Page 20 of Fighting for Valor
“Roger.”
As I hook the last rung of the rope on a small iron peg sticking up from the ground, multiple quiet pops sound from inside the house.
“Alpha Team Leader,” West says, “Enemy target secured. Office. Southwest corner of the main floor.”
“Keep him breathing. He’s mine.”
The ladder unfurls and hits the prone body in the thigh. I blow out a breath as he flinches. Still alive. I’m down in under a minute, and even with everything I’ve seen, what I find makes me stagger back until I hit the wall. Dead scorpions litter the ground—most of them crushed, but a few of them ripped apart, their abdomens gone…like…he had to eat them. A live one skitters over his thigh, and as soon as it reaches the dirt, I slam my boot down on top of it. “Not today, fucker.”
There’s a single plastic water bottle next to him—empty—as well as a bucket, and the stench is so thick I could chew it. Pushing the goggles up on my head, I activate the small light at my shoulder. That sends another scorpion fleeing back through a crack in the wall.
“Ripper?” Kneeling next to him, I check for a pulse. The man in front of me bears little resemblance to my friend. His beard is thick but neatly trimmed, and his hair brushes his collar. He’s too thin, and so dehydrated, his skin looks a lot like wrinkled paper. Blood dries on his cracked lips. “Base, put the doc on.”
“I-I’m here,” Joey says quietly.
“His heart’s racing. One-sixty at least. There’s an empty water bottle with him, but I don’t know how long he’s been down here. He ate some of the scorpions, I think. And he’s burning up.”
“Oh my God.” After a few seconds, she stammers, “Y-you have to…to get fluids into him. And sugar. Lower his core temperature. His kidneys are probably shutting down. Beyond that…get him to a hospital.”
I can’t do that. Dax and I already decided…Jackson Richards no longer exists. We buried him. Everything that happens now…happens off book. “Roger that.”
Pulling a small canteen from one of the pockets of my tactical vest, I slide my arm under Ripper’s torso and ease him up. “Rip? You have to drink, brother. We’re getting out of here.”
Water dribbles over his cracked lips, and a low, deep sound rumbles in his chest. Almost a protest. “It’s water, Rip. Just water.”
I get a little down his throat, then pour the rest over his head. Now I have to get him out of this fucking hole.
As soon as I stand, he falls over again, retching, and loses the little water he swallowed.
“Dammit.” Tapping my comms unit, I stare up at the top of the ladder. “Bravo Team. My location. Now.” I lift Ripper, and he struggles weakly. “Stay still, Sergeant. That’s a fucking order.”
My tone must register, or he passes out, because now he’s dead weight over my shoulder. Twenty feet. I can only use one arm on the ladder, and having Ripper’s legs between me and the wall doesn’t help, but I get us both out of that hell hole and onto level ground.
Ripper doesn’t move, and I pull my Beretta as a metallic clang from the gate draws my focus. Drawing down, I wait, crouched on one knee in front of Ripper. But then Trevor’s head rises up over the top of the gate, and he quickly drops, tucks, and rolls to distribute the impact. Dax follows, doing a pretty damn good impression of a man with the full use of his sight.
They’re in front me in another ten seconds. “Is he alive?” Dax asks.
“Yeah. Barely.” When Dax kneels next to me, I guide his hand to Ripper’s shoulder. “Rip…we’re here. Say something, man.”
Nothing. The look on Dax’s face…I’ve only seen the man this broken up once—when I pulled him out of Hell.
“Gentlemen, company’s coming,” Inara hisses. “Two vehicles approaching from the east. You have five minutes to get the fuck out of there or this is going to get loud.”
Shit. “Take him to the truck,” I say to Dax and Trevor. “Do whatever you can to cool him down. And get the engine running.”
Sprinting for the house, I burst through the front doors, finding blood smeared across the expensive tile. Using it as a guide, I track West and Graham to an office where they stand in front of Amir Abdul Faruk. He’s zip-tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, with seven of his men lying dead in a corner of the room.
Well, that explains the bloody drag marks.
“The house is clear?” I ask.
“Another six are locked in a room in the basement,” Graham says. “They didn’t resist.”
“Exfil. Now.” I level a gaze at West. “Get to the truck. I’ll be right behind you.”
The former SEAL squares his shoulders, his blue eyes bright with determination. “No. Take care of him and we all go together.”
“Goddammit. Who’s in charge here?” We don’t have the time to waste arguing, so I just glare at him as I pull Ripper’s knife from its sheath and head for Faruk.
