Collateral Damage

Dedication

This series is dedicated to all of the Silent Warriors protecting Freedom in the field, at home, and in the hearts of men and women around the world.

Thank you.

The Price of Freedom is Eternal Vigilance—

**Thomas Jefferson

Chapter One

Present Day

Washington, D.C.

2000 hours (local), August 4th

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death…

Pink Floyd’s “Time” hammered through Sergeant First Class Jack Hunter’s brain as he tightened his grip on the treadmill and ran harder, his heart pounding, his lungs burning. Rage tinged with fear made for a potent Power Bar that fueled his drive. Sweat poured from his brow and his body screamed for relief, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet.

His vision dimmed, and President Anderson’s address on the overhead TV calling for a swift but rational retaliation to al-Qaeda’s latest attack became nothing but a blur in his mind.

Life often hinged on the details, those seemingly insignificant microscopic events that most people trampled over obliviously. He’d trained to notice the details and to remember them. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his memory of the mission in Lebanon remained a kaleidoscope of combat images and one man’s mocking blue eyes.

Rescuing the kidnapped daughters of Israeli Prime Minister Shalev and U.S. Ambassador James from a radical Islamic group two weeks ago had been a crucial move to stop the pandemic of political chaos circling the globe. It might have worked—had everything gone right. But it hadn’t, and now the world was spiraling faster and faster to hell. He and Rico had been seriously injured. James’s daughter, a gold medal gymnast, might never walk again. Shalev’s daughter, a beautiful and dynamic singer, might never wake from her coma. Pecos was blind, and Neil was…

Jack clenched his teeth against the rising pain inside him. He took being team leader to heart both on and off the battlefield. The mission and his men were his responsibility. Rico, Pecos and Neil were his Delta brothers, and it killed him that he could only remember bits and pieces of what happened.

They’re here, DT. They’re alive!
Will Taylor’s—aka Pecos—distorted voice echoed in Jack’s mind, sucking him down a long tunnel of fragmented memories. The team called him DT for “double tap” because Jack was damn good at headshots. Pecos’s moniker came from the tall tales he spun about Delta team members and missions every time he downed a beer. The most legendary yarn was about Neil “the Sandman” Dalton. Pecos claimed that Neil, while saving a wounded soldier, had put thirty Taliban insurgents permanently to sleep in Afghan’s Helmand Desert then disappeared in a whirlwind of dust. The actual number of men killed was unknown for Neil’s recollection afterwards had been, “the militants kept coming and I kept shooting until I ran out of ammo, then I prayed.” Neil had called the sandstorm that had arisen then a miracle. It had provided him with cover to reach the nearby Helmand River. Once there, he’d floated the remaining miles to safety, dragging the soldier with him. The story had spread and grown to the point that even the terrorists whispered it amongst themselves, and reportedly refused to go near the place the Sandman had conquered.

But Neil would never again walk through the door and give Jack shit about screwing up his personal life. And Jack would never again be able to slap Neil on the back and razz his ass for spending a fortune on pimping his muscle car to the max.

They’re here, DT. They’re alive!
was the last thing Jack remembered Pecos saying on the mission. With those words echoing in his mind, he closed his eyes and chased after the memory. He ran harder and harder, his head throbbing as he battled to separate truth from nightmare.

He remembered everything going FUBAR in an eye blink.

They’re here, DT. They’re alive!

Jack looked across the smoke-filled room toward Pecos. Sweat, fear and the growing heat of the fire eating the floor beneath them were suffocating. Nausea churned in his gut and he gripped his MP5 tighter.

“See if they’re wired,” he yelled to Pecos, his instincts screaming
danger
at him as he scanned the room they’d just invaded. Two terrorists lay dead at his feet. It would have been just like the sick sonsofbitches to booby trap the hostages and blow the fucking world up at the moment of seeming victory.

Down the hall, the Sandman’s gunfire holding back militants from coming up the stairs kept a steady pace. Rico had taken a hit; his right arm hung useless and dripping blood. He’d slung back his machine gun, armed his left hand with his M9 Beretta and kept moving.

Behind Rico, the door of an armoire seemingly opened a fraction wider.

“Get down!” Diving, Jack shoved Rico aside as gunfire erupted from the slit, catching Jack in the leg. He twisted in mid air and let loose his MP5 in a spray of bullets that chewed and splintered wood in every direction.

A Caucasian, blond male in full business regalia fell from the armoire and face planted on the Persian carpet.

Jack kicked the AK-47 out of reach, flexi-cuffed the bastard then put his muzzle against the target’s head before flipping him over.

“Well, fuck me and you,” the man whispered, gasping and choking, his blue eyes full of mocking amusement. Coughing up blood, the man died with a smile. Then—

Suddenly Jack’s head jerked back as his headphones were snatched off and Lt. Col. Roger Weston, his Delta Team commander, whom the teams called Commander Weston because anything less didn’t fit his hard-edged charisma, got in his face. “Son of a bitch, DT. Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Damn. Jack had been on the verge of remembering what happened next. He couldn’t stop. Not yet. Just a few more steps and he’d blow past this weakness in his mind and his body. Ignoring Weston, Jack kept running.

But the sterile-like surroundings and disinfectant smells of the physical therapy facilities at Walter Reed Medical Center and President Anderson’s mug on the plasma TV didn’t fade away again. The spell had been broken and the almost memory was gone.

Jack wanted to snarl and didn’t hide his irritation.

Weston hit the switch, triggering the treadmill to wind to a halt. Gripping the handles tighter, Jack clenched his teeth again, sharpening the pain in his right temple. This was Weston’s third visit since Jack woke up in ICU last week and the personal attention frayed at his nerves. Not that he didn’t appreciate his commander’s concern, he just wanted to be left alone to get back into shape and—

“In case you didn’t hear me, I’ll repeat the question. Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“You come all the way from Bragg to ask me that, sir?” Jack faced his commander once his vision cleared and he was steady enough to stand on his own.

“I’m not here as your superior, but as your friend.” Weston’s gaze was stark with some dark emotion, his mouth grim.

“Friend?” Jack stepped off the treadmill and mopped his drenched face. His head, back and leg hurt like sons of bitches from the blood pounding in his veins and it pissed him off. He wasn’t even back to a quarter of what his pre-injury strength and stamina had been. “Then I’ll lay it on the line with you. Stay away and let me deal with this my way.”

“By running yourself until you’re six-feet under?” Weston smacked the treadmill’s frame with the flat of his hand. “You nearly lost an eye. You’ve fractured your skull and your back is cut all to hell. Oh and let’s not forget the bullet wound to your leg. It’s a miracle that you’re even upright. Refusing to cooperate with everyone who is trying to help you, from rehab to psych, is making you worse.”

“Hairline fracture only, which they steel-plated, and everything else is improving daily.” He gave a disgusted snort. “As for trying to help me, I had fewer don’ts as a teenager in Southern Bible Camp than the crap here. It took an all out fight just to stand up to piss last week.”

“Damn it. You know what I mean. You’re not being reasonable.”

“That psych therapist called you, didn’t she?”

“You could have sat through the session. It’s not just her, though. They’ve all called. Physical Therapy. The doctor. The nurses.”

“And?” Jack shrugged. “We’ve both been down this road before. Group therapy and PTSD platitudes aren’t worth a crap. You and I both know the dreams just have to run their course. The sooner I’m back on my feet and out of here doing what I do, the sooner that will happen.”

The nurses had reported his nightmares, but the daytime flashbacks he’d been able to keep hidden. Some know-it-all shrink who didn’t have a clue to the shit he lived with, wouldn’t do anybody any good by rattling around in his head.

Weston narrowed his gaze. “Have you looked in the mirror, DT? You’re not white as a sheet. You’re grayer than death itself. You’re overdoing it. It’ll be months before we can even assess whether or not you can return to duty.”

Jack schooled his features into a blank stare. The fear that had been driving him wild, what he didn’t want to consider, had just been flung into his face and hung like a noose before his eyes.

Assess whether or not he could return to duty?

Fuck that. He was nowhere near ready to put his neck in the loop by even discussing the idea. He glared at Weston, determined to stand his ground.

“No, I haven’t looked in the mirror. I don’t care how the bastards rearranged my mug.” Jack nodded to the TV screen where President Anderson’s address to the nation had just ended and video from al-Qaeda’s attack on America’s oil hubs filled the screen. “This shit happened on our watch, sir, and I want back into the fight.”

Al-Qaeda’s latest move was their smartest yet. By crippling the US’s oil reserves and industry, they not only brought the country to an economic standstill but also divided it into factions. Crude oil rang in at two-fifty a barrel and was climbing higher. The tree huggers and libs shouted it was time to go green cold turkey and that gluttonous America was finally paying the price for their imperialistic agenda. The rest of the population was up in arms, wanting blood, and demanding that President Anderson act immediately.

The President and Weston were cousins with a remarkable resemblance to each other, even considering the twenty year age difference. Both men had intense eyes, square jaws and black hair. Their imposing six-three stature, sharp speaking skills and determination made a dynamic combination. Unfortunately, Jack didn’t think there was anything the President could say that would stop the inevitable. An eye for an eye wouldn’t satisfy the Americans. They wanted blood for oil and mass destruction for economic devastation. An all out global war marched closer by the minute.

“Get back into the fight?” Weston shook his head. “You’re not being reasonable, DT, and you know it.”

Jack closed his eyes and counted to five. He was being reasonable. It wasn’t his fault the world had gone off the deep end. “Do they know who took out Aziz yet?”

One of Islam’s top Imams, Hassan Omar Aziz had been killed by sniper fire within the hallowed borders of Iran. That one act had inflamed the Muslim world and fired extremists to new levels of hatred. Evidence left behind fingered the Americans, as if they’d done the deed and then boldly said, “Fuck you. Here’s proof. What can you do about it?”

Radical Muslims worldwide refused to see it was a set-up.

Weston shook his head. “No. Everything possible is being done. Every asset is searching and every snippet of intel for months is being scrutinized.”

“What did Meir say?” Meir Goldman, one of Mossad’s top agents, had worked with Delta on a number of operations and had become a personal friend of the team. He was a man who’d proved his salt and had once saved Jack’s life. A man they could count on being honest with them when he could. Relations between Israel’s Secret Service and the US had become strained after the assassination of Aziz as each looked to the other for the deed. Aziz had been very vocal in his hatred for America and in his demand that all Muslims were called to destroy Israel. Reclaiming of the Middle East from the infidels was Islam’s only path to salvation.

“Meir had very little to say. He’s offended that we left Mossad out of the intel on Shalev and the mission to rescue her.” Weston paused then abruptly turned and paced away, hands fisted. “If only things in Lebanon had gone right.”

A weaker man would have flinched from the intensity in Weston’s voice. The tense emotion was totally out of character for the cool, by-the-book commander, and Jack studied him closely for the first time since waking up in the hospital. Something had set Weston off his game. Dark circles bagged his eyes and a seemingly brittle veneer had settled over his chiseled features.

Weston was the kind of man who’d never admit to a weakness, so Jack knew better than to ask what was eating his commander. He’d have to check with the other men to see what was going on. Not that the current world events weren’t enough. Meir’s reticence had to bite too. Weston and Meir had been involved in a harrowing mission a couple of years ago, one that neither of them spoke about. Still, Jack couldn’t blame Meir for being ticked. If the shoe had been on the other foot, Jack would have been pissed too. But there hadn’t been time to coordinate a joint operation to rescue Shalev and James’s daughters when the actionable intel had come through.