Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(66)

A quiet thud as they rounded the corner told Gage that Vaughn and Dietz had neutralized the guard about ten seconds ahead of schedule. Gage stepped over the lifeless body and entered the building with his finger on the trigger of his M4. He glanced around. The space was dim and cavernous, empty except for a few junked-out trucks and some tires piled in corners. A band of light shone onto the dirt floor from some sort of upstairs office. Given the satellite dish they’d seen mounted outside, Gage figured it was used as a media room. According to their intel, the hostages were being kept in the basement.

Vaughn went up to take out any hostiles who might have stayed behind. Gage scanned the room’s perimeter and quickly located an open doorway leading down to a lower level.

The earthen steps were steep and Gage took them silently. Clearing out the bulk of the tangos with a diversion had been a good plan, but one that relied on a fair amount of luck. Gage was a gambling man, and the first rule of gambling was that luck eventually ran out. He expected an armed guard at the foot of the stairs and that’s exactly what he found.

Gage delivered a well-placed blow with the butt of his rifle, rendering the man unconscious before his weapon even clattered to the floor. A collective gasp went up from across the room as Gage knelt down to collect the Kalashnikov. He slung it over his shoulder while Mays zip-cuffed the guard. Their orders were to keep at least one of them alive, if possible, in case they needed him for information.

The hostages stumbled to their feet and Gage turned his flashlight on them. The beam illuminated two slightly built Afghani men and a fortyish woman.

“Lieutenant Gage Brewer, U.S. Navy.” He zeroed in on the woman. “Ma’am, are you—”

“Betsy Bauer.” She reached out and touched his arm, as if to make sure he was real. “And I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

Vaughn tromped down the steps to join them. “All clear up there.” He held up a black piece of cloth. It was a flag with a skull and a sword painted on it, and Gage recognized it from the video footage.

He’d found the beheading room.

“Anyone injured?” This from Dietz, the team corpsman. “Anything that might prevent you from—”

“We’re fine.” Betsy Bauer cast a worried look at the door. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Gage’s thoughts exactly. He led everyone up the stairs. Mays and Dietz guarded their flanks and Vaughn watched their six.

“Five minutes,” Vaughn said from the back.

They were ahead of schedule. Another stroke of luck. More than four minutes until their helo would drop down in a nearby field. The other half of their squad would already be on it, after having spent a few minutes pretending to be ambushed by Taliban fighters before vanishing into the night.

Gage started to get anxious as he neared the door. That damned sixth sense again…

His gaze landed on something long and black sticking out from the back of one of the trucks. He jogged over to investigate.

“Holy shit.”

“What is it?” Mays asked.

Gage blinked down at the truck bed. “I’m looking at a shit-ton of weapons. RPGs, AKs, a couple of Carl Gs.” He glanced up at Vaughn and a flash of understanding passed between them.

“Let’s hit the extraction point,” Gage said, jogging back to the group. He checked the surrounding area before hustling the hostages to a nearby clearing. Gage watched the reporter, relieved that she seemed to be moving okay. No telling what hell she’d endured these past forty-eight hours.

A familiar whump whump grew louder as their helo approached. Gage scanned the area, ready to eliminate anything that might try to botch their extraction. Dust and trash kicked up as the Seahawk dropped down onto the landing zone. Gage loaded in the hostages, then counted the heads inside. Every man in Alpha squad accounted for. They were good to go.

Another glance at Vaughn. He was a demo man, as was Gage, and they were thinking the same thing.

“Two minutes,” Gage yelled at his commanding officer.

Dirt tornadoed around them as Gage squinted into the Seahawk. It was too loud—and time was too short—for him to explain what he wanted to do. It was a critical moment. Did his CO trust him or not? The officer gave a brief nod.

Gage and Vaughn took off at a dead run. In under ninety seconds they had the two truck beds rigged with enough C-4 to blow up a tank. No way were they going to leave a f*ckload of ordnance around for the enemy to use against U.S. troops.

“Ten seconds,” Vaughn said.

Gage’s heart pounded as he added more C-4, just to be sure. Then they got the hell out.

Less than a minute later, an earsplitting blast ripped the night. Gage’s face hit the dirt. The earth shook beneath him as the building fireballed and then fireballed again. Debris rained down around him—concrete, mud, chunks of brick.

Burning embers pelted him as he tried to move, but his body seemed cemented to the ground. Vaughn grabbed his flak vest and hauled him to his feet just as a truck careened around a corner and barreled straight for them.

“Go, go, go!”

They leaped for the helo as a dozen arms reached out to pull them aboard. And then Gage was inside, his heart hammering, his face pressed flat against the metal floor as the Seahawk lifted into the air. Machine-gun fire sputtered below, and Gage sat up, shocked. He gazed down at the inferno. He glanced at Vaughn.