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“ASSETS LOCATED.”
Those words coming through his radio earwig set an Air Force Thunderbirds airshow performing in Nash “Rambler” Hanley’s stomach. Nerves were good—to a point. Being on edge heightened his focus. The roiling in his belly threatened to shatter that focus, turning it into incapacitating fear. He inhaled to a count of six, exhaled at the same rate. The Blackthorne psychologist had suggested the exercise, but Nash thought envisioning shooting down those jets would work as well. Or better.
A hand on his shoulder both startled and calmed him.
“We got this,” T-Bone, his partner, said.
We. They were a team. T-Bone hadn’t questioned whether Nash could do the job. Hadn’t offered to cover for him.
Not ready to trust his voice, Nash gave a quick nod.
He checked his weapons and gear one more time. He tucked his head deeper into his black hoodie. Typical Blackthorne ops attire would be conspicuous in this remote site in Matamoros, Mexico, but baggy cargo pants and an oversized, torn sweatshirt provided better camouflage than standard camo prints. Anyone likely to hang out here would be homeless, drunk, or on drugs. Or all three.
Recon hadn’t sighted anyone outside the abandoned fish-processing plant, which was good. Sensors had picked up eleven heat signatures inside. The team had been sent to rescue six women. More hostages? Squatters? Guards?
“Check in.” Team leader Dapper Dan’s voice came over Nash’s earwig. Each operative confirmed they were ready. Nash and T-Bone would cover the rear of the building. Dapper Dan and Fish had the front. No points of ingress or egress on the sides. Cheese was flying Blackthorne’s converted Sikorsky helo a thousand feet above them, with Lobo relaying info from HQ. Scrooge, sniper on this op, was positioned on the roof of an abandoned warehouse half a mile away.
“Any update on who’s inside?” Fish asked.
“Working on it,” Lobo said. “Heat signatures aren’t exactly X-ray vision.”
An interminable sixteen second pause.
“Based on size, best guess is our six female assets and five males,” Lobo said.
Hostiles was the consensus, although why it took five people to contain six young women niggled at Nash’s brain. Didn’t matter. Five Blackthorne operatives on the ground. Make that six. Olivia, over her protests at not being part of the action, was standing by should anyone need medical attention.
“You don’t put your medic in harm’s way,” Dapper Dan had said.
In and out like the wind.
“Let’s do it.” Dapper Dan’s voice delivering the Blackthorne, Inc. call to action set Nash on task better than any breathing exercises. He moved from his concealed position behind a pile of rubble. The October moon was a thin crescent playing hide and seek with the clouds. Leaves rustled in the breeze which carried moisture from the nearby Gulf of Mexico. Thirty yards away, the building housing their assets sat like a deserted island in a pothole-filled sea of asphalt.
In five yards, he—they—would be sitting ducks as they approached the building. Nash and T-Bone dashed for their post.
Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize.
He recited his personal mantra, blocking the memories of the op gone sideways six months ago.
At the building, Nash stood, back against the wall, panting more than the simple run should have warranted.
“In position,” T-Bone said over the radio.
Nash slowed his breathing, waiting for Dapper Dan’s word that he and Fish had also made it to their assigned spots without incident.
Instead, Lobo’s voice reported four of the hostiles moving for the doors. That left one to cover their hostages. Perfect.
“Two toward the front, two toward the rear,” Lobo reported.
“I’m in,” Dapper Dan said.
T-Bone and Nash moved to the side of the rear door and readied their weapons. Let the bad guys come to them, out in the open. Meanwhile, according to plan, Dapper Dan should be working his way toward the hostages and the guard who’d stayed behind. One against one there. Fish would handle the two hostiles at the front door.
Above, the faint whup-whup of the Blackthorne helo in stealth mode bolstered Nash’s confidence. Scrooge’s position gave him a line of sight to both front and rear doors of this defunct facility.
Most definitely in and out like the wind.
The door eased open. Weapon raised, heart bouncing against his ribcage, Nash prepared to take down his man.
“Hold position,” came from Nash’s earwig. “Negative on two hostiles approaching doors. One hostile, one hostage.”
“I’ve got the asshole,” T-Bone muttered. “Hostage is yours.”
The stench of rotten fish and unwashed bodies hit Nash before he got a visual on either of their targets. Abandoned buildings weren’t big on functional plumbing.
Nash waited. A male voice, deep and rough, spoke rapid-fire Spanish. Nash picked out enough to understand the man expected them to drop weapons and surrender.
Like that was going to happen.
Nash and T-Bone stepped away, luring the man to follow. Asshole took the bait, shuffling away from the doorway. He held a pistol to a woman’s head, his other arm wrapped around her neck.
The pictures of their assets had been taken when the women looked their best. Yearbook photos, studio portraits. Given the darkness and the disconnect between the images he’d studied and the woman standing in front of him, Nash couldn’t tell which of the six he was looking at. The fear in her eyes told him enough. She was someone he needed to rescue.
T-Bone responded in his college Spanish, and their asshole laughed and spat.
“Get her down.” Scrooge’s voice buzzed from Nash’s earwig.
Nash and T-Bone exchanged a quick glance, indicating they’d both heard Scrooge’s order.
T-Bone rattled off more Spanish, crooking his fingers in an I dare you to come for me gesture as he shuffled a few steps backward.
“Trust me,” Nash called out and he dove for the woman, bringing her to the ground as gently as possible, stretching his arms to protect her head while shielding her with his body.
Gunfire erupted.
All Nash could think was you never hear the shot that gets you before oblivion claimed him.