Page 1 of Operation: Valiant Angel

Alpha

Armed with the M110 Semi-Automatic Sniper System (SASS), loaded with 7.62 X 51 millimeter NATO rounds, Delta Force team member Jimmy ‘Taco’ Wilson lay prone atop the hard and hot stone roof. He’d been in position for over four hours, lying in wait for the high-value target. His gaze was fixed through his scope on the outdoor café area 2,600 feet away. Henry ‘Rowdy’ Wright, his spotter, was beside him. It was twelve hundred hours, and their target was an hour late for his meeting, which would be his last.

The air was still. The temperature was a stifling ninety-seven degrees, and the sun beat down on the pair relentlessly. It was just another fabulous day in the Sandbox, where Wilson had spent the majority of his adult life. But he was doing a job he was born to do. James Tressman Wilson knew from a young age that the U.S. Army was his destination after high school. His carefree summers on the Jersey shore throughout his childhood and teen years were a distant memory, a life before training, deployments, and covert operations were normal.

“Silver Mercedes,” Rowdy said. “Our target just got out of the back seat.”

Wilson moved the scope a fraction of a hair, which swung the view to the parking area beside the café. “Got him.”

Through his comms he heard the voice of his mission lead. “Take the shot when it’s available.”

“Roger,” he mumbled, focusing in and following the target, waiting until the best possible shot presented itself. Wilson exhaled a breath and relaxed, his mind in the zone, his finger on the trigger. The shot was clear. He gently squeezed the trigger. Direct hit, center mass. His target went down.

“Direct hit,” Rowdy confirmed. “Now let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

Their escape route was, as always, clearly planned, with multiple alternate routes available. They were off the roof, boots pounding down the interior stairs, seconds later. Behind the building was the truck, with team member, John ‘Swisher’ Sweets, at the wheel. They were out of the village before the location of the shot was even identified. It was later, after nightfall, that the four-man team was picked up by a chopper and returned to their base of operation.

After a shower and a hot meal, Wilson was relaxing in his bunk when he was summoned to the CO’s office. He entered to find the familiar faces of Colonel Sam ‘Bigbear’ Shepherd and Seargeant Major John ‘Coop’ Cooper, who he had briefly served with when he first checked into the unit. They were both legends in the SpecOps community. Wilson came to attention.

“At ease,” Shepherd said. He pointed to the chair across from him.

Wilson sat, but not at ease.

“Things are nearly wrapped up here,” Shepherd began. “The target you took down today is one of the last on our scorecard. Are you ready for something different, something equally important as the work you’ve been doing here?”

“Yes, sir,” Wilson answered.

Cooper handed him a sheet of paper. It was a nondisclosure agreement. He scanned through it and signed it. Everything he did was classified top secret, so its contents were not of interest to him. He handed it back.

“I’m recruiting the best for a new unit I’ve formed. I have a place for you,” Shepherd said.

Wilson listened to Shepherd lay out the guidelines of his new team. He knew right away it was a black ops unit. He liked the idea of operating domestically to protect the U.S. directly. It sounded like their jobs would be varied. They’d interface with the alphabet agencies and the U.S. military, as well as operate on foreign soil. All sounded appealing. And the fact that it was Shepherd and Cooper who would be running this unit made it more appealing. They had his trust. He signed on the spot.

Less than a week later, he was in the suburbs of Chicago, wearing civvies, and checking into the headquarters of his new unit. Shepherd made him the team leader of the newly formed Charlie Team, which consisted of him, two Marine Raiders, and an Army combat medic. They were one of four teams Shepherd had recruited from mostly SpecOps units from all branches.

Seven Years Later

Wilson was on a special assignment, riding shotgun beside teammate Anthony ‘Razor’ Garcia, who was not only the number three in charge of the agency but was also the lead for the Digital Team. They were three hours into a six-hour drive to Waterloo, Iowa.

Several months earlier, Wilson had been with a team assigned to investigate Cameron Woods, whose info was picked up during a CIA surveillance operation. Shepherd Security had a contract with the CIA to run down domestic leads from info the CIA had obtained where the potential crime was unknown, or it didn’t fit neatly into any of the other alphabet agencies’ scope of operations.

Wilson’s thoughts wandered to a mission nearly a year earlier that he had also been assigned to a special mission with Garcia. They pushed through the doors and into the Dark Spot Bar, in Norfolk, Virginia, where they were to meet with an asset Garcia was familiar with, Rae Ella Easton. She had information on the murder of a deep cover DEA agent and a drug smuggling ring that was operating to bring illegal drugs onto the naval base and onto ships that were preparing to sail. They made contact and Miss Easton agreed to be extracted with her info, but it had to be at that moment. Wilson got the car and pulled it into the alleyway behind the bar, where Garcia and Easton would meet him.

As he drove behind the row of buildings, the scene he came up on was sketchy, unsecured, with multiple people loitering around. He could see in Garcia’s face as he approached that he felt something was off just as strongly as Wilson did. The entire area was filthy. There were three homeless people spilling out of trash bag tents with their belongings stuffed in shopping carts. Afourth man laid on his side, curled up next to a dumpster. Used needles littered the ground, co-mingled with broken beer bottles and other miscellaneous trash.

Through the windshield, he watched Rae Ella light up a cigarette. She blew the smoke straight up into the air.

“I’m not liking that dude snoozing near the dumpster,” Cooper said through comms. He, Shepherd, and team member Madison ‘Xena’ Miller were on from HQ.

“Unless he passed out as he walked by it, that isn’t anywhere anyone would choose to sleep,” Shepherd’s voice agreed.

Wilson watched as Garcia walked towards the dumpster. He kicked the unconscious man with the toe of his boot. Wilson saw that Garcia held his .40 caliber Glock pointed at the man. The guy didn’t move. He didn’t moan. Didn’t even flinch. He appeared to be out cold, or he was dead, which was a distinct possibility.

Wilson, in the car, pulled up beside Easton. Suddenly, the back door to the bar swung open with a loud thud as it hit the wall beside it. The barrel-chested man who’d been inside the bar, who she’d called Tubbs, stepped out, gun in hand. Gunfire erupted. Bullets hit the wall behind Rae Ella, who dropped into a squat and covered her head with her arms. Wilson returned fire, as did Garcia, as he rushed back to her and shielded her body with his own. Tubbs was struck center mass. Garcia pulled Rae Ella to her feet.

More gunshots echoed through the alley. Rae Ella screamed out. Her hand clutched her right shoulder. The area was already saturated with blood. Wilson saw the shooter a split second before the shots were fired. He jumped from the car to have the shot. It was a man in one of the garbage bag tents. Wilson’s aimwas, as always, deadly accurate. The now lifeless man slumped over. A revolver lay discarded beside him.

Garcia grabbed Rae Ella and pulled her to the car. He pushed her into the back seat and crawled in over her as Wilson jumped back behind the wheel and sped the rest of the way down the alley.

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