A flashlight clicked on.
Mother. Fucker.
That beam of yellow light swung through the room, passing over his injured leg more than once before his terrorist visitor hopped down onto the pile of concrete. There was no stealth to the guy’s movements, telling Brantley he wasn’t worried that he’d be found by the enemy. Then again, at this moment, Brantley was the enemy, the intruder, the guy who didn’t belong.
Brantley gripped his Sig firmly in his hand, ignoring the blinding pain that was threatening to darken his vision.
The beam of light grew brighter, cutting through the dust lingering in the stifling air. Lifting his hand, supporting it with his left arm, Brantley leveled his sight on the tango. Best-case scenario had him taking the bastard out, which he could do in his sleep. The only problem with that, the shot would most definitely alert his terrorist buddies, and at that point, Brantley’d be a sitting duck.
“Fall back! Phantom Team, fall back!”
The words were in his ear, but they sounded as though they’d been blasted through a bullhorn. A semaphore flag would’ve been less of an announcement of his presence.
The tango started shouting something over his shoulder, the beam of light landing on Brantley’s wounded leg again. He held his breath, not moving a muscle, praying like fuck the dickhead would suddenly go blind. Otherwise, there would be nothing more he could do.
More shouting. Despite his inability to translate, Brantley wasn’t an idiot. Fucker was calling out to his buddies, inviting them over for the party.
The fact that no one came—bad guys or good—should’ve been a sign, but Brantley’s brain was fuzzy, his body one big throbbing heartbeat. Blood coated his BDUs, oozing from the open wounds. No doubt, if he looked close enough, he’d probably see his femur poking out of his skin. The thought made him woozy, which was saying something considering he didn’t have a weak stomach.
“Phantom One.” This time the voice was soft, almost reverent, which was telling. Things weren’t looking good from their vantage point, either. “We’re comin’ for you, buddy. We’re comin’. Hang tight.”
The terrorist in front of him started kicking rocks aside, moving closer. Brantley couldn’t see the weapon in his hand, but he didn’t need to. Asshole was no doubt armed with whatever assault weapon they’d managed to get their hands on. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise him if it was a fucking rocket launcher.
More yelling, more urgency. Based on his frantic shouts, the guy wanted backup, but they still weren’t coming. Seconds ticked by while Brantley maintained his position, pretending he was invisible but knowing this asshole had found him. Only reason the fucker didn’t shoot him full of holes was because he was more valuable alive than dead. Which meant, any minute now, he would be dragged out of here, thrown in a fucking hole, where they’d ensure the shattered femur was the least of his worries. It was a risk he took whenever they went out on a mission, so he was at peace with it.
But Brantley wasn’t ready to give up yet. The longer he could hold this bastard off, the better chance his team would get here.
The beam of light moved, lowered, which meant the guy had made it down to Brantley’s level. It began a slow creep up his leg, his torso. The tango’s face came into view, his dark eyes following the yellow glow. Right before it could blind him, Brantley pulled the trigger, nailing the bastard between the eyes. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth as the reverberation sent agony rippling through his leg.
A deafening silence followed the gunshot, the ringing in his ears right on its heels. There were no pounding footsteps, no voices calling out his location. For a brief moment, Brantley thought the stars had aligned, that the bad guys had taken a dinner break, retreating.
“Phantom Team,” Brantley rasped, his words scratching along his throat, sending his diaphragm into spasms. “Need help.”
“Sit tight, B,” came the response.
“Not goin’ anywhere,” he said softly.
“B, we’re comin’.”
No, they weren’t. He could hear it in that tormented voice. Something was keeping his team from coming for him. Either they were pinned down or—
That was when he heard it. The familiar whistling sound alerted him to a big fucking problem. The only thing he had time to do was scramble in his brain for a prayer that might get to the big guy’s ears before—
The blast shook what was left of the house overhead as well as the ground beneath him. Another was right behind it, closer, bringing the building down on top of him. The third was just icing on the fucking cake.
Sometime later—hours, days, who knew—his team would do as they promised. They would eventually find him, dig him out of the rubble, evac his battered and broken body, deliver him to the nearest medical facility, where he would cling to life for weeks. Numerous surgeries would be performed to repair the extensive damage to his leg, drain the fluid off his brain, and ultimately keep him alive. Months of agonizing therapy would follow, during which Brantley would finally learn how to use his leg again.
