Over all the books in the Away From Keyboard series, West has been a constant fixture.
Today’s bonus scene is a little backstory of West’s last SEAL Team mission. Warning: This isn’t a happy story. It happened long before he met Cam, but since it’s been referenced a few times.
West
The heat this time of year reflecting off the rocks makes Afghanistan feel like the surface of the sun, and sweat trickles down the small of my back as I wait for the rest of my team to get into position.
Four hostiles, two hostages. Should be in and out in under ten minutes. And when we get back to base, I promised Hawk I’d pour the first beer.
He crouches on the other side of the door, weapon ready, while Baxter, Smitty, and Fox are around the back of the two story structure. It’s built into a hill, so Hawk and I are outside the top floor while the others are below us.
In my ear, CENTCOM relays the current thermal scan. Given how hot it is, it’s a miracle they can get any sort of read at all. “Two heat signatures in the lower right room, one in the lower left, and a grouping down the hall on the top floor.”
“Set mark to ten seconds. Starting in three, two, one,” I say quietly. Each member of my team syncs their watches on my count. We’ve practiced this hundreds of times. If not thousands. The heat. The sun in our eyes. The shoddy construction of the clay and stone building.
There’ll be a bird in the air as soon as I confirm we have the hostiles secured and the hostages safe. In and out.
Except something doesn’t feel right. Smitty agrees with me, but Baxter, Hawk, and Fox think we’re seeing things. Heat stroke, Hawk insists. Adjusting my grip on my M4, I give Hawk a nod. Our infil is quick and efficient, and two shots from the first floor, followed by a single and Smitty mutters, “Clear, headed up.”
Hawk and I head down the hall but a few steps from the first door on the left, a hail of bullets peppers the wall—and my body armor. Hurts like a motherfucker, and I stumble back into Hawk.
He drags me into a room across from whoever’s shooting, and we find an older woman and a kid—she can’t be older than five—huddled together against the far wall. The woman cowers and holds up her hand.
“Friendly,” she cries in Pashto, and despite the throbbing in my chest, I draw down on her. Hawk motions for her to take the girl and move into the corner, and she does so, fear in her brown eyes.
“Six hostiles!” Smitty shouts, and my blood runs cold. Moving in unison, Hawk and I grab the grandmother and little girl and sprint for the door. We’re too slow. The building shudders with such force, we’re knocked off our feet.
Falling. Everything slows. The impact drives the air from my lungs, and I can’t move. There’s no pain. Just confusion. I can’t hear anything for several seconds, and when my vision clears, I see the sky above me. Shit.
Blood. The scent fills my nose, and I wonder if it’s mine. My shoulder starts to burn. Something’s pinning me down. Turning my head, I meet Hawk’s eyes, and fuck. His helmet is gone, and he has a dent in his skull the size of my fist. Dilated pupils. He’s gone.
Smitty gasps for breath. “Tell…my mom…”
“Shut up,” I manage. “Tell her yourself.”
A pool of blood spreads out from his torso, and he starts to choke and wheeze. “Tell her I love…”
“No!” Not him too. “Baxter! Fox! Report!”
Struggling to lift my head, I stifle my scream as pure agony races down my arm and across my chest. I plant my foot, trying to get up, but my ankle gives out, and holy shit. I’ve never felt such pain. Broken. Or shattered. But if I can’t hoof it a mile on a broken leg, I don’t deserve to call myself a SEAL.
Grunting, I try again and finally realize why I can’t move my arm. A piece of rebar pins me down, driven through the soft tissue between my shoulder blade and my spine. One inch to the right and I’d be dead—or paralyzed.
Static buzzes in my ear. “ETA…five minutes…”
CENTCOM. I should tell them it doesn’t matter. That I think I’m the only one left, and if I am…I don’t want to live. But I can’t. Darkness closes in, and the last thing I see? My two closest friends, dead on the floor, just out of reach.