Montana SEAL (Brotherhood Protectors #1)(2)

“Going in,” Swede acknowledged and slipped into the broken corner of the structure, climbing over the half-wall still standing.

Nacho waited a moment until Swede said, “Clear.”

Nacho hopped over the wall and through the crumbled bricks, disappearing into the gaping hole.

Lt. Mike went next, then Montana. Irish brought up the rear.

Once inside, what walls still stood seemed to close in on Montana.

Lt. Mike forged ahead, hurrying past the crumbled bricks and mortar.

Swede and Nacho stood at a door leading deeper into the once ornate residence. Swede wedged a knife into the doorjamb, while Nacho aimed his rifle at the door, ready for anything. A quick jab and the lock gave. Swede nodded to Nacho, yanked open the door and stood back. Nothing happened. Nacho dove through the opening and to the side, leaving room for Swede to follow. Lt. Mike entered next.

The team moved through the building, room by room.

“There’s nobody here,” Montana said.

“Then why the guard on top of the building?” Big Bird asked, still connected via the two-way radios in their helmets.

“Suppose it’s a trap?” Irish asked.

“We have to check all rooms.” Lt. Mike said.

Montana fought a groan. The place had to be over twelve thousand square feet. And that didn’t include any underground bunkers that might be a part of the former Sheik’s defense plan. Lt. Mike was right. If they didn’t check all the rooms, they couldn’t say with one hundred percent certainty their ISIS target and the captured aid worker were not there.

Once they’d completed checking the ground floor and upper levels, they started down a set of stairs. These steps weren’t finished in the opulent granite tiles of the main level. They were plain concrete, leading to a steel door, heavily reinforced.

Montana took the lead again, fixed C-4 explosives near the handle and pushed a detonator into the clay-like substance.

Everyone backed up the stairs to the main level and held their hands over their ears.

Montana pressed the detonation button. A dull thump shook the floor beneath his feet. A cloud of dust puffed up the staircase.

Lt. Mike held up a hand. “Let it clear a little.” Finally, he lowered his hand and led the way back down the stairs to the door.

It hung open on its hinges, a dark, ragged hole blown through the metal. The entrance led to a tunnel-like hallway with doors on either side. Yellowed, florescent lights flickered in the ceiling. Another door marked the end of the long hallway.

The team split, each clearing the rooms, one at a time. None were locked, but the locking mechanisms were on the outsides of the doors. A chill slithered down the back of Montana’s neck, partly because of the coolness in the basement and partly from knowing the sheik had probably used the rooms to incarcerate people. Nothing in any of the rooms indicated the aid worker had been imprisoned there.

At the end of the corridor, the final door was locked. Once again, Montana set the charge, the team hid behind the doors of the cell-like rooms, waiting for the charge to blow. Montana only used enough explosive to dislodge the lock mechanism, no more. He didn’t want to destroy the structure of the underground portion of the building and risk trapping his team or causing them injury with the concussion.

“You have a gift.” Nacho grinned as he passed Montana and followed Lt. Mike into a much narrower tunnel.

“We’re in a tunnel beneath the compound,” Lt. Mike said into the two-way radio.

Montana doubted Big Bird would hear on the outside. Where the tunnel would lead, they’d know soon enough. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t have a sniper on the other end providing cover for them when they emerged from whatever building.

His gut twisting, his nerves stretched, Montana clenched his weapon, holding it at the ready as he continued forward. If they had any chance of rescuing the aid worker, it had to be soon. ISIS rebels had a habit of torturing and killing anyone they could use as an example, rather than hanging on to them. Prisoners only slowed the attack and hampered their determination to take everything in their paths.

The tunnel opened into the bowels of what appeared to be a warehouse.

“I feel like we’re on a wild goose chase,” Swede muttered.

“And the goose is leading us to the slaughter. Not the other way around,” Irish concurred.

They climbed a set of stairs to a huge, empty room.

“Damn,” Swede said and bent to a dark lump on the ground.

Nacho released a string of profanity in Spanish.

“We’ve found the aid worker.”

What Montana had assumed was a pile of rags, was in fact a woman, her clothes torn, her body ravaged, her face battered. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling.

Swede knelt beside her and touched his fingers to the base of her throat.

Montana’s stomach roiled at the sight of the woman’s damaged body. He could have told Swede she was already dead. What a waste of life. And for what? “We need to get out of here.”

The sound of footsteps made Montana glance up. A man stood on a catwalk twenty feet above them. He shouted something in Pashtu, ending in Allah, pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it into the middle of the team.

“Fuck!” Montana yanked his weapon around and shot the man. He fell to the ground, but killing him was a little too late.

The grenade rolled toward Swede, still crouched beside the woman’s body.