Homicide at Whiskey Gulch
Auteur·e
Elle James
Lectures
16,5K
Chapitres
18
Chapter One
Master Sergeant Wade “Trace” Travis moved into position a block from the designated alley where they were to collect the dead drop. Darkness had long since descended on the Afghan city of Jalalabad.
They’d arrived inside the city near dusk, driving a nondescript van. They’d worn the traditional loose clothing of the Afghan male over their operational uniforms. On their heads, they’d chosen to wear the triangular karakul hats.
Trace had driven the small team into the city. Staff Sergeant Levette “Levi” Warren had ridden shotgun. Staff Sergeant Joseph “Irish” Monahan had been dressed similarly but relegated to the back seat.
Dressed as locals, they hadn’t drawn attention and had found a quiet alley to park the van not far from their dead-drop location. They’d waited until nightfall to shed their outer garments, don their helmets and communications devices, and take up their arms. Levi was the only man on their team who remained dressed in the traditional Afghan garb.
Trace turned to Irish. “You ready to perform your last mission with Delta Force?”
Irish snorted. “Couldn’t let me sit this one out, could they?”
“Are you kidding? Special Operations Joint Task Force wouldn’t let you out of the theater without one last hurrah.” Trace grinned.
“I couldn’t believe your name came up when they tagged us with this dead drop,” Levi said. “It’s pushing your luck. You’re bugging out. Why tempt fate?”
Irish shrugged. “It’s just an intelligence gathering mission, not an assault operation. We’ll be in and out. No big deal.”
Trace prayed that would be the case. If he had some wood to knock on, he would have. Because Irish was forty-eight hours away from a flight back to the States. His luck could be bad and jeopardize this short mission.
Trace rubbed the lucky Susan B. Anthony coin he kept in his pocket. It was the one his dad had given him to ward off danger. He’d never considered himself superstitious until he’d joined Delta Force ten years ago and witnessed luck in action. Training was key to performance, but luck, fate and faith had played a part in seeing him through many missions. He’d watched more than one man on the cusp of redeployment back to the States get assigned to a mission and not make it out alive to return home to his family.
“Tell me again why you’re getting out of the army?” Levi asked.
Irish laughed. “I’ve been deployed more times in my career than I care to count. Each mission seems to get more and more dangerous. Hell, we never know for certain who is friend and who is foe.”
Levi nodded. “True. But you knew that before volunteering for Delta Force.”
“I know.” Irish adjusted the strap beneath his chin. “I’m just ready to live life out of the line of fire. Look at us.” He pointed to Trace and Levi. “What do we have to show for all we’ve done in Delta Force? A couple of medals for missions we can’t talk about. When was the last time you kissed a girl?”
“I kissed one last time I was at Fort Bragg,” Levi said.
Irish crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah? What was her name?”
Levi shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“Exactly,” Irish said. “We don’t have wives for a reason. We’re never home to nurture a relationship.”
“Some of us don’t want wives,” Trace said. The only woman he’d ever loved had sent him into the military having cheated on him. He hadn’t found another woman he cared about or trusted enough to make her part of his life.
“Yeah.” Irish’s lips firmed. “But some of us want a wife, children and the house with a picket fence.”
“What are you going to do for a job when you get out?” Levi asked.
Trace already knew. He and Irish were from the same part of the country.
Texas.
“I’m going to work with animals,” Irish said.
Levi’s bark of laughter filled the van, grating on Trace’s nerves. “How’s that going to help you get a woman?”
“I have to figure out life after the military before I bring a female into the mix. I’ve had enough of fighting people. Animals aren’t as difficult to figure out. Besides, I need the time to unwind and decompress. I’m no good to any woman the way I am now.” He hefted the submachine gun in his hands. “All I’ve known for the past ten years is killing. What skills do I bring to civilian life? None.”
“What kind of animals are you planning on working with? Dogs, cats, guinea pigs?” Levi snickered. “Going to work in a pet store?”
Irish shook his head. “Horses and livestock. I’m going to find a ranch to work on. Good, honest work.”
“How does that kind of work pay?” Levi asked.
“Not worth a darn,” Trace said. “Not as a ranch hand.”
“I’m not going into ranching to make money,” Irish said. “I want the quiet time and to lower the stress level.”
Levi snorted. “You’ll be bored after a week.”
“I could use a little boredom. Beats being shot at.” Irish nodded toward Trace. “How long are you planning on staying with this gig?”
Trace shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it.”
“You grew up on a ranch. Don’t you ever want to go back?” Irish asked.
“Someday.” Trace looked away. He’d wanted to go home the day he left. He missed the life, he missed his mother. And since he’d left, he’d come to grips with his feelings for his father. The man had wanted the best for his only son. That hadn’t included being involved with Lily Davidson, daughter of one of the worst families in the county. Hell, though she’d cheated on him, he missed Lily.
“Don’t you miss working with livestock?” Irish gave Trace a chin lift. “I know you used to ride horses. Don’t you want to ride like the wind and not worry about taking a bullet because you’re out in the open?”
Too many times to remember, Trace had dreamed of riding Knight Rider, the black stallion he’d raised from a colt and trained as a cutting horse. As far as he knew, the stallion was still alive and well. His mother kept him abreast of what was happening on the ranch through her long, handwritten letters, delivered once a month, like clockwork. “I miss it,” he admitted. “But not enough to quit the army.” Quitting the army would mean he’d have to go back to Texas. Back home. His father might construe his quitting as a sign of weakness or failure.
Trace had joined the army to prove to his father he didn’t need the family fortune, and that he could make his own decisions and be successful in his own right.
Granted, he would never be as rich as his father, not working for the army. But he was rich in friendship, honor and integrity. He was part of something even bigger than Whiskey Gulch Ranch. He was in the business of protecting an entire country. How much bigger could his contribution get?
Too bad his father hadn’t thought much of his decision to join the army. It didn’t matter. That had been eleven years ago. He’d barely spoken to his father since, other than the few times he’d been home on holiday.
Over the years, James Travis had mellowed and actually expressed his version of pride in his son’s achievements. But he’d expected Trace to return home once he’d “gotten the need to prove himself” out of his system.
As an only child, Trace was expected to take up the reins when his father chose to retire from actively running the large cattle operation and his other investments.
Trace knew how to run the ranch and the other businesses in which the Travis family were involved. Hell, he’d been groomed from birth to handle the family fortune. That wasn’t the issue. His father would never turn over the reins. He’d be involved with the daily operations until the day he died.
Pulling his head out of the past, Trace focused on the task ahead. “It’s getting dark. Time to get this party started. In and out. No drama.”
“That’s right,” Irish agreed. “All we need to do is retrieve the dead drop and get back to the base.”
Levi grabbed his sniper rifle and tucked it beneath the long folds of his disguise. “I’ll be in touch.” He slipped from the passenger seat and out into the alley. Moments later, he’d disappeared to find his way to the top of a building overlooking the dead-drop location.
Trace gave Levi ten minutes to get into place. When he didn’t report in, Trace spoke softly into his radio microphone, “Levi, report.”
“In position on top of the building opposite the dead drop,” Levi said through Trace’s headset. “All clear.”
“Moving in.” Trace motioned for Irish to leapfrog to the corner of the alley they’d been directed to by Military Intelligence.
They were supposed to gather the information from a metal box left in the alley. Military Intelligence had indicated the message had been left by a Taliban insider who was intent on revealing the depth of traitorous activities.
They’d performed this type of mission on numerous occasions. Only half had gone without a hitch. Trace prayed this one was in the boring, no-hitch category. Irish deserved a nonevent for his send-off.
Once Irish was at the corner of the alley, Trace moved up to his position and started past Irish into the dark passageway between the buildings.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Irish’s hand shot out, grabbing Trace’s arm. “Let me go first.”
“I’m going in,” Trace said and tried to shake off Irish’s hand.
“That’s not how it works, and you know it.” Irish pushed past him. His weapon at the ready, he eased into the darkness.
“The box is ten feet in front of you,” Levi said from his position above them.
Trace had Irish’s back, as did Levi. But they couldn’t account for what the man might find in the box. For a long minute, Trace held his breath, a heavy sensation settling in the pit of his belly.
Something wasn’t right about the mission. No one had attempted to stop them. In fact, the streets had been deserted. No guards had fallen asleep at their posts, no children cried in the night. Nothing.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Trace murmured into his mic.
Irish paused. “I’m almost there.”
“Hold up,” Trace said.
“I’ve got nothing up here,” Levi reported.
“That’s just it,” Trace said. “It’s too easy. It’s too quiet.”
“Yeah. I’ve got a chill running the length of my spine,” Levi admitted. “What do you want to do?”
“Abort,” Trace said. “Pull back, Irish.”
“Man, I’m within reaching distance of the box,” Irish said. “What if that message is important?”
“It’s not worth losing your life over,” Trace said. “Abort.”
For another long moment, Irish hesitated. Then he sighed. “You’re the lead on this mission.” He turned and took several steps toward Trace. He hadn’t gone more than a couple yards when a loud explosion shook the ground beneath Trace’s feet.
Trace was thrown backward, landing hard on his back, the wind knocked from his chest. He fought to drag air into his lungs. Though he could tell someone was talking to him, he couldn’t make out the words over the loud ringing in his ears. He sat up and shook his head. His weapon lay on the ground beside him.
What the hell had happened?
Then he noticed Irish lying facedown, sprawled in the alley.
Trace’s heart raced as he pushed to his feet, grabbed his weapon and lurched toward his friend. He staggered a few steps, tripped over his own feet and fell hard on his knees, his head spinning.
“Irish!” he called out, his voice sounding as if it were coming from down a very long tunnel. He got to his feet again and forced his legs to carry him to where his teammate lay on the ground.
“Trace? Irish?” Levi’s voice sounded in Trace’s ear.
“I’m okay,” Trace responded. “Irish is down.” He felt for a pulse and breathed a brief sigh. “He’s alive.”
“Then get him up and out of there,” Levi said, his tone urgent. “We’ve got company.”
Trace shook Irish gently. “Hey, buddy, nap’s over. Gotta get you outta here. There’s a chopper with your name on it taking you to Bagram Airfield to catch your flight home.”
“You don’t have time to talk him into leaving on his own two feet. Get up and out of there. Two trucks full of heavily armed militants less than a block away,” Levi reported. “Damn. They’re climbing out of the trucks, headed our way.”
Trace shook back the dizziness. He propped his and Irish’s weapons against a wall, grabbed one of Irish’s arms and rolled him up over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. With Irish’s full weight bearing down on him, he reached for their weapons, turned and half walked, half ran to the end of the alley.
Levi met them at the corner, slung the two weapons over his shoulder and held his out in front of himself. “Go. I’ve got your back.”
Trace had no way of protecting himself or Irish. All he could do was get his friend out of there as quickly as possible. Levi had to do the job of fending off a dozen militants.
Praying Levi would be all right, Trace headed for the extraction point outside the village.
By the time he reached the edge of the stone, mud and stick buildings, he was breathing hard and his shoulders ached with the weight of his teammate’s inert body. But he couldn’t stop. Not yet. He had to get to the helicopter.
Five Delta Force operators ran toward him. One split off and came to help Trace.
“Don’t worry about us,” Trace grunted. “I’ll get Irish to the chopper. Help Levi. He’s knee-deep in bad guys.”
The five men ran past him. Moments later, gunfire lit up the night.
Trace remained focused on getting his friend to the chopper. The others would follow, once they had the situation contained.
His legs shaking, his lungs burning, Trace staggered up to the helicopter. The copilot jumped down to help the medic take Irish from Trace and lay him out on the floor of the Black Hawk.
“Give me a weapon,” Trace shouted.
The medic tossed him his M4A1 rifle and went back to work on Irish.
Trace turned and ran back toward the little town and the continued sharp report of gunfire. Before he reached the village walls, three members of his team who had passed him minutes before came running from the village.
“Where’s Levi?” Trace shouted.
“Beck and Jimmy are covering for him.” Sergeant Parker Shaw slowed to a stop beside Trace. “We’ve called in an airstrike. They told us to get out.”
“Not without Levi, Beck and Jimmy.”
“They were the ones who told us to get out,” Parker said. “Levi nearly took a shot at me.”
“Not leaving without them,” Trace said and ran toward the village.
Parker fell in step beside him.
More gunfire sounded as they neared the village.
Then the night erupted in a fiery explosion, knocking Trace backward. He staggered but regained his footing and resumed his forward movement.
Parker rolled to his feet and kept pace beside Trace.
“I see movement ahead,” Trace said.
What looked like a clump of moving parts emerged from the village into the open.
Trace could make out two men holding up a third between them, running while twisting around to fire rounds to their rear. Several bogeys popped up over the tops of the walls.
“They need help.” Within two hundred yards of the compound, Trace dropped to his knee, aimed his rifle and fired at one of the men perched at the top of a wall. The man slumped and fell from the wall to the ground.
Another explosion rocked the landscape as a round from an unmanned aerial vehicle, driven by a young air force lieutenant back at a base in Nevada, slammed into the village.
The three Delta Force soldiers running toward him staggered but remained upright, pushing forward to their destination.
Parker dropped down beside Trace.
Soon, the other two Delta Force members set up a line of fire to either side of Trace and Parker.
Jimmy, Beck and Levi made it past them and onto the helicopter waiting to extract them.
Another round smacked into the wall of the village. The enemy element who’d been firing at them lay dead or had scattered.
“I’ll cover,” Trace said. “The rest of you get to the chopper.”
“Not going without you,” Parker said. “The rest of you...move!”
“We’ll go together, or not at all,” Jimmy’s voice rang in Trace’s ears.
Overruled by his team, Trace rose and ran backward toward the waiting Black Hawk. The last man to climb aboard, he hovered close to the door, his weapon aimed at the village and any possible bad guys who might decide to take a shot at the chopper as it lifted off the ground.
The helicopter rose into the air, but not nearly fast enough for Trace. Not until they were well away from the village did Trace let go of the breath he’d been holding and turn toward his friends.
The medic worked over Irish. He had Parker applying pressure to a wound while he established an IV of fluids.
As soon as he had Irish stabilized, he turned toward Levi.
“Don’t worry about me,” Levi said. “Just a flesh wound.”
Beck was wrapping Levi’s leg in gauze. “Yeah. Right. The man bleeds like a stuck pig.”
“I’ll live,” Levi said. “Thanks to you guys.” He winced as Beck tied a knot over the wound.
The medic had the pilot call ahead to have the medical staff ready to receive the wounded.
They were met by a military ambulance, and Levi and Irish were loaded into the back.
“I want to go with them,” Trace said to the driver.
“Not enough room,” the driver said, closing the back of the van.
Trace looked around for transportation to get him to the hospital. A captain dressed in a clean uniform hurried toward him. “Are you Master Sergeant Wade Travis?”
With a frown, Trace nodded. “I am.”
“I’m Captain Williamson. Your CO heard you would be here and wanted me to personally contact you.”
“Should I know you?”
“No, sir. I’m a chaplain.”
Trace stiffened. “Our guys are going to be okay. The medics are taking care of them.”
“I’m not here about your teammates,” Captain Williamson said.
He might not have been there about Levi and Irish, but the rest of Trace’s team gathered around him. When a chaplain singled you out, it was never good news.
Parker, Beck, Jimmy and the others stood beside him.
“Could we talk in private?” the chaplain asked.
Trace’s heart squeezed hard in his chest. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “You can say anything in front of my team.”
The chaplain stared from Trace to the men surrounding him. “Are you sure?”
With a nod, Trace braced himself. “What’s on your mind, Captain Williamson?”
Glancing down at a paper in his hand, the chaplain took a deep breath and faced Trace. “Your father was murdered two days ago. You’ve been recalled home.”
