier than walking away from an emotionally involved one. Delaney refused to invest her emotions in another man with an addiction to adrenaline rushes. She’d been there once and would not go there again.

Before Tuck, she’d gone two years without a man in her life. Two years since Mad Max, Captain Chase Madden, bought it on a leadership interdiction mission in Pakistan. When a Special Forces soldier had been left behind, he’d gone back into hostile territory against his commanding officer’s order. His helicopter had been shot down. Max had been injured, but was still alive until the Taliban found him and dragged him through the streets tied to the back of a truck. By the time they untied him, he’d bled out.