Hot Target
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Elle James
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16,9K
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15
Chapter One
Max “Caveman” Decker clung to the shadows of the mud-and-brick structures, the first SEAL into enemy territory. Reaching a forward position giving him sufficient range of fire, he dropped to one knee, scanned the street and buildings ahead through his night-vision goggles, searching for the telltale green heat signatures of warm enemy bodies. When he didn’t detect any, he said softly into his mic, “Ready.”
“Going in,” Whiskey said. Armed with their M4A1 carbine rifles with the Special Forces Modification kit, he and Tank eased around the corner of a building in a small village in the troubled Helmand Province of Afghanistan.
Army Intelligence operatives had indicated the Pakistan-based Haqqani followers had set up a remote base of operations in the village located in the rugged hills north of Kandahar.
Caveman’s job was to provide cover to his teammates as they moved ahead of him. Then they would cover for him until he reached a relatively secure location, thus leapfrogging through the village to their target, the biggest building at the center, where intel reported the Haqqani rebels had set up shop.
Caveman hunkered low, scanning the path ahead and the rooftops of the buildings for gun-toting enemy combatants. So far, so good. Through his night-vision goggles, he tracked the progress of the seven members of his squad working their way slowly toward the target.
An eighth green blip appeared ahead of his team and his arm swung wide.
“We’ve got incoming!” Caveman aimed his weapon at the eighth green heat signature and pulled the trigger. It was too late. A bright flash blinded him through the goggles, followed by the ear-rupturing concussion of a grenade. He jerked his goggles up over his helmet, cursing. When he blinked his eyes to regain his night vision, he stared at the scene in front of him.
All seven members of his squad lay on the ground, some moving, others not.
No! His job was to provide cover. They couldn’t be dead. They had to be alive. He leaped to his feet.
Then, as if someone opened the door to a hive of bees, enemy combatants swarmed from around the corners into the street, carrying AK-47s.
With the majority of his squad down, maybe dead, maybe alive, Caveman didn’t have any other choice.
He set his weapon on automatic, pulled his 9-millimeter pistol from the holster on his hip and stepped out of the cover of the building.
“What the hell are you doing?” Whiskey had shouted.
“Showing no mercy,” he shouted through gritted teeth. He charged forward like John Wayne on the warpath, shooting from both hips, taking out one enemy rebel after the other.
Something hit him square in his armor-plated chest, knocking him backward a step. It hurt like hell and made his breath lodge in his lungs, but it didn’t stop him. He forged his way toward the enemy, firing until he ran out of ammo. Dropping to the ground, he slammed magazines into the rifle and the pistol and rolled to a prone position, aimed and fired, taking down as many of the enemy as he could. He’d be damned if even one of them survived.
When there were only two combatants left in the street, Caveman lurched to his feet and went after them. He wouldn’t rest until the last one died.
He hadn’t slowed as he rounded the corner. A bullet had hit him in the leg. Caveman grunted. He would have gone down, but the adrenaline in his veins surged, pushing him to his destination. He aimed his pistol at the shooter who’d plugged his leg and caught him between the eyes. Another bogey shot at him from above.
Caveman dove to the ground and rolled behind a stack of crates. Pain stabbed him in the shoulder and the leg, and warm wetness dripped down both. He leaned around the crates, pulled his night-vision goggles in place, located the shooter on the rooftop and took him out.
With the streets clear, he had a straight path to the original target. Holstering his handgun, he pulled a grenade out of his vest, pushed to his feet and staggered a few steps, pain slicing through him. He could barely feel his leg and really didn’t give a damn.
Two steps, three... One after the other took him to the biggest structure in the neighborhood. As he rounded the corner, one of the two guards protecting the doorway fired at him.
The man’s bullet hit the stucco beside him.
Caveman jerked back behind the corner, stuck his M4A1 around the corner and fired off a burst. Then he leaped out, threw himself to the ground, rolled and came up firing. Within moments, the two guards were dead.
The door was locked or barred from the inside. Pulling the pin on the grenade, Caveman dropped it in front of the barrier and then stepped back around the corner, covering his ears.
The blast shook the building and spewed dust and wooden splinters. Back at the front entrance, Caveman kicked the door the rest of the way in and entered the building.
Going from room to room, he fired his weapon, taking out every male occupant in his path. When he reached the last door, he kicked it open and stood back.
The expected gunfire riddled the wall opposite the door.
After the gunfire ceased, Caveman spun around and opened fire on the occupants of the room until no one stood or attempted escape.
His task complete, he radioed the platoon leader. “Eight down. Come get us.” Only after each one of his enemies was dead did he allow himself to crumple to the ground. As if every bone in his body suddenly melted into goo, Caveman had no way left to hold himself up. Still armed with his M4A1, he sat in the big room and stared down at his leg. Blood flowed far too quickly. In the back of his mind, he knew he had to do something or he’d pass out and die. But every movement now took a monumental amount of effort, and gray fog gathered at the edges of his vision. He couldn’t pass out now, his buddies needed him. They could be dead or dying. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t straighten, couldn’t rise to his feet. The abyss claimed him, dragging him to the depths of despair.
* * *
“CAVEMAN,” A VOICE SAID.
He dragged himself back from the edge of a very dark, extremely deep pool that was his past—a different time...a terrible place. He shook his head to clear the memories and glanced across the room at his new boss for the duration of this temporary assignment. “I’m sorry, sir. You were saying?”
The leader of Homeland Security’s Special Task Force Safe Haven, Kevin Garner, narrowed his eyes. “How long did you say it’s been since you were cleared for duty?”
“Two weeks,” Caveman responded.
Kevin’s frown deepened. “And when was the last time you met with a shrink?”
“All through the twelve weeks of physical therapy. She cleared me two weeks ago.” His jaw tightened. “I’m fully capable of performing whatever assignment is given to me as a Delta Force soldier. I don’t know why I’ve been assigned to this backcountry boondoggle.”
Kevin’s shrewd gaze studied Caveman so hard he could have been staring at him under a microscope. “Any TBI with your injury?”
“I was shot in the leg, not the head. No traumatic brain injury.” Anger spiked with the need to get outside and breathe fresh air. Not that the air in the loft over the Blue Moose Tavern in Grizzly Pass, Wyoming, was stale. It was just that whenever Caveman was inside for extended periods, he got really twitchy. Claustrophobia, the therapist had called it. Probably brought on by PTSD.
A bunch of hooey, if you asked Caveman. Something the therapist could use against him to delay his return to the front. And by God, he’d get back to the front soon, if he had to stow away on a C-130 bound for Afghanistan. The enemy had to pay for the deaths of his friends; the members of his squad deserved retribution. Only one other man had survived, Whiskey, and he’d lost an eye in the firefight.
The slapping sound of a file folder hitting a tabletop made Caveman jump.
“That’s your assignment,” Kevin said. “RJ Khalig, pipeline inspector. He’s had a few threats lately. I want you to touch bases with him and provide protection until we can figure out who’s threatening him.”
Caveman glared at the file. “I’m no bodyguard. I shoot people for a living.”
“You know the stakes from our meeting a couple days ago in this same room, and you’ve seen what some of the people in this area are capable of. As I said then, we think terrorist cells are stirring up already volatile locals. Since we found evidence that someone is supplying semiautomatic weapons to what we suspect is a local group called Free America, we’re afraid more violence is imminent.”
“Just because you found some empty crates in that old mine doesn’t mean whoever got the weapons plans to use them to start a war,” Caveman argued.
“No, but we’re concerned they might target individuals who could potentially stand in the way of their movements.”
“Why not let local law enforcement handle it?” Caveman leaned forward, reluctant to open the file and commit to the assignment. He didn’t want to be in Wyoming. “If this group picks off individuals, would that not be local jurisdiction?”
Kevin nodded. “As long as they aren’t connected with terrorists. However, the activity on social media indicates something bigger is being planned and will take place soon.”
“How soon?”
Kevin shook his head. “We don’t know.”
“Sounds pretty vague to me.” Caveman stood and stretched.
“I set up this task force to stop a terrible thing from happening. If I had all of the answers, likely I wouldn’t need you, Ghost, Hawkeye or T-Rex. I’m determined to stop something bad from happening, before it gets too big and a lot more lives are lost.”
“I don’t know if you have the right guy for this job. I’m no investigator, nor am I a bodyguard.”
“I understand your concern, but we need trained combatants, familiar with tactics and subversive operations. As you’ve seen for yourself and know from experience, it’s pretty rough country out here and the people can be stubborn and willing to take the law into their own hands. I’m afraid what happened at the mine two days ago could happen again.”
Caveman snorted. “That was a bunch of disgruntled ranchers, mad about the confiscation of their herd.”
“Agreed,” Kevin said. “Granted, the Vanders family took it too far by kidnapping a busload of kids. But they knew about the weapons stored in that mine.”
“Are any of them talking?”
“Not yet. We’re waiting for one of them to throw the rest under the bus.”
“You might be waiting a long time.” Caveman crossed his arms over his chest. “People out here tend to be very stubborn.”
“You’re from this area,” Kevin said. “You should know.”
“I’m from a little farther north, in the Crazy Mountains of Montana. But we’re all a tough bunch of cowboys who don’t like it when the government interferes with our lives.”
“Hold on to that stubbornness. You might need it around here. For today, you’ll be an investigator and bodyguard. Mr. Khalig needs your help. He has an important job, inspecting the oil and gas pipelines running through this state. Contact his boss for his location, find him and get the skinny on what’s going on. You might have to run him down in the backwoods.”
Until he was cleared to return to his unit, Caveman would do the best he could for his temporary boss and the pipeline inspector. What choice did he have? As much as he hated to admit it, they needed help out in the hills and mountains of Wyoming. The three days he’d been there had proven that.
Caveman had met with Kevin’s four-man special operations team members. One Navy SEAL, one Delta Force soldier, an Army ranger and a highly skilled Marine. Ghost, one of the Delta Force men, had been assigned to protect a woman who had been surfing the web for terrorist activity. Her daughter had been one of the children who had been kidnapped on the bus.
Caveman, Kevin and the other three members of the task force had mobilized to save the children and the three adults on board the bus. The bus driver didn’t make it, but the children and the two women survived.
Kevin stood and held out his hand. “Thanks for helping out. We have such limited resources in this neck of the woods, and I feel there’s a lot more to what’s going on here than meets the eyes.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Caveman shook Kevin’s hand and left the loft, descending the stairs to the street below. When he’d entered the upstairs apartment, the sky had been clear and blue. In the twenty minutes he’d been inside, clouds had gathered. The superstitious would call it an omen, a sign or a portent of things to come. Caveman called them rain clouds. If he was going to get out to where Khalig was, he’d have to get moving.
* * *
GRACE SAUNDERS PULLED her horse to a halt and dismounted near the top of a ridge overlooking the mountain meadow where Molly’s wolf pack had been spotted most recently. Based on the droppings she’d seen along the trail and the leftover bones of an elk carcass, they were still active in the area.
She tied her horse to a nearby tree and stretched her back and legs. Having been on horseback since early that morning, she was ready for a break. Moving to the highest point, she stared out at the brilliant view of the Wyoming Beartooth Mountain Range, with the snowcapped peaks and the tall lodgepole pines. The sky above had been blue when she’d started her trek that morning. Clouds had built to the west, a harbinger of rain to come soon. She’d have to head down soon or risk a cold drenching.
From where she stood, Grace could see clear across the small valley to the hilltop on the other side. She frowned, squinted her eyes and focused on something that didn’t belong.
A four-wheeler stood at the top of the hill, halfway tucked into the shade of a lodgepole pine tree. She wondered what someone else was doing out in the woods. Most people stuck to the roads in and out of the national forest.
It wasn’t unusual for the more adventurous souls to ride the trails surrounding Yellowstone National Park, since ATVs in the park itself were prohibited. Scanning the hilltop for the person belonging to the four-wheeler, Grace had to search hard. For a moment she worried the rider might be hurt. Then she spotted him, lying on his belly on the ground.
Grace’s heartbeats ratcheted up several notches. The guy appeared to have a rifle of some sort with a scope. Since it was summer, the man with the gun had no reason to be aiming a rifle. It wasn’t hunting season.
Grace followed the direction the barrel of the weapon was pointed, to the far side of the valley. She couldn’t see any elk, white-tailed deer or moose. Was he aiming for wolves? Grace raised her binoculars to her eyes and looked closer.
A movement caught her attention. She almost missed it. But then she focused on the spot where she’d seen the movement and gasped.
A man squatted near the ground with a device in his hand. He stared at the device as he slowly stood.
Grace shifted the lenses of her binoculars to the man on the ridge. He tensed, his eye lining up with the scope. Surely he wasn’t aiming at the man on the ground.
Her pulse hammering, Grace lowered her binoculars and shouted to the man below. “Get down!”
At the same time as she shouted, the sound of rifle fire reached her.
The man on the floor of the valley jerked, pressed a hand to his chest and looked down at blood spreading across his shirt. He dropped to his knees and then fell forward.
Grace pressed a hand to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. What had just happened? In her heart she knew. She’d just witnessed a murder. Raising her binoculars to the man on the hilltop, she stared at him, trying to get a good look at him so that she could pick him out in a lineup of criminals.
He had brown hair. And that was all she could get before she noticed the gun he’d used to kill the man on the valley floor was pointing in her direction, and he was aiming at her.
Instinctively, Grace dropped to the ground and rolled to the side. Dust kicked up at the point she’d been standing a moment before. The rifle’s report sounded half a second later.
Grace rolled again until she was below the top of the ridge. Afraid to stand and risk being shot, she crawled on all fours down to where she’d left her horse tied to a tree.
An engine revved on the other side of the ridge, the sound echoing off the rocky bluffs.
Her pulse slamming through her body, Grace staggered to her feet, her knees shaking. She ran toward the horse. The animal backed away, sensing her distress, pulling the knot tighter on the tree branch.
Her hands trembling, Grace struggled to untie the knot.
Tears stung her eyes. She wanted to go back to the man on the ground and see if he was still alive, but the shooter would take her out before she could get there. Her best bet was to get back down the mountain and notify the sheriff. If she rode hard, she could be down in thirty minutes.
Finally jerking the reins free of the branch, Grace swung up onto the horse.
The gelding leaped forward as soon as her butt hit the saddle, galloping down the trail they’d climbed moments before.
Grace slowed as she approached a point at which the trail narrowed and dropped off on one side. With the gelding straining at the bit to speed up, Grace held him in check as they eased down the trail. She glanced back at the ridge where she’d been. A four-wheeler stood on top, the rider holding a rifle to his shoulder.
Something hit the bluff beside her. Dust and rocks splintered off, blinding her briefly. Throwing caution to the wind, she gave the horse his head and held on, praying they didn’t fall off the side of the trail. She didn’t have a choice. If she didn’t get around the corner soon, she’d be shot.
Her gelding pushed forward, more sure of his footing than Grace. She ducked low in the saddle and held on, praying they made it soon. The bluff jutted out of the hillside and would provide sufficient cover for a few minutes. Long enough for her to make it to the trees. The shooter could still catch up, but the trail twisting through the thick trunks of the evergreens would give her more cover and concealment than being in the open. If she made it down to the paved road, she could wave someone down.
Riding like her hair was on fire, Grace erupted from the trees at the base of the mountain trail. A truck with a trailer on the back was parked on the dirt road. She slowed to read the sign on the door, indicating Rocky Mountain Pipeline Inc. No sooner had she stopped than a shot rang out, plinking into the side of the truck.
Grace leaned low over her horse and yelled, “Go, go, go!” The horse took off across a field, galloping hard.
Then, as if he tripped, he stumbled and pitched forward.
Grace sailed through the air, every move appearing in slow motion. She made a complete somersault before she landed on her feet. Momentum carried her forward and she landed hard on her belly in the tall grass, her forehead bumping the ground hard. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe and her vision blurred. She knew she couldn’t stay there. The guy on the four-wheeler would catch up to her and finish the job.
An engine roared somewhere nearby.
Grace low-crawled through the grass, blinking hard to clear the darkness slowing her down. When she could go no farther, she collapsed in the grass, no longer able to fight against the fog closing in around her. She closed her eyes.
It wouldn’t take the gunman long to find her and end it.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard a man calling to her as if from the far end of a long tunnel.
“Hey, are you all right?” a deep, resonant voice called out.
Grace gave the last bit of her strength to pushing herself over onto her back. She made it halfway and groaned.
The hand on her shoulder eased her the rest of the way, until she lay facing her attacker. “Are you going to kill me?”
“What?” he said. “Why would I want to kill you?”
“You killed the man in the valley. And you tried to kill me,” she said, her voice fading into a whisper.
“I’m not here to kill anyone.”
“If you do. Just make it quick.” She tried to blink her eyes open, but they wouldn’t move. “Just shoot me. But don’t hurt my horse.” And she passed out.
