SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle (118 page)

Elle James

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Read other stories in the Take No Prisoners Series:

SEAL’s Honor (#1)

SEAL’s Desire (#2)

SEAL’s Embrace (#3)

SEAL’s Obsession (#4)

SEAL’s Proposal (#5)

SEAL’s Seduction (#6)

SEAL’s Defiance (#7)

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Also visit her alter-ego Myla Jackson at
mylajackson.com

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This book is dedicated to the selfless doctors who give of their gifts to provide medical attention and services to the people who do not have access or money to pay for it. They brave the elements, civil wars and terrorists to do what they do best. Thanks, docs!

Escape with…

Elle James

aka Myla Jackson

‡

“I
t’s fucking Grand
Central Station in Samada tonight,” Declan O’Shea muttered into his radio. On point for this mission, he studied the small village in semi-arid, southwestern Somalia. Either Intel had it wrong or the al-Shabaab leader, Emir Fuad Hassan Umar, had called a meeting of all his leaders, or he had beefed up his security in the past twenty-four hours.

“I count fifteen bogeys on the south corner.” Swede had moved into position on the southern end of the village.

“Same on the north,” Fish reported. “Tight perimeter as well. No one sleeping, yet.”

“Over twenty stationed outside our target structure,” Irish said from his location thirty yards from one of the grass huts on the east end of the village. He hugged the shadows, his night vision goggles pushed up on his helmet, unnecessary with the full moon lighting the sky like daytime. Not conducive to a surprise attack on the emir.

Orders were orders. Over two hours ago, the eighteen-man team had fast-roped from the two Black Hawk helicopters several miles from the target. They’d moved in on foot, carrying the explosives and weapons they needed.

SEAL Team 10 had been tasked to decapitate the head of a growing al-Shabaab faction led by a murderous former member of the Somali Islamic Courts Union who’d wiped out entire villages of people. In one village, he and his men had gone through, hut by hut, and killed the men, raped the women and slaughtered the children. When they were through pillaging, they burned the structures to the ground. In other villages, he’d wiped out the entire population and strewn their corpses for the scavenger birds.

A freelance news reporter happened upon the scene shortly after. The pictures he’d sent back to be printed in the US and the UK newspapers had shocked the westerners. But not until the rebels raided a small women’s college in a suburb of Mogadishu, kidnapped all the females and sold them into slavery, did the U.S. administration take action.

Langley did their magic with satellite images, and SEAL Team 10 got the alert to stand ready to deploy.

They hadn’t known their destination until they boarded the C-130 aircraft bound for a joint forces post in Djibouti, on the Horn of Africa. They landed in Camp Lemonnier at night, were secreted into an operations building where they slept through the day and prepared for the mission to be conducted the following night. After a thorough briefing by intelligence officers, they loaded helicopters from the U.S. Army’s 160th Special Operations Regiment, otherwise known as the Night Stalkers—the aviation unit known for its ability to fly helicopters fast, at low altitudes and under extremely hostile conditions. They had more balls than all the other pilots in the military and were the SEAL team’s life line.

Intel had estimated thirty terrorists, not the fifty Irish counted with Fish’s and Swede’s numbers combined. Those were the figures they could
see
on the outside of the main building. The emir could have called a meeting of all of his subordinate leaders, and they could be gathered inside the building, plotting their next murderous raid.

The SEAL team was highly outnumbered, and the rebels were well armed, each carrying a semi-automatic rifle with thirty-round banana magazines and spares.

“Count on fifty to seventy rebels. Your call, Gator,” Irish spoke softly into his mic.

The leader of their team Remy “Gator” LaDue’s voice crackled through Irish’s headset. “They have to sleep sometime.”

That was the team’s cue to wait and watch.

Irish got comfortable, tucked into a bush, his face blackened with camouflage paint, alert but conserving energy for the battle to come.

Slowly, the rebels settled in for the night, many of them lying in the dirt, weapons clutched in their hands.

An hour went by before the door to the target structure made of straw, sticks and mud opened, and men poured out. Ten loaded into nearby trucks and left, others collapsed onto the ground and talked for a few minutes before lying down to sleep. The village grew quiet.

Forty-five minutes later, Gator’s voice came through, “Let’s do this.”

Irish crawled out of the bush, flexed his muscles and moved forward, shifting his finger to the trigger of his specially modified M4A1. His muscles bunched, his control tight on every movement. Surprise was as much a weapon as the rifle in his hands.

Ten yards before he reached the first perimeter guard hunkered against the side of a hut constructed of sticks, with a grass, thatched roof, Irish paused. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something wasn’t right. The ground around him was too clean, too clear. He dropped to his haunches and scanned the area. A thin glint of light alerted him to something shiny stretched between two bushes.

“Fuck! The perimeter is wired—” he said into his mic.

As the words left his mouth, a loud explosion ripped through the silence and shook the earth, spitting dirt and rubble into the air.

Irish flattened against the ground, his pulse slamming through his veins. The trip wire hung inches from his nose. The explosion had gone off to the south where Swede, Big Bird, Gator and Sting Ray were. Someone had tripped the wire.

Every rebel in the village leaped to his feet shouting, guns at the ready. The door to the target structure burst open, and more men ran out into the yard.

“Plan Bravo!” Gator called into Irish’s headset.

Irish, Tuck and everyone else opened fire on the rebels in the village, taking out as many as they could to provide cover while Hank and Dustman carried out their part of Plan Bravo. Positioned twenty feet on either side of Irish, the two SEALs, half-hidden in the brush, came to their knees and fired off two high-explosive grenades from the M203A1 grenade launchers attached to their rifles, aiming for the hut at the center of the village. One landed short, the other hit. Both exploded with a bright flash.

Half of the team pulled back, heading for the helicopter pick-up point. Their communications man would have put in a call to the waiting Night Stalkers. The helicopters would be in position when the SEALs reached the appointed landing zone.

They just had to get there.

Irish, Tuck, Swede and Fish would be the last to bug out, providing cover fire for the others.

“Gator was hit,” Big Bird said into Irish’s headset. “I’ve got him.”

“Get out of here,” Tuck said. “We’ve got your six.”

Irish eased away from the village, firing as he went. The chaos of going from sound asleep to fully alert was wearing off the rebels. In full-defense mode, they fired back, strafing the darkness surrounding the village in hope of hitting their attackers.

Hunkering low to the ground, Irish ran, doing his best to hug the shadows of trees and bushes. With the moon shining brightly, the SEALs could see the enemy, but the enemy could see the SEALs as well, especially when they were on the move.

Less than a mile away, the thumping sound of rotors whipping the air gave Irish incentive to pick up the pace. His teammates sounded off as they boarded the helicopters.

After one chopper filled, it left the ground and headed north toward Djibouti.

Irish could see the outline of the other chopper, the blades stirring dust in the air, whipping leaves and grass like an impatient child ready to leave.

“Come on, Irish,” Tuck urged.

The words, barely audible over the pounding of his pulse against his eardrums, gave Irish incentive to pick up the pace. Rifle fire erupted behind him, the thunk of bullets hitting the dirt around him was even more compelling. He gave up zigzagging to avoid catching a bullet and ran full out, leaping aboard the helicopter.

He hadn’t even gotten in when the aircraft left the ground, rising up into the air. Tuck grabbed him by his gear and dragged him all the way in the fuselage. Irish sat up and turned toward the open door. Even though he was inside, he wasn’t safe yet. The door gunners on both sides fired onto the rebels below.

When the chopper was only fifty feet off the ground, a flash of light below made Irish’s blood run cold.

The door gunner barely had time to yell, “Incoming!” when the helicopter gave a violent lurch and spun to the left, tilting precariously, losing altitude at an alarming pace. The pilot attempted to compensate and the craft lurched to the right before it hit the ground.

Irish slid across the floor, scrambling for purchase, his hands finding none. He tumbled out the open door, bounced off the skid and fell twenty feet, landing on his back in a pile of rubble of what had once been a hut. Stunned, with the breath knocked out of his lungs and his vision blurring, Irish watched as the helicopter pitched back to the left, flew another half mile, shuddered and crashed to the ground.

His heart banging against his ribs, Irish tried to rise. Pain shot through the back of his head, and he collapsed. Like a candle’s flame in the wind, the moonlight snuffed out.

Dr. Claire Boyette
hunkered in the shadows of the underbrush half a mile away from the village of Samada, listening to the sounds of gunfire. She prayed the rebels were shooting each other, not the remaining villagers who’d been forced to give up their homes for the rebels’ use. Granted it went against her Hippocratic Oath to wish ill health on another human, but she didn’t care. Umar and his thugs had done more damage to the nation than any other rebel faction, and they deserved to die a terrible death.

As soon as a lookout spotted Umar’s trucks headed their way a week ago, Claire and her Somali counterpart, Dr. Jamo, had gathered as many of the women and children as they could and hidden them in the brush. Rather than just passing through, Umar and his treacherous entourage rumbled into the grass hut village and took over.

Claire and Dr. Jamo had established a small camp a mile and a half away from the village, off the main road and deep in the brush. They set up makeshift tents with the blankets they scavenged when the rebels weren’t looking. But the only source for clean water was in the village. They couldn’t keep sneaking in and out in the early hours of the morning without being caught.

That was a week ago, and now the rebels had appeared to be quite settled. Until gunfire erupted, and the sounds of men shouting could be heard all the way to where Claire had dared to lay down her head to sleep.

She had Dr. Jamo hurry the women and children deeper into the brush, abandoning their tents to hide behind bushes and trees in case the rebels came their way. Once her charges were well hidden, Claire crept toward the village, staying far enough away she wouldn’t catch a stray bullet. She hoped. Her fear was for the welfare of the other villagers who’d been forced to stay and had been sneaking food and water out to the others. As a medical doctor, she wanted to be nearby to help those injured in the shooting.

As she neared the village, the gunfire increased and the thumping sound of a helicopter’s blades churned the air. Rethinking her decision to check out things in the heat of a battle, Claire had started to turn when a helicopter left the ground and flew over the top of her head. From its shape and the guns mounted on each side, she’d bet it was an American Black Hawk. She’d seen enough of them when she’d passed through Camp Lemonnier, before she made her way into Somalia a month ago. Though the aircraft had gone, the thumping sound of rotors hadn’t ceased.

Claire leaned around a bush and spotted another chopper in the distance as it rose from the ground and headed her direction.

A flash streaked from the ground nearby and was followed by a loud bang. The aircraft shuddered and the blades dipped to one side.

Claire tensed. Instinct made her duck, even though the helicopter flew well over her head. But not for long. Apparently, the chopper had taken a hit and was going down. As it tipped back the other way something…or someone …fell to the ground within twenty yards of where Claire hid.

By the shape she could see in the moonlight, it was a man. She rose from her position, and started toward the spot where he’d landed. Before she’d gone five feet, the helicopter crashed into the ground half a mile away with a loud crunching of metal. The blades broke off and sliced through trees.