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  Over the comms, she could hear the customers talking. With a Delta brother on either side holding his ankles, they handed out the tools. This operative, it seemed, was suited up in welder’s gear.

  “I need the plasma torch,” the guy on the ladder called.

  No one had run that idea by Christen. Her eyes stretched wide, as she thought about sparks and bright-hot metal shards flying so close to her fuel tanks. Well, today might very well be a good day to die.

  As that thought bubbled to the surface of her consciousness, a spark landed on her thigh, which was only somewhat protected by her flame retardant jumpsuit. She had to work at not jerking her leg, not taking her hand off her control stick. Nick flicked the metal off before it seared her skin too badly. Christen made a mental note to thank him later. Eyes forward. Breath paced. Focus sharp. Hands sweaty, sure. But steady none-the-less. This is why Night Stalkers trained for every possible scenario under every possible condition. Ready for anything. This one was new, though. Christen never trained for a jail break in the middle of a city street in the full glare of the midday sun. Fun times.

  Time did the adrenaline dance, making everything seem to take much longer than it actually did. According to the stopwatch mounted on her console, it had been twenty seconds. Was that possible?

  Suddenly, pings sounded below them. Even with the engine noise bouncing and echoing off the buildings, Christen could make out that specific sound of metal on metal in a staccato beat of bullets flying from a finger exercising the trigger of a semi-automatic weapon. After every so many rounds, there was a short break. The shooter probably changing magazines.

  “He’s out our left side aiming for the fuel tanks,” Nick’s voice was as calm as a summer day fishing. More guns were added to the fight on the street, trying to take her bird down. Or maybe just trying to get the Delta off his ladder bridge. Surely, the guards in the prison were racing toward Grey’s cell. Would the Delta’s chase through the window after him if Grey was suddenly yanked from the room?

  Thirty seconds.

  One of the Deltas lay on his stomach out the left door, shooting his rifles downward with his own strafe of fire power to force the shooters behind cover. One of the militants’ bullets must have found her fuel tank. She watched her fuel gauge needle slide toward E. Much longer, and she’d get fuel-critical for making their return flight.

  Thirty-five seconds.

  Of course, that would mean nothing if the idiot below them detonated her fuel tank with a grenade or other incendiary device. That was actually a problem she didn’t need to deal with. Either it wouldn’t detonate, or she’d be in a million pieces so fast that she would be alive one second and mist the next. Focus.

  There was a clang then a second clang to her right. Christen assumed that noise was the jail bars being tossed into the cell and hitting the cement floor.

  A third clang.

  Forty-two seconds in.

  She wondered if the shooter might get up under them and shoot Grey as he was being pulled to freedom. The wash, though, was strong, the debris thick. That might be enough to keep the guy safe.

  The Deltas were shouting. “Pull him through! Grab him! Get him on!”

  Christen battled curiosity. She forced herself to keep her head straight, even, and forward facing.

  Fifty-four seconds.

  There was a massive clang and a tap on her helmet. Fingers in her right periphery signaled her forward. She’d be happy to comply. She waited a nanosecond for Nick to turn, count heads and confirm. The Night Stalker creed said that she would not/could not leave a comrade to the enemy.

  Up, up, up she climbed, banking hard right.

  Sixty-seconds, the time allotted to get her customers out of the street. Damned, those Deltas were good!

  Eleven-twenty-two hours.

  The militants had manned their heavy guns, and Christen thought it was insane that opposition forces were shooting at her in the middle of the city. She moved to get between the enemy and the sun, so she would be lost in the glare. There was no cheering. No congratulations. Even if Grey couldn’t hear her over the comms, telling the Black Hawk she was in dire straits, the Deltas could. Things were about to get hairier.

  She zipped her bird into the hills, then brought the heli down to ten feet and slowed her motors, trying to conserve energy. She glided over the terrain, undulating the bird up and down following the curves of Mother Earth. Her objective was to get as far as she could from the militants.

  Just then, her fellow Night Stalker, Shawn Promin, better known as Prominator, called out. “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. We’re hit. They got our tail rotor. We’re going down.”

  She hadn’t seen the RPG in the air. Hadn’t heard the explosion. She could hear the whistle of the Black Hawk as it spun in place. Christen wrenched her bird in a tight circle, bringing herself around. The Deltas’ guns blasted from the Little Bird’s open doors. The operatives pulled out their own launcher and the air brightened with a flash of light as they hit some explosive target in the distance.

  Christen found a patch of what looked like even ground for her to set down.

  A hand slapped her shoulder. “No, ma’am, we have to get the precious cargo back to base.” The Delta called into the comms gesturing forward. “We have to deliver Grey.”

  “You don’t understand,” Christen replied. “We’re out of fuel.” She tapped the gauge. “We were never going to make it back. That Black Hawk was our ticket home.”

  Chapter Three

  Gator

  Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania

  Iniquus’ Strike Force crowded into a tiny room in their Tanzanian hotel. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to back, sitting on the bed, squatting on the floor, leaning into the walls, they crammed themselves together. Just a can of sardines focused hard on the computer screen, waiting for their commander, General Elliot, to give them the sit rep on their teammate Randy.

  Randy had been hot-footed out of the country by a corporate executive who’d been pulled by an Iniquus team from some hole, in some part of a flea-bitten, backwater, life-threatening hell last year. At the time, he’d said, “Anything you need. No. Seriously. Anything you need, ever, you call me.” That call went out. They needed his corporate jet stat for a direct flight to DC. And his was the closest one they could lay hands on. The guy happily obliged.

  Randy had barely survived the attack on Ngorongoro Imperial Hotel. Life could sure change in the blink of an eye. Just three days ago, he’d nigh on bled out. That picture bloomed in Gator’s imagination: Randy lying in the parking lot, black of night, blood spurting. It only took about a minute after you sever an artery. It was a quick way to go. It was the goal of the knife tactics Gator had trained on as a Marine Raider to take down the enemy.

  Randy wasn’t stabbed, though. He’d taken a ricochet that sliced his femoral artery when the terrorists corralled their hostages into the hotel’s parking lot at Ngorongoro Crater. He was bleeding out fast when his sister Meg tied the shredded ends of his artery into knots, and Randy’s partner Honey cinched down with a tourniquet. The two of them stuffed Randy under a boulder, hoping he would be left for dead as the two of them, along with the other captives were shucked into the trucks and taken into the conservation area where they were hidden in the wilds.

  Gator slowly twisted the cap off his water bottle, his back pressed against the cream-colored wall.

  Funny how you leave a hot zone for a little R&R and the fight just seems to follow along behind you like stink on a pig.

  He tipped the bottle back and took a swig. Seemed that lately there was nowhere he could go and feel peaceful. He’d been feeling an undercurrent of anticipation. Something looming. Something damned turbulent.

  Home, maybe.

  Home might give him some peace. Out on the bayou where his mama would throw fresh-caught shrimp in the pot to boil up with some corn on the cob and sausages. Crickets would set the tempo for his uncles Jean-Claude and Sebastian, as they picked up
their instruments and joined in. Maybe a pretty girl in a pair of cut-offs would be settin’ on his knee, laughing and squirming when he tickled her ribs.

  He took another drink and wiped the drops from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  It had been a long time since he’d been home and gone to bed with the frogs grumping in the background.

  Home…He had this odd sense of emptiness. Maybe it was a sentimental hole that needed filling. Maybe he needed some time floatin’ on the sun-warmed water and thinking about nothing. Certainly not thinking about this.

  Randy’s near miss had sucker punched Gator. Winded him in a way he wasn’t used to. Gator by nature let his yesterdays roll off his back like water off a duck’s feathers. But this time? It stuck.

  Clung.

  All Honey and Randy wanted to do was go hang out with Randy’s sister Meg in Tanzania. Go on a safari with her scientist buddies. Stare at the wildebeests, maybe spot a lion. And boom! They’re right there in the thick of another disaster.

  Disasters were Iniquus’s bread and butter. Well, averting disaster was. And Gator loved his job as an Iniquus operative. It was some kinda fun; he wasn’t going to lie about it. Gator reveled in the physical and mental challenges, the do-or-die nature of their business. It was Russian roulette. Winning meant not only getting to live to see another day, but also the honor of serving the United States.

  But this last hell storm with Randy?

  Sucker punch.

  And crazily enough, the thing that gave Randy a fighting chance at survival, as far as Gator could tell, was the kid sitting in front of Meg on the other side of the bed. From what they’d been told, that eight-year-old thin-as-a-stick boy had been the life preserver that let Randy live to see another day.

  Couldn’t have been just any eight-year-old kid.

  It had to be the right one.

  That one.

  Gator’d seen kids walking down the street in the middle of the war zone, stepping over land mines. Kids playing soccer that lacked the wherewithal—the survival instinct—to run when the shooting started. He had seen his share of little kids who stood in the middle of a field where all hell was breaking loose. He’d felt compelled to run into the shitstorm and grab ’em up. Hide them behind his armored vehicle to protect them. Give them some water and some candy — a smile. It was the best he could do to lend them comfort while his unit was under attack.

  He’d also seen his share of kids wander by where his team had hunkered down. The kid would whistle a song as they strolled on by, but as soon as they were a bit down the road, they’d go running and screaming to the adults, pointing out the Marine’s hiding spot. Those kids didn’t get it - if they’d hushed their mouths, let the team lie low and sneak away in the dark, lives would have been saved. Including their own. Eight-year-old kids were predictable in their unpredictability.

  Gator looked at the stringy kid sitting on the floor, amazed.

  It boggled his mind.

  If it hadn’t been for Ahbou getting him help, Randy would be dead.

  Yeah, that there thought was a hard one to process.

  Gator took another swig of water. He rattled the last two drops around in the bottom of the plastic bottle.

  The image of a little girl played across Gator’s thoughts. She was out with her father herding goats, dressed in clothes way too big for her slight frame, a red bandana around the tangled curls of her black hair. She was watching the sky, thinking she saw a second sun or maybe a fire against the blue expanse. It was replaced with a black spot that seemed to spin and fall. Another black spot was falling much slower. These things meant nothing to her, and she wanted to understand. But the spots were gone now, and she wasn’t sure how to ask her father about them. She didn’t have the right words to explain what she’d seen. The bells tied around the necks of the herd clanged around her, and she was distracted from the strange sight by a scraggly goat that nibbled at the roses that encircled the bottom of her dress. Gator had the urge to put his finger to his lips to signal her to keep quiet about what she’d seen.

  That image came and went. Surely a memory from long ago, some time he’d been in the hills of Iraq. That’s the impression he had. Hills of Iraq. Impression was a better word than memory. It felt more like he was watching something in real-time over computer imagery. It was an odd sensation. Like he was a voyeur.

  Gator shifted around uncomfortably.

  It was hell waiting for the general to give them some news.

  General Elliot liked everything run like clockwork. If he said eleven-thirty hours then you’d better be at attention at eleven-thirty hours on the dot. The fact that he was late brought up the stress in the room. The heat level was rising with their concern. Gator could see sweat shadows on the guys’ t-shirts. Blaze leaned over and turned the fan up another notch. The ancient air conditioner didn’t have the muscle to keep up with all the bodies they’d squished in here.

  Over next to Blaze, Meg sat cross-legged between Honey’s feet. She wrapped her arms around her knees making herself as small as possible in the overcrowded room. Honey rested his hands on her shoulders. Meg still looked like she was in shock. That might take a while to shake off. Randy being okay would probably help that along.

  Meg turned her head and tipped her chin down to kiss Honey’s hand then rested her cheek there. It was tender.

  Ahbou leaned back and said something to Meg. And Meg, in turn, sought out Gator’s attention, miming a bottle of water. With a nod, Gator moved to the closet where they’d put a cooler. He grabbed two handfuls of bottles and passed them around. He flipped one through the air, and Ahbou snatched it up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Alligator, sir.” Ahbou liked to layer on the names like butter and jam on a breakfast biscuit.

  Gator gave him a grin and a wink.

  Hell of a kid.

  Meg said she was going to adopt him since he’d lost the last of his biological family in the terror attack at the hotel. Looked to Gator like Honey was hitching his wagon up for that ride too.

  They made a nice family.

  There it was again. That brush of ennui. And Gator made the mistake of searching for some kind of understanding in that sensation. What he got was a flash of the red bandana on the girl, a wave of foreboding, of imminent danger. Gator wished he’d had a little more time seeing what had been in the sky. It was important. But the goats? They gave him nothing. Nothing but the whisper of … something. It kept flitting like a firefly into Gator’s consciousness. Lighting here, flying off, lighting there. Never illuminating long enough for him to figure out what was going on.

  It felt important.

  Gator thought about Lynx, his Strike Force teammate who was back at Headquarters in Washington DC. Lynx would call this “psychic static”. I need to talk to her. Lynx might be able to help him figure out what this buzz was all about.

  Whatever was going on, he didn’t like it none. Gator arched his shoulders and pressed against the wall, rubbing back and forth as if he could scrape the feeling off. It was darned uncomfortable.

  Yeah, a chat with Lynx would help. She was a lot more practiced with her psychic abilities than he was. Gator’s skills were still kind of new to him. He was still somewhere climbing the learning curve, figuring out how to master this stuff. When he said that out loud to Lynx, she’d laughed. “Yeah, let me know when you get that mastered.” She wasn’t being flip or nothin’. She just meant that it was always bigger than she was.

  Always stronger.

  She said it was learning how to live without feeling a sense of control. Submission to the higher plane.

  Gator wasn’t big on submission.

  What he was feeling was like a mosquito that buzzed in his ear then disappeared when he went to swat it.

  On missions, Lynx would pick up information from the ether. “Ugh,” she’d say. “It’s just out of reach. I keep grabbing at it, and it’s gone.” This must be what she was describing.

  I’ll call Lynx when we get do
ne in here.

  As soon as the thought formed, his phone buzzed in his jeans’ pocket. It was Lynx. He knew it for certain.

  Chapter Four

  Gator

  Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania

  General Elliot moved into view on the computer screen and everyone in the Tanzanian hotel room stilled. Elliot was as tough and worn as shoe leather. He’d seen his fair share of disaster and atrocity and done his damnedest to give as good as his men got. More. If the enemy shot a bullet, he’d throw a grenade. “This isn’t t-ball, boys!” he’d yell. “This is the big leagues. Bat’er out of the ballpark.”

  The general settled into the executive’s chair. His tie was loose at the neck, the top button of his heavily-starched shirt undone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I’m not going to sugar-coat it, it’s going to be one hell of a fight,” he said. “I’m sorry to be late, but I had a call with the hospital.” The general didn’t wait for the men to acknowledge the apology. “Randy’s plane landed at zero four ten hours Zulu time. He’s at Suburban Hospital now, in guarded condition. I’m told that the Tanzanian doctors did an adequate job getting him stabilized and packaged up. But I’m not trusting Randy’s leg to Dr. Who’s-available. As soon as we got Striker’s first report, we flew in Dr. Silverman and his team from London. He’s cutting edge on limb-saving techniques.” His eyes glared from behind the permanent squint he’d developed in Nam. “No pun intended.”

  Gator was pretty sure no one in the room heard that last sentence as funny.

  Only their commander, Striker Rheas, had been allowed to see Randy before he got loaded onto the corporate jet that Elliot had wrangled. Striker had said nothin’ about Randy’s chances of survival, but he had that grim set to his jaw that didn’t bode too well. Randy being at Suburban meant he was in good hands, though. It lifted some of the weight off Gator’s chest.