This scene takes place well before any of the Away From Keyboard books. It’s a little snippet of how Ryker McCabe was found after he escaped from Hell Mountain. But it features Wyatt from Defending His Hope.
Enjoy!
Wyatt
“Got movement. Three clicks north-northeast,” I say quietly, handing the scope to West Sampson from SEAL Team 3.
Two of them. Dressed in baggy pants and brown tunics with Kalashnikovs hanging from their shoulders. They could be friendlies, but from the look on West’s face? He doesn’t think so. Neither do I.
“If they’re alive, they can’t be far,” West replies. “We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
Almost a year and a half ago, a Special Forces team was ambushed on a routine mission. Seven bodies were recovered. The other five: Ryker McCabe, Dax Holloway, Hab Souter, Jackson “Ripper” Richards, and George “Gose” Sanchez were officially listed as missing in action, but after six months, everyone believed they were dead.
Until CENTCOM received a coded message that they believe was from Richards.
ODA-94820RJT008000-AF-HK-ACHERON
Acheron. Another name for Hell. Hell Mountain. The system of caves somewhere in the godforsaken mountain range in the Hindu Kush isn’t a secret to anyone in the Middle Eastern theater. But only the Taliban knows where it is.
If the men from McCabe’s team survived this long, it’ll be a goddamn miracle. Chatter came across the airwaves last night about an escape, but we don’t know how many. Or where they are.
Four teams set out at first light, and it’s almost sixteen hundred now. We’re looking for a needle in a haystack the size of all of Afghanistan, but leaving a man—or men—behind? Not an option.
We’re nine in total. An Army Ranger sniper, three members of my team—SEAL Team 10—three of West’s men, and two Delta Force. The rest are heading up the other side of the mountain.
“Watch your six,” West says as he gestures left and right, splitting the team in half around a large grouping of boulders.
The sniper—Inara, I think her name is—and West are with me, and we creep forward, weapons at the ready. Our boots crunch in the snow, and wind howls through the mostly dead brush.
Holding up my hand, I pause for a beat, then point to my two o’clock. Everyone drops in unison. Angry voices cursing in Pashto carry from at least a hundred meters away, followed by the pop-pop-pop of Kalashnikovs.
“Hostiles,” someone says over comms. West adjusts the grip on his M4 while Inara raises her rifle. I scan the gray landscape for any movement.
“Fuck!” West hisses and jumps back from a large, snow-covered bush, aiming low to the ground. “Identify yourself!”
“American. ODA. Friendly,” someone whispers.
West parts the branches, sending snow falling onto a man curled into a ball, shivering. He’s more animal than human, his skin gray, and his clothes torn to shreds and covered in dried blood.
Inara and I form a wall behind Sampson as he slings his M4 over his shoulder, then grabs Ryker McCabe under the arms to pull him out from his hiding place. He groans, his eyes half-lidded and his face twisted in pain.
“Holy fuck, McCabe. You smell like death left out in the sun for a month.” I’m not even sure he can hear me, and I keep my voice low.
Blood dots the snow as he tries to get to his knees, but West stops him. “Stay down, man. Or can’t you hear them shooting at us?” Lifting his shirt—or what remains of it—West finds at least one bullet wound oozing blood. Ryker’s barefoot, his toes blue, and from the pictures we saw before we set out on this mission, he’s lost at least fifty pounds—if not more. “Where are the rest of your men?”
“Just…me. Dax…is still…there. Have to go…back.”
Ryker grabs West’s arm, and the look in his eyes? It’s terrifying. Haunted. More than just death. This is fifteen months of fear and pain and desperation.
“How far?” West asks.
“Twenty-five clicks. Up.” Ryker’s eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses.