Page 2 of Coming In Hot
Rolling onto my mattress, I grab my charcoal gray beanie from my go bag, stretch it over my head, and pull it down low over my eyes. Time to catch a few minutes of R&R before I inevitably get called to put a fire out somewhere.
Fuck, it smells like him. Like… coconuts and tropical vacations, the scent of his favorite vape.
Did I pilfer this hat from Jax’s backpack when he wasn’t looking?Yes.
Do I regret it now that I can’t get him out of my head?Fuck yes.
He makes these things by the dozen—probably because he sucks at knitting and a hat is all he can manage—so I didn’t think he would miss one. After all, it’s not like I can knit any better. I can’t even stitch a straight line.
Could I have simply asked him for one? Sure, but knowing Jax, he would rather set it on fire and watch it burn in front of my eyes than hand one to me.
Jaxon James is a petty fucker.
As always, thoughts of him bring back unwanted memories of the past. Memories I would love to keep buried six feet under the ground, except that every time I see Jax, he digs them up again with a blunt shovel. Blowing out a breath, I chuckle and sit up, whipping the beanie off my head. I won’t be getting any shuteye with my head such a mess.
Making my way down the maze of corridors to the dining hall, I search for my sandwich and find it untouched. Grabbing it from the refrigerated case, I unwrap it and eat as I walk. The communications room is where I spend most of my time when my team is outside the wire. It’s dark, illuminated only by the glow from the bank of monitors that line the wall. The screens feed advantageous views from all over Egypt, and a bird's-eye view of Sinai. Several screens show aerial drone feeds and grainy footage from the helmet cam on Gehenna’s team leader, Arlo Bacille.
That’s the one I tap into. Looks like they’re trekking through Beni Suef, a city trying desperately to climb out of poverty as they build a future in manufacturing textiles. The team of medical personnel wants to go into the factories and treat the workers who spend over sixteen hours a day in the shittiest conditions, trying to provide a living wage for their families.
The entire region is steeped in unrest as they muck through their first Democratic election. They’re quickly headed toward a state of emergency if they can’t get their parliament under control. The Muslim Brotherhood has been a constant thorn in our side during the political negotiations and campaigning. I’ve seen more death and violence here than I had in Iraq.
The crowd becomes larger, more densely packed together, and grows more restless by the second, shoving each other and shouting in Arabic. A protester rips the stick off his sign and bashes one of the medical personnel over the head. Chaos erupts as my team rushes forward to surround the healthcare staff. The feed becomes grainy before cutting out altogether, leaving the screen dark.
My heartbeat spikes, and my senses are on high alert. “What happened? Where did they go? Can you get it back?”
Milo scrambles to recover the feed, pressing buttons and typing code. “It’s gone, Havoc. Most likely that stick broke the camera on his helmet.”
Yeah, when they bashed him over the head like they did that nurse. Fuck this, I’m not waiting for a communication from them to pull off a rescue. They may not be able to even send it.
“I’m going in. Page Orson and tell him to move it.”
I don’t have a second to spare as I make a mad dash down the hall. The cold metal of the locker’s handle bites into my palm as I yank it open, revealing the neatly arranged go bag, packed with everything I’ll need. I toss it over my shoulder with practiced ease. It settles comfortably as I exit the supply room and dart down the corridor, the sound of my boots thudding against the floor a constant reminder of the urgency.
My copilot, Orson, jogs up behind me, go bag in hand. “Let’s go get our team and bring them home,” he yells.
I turn the corner, the helipad just ahead, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. I push myself harder, each step fueled by adrenaline as the wind whips across the open field. The bag shifts on my shoulder, but I don’t slow down—not for a second.
Despite my panic and worry for them, years of training beaten into me helped me remain calm as I focused on my extremely shortened preflight checklist. I've only been on the ground for three hours. She’s still good to go from my last flight.
“Come on, baby, be a good girl for Daddy,” I coo, running my fingers softly over the control panel as I check my gauges, powering her up.
“You talking to me, or to Raven?” Orson teases.
My belly flip-flops with anxiety as we lift off. Thankfully, the roar drowns out some of the thoughts swirling in my head. I don’t want to assume the worst, I just want to get there and assess the situation and bring my team the fuck home.
The twenty-six-minute flight feels much longer. I touch down on the roof of a textile factory about a block away from the massive crowd we flew over. We don’t have permission to land here, but technically, we’re just hovering. God willing, we’ll be in and out before it becomes a problem. If anyone is injured, we’re gonna have a hell of a time getting back to the bird, because we’re going to have to make a run for it. The crowd is angry. They feel we foreigners are interfering with their election, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
“Switching control to you,” I inform Orson. “Keep her hovering. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”
“You’re getting out?” he asks, surprised.
But he shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time I’ve gone after them.
“Just keep her warm. You won’t even have time to miss me.”
Before I climb down from the helo, I reach for my ruck and pull out a black balaclava to cover my face and hair. My Egyptian heritage, through my mother’s side, gave me the rich golden skin that many of the locals have, but my father’s Caucasian European heritage sets me apart enough that I don’t want to risk standing out among the crowd. Also, my black cargo pants and shirt don’t exactly scream factory worker.
I need a quick extraction, in and out with no fuss, like a blind date gone bad.
