The hot target, p.1
The Hot Target, page 1
part #2 of Men of Delta Series
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
THE HOT TARGET
MEN OF DELTA SERIES
BOOK 2
M.M. ROSE
THE HOT TARGET
Copyright © 2020 by MM Rose
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Have you read The Hard Target (Book 1)? Go ahead, give it a try! Readers love it :)
https://geni.us/hardtarget
Each book in the series can be read as a standalone.
CHAPTER 1
Caleb
Kaesong
North Korea
Near border with South Korea.
Six years ago
I remember the day I met my fate. Strangely, I was dressed as a Christian missionary. Honest to God, and yeah, pun intended.
“Hurry up,” Darren Dixon, my Delta buddy, barks out from the other end of the room. There’s four of us in this room, all dressed in a black cloak and white collar. Darren, Matt, and Logan are getting changed quickly. They’ve taken off their cloaks to reveal long-sleeved shirts and jeans underneath.
“Shut up,” I hit back, then do as he says anyway. I sit down on the bed and reach underneath. We’ve checked them already, two duffel bags with arms and ammunition inside. Our North Korean asset, the one who set up the whole Missionary Charity thing, has left them in place.
I take out the weapons and line them up on the bed. Matt Wilcox, the new kid, paces the room, looking nervous. He’s our computer whiz kid and a soldier to boot, but not one of us Delta guys.
We’re a crack special forces team, sent in to North Korea to catch, or kill, Jae-Sun Lee, a terrorist. Lee’s close to the dictator, and also to China. And he’s been disrupting years of work the CIA put into developing assets in North Korea. It’s time to put a stop to it.
“Hey, kid,” I call out to Matt. “Stop walking, will ya? Making me nervous.”
“Sorry,” Matt says, rubbing his cheeks. “Is it time to make a move?”
“We make the move,” Darren growls from the other end of the room. He shoves his hunter knife into the ankle scabbard and stands tall. “You stay at the back, kiddo. Once we infiltrate the house, you go crazy on his computers. Got it?”
Matt swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Sure.”
I slide the safety off my Heckler and Koch rifle and aim down the sighter.
“Go easy on him, Darren. He’s from Nebraska.”
Darren chuckles. “Yeah, shit, cowboy. I forgot.”
Logan, the quiet-spoken one, is our explosives expert. He’s double charging all his breaching gear, to make sure one goes boom if the other fails.
“I’m done,” Logan says, looking up. He scratches his beard. We all have beards. Almost a necessity, for us undercover Special Forces guys. The beards are not as long as when we were in Afghanistan, living with the Pashto tribes, plotting against the Taliban. But enough to serve as a mild disguise.
It’s dark outside and, one by one, we slip out the door. The building is a three-story hotel in the main drag of this small town. Neon lit billboards in Korean letters light our way as we walk down the main street. I’m hoping we look like a bunch of tourists. Not easy, given our height and physiques. But we’re not on the street for long. We jump into a pre-arranged cab, driven by our Korean asset.
He zooms down a number of streets and comes out on a highway. He takes a ramp down a country road, killing the headlights. We get ready.
The yellow windows of a country house appear in the distance. That’s where Jae-Sun Lee is hiding. Our aim is to capture him alive. The surrounding ground has enough space for a helicopter to land and whisk us to safety just sixty miles south, to the South Korean border.
The cab drops us off. We fan out, each aware of their task. Surround, kill the guards, infiltrate the house. As the leader of the group, I do a quick comms check.
“Whiskey Bravo Zero, do you copy?”
One by one, they all respond.
I lower my NVG, and a green hue falls over the night scene.
“I see four tangos.” Darren’s voice is soft in my ear.
Soon after, the guards drop like flies. That’s Darren, one hell of a sniper.
There’s no movement from inside the house, so I give the order to advance. I’m the first one to reach the front door. I crouch to one side, reaching for the handle.
The door flings open, and a man with a gun appears. I’m behind him, and I take him down easily as he turns. But he’s not the only one. All of a sudden, they’re pouring out from the door. I fire desperately as I retreat.
The blast of explosions and the chatter of machine guns fill the air.
Damn.
“Abort mission,” I yell into the comms channel. “Head for the landing zone.”
“Whiskey Bravo One,” Darren is gasping, his voice jerky like he’s running. “Bravo Four is down. Repeat, Bravo Four is down.”
I’m running as fast as I can, but the news almost stops me. Matt was Bravo Four. Down is our code for dead. Matt is the youngest member of our team and barely a soldier.
“Where is he?” I fume.
“I’m carrying him. I need help.”
“On the case,” Logan’s voice breaks out.
“No,” I shout. “Bravo Three, you hold them back. I’m helping Bravo Two.”
I run back till I’m with Darren. He’s in trouble, I can tell. He’s leaning to one side, clutching his ribs. He’s got parachute slings on his shoulders and pulling Matt’s weight.
He almost falls at my feet. I extract my knife and slice his shirt, and my hand comes back moist with blood when I touch his ribs.
I swear and curse.
“I’ll be okay,” Darren says, coughing. “Take the kid.”
I shake my head. “I’m taking you both.”
I bandage him quickly, then take over Matt’s weight from him. The rotors of the helicopter appear overhead, a deafening sound.
“Let’s go,” I shout.
I shrug my backpack loose, and so does Darren. We insert timed explosives inside them and set them to ten minutes, to ensure they don’t fall in enemy hands.
I put my arm around Darren’s waist and pull Matt at the same time. Somehow, we make it to the helo alive. The machine guns on the helo lay down heavy fire. Logan appears shortly after, much to my relief, and the bird takes off.
The medic on board is shining a light into Darren’s wound. The ribs are cracked, and blood is oozing out. But there’s also an exit wound. It’s a miracle the bullet hit him on the right lung, low down, and tore out the back. While the medics work, Darren tears off the oxygen mask.
I’m pressing down on his wound, stemming the flow of blood. I frown at him and try to put the mask back.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout above the noise from the rotors.
He lifts up an ashen head. His wide eyes lock into mine.
One word from him is enough to kick my spine straight.
“Lucy,” he wheezes. “Look after her. Promise me, Cal. Promise me you’ll look after her.”
Emotion strangles my throat. Tears blind my eyes, but damn it, I’m a hard-assed son of a gun. Delta guys don’t cry.
I’ve known Darren since we were kids. Played little league baseball together. We come from the same town—Montrose, Virginia. He’s my best buddy, and like Richter, my older brother, he’s almost my own blood.
So I know exactly who Lucy is. His kid sister.
I blink back tears. “You’re gonna be fine,” I shout at him. “Bullet’s already out.”
“Might’ve hit an artery,” he croaks back. He reaches out to grab my shirt, pulling me closer.
Then his eyes roll back, and fear lurches in my heart like a tornado. I can see the medics are working feverishly. Darren’s on his side, and they’re stitching him up, but they have to make sure there’s no bleeding vessel inside.
“Promise me, Cal,” he says again, his voice fading. His grip on my shirt slackens.
“I do, Darren,” I say, my own voice shaking. “I’ll look after Lucy, no matter what happens.”
*****
The next morning, I lean against the door of Darren’s hospital room as he sleeps. There’s a tube coming out of his mouth and several more from his arm. A white coated figure brushes past me.
“He’ll be all right,” the Korean doctor says. He smiles reassuringly, but I’m feeling none of it.
Darren made it. But Matt didn’t. That poor kid had no reason to be on this mission. It was my job to make him stay back. We could’ve got the laptops Lee possessed if the mission was successful, and let Matt analyze them back at the base.
I killed Matt. And almost killed my best friend. Darren’s gonna make it, but I’m gonna have to live with what I did to him and to Matt.
And when I go back Stateside, I’ll protect Lucy, no matter what comes her way.
CHAPTER 2
Lucy
People who tell you to take a risk because you have nothing to lose have either never taken a risk or had nothing worth losing.
The same people promise you’re not given more than you can handle. Well, God, I’m there. It would be nice if you could give me a hand, or maybe even a finger?
I don’t hear the skies splitting apart with divine intervention. But I can feel the ground cracking beneath my feet.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. I wish there was another way.”
I stare back at the sunken cheeks and sallow face of Congressman Derek Sheldon. He’s in his sixties and has this hang dog look in his face. His jowls hang over his jaw line. There’s a picture of a Doberman dog on the shelf behind him, surrounded by his wife and two kids. Sheldon’s face bears a remarkable resemblance to his pet.
I still can’t speak. He’s still staring at me. I need to get the words out of my mouth. Okay, word.
“Why?”
“Because we are overstaffed now. The government grants for maintaining staff aren’t what they used to be. I have to justify every expense. So I’m sorry, but I have to let you go.”
I point a finger to the office behind me, beyond the closed door of his office.
“I don’t see anyone else leaving. Why me?”
His forehead clears, and his voice hardens. “Nothing personal, Lucy. You’ve done a good job so far. But like I said, we have all the staff we need.”
“I’ve only been your secretary for six months! If I’m doing a good job, then why fire me?”
I don’t want to beg. But I need this job. The rent’s overdue, and the bills are piling up.
“I’ve given you the reason already,” he says, in a dismissive tone. “Thank you for your hard work.”
My contract didn’t have any severance pay, I checked that already. I stare at him for a while, then stand and leave. No point in arguing.
It’s a small, open plan office, with roughly ten aides, analysts, and secretaries. Everyone else is at their desk, and no one’s looking at me as I shut the door. I glance around for my friend Amelia, but she’s not been in for the last two days, and today’s no different. She’s the only person I can talk to.
Suddenly, I have this overwhelming need to get the hell out of this place. Get some fresh air. I take my shoulder bag from the desk and hightail it outside.
I remember the days when I’d blow three hundred bucks on a haircut and tip an extra hundred, so they’d make somebody else wait the next time I showed up. Right now, well, I won’t even limit myself to what I’d do for three hundred bucks.
This is one of those times when you stand back and take a hard look at your life. I feel like one of those whiteboards used by motivational speakers. In column one, you list all the things you did right so far, and in column two, the things you didn’t. My column one is the shorter, although some are in both columns, which takes me back to the risk. I risked—a lot. I failed—a lot. I need to learn—a lot. Where are all the great motivational speakers when you need them?
There’s my favorite bench ahead, complete with pigeons pecking at empty cigarette packs and discarded sexual protection. Looks like just where I belong. I join the birds to take a break and sort out my options. I don’t have a whiteboard, but the back of my unpaid electric bill envelope gives me plenty of space.
If I sound a little down, it’s because I’m eyebrow-deep in depression. Someone left a Post at the end of the bench. I reach for it and have to swat a couple flying rats to get it first. I’m in luck—the classifieds are included. I begin with the Help Wanted. Too bad I don’t live in Pensacola or Oshkosh where being a former, albeit fired, secretary to a U.S. Congressman might be worth a few bucks. Not here in D.C., though. They’re a dime a dozen and well-trained to do almost anything to keep their jobs—legal or otherwise. If there’s anything in shorter supply than a decent job in D.C., it’s morality. Congressman Derek Sheldon is proof of that.
All kidding and attempts to view my situation with a light tone aside, I have serious money issues. My rent is due. It doesn’t matter whether it’s two thousand or twelve thousand a month, I don’t have it. In fact, I haven’t had it for three months now. The landlord is losing his sense of humor, and I’m running out of excuses. Most days I come to this park to hide out from him, hoping he’ll think I’ve gone to work. As it was, my salary from the secretarial job barely covered my rent and expenses, so having any savings to fall back on is out of the question.
So, now is the time to take stock of what I have to work with. I rent, and it’s behind, so there’s nothing there in that. I have whatever coins are currently hiding in the lining of my purse; even a mugger couldn’t find them. I have a decent brain and skill set, that’s a plus. No pets, another plus. Still, have my phone, but not for long. Well, the phone will be mine, but it won’t call in or out in roughly forty-eight hours. I’ve never been much for designer clothes, so unless there’s a sudden increase in interest for fashion by Burlington Warehouse, it will serve best as packing material. That totals my assets to the phone. I’ve got two days to find a job, a place to live, and a way to get there.
I peruse the Help Wanted. This is a feat in itself. First, you have to be conversant in acronyms. This is one place you don’t want to screw it up and tell someone who asks for experience as a SMILF doesn’t mean they’re looking for fundraising. Not even close. Working for anyone in the government precludes chatting on Facebook all day, so in the little time I had to myself in the evening, I spent looking for a better job and washing out my pantyhose, hoping they’d last another day. I had an entire drawer dedicated to what I called “half hose,” which were what was left after I’d amputated the leg with the run in it. It wasn’t so bad, really. You had one leg covered by one pair and the opposite leg covered by the second. The bonus was you got a sort of double body shaper effect. You’ll be fine as long as you turn on the lamp while dressing to be sure both legs are the same color. I’ve developed an appreciation for men who always wear black socks.
Minimum wage jobs are easily found. Sure, I can cook, walk dogs, and probably even handle being a nanny, if they don’t need me to speak Chinese. The problem is that my rent can’t be paid by a minimum wage, so I’ll still be on the street as soon as my landlord catches up with me. This is depressing me even more, and suddenly I find myself looking at the wino lying nearby against a fire hydrant. I wonder if he’s got a bottle. Even more importantly, I wonder if there’s a lottery involved in claiming fire hydrants. Maybe I should wake him and ask?
Now, I'm ridiculous. This is what depression does to you. I turn again to the newspaper and fold the page back to the Personals. The Personals… what could be more personal than the reality that is my life right now? I entertain my dark side by scanning the columns, mentally poking fun at pitiful people.
