After a quick meeting of the minds, each man checked and double-checked his gear and that of the man beside him. If they succeeded, two UN peacekeepers, who’d survived a deadly blast only to be snatched by the enemy, would go home. If they failed? Then they were never here, and their families would be told they died on a training mission in an undisclosed location.
Unseen. Unheard. In and out. Fifty-four minutes. Each man set the time on his tactical watch, stood, and readied for the exit. Matt felt the vibration and wrapped his gloved hands around the familiar black rope.
Last one out sucks balls. Teddy’s exit motto echoed in his mind as he slipped soundlessly into the night.
Fifty-three minutes later Matt checked his watch. Every man was accounted for and back on the helo with four seconds to spare. Like a well-oiled machine.
The adrenaline high ebbed as they flew through the night. They talked shit and let off steam. Scout, the team medic, tended to the rescued prisoners.
With the UN hostages liberated and safely delivered to the nearest base for treatment, Matt and his team began the journey to their own base at Little Creek, Virginia. The entire op may have taken less than two hours, but getting transport back to base took as long as it took.
Usually by touchdown in Virginia he was on his fiftieth mental run-through of the op in preparation for the shitload of paperwork that fell to him as senior chief operator. But he hadn’t had a single thought in the past twelve hours that didn’t revolve around Abby.
He didn’t particularly like this feeling of not being in control.
He unloaded his gear, putting a bit too much feeling into it.
“What’s up, Chief?” Decker asked.
He hadn’t talked to Abby in almost two weeks, that’s what. And he’d told her he’d call, which had been purely idiotic. He never knew where or when he was going to be—exactly why he didn’t have relationships, why he didn’t make plans to call or anything else. Yet the words had tumbled out before he could stop them, so unwilling he’d been to let go of their bond.
“Looks like you’re thinking mighty hard,” Decker said, walking past him. “Not to mention Uncle Sam’s toys you’re slamming to hell.”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Maybe it was just worry, a general concern, since he’d looked after her and the kids all week. Possibly he needed closure, reassurance they were safe and sound and all was well.
“Hey, Chief, anyone ever been scrubbed for passing gas?”
Matt looked up at Corey Chapman—Chappers—a young, good-natured kid from Louisiana.
“ ’Cause I swear that dude’s ass bubbles are gonna get me killed one day.” He gestured to Rocky, who flipped him off without turning around.
“See.” Chappers pointed. “He knew I was talking about him without even looking.”
Matt laughed as the guys lobbed insults like brothers.
“What’s the deal, Mount McKinney?” Rocky shouted across the room. “Nobody climbed your mountain in a while?”
Matt smiled at the name. It’d originated because of his climbing skills, but it didn’t take long for the guys to throw a sexual spin on it. Women liked him and he’d enjoyed many over the years. Thus the nickname.
Decker grinned. “What happened at the beach, McKinney? You losing your touch?”
Corey picked up his bag. “He’s old as Methuselah. That’s his problem.”
“Everybody’s old compared to you, dickwad,” Decker said. “Do you even shave?”
“We working on the house tomorrow?” Corey asked.
The guys might throw insults like grenades, but when they had downtime they always migrated back together. Usually at Matt’s, though the location changed; his place was always nearly uninhabitable. He had a small refrigerator, a mattress, and a flat-screen TV. That’s all he moved from house to house. Maybe that’s why. They drank, watched sports, and, if they were lucky, got to knock out a wall.
“I’m not sure,” Matt answered. He was scheduled for a few days leave, days he rarely took. He envisioned Abby and the kids. Tried to picture where she lived, the house, the area. He had an intense need to know, and his brother had planes and pilots at his disposal.
Rocky opened and took stock of his gear locker. “What about it, McKinney? You holding out on us?”
“Not cool,” Chappers said, doing the same. “We were crawling through swamp shit while you were sipping girlie drinks.”
Parker sidled up close. “Hey, uh, Chief. Everything okay? You’re not having any…you know…”—he looked pointedly at Matt’s pants—“problems are you?”