Edge of Control: An Edge Security Novel (Edge Security Series Book 1)
Read Edge of Control: An Edge Security Novel (Edge Security Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Trish Loye
ONTENTS
EDGE OF CONTROL
Trish Loye
Copyright © 2015
by
Trish Loye
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
978-0-9940084-0-4
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author and publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, incidents, and places is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is for my dear friends Elena, Steena and Dara.
Without whom I wouldn’t have had the courage to publish. They are fabulous writing buddies as well as staunch supporters. Thank you for showing me the way, and for sharing a glass of wine (or butter shot) with me.
I’d also like to thank my sister Krista for her unfailing support even when I made her read the unedited first draft. Your enthusiasm carried me through this process.
And last but not least I want to thank my family. My girls are the best distraction I could ever ask for. (Yes, Georgia this story is for you and Scarlett.) Patrick, my amazing husband, with his infinite patience, is my sanity and my strength.
I love you all.
ROLOGUE
Somewhere in the Hindu Kush, Afghanistan
Navy Lieutenant Jake “College” Harrison forced himself to lie still and reassess the situation. He wanted to curse and fire his FN SCAR into the Taliban lurking below, killing all the bastards he could see. But Jake had been a SEAL for nearly eight years, and he didn’t let his emotions rule him. He’d learned that lesson long before joining the Navy. Once emotions came into play, judgment and reason went out the window, usually leaping to their deaths.
A soft curse came over his earpiece. “These aren’t good odds, College.” Petty Officer Second Class Rhys “Lucky” Lafayette was hiding among the scrub brush about fifty yards to Jake’s left.
“Copy that, Lucky,” Jake responded.
Jake surveyed the scene from his vantage point behind a grouping of boulders high above the village. The other two men in his team lay hidden along the ridge one hundred yards above him. The small village housed maybe two hundred Pashtuns, the warrior-like people native to this mountainous region of Afghanistan. His team’s mission had been to meet with the elders and secure the village.
They’d already had two previous meetings. This was supposed to be a mere formality before the village elders decided to play host to a few members of the spec ops community until the fighting left the area. The village would gain protection, and the United States would gain another small foothold of eyes and ears in the Hindu Kush region.
The simple mission had gone completely SNAFU. Taliban soldiers swarmed the village below.
“What’s your count, Scat?” Jake asked. Petty Officer Second Class Nick Scattalone had the sharpest eyes, and as their tech guru, he also had the best head for numbers.
“About twenty-five, College,” he said. “It doesn’t make sense. There’s nothing around here for them.”
“They could be transporting something,” Rhys said.
“Or someone,” Jake said. “Keep eyes on. I want to know who or what they’re protecting.”
“Roger that,” the rest affirmed.
They all waited in their hides, occasionally ribbing each other, none of them breaking position. Jake remained silent.
“College, you having a nap over there?” Rhys asked after a bit.
Jake snorted, but didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Rhys knew he wasn’t asleep, since Jake wasn’t the type to ever shirk his duties. Rhys had been with him through BUD/s—the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training course—which, after surviving Hell Week together, made them closer than brothers. Now they served together on SEAL Team Five based out of Coronado and were sent anywhere in the world.
“Something’s happening down there, College,” Scat announced over their comms.
Jake focused on the village and the surrounding area. More Taliban came out of the trees. Two of them dragged a body between them. “Can anyone make out their prisoner?”
“Wait out,” Scat said. “I’m changing scopes.” A few seconds later they heard him swear. “It looks like it might be that journalist who got himself captured last week.”
Dammit. “Well, that complicates things,” Jake said. “Roddy, move to the ridge for a better signal and call this in.”
“Copy that.”
They wouldn’t see Petty Officer Rodriguez moving upslope. All of them had trained extensively for covert ops like this one. Below them, a Taliban soldier hoisted the journalist upright. Jake could see him clearly through his own scope now. The journalist appeared to be barely conscious, leaning heavily on his captor. Another man walked up to the journalist and placed a pistol to his head, but he turned to the mountains, waving his other arm. He yelled something.
“I don’t like this,” Rhys said.
Jake wanted to curse, but he didn’t. He forced an even, calm tone. “They know we’re here.”
“Would the village elders have told them we were coming?” Scat asked.
Four Taliban soldiers hauled two women and two children to the village’s edge. Each held their weapon to a prisoner’s head. Jake could see, if not hear, the wailing of the hostages.
“It looks like they did,” Jake said. “We have high ground and can take out the shooters before they hit anyone.”
“But won’t the other tangos just turn on the villagers?” Scat asked.
“Not if we give them something to chase,” Jake said.
Scat cursed softly. “But they might not fire.”
“They’re gonna fire,” Jake said. “We all know it.”
“Shit,” Scat said. “We’re all gonna be bloody heroes now.”
“Or dead,” Rhys said with a huff of laughter. “Come on now, Scat. College has never done us wrong yet. Trust him.”
Jake ignored the banter. Some men needed to joke before battle. Instead, he focused on the Taliban fighter who held a young boy by the arm. Tears tracked the boy’s cheeks, but he glared at the man. “I’ve got the asshole on the left with the boy. Rhys, take the tango with the other kid. Scat, you’ve got the two holding the women.”
Scattalone carried an Mk 20 Sniper Support Rifle and was more than able to make the shots, even though he sat three hundred yards above Jake and six hundred yards from the village.
“What about the leader and the tango holding the journalist?” Rhys asked.
“I’ve got them,” Jake said, thinking hard. Once the main players were taken out, it’d only leave about twenty Taliban against four heavily armed and superiorly trained SEALs. Without a doubt, they could do this. “Lucky,” he said, “you take out any other asshole who tries to grab a hostage.”
“Roger that.”
“College?” Scat said. “What about our exfil?”
Their exfiltration plan had been to hump out of the valley the same way they’d come in. Probably not going to happen with angry Taliban on their tails and dragging a civilian.
“I’ll grab the journalist and get him to the far ridge,” Jake said. “It’s easier than trying to get back up here with him. You guys haul ass and meet me there.”
Rhys sighed over the line. “Dammit, College, you know I’m not letting you go alone. Are you sure about this? Is this guy worth getting killed over?”
“He’s one of ours,” Jake said. “We’re not leaving him.”
“Roger that,” Rhys said. “Let’s do it.”
Jake and Rhys crept closer to the village, silently working their way between the rocks and stunted trees. As they did, the shouts of the Taliban leader grew more frenzied. Once they were within one hundred yards of the village, they both found places to take their shots from. Rhys lay prone about twenty-five yards from him, by a small boulder. Jake signaled him with his hand. Rhys responded the same way. They were ready.
“Roddy, you get a signal yet?” Jake whispered into his mic.
“Got it, College. Bird inbound. Extraction, ten minutes.”
“They’re close,” Rhys said.
“Seems some other spec ops team was in the area hunting for this journalist. They want us to wait out,” Roddy said.
The Taliban leader bellowed at the mountains and fired his pistol twice before swinging it back against the journalist’s head. Jake knew enough Pashto to know the man was screaming for them to give themselves up.
As if. SEALs never surrendered.
The Taliban leader yelled to one of his men holding a woman. That man shoved her to her knees and held his AK-47 to the back of her head, execution style.
Fuck.
“No waiting. The hostages don’t have time. We do this now,” Jake said.
“Roger,” came the replies.
“On my count. Three.” He settled the butt of the FN SCAR into his shoulder and his cheek along the stock.
“Two.”
He sighted on the tango holding the kid.
“One.”
He breathed out.
“Fire.”
Jake squeezed the trigger of his FN SCAR and took out the asshole. He swept slightly left with his rifle, sighted on the leader, and pulled the trigger again. Two down. He heard the echoing crack of his team’s shots. All good.
“I’m going in,” Jake said. “Cover me.” His men would take out any Taliban that turned on him. He leapt up and sprinted toward the journalist, knowing Rhys wasn’t far behind. He shot small bursts at the Taliban, concentrating his fire away from the villagers. Most of the Taliban hadn’t even seen him yet.
The tango holding the journalist dropped him to the ground. Jake shot him as he sprinted toward the fallen man. The majority of the Taliban forces were just fanatics with guns. Most never had any kind of expert training, and for that he was thankful. But he still had to worry about all the stray bullets flying around.
He skidded to a stop by the unconscious journalist. The man had a slim build, which would make it slightly easier to run with him. Jake hauled him up by his arm, tucked his shoulder into the guy’s waist, and pulled him into a fireman’s carry. He held his FN SCAR up and turned to run.
A Taliban soldier stood grinning at him, his AK-47 pointed right at his gut. One of the village elders, a wiry, straight-backed old man, shoved a long knife into the Taliban soldier’s neck. Jake ducked to the side as the dying man’s AK-47 sprayed bullets. He nodded his thanks to the elder, who nodded back.
Time to go.
Jake switched out the mag on his FN SCAR and ran toward the closest trees. “Lucky?”
“On your six.”
They sprinted into the trees while Rhys laughed maniacally.
“You are one crazy fucker,” Jake told him as he shifted the weight of the journalist. The guy must have weighed about one-eighty.
“I’m in good company,” Rhys said.
Jake wanted to keep up the banter, but couldn’t. He concentrated on sprinting with his burden while running up a mountain. “Roddy,” he panted. “ETA on the bird?”
“Three minutes,” Rodriguez said. “The fuckers are giving chase. We’re taking out who we can, but they’re entering the trees. Haul ass.”
“Wilco.”
They ran. Jake ran straight up, only zigzagging around the trees, while Rhys paused every now and then to turn and fire at the enemy pursuing them.
“Move it, Jake. They’re gaining,” Rhys said.
Jake didn’t bother replying. His thighs burned as he pushed himself harder than his body wanted.
One of the first things a SEAL learned was that the body didn’t give up, only the mind did. He would make it to the top. They cleared the trees and he almost groaned at what he saw. Minimal cover. Some rocks and a few bushes, but basically a huge slope of scree-tiny chips of rock—where two steps up meant one back. They’d be slow-moving targets.
He pulled up. “Take him, Rhys. I’ll stay here and hold them until you get up.”
“I’m not leaving you behind,” Rhys said, his Louisiana accent thick.
“You have to,” Jake said, taking command. “Or we both die. Get this fucker up the slope and then cover me when I come. You’ve got one minute, Lafayette. Now move it.”
Jake handed over the journalist and took a position higher up the slope behind a couple of large rocks. He tucked the butt of his FN SCAR into his shoulder and sighted through the scope. A Taliban soldier ran out of the trees, shooting wildly. Jake shot him, and the next one, and the next, keeping the enemy back and giving Rhys time to get the journalist to safety.