ONE
Lt. Tristan Sawyer whispered into the mic that brushed the corner of his mouth. “Rock, are you in position?”
Night hung over him like a blanket, wrapping up all of his senses, except his hearing, as he waited for the sound of his senior chief’s voice. “Affirmative.”
Across the street Petty Officer Will Gumble lurked next to the window of a crumbling single-story home. The house—not even a mile from the Persian Gulf—had been cleaned out, probably weeks ago, and Willie G. had swept it again to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises when they moved in on their target.
He took two short breaths and lifted his night vision goggles, giving the street another check. It was deserted except for the five stonelike figures hidden along the street. He spotted them only because he knew they were there. He’d scouted and scoped each location in preparation for this moment. He’d studied the maps and floor plans, packed his gear and prepared his mind.
All for this moment.
His blood began to pump harder, picking up speed. He tightened, then loosened his grip on the weapon in his hand, forcing his breath into a steady rhythm and his heart into an even pattern.
He was ready. But he had to wait for the signal that their boats were nearly in place at the extraction point. If they moved too soon, they’d recover the “packages”—three American hostages—but have no place to deliver them. If they waited too long, they left the inflatable boats open to discovery.
Timing was everything, so he schooled his muscles, keeping them alert yet relaxed until the signal.
A double click came through his earpiece.
Time to rock and roll.
“Let’s go.” Just like they’d practiced, he swung around the back of the building where Senior Chief Matt Waterstone, also known as Rock, wrenched open a window on the basement level and slid into the darkness below. Tristan followed suit until his shoulder caught on the frame. He wiggled, his feet still not quite on the floor.
The team was on radio silence for this part of the mission, but he didn’t need to see or hear his best friend to know Matt was laughing at him.
After what felt like an hour suspended by the snagged shoulder of his battle dress uniform, he reached across his body and yanked on it until it let go with a tear.
He dropped to his feet, squatting and squinting into the dark, his weapon at the ready. On the far side of the box of a room, the door cracked open and light filtered in. The weak sliver of a stream made it only halfway across the floor, but it did illuminate Matt’s gloved hand on the edge of the door.
Tristan moved forward, staying low. They’d done this enough to know the drill. He would move first down the hallway, Matt positioned at his six—covering his blind spot. Back-to-back, they’d sweep the basement, looking for the packages. Intel said there were two women and a man. They had been held here for at least three weeks, though word of their captivity had just reached the SEAL teams.
Only God knew what the three had endured. At least two of them were in their sixties. The people of Lybania tended to respect their elders. As for the girl in her twenties...
A shiver ran down his spine. He couldn’t think about that. He had to get her free and secure first. Once they were all safely out of this pit and away from men who kidnapped aid workers for no reason, he’d let the ones trained to deal with her situation handle it.
For now, he’d do what he was trained to.
Matt motioned for them to stop, opening a door with the toe of his boot. He must have encountered less resistance than he expected, since it flung open like a piece of paper on hinges, flapping against the opposite wall.
Tristan shook his head at Matt, who shrugged a shoulder and offered a smirk by way of apology for the unnecessary noise. Luckily, the walls of the building could have been from the biblical era, all crumbling blocks that muffled errant doors and shuffling feet. Matt led the way into the room, clearing it before stepping back into the hallway.
With two fingers, Tristan pointed toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. Matt nodded, taking the rear as they climbed from the dimness of the basement into relative light. It wasn’t much brighter than a full moon, but compared to the inky darkness below, the second floor radiated, removing any possibility of hiding in the shadows.
His earpiece clicked twice, and he swung his fingers in a quick barrel roll at Matt. They had fifteen minutes to get the American prisoners and get them to the extraction point on the gulf. No time to waste.
Matt nodded, held a hand to his ear and motioned to the door on his left. At least two voices carried through the wall, their Arabic words getting louder.
“Cards,” he mouthed. Apparently someone was cheating. If there was no honor among thieves, there was less among kidnapping terrorists.
Tristan motioned that they should pass the door without incident if possible. Their mission wasn’t to take down this cell or alert anyone to their presence. Their only job was to snatch and go.
The door to the room with the card game stood open about three inches, so he held up his hand, waiting for another argument as a diversion. They didn’t disappoint, tempers exploding like one of Matt’s C-4 bricks. In the fray the two SEALs bolted down the hall, passing three closed doors on each side.
An empty chair sat outside the last door on the right, the guard most likely wrapped up in the card game they’d passed.
Tristan jiggled the handle of the door, but it stuck in place. In a flash Matt was there by his side, his lock-picking kit in hand.
Tristan had known Matt since the first day of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training and in all that time, he had yet to see a lock his friend couldn’t pick. Man, it was a good thing Matt was on the teams. He’d be dangerous on the wrong side of the law.
Tristan held his weapon at the ready, standing guard until the old lock popped and the door swung in. He backed into the room, letting Matt take the first sweep and shutting out most of the noise and light from the hall with the closed door.
The space was empty save for two figures huddled in the corner, hands clasped together. He held a finger to his lips as he squatted in front of the shadowed, grandfatherly man. “I’m with the United States Navy.” He whispered the words, which seemed intent on filling the entire room. “Are you Judith and Hank Timmons?”
The man’s gray hair bobbed into the shard of light coming from the hallway. “Yes.” It seemed to take all his energy just to utter the single syllable, and he slumped against his wife.
Tristan offered them both a reassuring grin and gently squeezed the man’s bony elbow. “We’re going to get you out of here. But I need you to move quickly and quietly and do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”
The couple nodded in unison, their faces drawn and weary but their eyes alight with hope. For good reason.
“This is my teammate.” He motioned to Matt’s towering shadow. “Ma’am, this is the senior chief. He’s going to help you up and out the window.”
She
