They’d trained together, worked together, bled together. Lived in close-quarters squalor in numerous conflict zones across the globe, shared rations when food was scarce, and had each other’s backs when shit got tough. In essence, they were brothers, born of the same experiences and drive to be the crème de la crème of badass motherfuckers.
Right up until the mission in Syria, the four of them had been inseparable, and Grant had missed the fuck out of his team. But family came first, and he’d done what was necessary to ensure no harm came to his sister or her daughter.
He could live with that. Had no choice but to live with it.
Tom Two losing a leg in Northern Mali six months after Grant had gone MIA…
Not his fault. Didn’t matter. The guilt still ate at him. If he’d been there in Kidal, part of the hostage rescue team sent to bring home three Canadian Medical Foundation volunteers who’d been kidnapped and forced to provide emergency care for a critically wounded insurgent leader, maybe things would have been different?
Maybe Tom would still have the lower half of his right leg?
Then again…maybe not. In this case—hell, in any case involving desperate men with guns—twenty-twenty hindsight didn’t always guarantee a positive outcome. Too many unknowns. Too many unpredictable factors impacting every decision made. T-Two was still alive. Still capable. And still fucking around with the teams in a non-official capacity.
Nothing else mattered.
“As soon as the target is clear, JTF2 assaulters make their way back to the east beach.” Tom Two aimed a beefy finger across the table, indicating the rendezvous point on the map. “I’ll be waiting offshore with a rapid-fire fifty cal aimed over their heads and the engine running on the fishing trawler. Once everyone is back on board, I’ll motor their sorry asses back across the Bering Strait. If all goes according to plan, we’ll reunite here, collect our shit, and move out.”
“Remember, these are not your average commandos.” Chase rapped his knuckles against the table, and Jay replayed the video of Grant being jumped in Vegas. “You’ll be coming up against an army of super soldiers. Microchipped machines that have no off switch. They have lowered core temperatures, so they don’t register on heat detectors, and their exhaled breath won’t give them away because it won’t be visible, despite the cold, which is why we’re planning for a daytime assault. If you come face-to-face with one of these guys, don’t fuck around. Strike first, fast, and hard.”
He took a short pause to let his words sink in before he concluded his speech. “We’re about to embark on a no-fail mission with global implications in enemy territory. Lives depend on us securing our target and getting her out alive. So, if you encounter any resistance, aim to kill. Everyone here makes it off that island. We clear?”
A round of murmured clears sounded, and a host of head nods signaled acceptance of mission parameters.
“Alright,” Chase said. “Let’s do this.” He glanced at his watch. “Final weapons, radio, and equipment checks start now.”
“You heard the man.” The first to stretch to his feet, Tom Two grabbed his parka from the back of his chair. “Gear up, fucknuts. Team one moves out in thirty. If you miss the boat, you’re swimming with the fish.” He circled the squared tables, the slightest of hitches in his steps. “Thanks for the opportunity, CO Mac. See you on the flip side.”
The two men clasped palms. “Happy to have you,” Chase replied, his confident grin matching the rest of the unit members. “Any of these shitheads pukes on your deck boots, you have my permission to throw them overboard.”
“Roger that,” Tom replied, his expression an exercise in keeping it serious.
“You hear that, Junior?” JP called out, rubbing his stomach in a circular motion. “Keep your snacks in your lunchbox, eh?”
“Aw, come on, JP.” Junior jammed his rifle’s full magazine home. “I’ve never puked on a mission before.”
“There’s always a first time for everything,” Renard said.
“Yeah,” Ryder agreed, lifting her gaze and pinning it onto another bearded assaulter restuffing a tactical knife into the worn leather sheath on his belt. “Remember that time Greely puked on my instrument panel.”
“Oh, my God, so gross,” Junior said, making a couple of gagging noises to drive the point home.
“And the smell,” Le Roc added, making a few not-so-fake gagging motions of his own. “Worse than rotting garbage, a three-week-old dead moose, and an overflowing porta-potty left to bake in the sun all day—combined.”
“That’s disgusting.” His nose scrunching to pug-like proportions, Cody shook his head like he was trying to dislodge the smell from his big honker.
“It’s a known fact, I had the flu,” Greely huffed.
“Sure. Sure.” JP bobbed his head up and down. “That’s why you left the shit stains on the seat. Too much of the diaries.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “It’s diarrhea, you French fuck.”
“Whatever,” JP flapped his hand, dismissing his shitty English entirely. “Just don’t poop your panties, Greenie, and we’ll be in the good zone. Yeah?”
“You’re all a bunch of assholes,” Greely muttered, and a collective laugh rippled through the hangar before the team got back to work as a companionable silence descended.
Yeah, these were the moments of absolute clarity Grant relished. When every nerve in his body tingled with anticipation. When the surrounding atmosphere hung heavy with the weight of impending action.
The calm before the storm.
