“Baz and I are on the way,” Reese read. “Big news! Baby isn’t Baz’s. I’ll let him tell you about it when we see you later. We’re running a little behind but we’ll be there. Promise.”
“Text back a ten-four,” Brantley told him.
“You’re not curious that the baby isn’t Baz’s?” Reese asked as he typed.
“Not my business.” Although there were a few other topics he would’ve gladly discussed if Reese would’ve simply brought them up.
Thankfully, a minute later they were pulling into the parking lot of the Sniper 1 Security training facility, and the risk of hashing this out once and for all was in the rearview.
Chapter Twenty
Three hours later…
“Go!”
Reese motioned with two fingers and advanced with purpose.
Keeping low, he walked down the dark path created by the large shipping containers stacked three high on either side of him. Beneath his feet was smooth concrete, which allowed him to tread silently, while at his back, Trey and Baz watched his six.
There wasn’t any light to guide the way, so he relied on the night vision goggles that lit up the space with an eerie green glow to keep him headed in the right direction. With his gun up and aimed directly in front of him, Reese listened for any sounds to indicate where their target was.
He paused when he came to an intersection between the cargo containers, looked left, then right before holding up two fingers and gesturing for Baz and Trey to take opposite directions. Despite the fact they had the ability to communicate through the microphones and earpieces they wore, he didn’t speak, not wanting to risk giving away their position.
Trey went straight, Baz to the right, so Reese moved to the left. He ignored the lightness in his head brought on by the narrow confines of the space and the darkness that shrouded him.
“Clear,” Trey whispered into his earpiece. “Headin’ to you.”
Reese continued forward, keeping an eye out not only for the target but also for his teammates.
A minute later, Baz’s voice sounded in his ear with the same reply as Trey.
Because they were both moving toward him, Reese paused again, holding his position to reduce the risk of friendly fire.
Baz and Trey reappeared a few paces behind him, and their presence reduced some of his stress. Knowing they were there was a small comfort.
“Moving,” he whispered.
They continued on, weaving their way through the rows of shipping containers. Reese’s focus was on what was in front of them, Baz’s on what might be above, on the tops of those containers, and Trey’s was on the rear.
When Reese came to a door, he stopped, holding up a finger as a signal for Baz and Trey. Stepping back to allow Trey to open the door—an action that required a well-placed foot and a tremendous amount of force—Reese kept his weapon aimed and his focus on the door, already considering what was on the other side.
Trey put his back to the door and pulled a one-leg mule kick, the heel of his foot hitting perfectly at knob level, splintering the wood at the latch. The door swung inward as Trey lurched back to avoid potential bullets sprayed by the bad guys they were searching for.
Using hand signals—two fingers pointed up, then toward the room—Reese silently instructed Baz to lead the way while Reese shifted his attention to their six o’clock, ensuring they didn’t have anyone coming up behind them.
“Moving,” Baz said softly, stepping into the room, Trey following next, then Reese.
The second he stepped into the room—roughly ten by twelve with no windows and no other exits—Reese’s heart rate kicked into overdrive, his breaths became more labored. He did his best to conceal his body’s reaction to the confined space while he kept his attention on the door.
“He’s not here,” Trey said, his words a bit garbled in Reese’s head.
He could feel the cold sweat dripping down his back as he fought the memories from assaulting him. This was a safe place; there were no real threats. It was a simulation, a training exercise. At some point, he’d even seen the required exit signs that would lead them to safety in the event of an evacuation.
Even though he repeated that in his mind, Reese knew the panic attack was coming on. His hands had already begun to shake, his breaths choppy.
“Tavoularis, you okay?”
The voice in his earpiece did little to calm his nerves. He knew Ryan Trexler and the Sniper 1 Security team were monitoring them via the sensors in their equipment. They’d be able to see his respirations, his heart rate, even his body temperature.
It did nothing to reassure him. In fact, it irritated him more than anything.
“Tavoularis?” RT repeated, his tone harder than before.
“Fine,” he bit out, hating that there were witnesses to his panic attack.
“Clear,” Baz called out. “Prisoner’s not here.”
“Lights comin’ on,” RT announced.
Reese yanked the NVGs off seconds before the overhead lights clicked on, flooding the area in a white-blue glow, the simulation ending.
Overhead, Reese could see the ceiling of the warehouse, knew he wasn’t locked in a six-by-six cinderblock hell, but it didn’t help. With his weapon at his side, he marched out of the room, then through the maze of shipping containers that made up the obstacle course designed to put the Sniper 1 agents through their paces.
“We’re gonna call it,” Brantley announced, his voice streaming into Reese’s ear.
“The hell we are,” Reese snapped as he joined the others in the command center office where the team was monitoring their actions through a variety of equipment. On one of the screens, he noticed Hunter Kogan, along with Hunter’s brothers Trace and Conner—the targets Reese and his team had been searching for—appearing in one of the corridors.
“We’re good for today,” Brantley insisted.
Reese squared off with the man, hating that he was so defensive, but unable to hide his frustration over the fact Brantley would coddle him like that. If this had been a real extraction, the hostage would’ve been as good as dead.
“One more time,” Reese snarled back at him.
To his shock, Brantley stood his ground, facing off with him. “I said we’re done. We’ve accomplished what we came to do.”
“The hell we have.” Reese and his team had yet to locate and rescue the hostage, which was the sole objective of the simulated mission.
RT stepped over. “If it’s any consolation—”
“It’s not.” Reese slapped his laser gun on the table, then tossed the goggles alongside it. “Fuck you both.”
Without looking back when Brantley called after him, Reese stormed out of the building.
He needed some air.
Hell, he needed a drink, and that was saying something considering he wasn’t the sort who sought booze to manage his stress levels. For whatever reason, this particular training exercise had pushed him to his limits.
Reese fucking hated that, for the past three hours, he’d failed every time he attempted to rescue the hostage. Didn’t matter that it was all fake, that ultimately RT and Brantley controlled the outcome. It didn’t make him feel any fucking better because they didn’t control Reese’s reaction, the panic that flooded him whenever he was in a dark, confined space.