Jump Start. Lisa Renee Jones
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hands latched on to the rail on the ceiling as a wicked wind screamed a warning and then pounded against them with the force of being hit with a concrete slab.
The jump conditions were far from favorable, but neither were the Iraqi boy’s chances of making it through the night. At the one-minute buzzer, there was a final check of oxygen tanks and chutes in preparation for a jump that would end in a low chute pull that left no time for a backup if anything went wrong.
At exactly 0100, with the night as their cover, and a few mountainsides in view, Caleb saluted and exited the plane in a headfirst free fall. Ryan followed. As Mike started forward, Bobby shackled the younger Ace’s arm, for reasons he couldn’t explain. Instinct. Warning. He didn’t know. Bobby checked his chute. Then pointed to Mike’s chest and then his own before twisting two fingers together, telling him silently he would have his back.
Mike gave a nod, all jesting gone at this point. They did their jobs. They knew the risks and they took them seriously. The first few seconds of the jump were critical. The jumper had to claim control from the wind and find body position.
Mike jumped, and never got the chance at control. The wind gusted, smashing him against the plane. Suddenly, Mike was spiraling downward, his body out of position. Mike made no attempt at correction. He was either unconscious or paralyzed with panic. Either way, if Mike didn’t or couldn’t pull his chute, he’d be dead. There was no auto-pull for a HALO.
Bobby jumped after him, adrenaline rocketing through him, as he forced himself into the cool-under-fire mentality that would be a necessity if both he and Mike were going to survive this.
The wind beat at Bobby, but he worked through it, forced his position, and sent himself into a purposeful spiral. In twenty seconds, he came level with Mike and wrapped himself around him with a jolting collision of bodies. Mike didn’t react. He was out and Bobby didn’t have time to check for a pulse. They were thirty seconds from pull, which was only twelve hundred feet before the ground, and Bobby’s heart was thundering like that plane engine. One chute wouldn’t hold them both. He had to pull Mike’s and get away fast enough to pull his own. A near impossibility.
Struggling, Bobby tried to right their body positions, but Mike was dead weight. Somehow, he found a feet-first position, when Mike suddenly jerked and came awake, his eyes meeting Bobby’s. Bobby breathed a sigh of relief, as he shoved away from Mike. He had pulled his chute and was under canopy in seconds and so was Mike. But that quicksand kept coming.
Gunfire splattered across the terrain as Bobby’s feet hit the ground, and he instantly separated himself from his chute, dumped his oxygen tank and mask, dropping low to the ground. Mike was facedown and unmoving a foot away, and Bobby silently cursed. More gunfire chattered a deadly song nearby. Blessed returning fire followed. Ryan and Caleb were ground level, and they had his back.
Their landing zone positioned the Aces three kilometers from the enemy’s camp, which sat nestled inside a mountain range, and that enemy now knew they were here. So much for a surprise attack, but they would improvise. The Aces always did. If Sadr’s son was alive, they’d get him out of here.
Surrounded by mountains that could easily conceal shooters, Bobby felt like a sitting duck. He scrambled toward Mike. That twist of dread he’d felt in the plane returned, now more like a sharp slice of a knife.
Quickly, Bobby detached Mike’s equipment, going cold in the hot night as stickiness brushed his fingers. He kept moving. Mike would survive. He’d make him survive.
His best option was dragging Mike, staying low, though carrying him would be faster. It would also make them one big bull’s-eye target. Bobby started moving and gained assistance from Ryan. Caleb took up a position above them, holding off the enemy the best he could.
They were under heavy fire by the time Bobby and Ryan had Mike hidden behind the steep rock of the towering mountainside they’d landed nearby. Flipping him over, Ryan shined a light on Mike. Blood seeped from a cut in his head and a bullet wound in his upper chest. That quicksand that had been waiting for Bobby swallowed them up right then and there. He held his breath and felt for a pulse. Relief washed over him as he found a weak one. Mike wasn’t dead…yet. There was no help until extraction. Bobby made fast work of tying off the wound the best he could, with the limited medic supplies in his vest. When he was done, Bobby’s and Ryan’s eyes collided through the shadowy night as they united in the only emotion they could afford in the middle of enemy territory. Anger over Mike’s injuries. That he might die when he was about to go home for good. He couldn’t die. And both of them wanted some Al Qaeda ass and they wanted it now.
Suddenly Caleb appeared, sliding down the mountainside, machine gun in hand, gunfire echoing in the funnel of sweltering August heat. “We have to move! Now!” He looked at Mike and cursed.
“Go!” Bobby ordered Ryan. “Get out of here!”
Ryan hesitated only a split second before he was in action, already firing his weapon. Bobby dragged Mike to a dark corner, under a ledge where he’d leave him until backup arrived, though it was killing him to think about walking away, if only for a brief time.
Task completed, Bobby reached inside Mike’s flight suit and grabbed the picture of Jennifer, shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll tell her what a lovesick pup you were, Mike,” he vowed, just in case the unthinkable happened, and Mike didn’t make it, an idea that instantly soured his stomach, delivering a hard revelation. Bobby knew why he hadn’t signed those reenlistment papers. This wasn’t the life you asked any woman to endure, not fairly. And Mike wasn’t the only one with someone back home.
Bobby pushed to his feet and drew his weapons, resolve forming. The sooner he completed this mission, the more chance Mike had of survival. Mike wouldn’t die and this mission wouldn’t be for nothing. The Aces were going to rescue that captive little boy and return him home safely, Mike along with him. And then Bobby had a Jennifer of his own to go see.
1
“BOBBY’S COMING into town for the wedding.”
Jennifer Jones’s frothy, ruby-red daiquiri froze an inch from her lips, as she blinked at the bartender, her best friend, Marcie Allen, the red-haired, feisty bride-to-be herself. An onslaught of nerves assaulted her stomach as that name “Bobby” sliced through the air of the Tavern—the Austin, Texas, bar Marcie’s fiancé owned. The painful taunt had her heart drumming like a rock concert in her ears and a lock of blond hair floated across her face, appropriately mimicking the disarray that Bobby had left her heart in seven years ago.
He’d enlisted in the Army and shipped off without so much as a word of real explanation. Left her with nothing but a Dr. Jen letter. Oh, good grief. Dear Jen. “Joining Army. Better this way. Be happy.” Nothing else. Not even an “I love you.” Just thinking about the man scrambled her brain cells. Even her parents had been devastated over the loss of Bobby. They’d loved him like a son. Jennifer had loved him. Had, she reminded herself.
Jennifer set the drink down on the marble-slabbed bar that separated her from Marcie, but not without a loud clunk that slopped the icy concoction over the sides. “What did you say?” she managed in a froglike croak, sickly and pathetic.
Marcie simply stood there, looking pale and kind of pathetically like Jennifer’s croak moments before. Willie Nelson filled in for her, singing some sad Texas song that added insult to injury after the bad joke. Right. Bad joke! Nervous laughter bubbled from Jennifer’s throat, and she picked up her drink again.
Marcie was a great many things. A true friend, proven from the day they’d met at age eleven, twenty years ago on the school bus. Jennifer had tripped and busted her lip in front of the hottest guy at Burnet Junior High. The hottie had bubbled over with loud laughter, and the crowd had joined in. Marcie to the rescue, she’d smack-talked the jerk into shame, and turned the joke on him. Yes. Marcie was a friend. What Marcie was not…was funny. She’d never had that comedic timing thing so many people had.
“Bad joke, Marcie,” she said, so relieved she couldn’t even be angry. She’d kill Marcie after she finished her rare, but much-needed, alcoholic