Target Engaged (6 page)

She knew for sure that she received more than her fair share of his attention. It was true for a number of the guys, but Kyle didn't make a thing of it.

He wanted more than her friendship—she'd known that since the first sizzling look on day one that she could still feel. She'd kept her shades on that first day to gain some distance from that initial flash of heat.

But it had taken the asshole an entire week before he spoke directly to her, and that was only after she spoke first in the back of the truck while he stared at her face. He didn't even have the decency to stare at her breasts so that she could dismiss him out of hand. Jerk.

He had played a low-key waiting game. It was very risky, but she had to admit he'd played it well—it had one hundred percent worked.

She was to the point that if she didn't tear his clothes off real goddamn soon, she was going to lose it.

Now that they'd finished Stress Phase testing, there was a desire to find herself a serious release and Kyle was her number one candidate for that as well as for Delta.

However, there was one more big obstacle.

They were still candidates for another two days, not yet trainees. After this dumbass psych eval, they still had to face the last step of the selection process tomorrow: the Commanders Board Review.

Then they each would either be in or out.

If only one of them made it, the cliff between them would be too vast and no way was she signing up for a pity fuck in either direction.

If they were both out, she wouldn't mind a little friendly commiseration with a man who would really understand before they were shipped back to their respective units.

One of the biggest dangers of trying for the elite units was
not
making the cut. And in Delta, there was typically a ninety-five percent failure rate. When you were kicked back to your unit, you were forever labeled “not good enough,” no matter what Delta's glowing letter said. The fact that the others of your old cadre stood even less of a chance didn't matter. They could still pretend that they could pass if they wanted to, but not you—your butt had been booted back down.

If they were both in?

Well, that was a whole different matter. In that case, she'd say that a celebration was definitely in order. Wonder how much that would surprise him.

She'd bet not one bit. He would have built plans around possible contingent scenarios. It was hard to surprise Kyle Reeves, but she sure looked forward to trying.

Carla turned back to the eval, hoping no one noticed her smile. Soldier number two of eleven that she'd want to serve with?

Duane Jenkins. Guy was an absolute rock. You just knew you could always rely on Duane to have your back. That, and right when it couldn't get any worse but was about to anyway, he'd find some joke and make it a bit better.

Number three…

Kyle could see it in their faces as they came out of the Commanders Review Board.

He watched Chad Hawkins come out walking tall. He looked like a corn-fed kid from Iowa, but inside was the archetypal hardened soldier: tough, powerful, and serious about it. He was practically skipping like a ten-year-old boy as he came down the steps.

Chad high-fived several of the guys. When he got to Kyle, he turned it into a hard handclasp and a solid one-armed hug and thud on the back. “Kick ass, bro,” which was odd, as the man had barely spoken to him over the last month.

“Thanks, man.”

Andrew came out looking like he'd been ass-kicked and then mauled by a pit bull. The Delta cadre escorted him away before his wave of depression could affect the others, but Kyle still felt it. Andrew had survived Delta Selection. A Green Beret like Kyle and Chad with a damn fine rep, he'd been one of the twelve in the fire circle at the end of the Forty-Miler. He'd made jokes about how anything after this had to be easy.

Not so much, by the look of him.

There were several passes and two more hammered-down failures—one who stalked away from the cadre escort with an “I don't need this shit!”—before Kyle's turn came up. Only Carla and three others were left. She offered him a smile. It was tight, almost pained, but it was a smile nonetheless. He did his best to return it and stepped through the door.

The room where the fate of men's careers was decided should have been more impressive. It had beige cinder-block walls, a white linoleum floor, and bright fluorescent lighting. A single chair sat in front of a couple of folding tables. The only decoration was an American flag in a stand.

Behind the tables sat Colonel Brighton and his assistant, Major Clayton. Sergeant Major Maxwell was to Clayton's right, along with two others from the training cadre. And to the Colonel's left sat a man Kyle didn't recognize. They were all dressed in boots, ACU pants, and black T-shirts, not a whole lot to go on for an ID.

The stranger had collar-long brown hair and dark eyes. No one Kyle had ever met looked like this guy. It was almost as if one moment he was the only one in the room with Kyle and it was between the two of them alone—the next moment it was as if he wasn't there at all.

The Colonel waved him into the single chair before the table with little ceremony.

Kyle's butt hadn't quite hit the metal seat when Sergeant Major Maxwell snapped out the first question.

“So, you want to be in The Unit just to impress that bitch outside and get into her pants. Makes you a waste of our time because we're not letting a wench into The Unit. We aren't that fucking stupid. Is that the only reason you're here?”

And that snarl was the friendliest question of the next hour.

* * *

“We already called your unit commander and warned him we were dumping your sorry ass back on him. He didn't sound any kind of pleased.”

Carla faced the Board and did her best to take a steadying breath, but the Board wasn't big on pauses. Even though the comment wasn't a question, she couldn't stop the answer.

“Then I'll climb to the top of another unit. But you want me in this one.”

“Why is that?” Those were the first words the stranger had spoken throughout the entire interview. His voice was soft, yet it silenced the room.

This was her idea of the ultimate Delta operator. He was thirties, maybe even forties—hard to tell. But there was no mistaking his impossible level of fitness or that he clearly saw more in a single movement than most men saw in an entire interview. He…felt different. Like Kyle, but honed down to the essence of Delta through long and hard service.

As they'd harangued her about underlying motivations based on her mother's and Clay's deaths—which, in truth, had started her down the Delta path but were no longer relevant—she'd thought a lot about Clay's stories of what he'd done while flying for SOAR and the people he'd met.

He'd bragged a lot on Beale and Henderson, but a couple times he'd talked about the shadow warriors he'd met, and ultimately, that's why she was here in Delta. The tone of awe in Clay's voice had snagged his little sister's imagination. He spoke of one in particular. So, she took a guess, though she didn't think it was a wild one.

“Because, Colonel Gibson…”

The man didn't blink, though several of the others reacted. It was exactly as she'd expect from the number one soldier of the number one combat unit in existence. Nothing would surprise him.

“…Delta or CAG or The Unit is about soldiers who are determined to get it done no matter what. It doesn't matter what you call it, it matters what gets done. ‘Alone and Unafraid' they say about Delta. But we are—”

“We?” he snapped out.

“We,” she shot back, “because you are going to let me in.
We
are more than that. We are that sharp tip of the spear, so fine that you can't see it except occasionally by how the light glints there, which”—she kind of liked how the analogy played out—“is probably why we do so many operations at night.”

“Pretty damn cocky there, Anderson.” The Sergeant Major scowled at her.

“Yes, sir.” She didn't see any point in denying who she was. “This isn't Rangers or Green Beret. This is The Unit.”

“What about Kyle Reeves?” Colonel Brighton's voice was a growl. “You marked him number one on your list of who'd you choose to serve with. Why did you do that? Because you want to fuck him?”

Kyle hadn't come back out the front door. She didn't know if he was in or out, and this was the first time they'd mentioned him.

“I put him at the top of my list because he is the best soldier I've ever met.”

Brighton narrowed his eyes at her for avoiding the question, so she offered him her best smile.

“Of course a girl would be stupid if she didn't want the best of everything, Delta or otherwise. And, Colonel Brighton…”

He arched an eyebrow at her pause.

“…I ain't stupid.”

That got her an unexpected laugh from him. Who knew the man could even do that?

Sergeant Major Maxwell's smile was as big as when she'd dug in at the end of the Forty-Miler.

But it was Colonel Gibson she was watching. His quiet nod confirmed Clay's stories of how it felt to serve with the very best and finally do something right.

* * *

Carla stepped out the back door of the Commander's Review Board's room as they called in the final candidate. She hoped Richie would make it. He'd earned fourth spot on her own list. Richie Goldman was wiry thin, Jewish, and bloody brilliant. Add in enough Delta determination to survive selection and she'd gladly serve alongside him. If he made it, she'd be five for her top five…if Kyle had made it.

This side of the building's yard was empty except for one soldier sitting on the dirt with his back against the concrete wall, covered by the sliver of shadow that the building's eave offered against the blazing midday sun.

Kyle Reeves looked up at her and she could see it. He too had been accepted. And on seeing her demeanor, a huge smile washed across his face.

Her next plan of action was improper in about a thousand ways, which didn't make her hesitate even half a step.

Carla knelt over his lap before he could even attempt to rise. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned in and kissed Kyle Reeves hard on the mouth.

Her momentum made him hit the back of his head against the concrete wall, but he didn't even react to it. He had one hand jammed up into her hair and another one scooped down around her butt, holding her tightly against him. She'd known he was strong; she hadn't known he was so powerful that his embrace made it tough to breathe, but she didn't care.

His kiss was rough as hell. The need echoed back and forth between them until it burned like live fire. This wasn't about tenderness, greeting, or exploration.

This was about thirty days of choking worry about the selection process and an equal portion of bottled-up lust mixed together and compressed down until the combination exploded into a single instant of raw heat.

It didn't matter if he'd maneuvered her into wanting him or the other way around. She'd never wanted any man more.

The kiss built until the power of it finally blew them back apart, almost as hard as they'd come together. She tipped back off his lap and landed her own butt in the dirt facing him.

“You made it!” Kyle gasped out.

Damn, he was impressive.

No way could she form words around the way her heart was pounding, and her breath ran short.

She nodded.

He held up a hand and she high-fived it hard.

The first woman in history through Delta Selection.

How goddamn awesome was that!

She dove back into his arms and scorch-level blew somewhere past incendiary before they tumbled apart once more, panting hard as if they'd just come off a battle royal.

Oh God, this was going to be so much fun.

“My name is Colonel Michael Gibson. Your group has the third highest passing rate in the history of Delta. Congratulations. Follow me.”

Apparently that and a group photo made up their graduation ceremony—104 soldiers down to seven.

Kyle had tried another kiss after they'd both gotten up off the dirt, but it hadn't worked. Turnabout being fair, he'd driven her back against the wall and feasted greedily. He'd taken and she'd given, groaning with animal need as he grabbed her perfect handful of a breast and her leg wrapped around his waist.

But it was too forceful, too sparky, and he could only tolerate it so long. They ended up like two gladiators held at bay by some emperor's command—a pace apart and panting hard.

“Maybe it would be better if we don't try that again until we're alone somewhere.” But he was sure as hell going to make certain that was real damn soon.

She reached out a hand, but jerked it back after she'd left a searing palm print on his chest with just the lightest touch.

“Yeah.” Her nod of agreement tumbled her hair over her face. “Good idea.”

He risked brushing aside her hair and tucking it behind her ear. The warrior looked at him from her one uncovered eye. Yep, they'd definitely be doing battle soon.

They'd circled around to the front of the building, carefully a few feet apart—mostly because they couldn't get any closer without losing it—and received the others' congratulations. Chad and Duane, Max and Harry.

Once Richie made it through and had been thoroughly thumped on the back, the seven of them had followed the Colonel across the compound toward a set of concrete block buildings they hadn't approached before.

The final seven.

Kyle couldn't believe it. The other five who'd sat around the final campfire but not survived Review Board had been damn fine soldiers, tough as hell to have survived Stress Phase.

But when he saw who had made it, Delta Selection somehow made sense. These were not normal soldiers around him, nor merely exceptional ones. Not anymore, because those had been weeded out.

These were Delta, as different from the average Special Forces Green Beret as Navy from Army. You could even see it in how they walked. They weren't trooping along behind this colonel, or even watching him particularly. These soldiers were independent, out-of-the-box thinkers who were chatting with and congratulating each other, already well on their way to being a close-knit team.

Except one.

Carla alone walked near the Colonel.

Colonel? Kyle hadn't learned who the man was during the Commander's Review Board, but he'd found that the man's quiet questions were always the deepest and hardest to answer. This guy had the look of coming fresh in from the field. Who even knew there was another colonel in Delta besides the commanding officer? And still on active deployment at his rank? That made the man special in a dozen different ways.

Kyle hadn't given much thought to The Unit beyond joining it. He liked to set a goal and achieve it before assessing the situation and setting the next one.

He'd been in Delta less than an hour and the new goal was clear. Every man in that review board had looked to this Colonel Gibson, not to Brighton, the unit commander. He was the ultimate Delta warrior. Quiet rather than arrogant. Focused.

Most wouldn't see him as anything exceptional, but Kyle's father would appreciate this man. Everything he did—speaking, moving, being still—came from a pure center of attention that radiated outward.

It might take Kyle five years or fifteen, but he wanted people to look at him that way, to command respect simply by being present. He wanted to become Delta's number one warrior.

Kyle moved up close behind the Colonel and Carla to overhear as the Colonel led them toward the largest building on the compound—one they hadn't entered before. Kyle shifted his position in the group as nonchalantly as he could. Only Carla appeared to notice his move, but she ignored him. He'd wager the Colonel noticed as well.

“My brother spoke very highly of you, sir.” She kept her voice low and Kyle almost missed it.

“A good man and an exceptional pilot. Emily Beale flew with only the very best.”

It was Kyle's first clue that Carla Anderson had a past, and that was a surprise. Everybody did, of course. There were grunts who talked about theirs—a few who wouldn't shut up about it—and others who didn't so much, and you learned to accept that.

Carla had always been one of the ones who didn't—not at all.

It had added to her mystery, as if she'd been manifested on Earth out of pure soldier cloth. She'd talk about the Army and her time in the dust bowl of Southwest Asia, but that was it. She'd started with Team Lioness, embedded in forward search teams to frisk Muslim women without violating their religious belief that no man other than their husband could touch them. The problem with forward search-and-recon was how often it turned into forward firefight. She'd performed so well in battle that they'd switched her over to a pure combat unit.

Yet here she was, talking to a Delta colonel about people Kyle had never heard of. And the colonel knew exactly who she was.

Because they were in the lead, the two of them reached the building's double doors first, and they each held one wide for the others to enter ahead of them.

Kyle managed to drift back to being last man through the doors to remain close to the two of them. He overheard the Colonel speaking to Carla once more.

“It may be scant comfort, but it was a blindside takedown in the dead of night. There was nothing your brother could have or should have done differently. I did make sure that the shooter's life lasted only seconds longer than his.”

Carla's voice didn't find its way out until they were inside the building and gathered in the high, dim concrete hallway with six doors spaced down its length.

“Thank you, sir.”

The Colonel merely nodded and led them toward the first door on the right.

Kyle wished circumstances were different and he could hold her for a moment. Not because of all of the heat that even thinking about her sent coursing through his body, but just to give her a moment of stability. Wasn't gonna happen here, so he held the door for her and she entered the room blank-faced.

She gave him a nod of thanks, but he didn't think that she recognized him at the moment.

* * *

Carla stumbled to a halt.

This was not what she'd expected. No classroom of desks. No training mats or weapons store. Beyond the heavy steel entry door off the hallway, she and the other trainees now stood in your average American living room.

There were couches, chairs, a desk, and a kitchen at the far end. Even end tables with knickknacks and bookshelves with books. There were also a half-dozen dummies. Two were sitting on couches, three on stands like clothing-store mannequins, and the last leaning against a kitchen counter. They were dressed in a variety of clothes, and they were all armed.

“Look at this room,” Colonel Gibson ordered in that deceptively quiet voice of his. “Study it. Think of it as a problem. How would you attack this room and take out the six bad guys”—he waved his hand at the armed dummies—“without hurting any of the civilians in it?”

There weren't any civilian dummies, but there were chairs, sofas, plenty of places they might be.

The seven of them prowled the room. There were no windows, so the only point of entry was the door, and it was heavy steel. They discussed lines of fire and angles of attack. She liked that she didn't feel too far behind on tactics, despite being the only one who wasn't Special Forces or Special Operations trained.

One thing they agreed on—it would be a total bear to take this room, and the collateral damage in the form of dead hostages was going to be high.

“Now…” The Colonel called for their attention once more. Even as he spoke, the trainees were still scanning the living room, creating strategies.

Carla would have to think later as to how she felt about Colonel Gibson. The man who had killed her brother's killer. She'd never thought to find out anything about her brother's death. Yet on her first day here, she'd met this senior officer who had been there in the field with Clay as he died. Delta had been there and still called it unavoidable. Was it truly, or was there a failure of The Unit's abilities to protect and react to—

“Rearrange this room to make it more difficult.” The Colonel interrupted her thoughts. “Make it so that every line of attack you have just thought of would fail. Make it so that the collateral loss of life would be near a hundred percent, no matter what strategy the attacking rescue force might use. Then have a seat as a hostage and we'll discuss it.”

So, they were the hostages. That clarified the scenario, made it easier to change it from bad to awful.

They shifted a couch and put a bad guy crouching behind the arm with his rifle leveled to cover both the couch's occupants and the only door. They placed two more mannequins behind a table that they flipped onto its edge to act as a shooting barrier. They worked around the room until it truly was a nightmare scenario.

The seven of them sat. Carla ended up on the couch. She shifted the villain's rifle slightly so that it wasn't pointed right at her, but it was still unnerving.

Kyle flipped the dead bolt on the steel entry door and then chose an armchair that masked a shooter behind him. It was in the corner of the room opposite the door, so there was almost no way to spot the hidden shooter.

She was just turning to see if she could find yet another way to make it harder when the world exploded.

The lights went out.

A massive explosion blew the door off the hinges.

A flash-bang filled the room with a blinding light, and she threw up an arm to protect her eyes.

Silenced gunfire spit around her. She heard a bullet whine so close to her ear that the
krak
of its supersonic flight hurt. The gust of another moved her hair. The heat of muzzle flash washed across her skin.

The lights came back on.

Three seconds.

Four max.

The bad-guy dummy crouched behind the couch arm was now sprawled on the floor with two holes in its forehead.

Four men were moving through the room with night-vision goggles shoved up on their foreheads, stripping the bad guys of their weapons. Each dummy received a third bullet in the head from a silenced revolver as they went.

Ten seconds, it was done. The room was clear and not a hostage was touched.

“I think,” Colonel Gibson said drily from where he stood at ease in the middle of the room, “that concludes the discussion. Please feel free to inspect the results.”

The seven of them rose from their chairs, some steadier than others. She looked up at the corners of the room's ceiling, but could identify no spy cameras. A glance at the Colonel, and he shook his head. So, no prior intel and they'd somehow done this with live ammo passing inches from her head—despite her being in motion to protect her eyes—without one of the “hostages” bearing a single scratch.

She went out into the hall and found the electrical panel with the simulated charge placed to blow it, though all they'd really done was turn off the breakers.

The door had not been treated so gently. It was definitely blown, but not blown to shit or it would have sent shrapnel into the room. They'd cut the hinges and the locks with small charges and then jerked the door aside with a heavy rope attached to the door handle on one side and a set of powerful suction cups on the other. It wasn't rope, but rather heavy bungee line. So the door had flown out of the way the instant the hinges were shattered. It made entry a half second faster.

These guys were all about half-second advantages. Damn cool.

Every bad guy, including the one crouched out of sight behind Kyle's armchair in a corner of the room, was down with the three bullet holes. Not a single stray shot pockmarked a wall. Four attackers, six dead terrorists, eighteen shots total—less than a single standard magazine for just one of the HK416s that the Delta operators were carrying.

“How the hell…?” the class was starting to ask.

Carla shared a quick look with Kyle. “How” is what they were here to learn.

“How soon?” is what she wanted to know.

At least now she truly understood.

If Delta Colonel Michael Gibson said that her brother's death was wholly unavoidable, she was going to believe him.

“You get tomorrow off. We suggest you sleep. Training begins the day after at 0600, and you can see that you'd better be sharp.” Colonel Gibson and the four Delta shooters started to leave the room.

He stopped at the door and waited until the shooters were clear.

“These four men”—he turned back to face the room—“they're the sum total of the previous class. Just like your class, there were seven of them at the start of OTC out of a hundred and twenty applicants.” Then he was gone.

The Operator Training Course was six months long. Three hadn't made it, but now she had the answer to how soon she could do this.

“Six months!” she mouthed to Kyle.

“Can't wait,” he mouthed back.