Sighing, she headed for her apartment. She couldn’t bring herself to shower at Slate’s place. His bathroom had too many memories of the love and laughter they’d shared in that space. Her shower was too small for them to share, so it felt like the safer choice for her fragile frame of mind right now.
“Slate will be fine,” Ashlyn said out loud as she drove. “He’s a professional who does this kind of thing all the time.” She didn’t know what “kind of thing” she was talking about, but it didn’t matter. “He’ll be back, and we’ll pick up where we left off.”
Her words sounded a little desperate, even to her own ears, but since no one was there to listen to her talking to herself, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She turned on the music in her car, happy that an upbeat, snappy tune was on and not some sappy love song. She’d be okay. Slate would be okay. Things would be fine. Just fine.
Ashlyn knew she was trying too hard to convince herself, but it was what she needed to do to keep her emotions in check.
Slate and his team hadn’t been in Afghanistan even one full day before the shit hit the fan. The threat of attacks on the base turned into reality, and the SEAL team’s well-rehearsed plans were completely useless within hours.
They’d headed into the extremely hostile city to try to track where the RPGs were fired from, and to take down anyone who got in their way. That was two days ago, and their search had led them to the outskirts of the city and an extremely dangerous area.
The houses were rundown and looked as if they were put together with any kind of material the residents could get their hands on. Corrugated metal, four by fours, the hood of a car, even wire fencing. It would’ve been depressing if their lives weren’t on the line. Slate couldn’t take time to process the kids’ faces looking out of broken windows and holes in walls as his team silently and steadily made its way toward the target.
Intel had pointed them to the leader of an extremist group of insurgents who were extremely loyal to Osama Bin Laden. Even though the man had been dead for years, various groups were doing their best to bring back his ideology, and the violent tendencies he’d espoused.
Somehow, this particular band of soldiers had acquired a lot of RPGs, which they’d been firing at the American base, and word was they’d kill any American they came across in the town, in the country, or anywhere else.
The house they were about to breach stuck out like a sore thumb in the dilapidated neighborhood. It was two stories, compared to all the squat, ramshackle dwellings on the streets nearby. It was made of brick instead of scavenged materials. The large, sturdy structure was smack in the middle of what had been deemed Taliban central.
It was an extremely dangerous place to be, but with intel saying another attack on the base was imminent, the leader needed to be taken out now, before more soldiers and local civilians were hurt or killed.
Mustang pointed at Midas and Aleck, then to the right side of a door. Next, he pointed at Pid and Jag, and to the left of the same entrance.
Slate nodded and took up position next to his team leader. The most dangerous position when entering any kind of building was point, but he had no problem taking his friend’s side. The others would enter right on their heels and cover their left and right. His objective was to take out any opposition directly in front of them.
The vibe around them was making Slate uneasy. It was calm…too calm. As if everyone in the vicinity was holding their collective breath. They could be walking into an ambush or an empty house. It was dark outside—they’d planned the raid at a time when the leader would hopefully be at home and sleeping—but that was really their only advantage.
Mustang held up a hand and counted down on his fingers.
Three. Two. One.
Slate and Mustang burst through the door without any issues, the heavy wooden surface banging against the wall, sounding like a shot in the quiet night.
Slate could feel his teammates at his back, moving silently as they’d been trained. They quickly cleared the first room, moving steadily through the other two on the first floor. Empty.
The hair on the back of Slate’s neck stood up. Something wasn’t right. Intel said the leader had four wives and eight children. Even if they didn’t all live here, someone should be in the house.
“Watch for booby traps,” he whispered to Mustang, who nodded and pressed his lips together grimly. Slate felt a little better that he wasn’t alone in his uneasy feelings.
They made their way up the stairs, and Slate winced when the warped boards creaked under their boots.
Aleck and Midas had their backs as he and Mustang made their way to the second floor. Pid and Jag stayed below to make sure no one entered the house while they were inside.
While the rooms downstairs were almost barren, holding nothing but a few tables and chairs and rugs on the floors, along with a very basic kitchen, upstairs was a different story. There were clothes strewn everywhere and boxes stacked in every room. It made clearing them extremely difficult. They worked quickly and efficiently through the floor.
Just when Slate thought the raid was a total bust, he saw movement in the corner of the last room they were searching.
He held up his hand to Mustang and pointed. His team leader nodded, and they crept closer, weapons at the ready.
“US Navy. Hands up!” Mustang ordered in a low and deadly tone.
They immediately saw two hands appear from behind a large box.
“What the fuck?” Slate breathed. Those weren’t adult hands. They were too small.
Mustang swept the box to the side as Slate kept his weapon trained on whoever was hiding behind it.
Sure enough, it was a child. A boy dressed in what looked like rags. His face was dirty and he was holding what seemed to be a flashlight.
But his wasn’t the face of a scared little boy. His expression was one of clear hatred.
“What’s your name?” Mustang asked.
The boy either didn’t understand English or had no intention of telling them anything.
Before any of the four men could do anything else, the boy flicked on the light in his hand and pointed it toward the only window in the room.
He swiftly turned it off and on twice.
“Fuck!” Mustang swore. “He’s signaling someone.”
Slate came to the conclusion at the same time as his team leader. His only thought was to get out as quickly as possible.
“Go, go go!” he shouted to Mustang and the others.
They all turned in tandem to rush out of the room. They were well-trained soldiers, but they also knew when the odds were against them and retreat was the only option.
The house was empty because it was a trap.
At the last second, Slate hesitated. The boy had obviously been brought up to hate Americans. He didn’t see any fear or regret in the kid’s eyes when he’d been found. In fact, Slate would bet he’d moved on purpose so he would be discovered. He was a plant. And whatever the plan was, that boy was meant to die—along with Slate and his team.
But even if the kid wouldn’t appreciate being saved, Slate had to try.
He turned and took three steps back into the room, reaching for the boy’s arm. He cried out when Slate jerked him toward the door roughly. There was no time to be gentle, to try to convince the kid he wasn’t making a noble sacrifice, that he was merely a pawn. The kid probably had a mother somewhere who was crying her eyes out right this second, knowing her son was going to die.