“Go, go, go!” the loadmaster shouted the command into the mic.
His boots pounded along the metal ramp as he ran to the edge and…
Jumped.
Arms and legs extended, his body split the air, speeding downward. He hurtled through the dusky sky, into utter silence other than the sounds from his headset… more feed from Stella’s surveillance and a low hum of radio chatter from the aircrew. But he only heard the echoes of Stella from the satellite feed.
The command center still ran the feed in the background in a way he could hear her faintly. Listening to her sob tore him apart, even knowing she was acting her role as a terrified student. But the slaps by her interrogator weren’t fake. The punch was followed by a stifled groan.
Then more questions. They didn’t believe her or her friends. Someone was here spying.
And God help her, they were right.
How long could she hold out? He wanted to send her a sign to hang on, to let her know he was on his way at top speed. Wind whipped over him.
Hearing her tortured was a hellish abyss that could suck him in faster than any free fall. Damn it all to hell. He had to think of something, anything else, or he would lose his shit. His mind latched onto an image of her at a squadron party. People hadn’t known they were dating. They’d both been hepped up on accidental brushes and hot glances.
But those times he’d watched her when she thought no one was looking… those times hit him hardest. Such as at that picnic when her eagle eye picked up his teammate Bubbles’s one vulnerability. Hulking big, badass Gavin Novak didn’t like fuzzy things… like the inside of a jacket or texture of certain foods. She’d grabbed a peach and chased Bubbles around the bonfire, threatening to rub it on his arm. Her laughter, her playfulness, all bundled up with her insightfulness made for a compelling, irresistible woman.
Stella was also a complex woman he couldn’t begin to understand. He’d just watched her, her every move turning him on and inside out as he’d fallen for her. Falling as hard as he was going to land if he didn’t pay attention. He needed to count down the seconds to deploy his parachute.
Another slap echoed through the sound waves along with her cry. “I don’t know anything except you’re going to kill us for nothing. Why not ransom us for money? Anything other than this…”
“Shut. Up,” her inquisitor shouted. “I am going to ask you again, what were you and your friends doing on our property? Which government agency are you spying for?”
“You can’t torture information out of people if they don’t know it,” she answered with just the right amount of quiver in her voice.
“You play the innocent act well, but I do not believe you.”
Jose eyed the perimeter of the compound, growing closer and closer. He clutched the ripcord to his parachute. Counting down. Waiting as long as possible to deploy the chute, to minimize the chance of being seen in the sky. Three. Two. One.
Yank.
The silky nylon filled with air. Lines went taut. Straps jerked, jacking his nuts up somewhere around his ears. He pulled the guide ropes toward the ground. Very little reaction time for a HALO. The landing would come hard and fast. He kept his eyes up. Staring straight down at the ground for landing was actually counterproductive and would send him on his ass. Instead, he monitored the compound, noting positions of guards. Lights began to flicker on in the isolated compound.
He scanned the horizon, picking out the specks of the others slipping through the night sky. Through the trees. To the gritty earth. Wham. He felt the shock clean through. He tucked into a controlled landing…
Heels. Knees. Roll to his side. Shake off the stunned-stupid feel and get to work.
He cut free his chute lines and launched into a crouch, ready. His headset crackled to life again with Mr. Smith’s gravelly voice, not Stella’s smooth tones.
“One of our techies is working through Agent Carson’s messages. Tap code indicates at least twenty rebels in the compound. Two guards in the front, three in back. Even the cook carries a gun.”
Each piece of information that filtered through brought images of Stella, keeping her cool as she blinked or tapped out the information. Darting, he zigzagged toward the compound, staying low, submachine gun aimed, 9 mm holstered for backup. He made eye contact with Bubbles about ten feet away. The SEALs faded from sight as they surrounded all sides of the secured building.
A spotlight popped on, sweeping toward him. Jose dropped to his belly, flat into prickly dhirindhir brush. Beads of sweat tracked through the camo paint on his face.
“Shit,” Mr. Jones’s voice hissed through the earpiece, obviously deciphering bad news. “She said there are land mines at the gates. True entrances are hidden within the fence. Avoid the gates. I repeat, do not use the gates. Locate the camouflaged entrances, or as a last resort, climb over.”
“Roger,” he whispered, blinking his eyes clear of sweat.
The SEALs around back would deactivate the electric fence. Then they would have to move faster than fast. Flat to the ground, he waited, waited… And go.
He shot to his feet and tossed pebbles at the fence. No sparks. He risked a touch, found it cool, but didn’t see any secret entrances on this side. Launching up, he scaled the fence, chain-link rattling in his hands. Bubbles kept pace beside him until they both vaulted over. He landed with a puff of dirt spurting from under his boots. His headset echoed with sounds of engagement on the other side.
As Stella had warned, he found the first of the east side guards. Bubbles raised his MP5. Aimed. Two barely perceptible pop, pops hissed, muffled by a silencer.
Bubbles lowered his submachine gun and tapped his headset. “Guards in front cleared.”