“Check the west side. Look like a couple of missiles to you?” Via radio, Neal’s voice interrupted Damien’s steady scrutiny.
Damien shifted the binoculars to the other end of the encampment and swore softly. Two elongated shapes, pointed at one end, lay lengthwise on flat trailers raised to forty-five degree angles. They pointed west.
“Copy that,” Damien said quietly into the almost invisible radio beneath the Islamic headpiece he wore. “Tell that spook to get his fucking pictures ASAP. I want to get out of here.”
A single click of confirmation told him Neal understood. Damien swore again as he watched a flat barge on the river unload more armed men. The number of tangos—SEAL slang for terrorists—in the compound had almost doubled in the last three hours.
Damien dropped the binoculars to dangle by a cord around his neck and inched back from the top of the sand dune. Swaddled in the hot Islamic robe that disguised him, he made his way back to the rickety old bus that would carry him, his team, and the agent back to CharharBorjak, the only town between their position and the border of Pakistan.
Within five minutes, four of his five men scrambled into the bus. Hidden in the sweltering robes, they looked like a handful of traveling Islams. Damien scanned the dune next to the one he had just vacated. Heavy robe trailing in the sand, Neal herded a silent though obviously reluctant agent toward the bus.
Damien scowled fiercely. He hated missions that involved spooks—SEAL slang for CIA agents—especially on sneak and peak missions like this one. All he had to do was baby-sit the asshole while he took pictures. He usually ended up with a jerk like Breckinridge, who tried to run the whole show. Damien stood by the bus door, his rifle ready, and kept an alert eye on the tops of the sand dunes.
Neal climbed on the bus and Breckinridge stopped in front of Damien. “Lieutenant, I need more information, more pictures. We have to get closer.”
“No way,” Damien replied stonily. “I'm not getting my men shot up crossing an open expanse of desert.”
“I’m in charge of this mission,” Breckinridge blustered angrily.
Damien shot an icy glare at the agent, his voice dangerously low. “It’s my job to get your scrawny ass out of here alive. If you don’t get in this bus, I will personally shoot you and dump you, still alive, into the middle of that compound.”
ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
91
Breckinridge spared Damien a cold glance and climbed into the bus. Damien snarled a vicious curse and slid into the driver’s seat. They still had a long way to go before they were extracted from this god-forsaken corner of the world.
The following day, debriefed aboard ship as it headed out of the Arabian Sea, Damien stretched out on a bunk in the temporary quarters he shared with Neal. With the mission over, his thoughts turned to Laurie. In six months, in some of the worst hellholes on the planet, he had not forgotten her. More often than not, especially after a mission, he wanted only to crawl into her arms for a few minutes peace.
The teasing spark of laughter in her eyes had the power to make him feel human. Her love and acceptance humbled him. When her eyes smoldered with barely leashed passion he was a sex-crazed maniac. Sinking into her was like coming home. His body stirred at the burning memories of her writhing beneath him as she cried out his name. Her presence alone was enough to let the violence and danger of his life recede for a while.
Stretched out on the bunk, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and stared at the childish drawing. It went where he went. A slight smile curved his lips. Stacy. She was the spitting image of her mother—bright, outgoing, and eager. In the course of just a few days, Laurie’s daughter had effortlessly entrenched herself into his heart. He thought of her almost as much as he did Laurie and, lately, more often that he thought of his own two children.
He suppressed the immediate stab of regret in his heart. He had not seen Michael or Danielle in almost ten years. His ex-wife had taken full custody in the divorce. For the first couple of years, he used his leave time to visit a few times a year. He dutifully paid child support and struggled to stay in contact. Then, their mother remarried and thwarted Damien’s attempts to keep some relationship with his children. Letters went unanswered, or undelivered. He was told during intermittent phone calls the children were not home. A few years ago, Damien had stopped trying.
The door opened and Neal sauntered into the room with a good-natured grin. “Ready to go home?”
“More than ready.” Damien wearily slipped the drawing back into his wallet.