Page 2 of Lucky Charm
Hunt rolled his eyes, not surprised Doogie had picked up on the same vibe. Doogie had a tactical brain geared to anarchy as much as Hunt’s was geared to organization. They were a good pair. The scars on the man’s neck from a shrapnel incident three years ago stood out against his dark skin. Still didn’t kill his model good looks or his leprechaun smile. Best friends since BUD/S, the two men frequently communicated in shorthand.
Hunt did as Doogie advised.
Petty Officer, Third Class Bailey Sutter stepped forward to switch the screen. The man oversaw arranging all the team’s logistics from insertion to extraction, from guns to underwear and everything in between. The mission plan popped into focus – atwo-pronged mission, one medical and one intelligence.
He scanned the mission parameters, glanced at the strangers in the house, and let the dozens of questions float in his brain. “What’s the rest of the story?”
The cramped operations room went eerily quiet. Scott’s posture and tense silence transmitted disapproval.
“The CIA is sending a man in with you,” Scott finally stated.
“Hell, you say,” Chief Petty Officer Mateo Hernandez interrupted. The pretty boy yet married man took the peppermint stick out of his mouth. “We’re already taking a doc and gotta cover another person?”
“What he said.” Hunt planted his feet on the floor and stifled the fuck no from his response. “Why?”
Scott signaled Pratt to advance the briefing slide. “That’s the other moving part of your mission. An intelligence operative has been embedded with the locals for many months. He’s been working on the other end of Operation Broken Wing, trying to find the weapons, the supplier, and info on IQS. He’s missing.” The Commander went silent but pointed at the three in the corner and signaled them to come forward.
The dots finally connected. Fuck. Heartburn pending, he gave the once over to the three men.
The easy-going man leaning casually on the desk stayed where he was.
“I’m here for the show.” He tapped a salute to his forehead. Dressed in non-descript, dark civilian clothes, he held himself like Special Forces and had a forbidding aura that said he wasn’t one to chat.
The second man looked casual enough, but alongside his muscles and height was a confidence that concealed lethal under his black bomber jacket. The attire gave no real clues, but Hunt bet CIA. The shorter blonde man was dressed in a Navy camo uniform like Hunt’s except that the clothes fit as if tailored. He’d never seen this man before. The uniform told him nothing about the man’s skills, and he’d eat his socks if the man was a SEAL.
Scott indicated the two men. “Quaid Daniels. Phillip Stocker. Daniels is going with you. That’s Major Mackey Reynolds in the corner. He’s working with Special Forces. They are searching the area for weapons in conjunction with our mission.”
Petty Officer, Second Class Jason “Tommy” Thompson, the team’s sniper, groaned, staring down Daniels. “You need to muck up your uniform, son. You look like a newbie that didn’t pass BUD/S.”
Kevin “K-Rock” Rockingham, the team newbie and demolitions expert, fist-bumped Tommy. Robert Baxter, the remaining team member, stayed still in his seat, his face pale.
Blasted stomach bug. They were going to need to determine quick whether Bax was on sick call or could go with the team. But Hunt only cared about essential information right now. “I know what my team’s objective is. Mind if I ask what yours is?”
“Not a newbie. Marine Expeditionary. Delta cross-training before I went CIA.” Daniels’s monotone grated.
Stocker’s deep voice interrupted. “You don’t need his resume. We’re here for the same reasons you are. U.S. weapons and IQS. Finding the how, the who, and the where. CIA’s man in the field hasn’t checked in. His last location was near Ali Haquiri’s. We have intel that puts IQS in that area. We want to kill two birds with one stone and search for our man as well as do a recon of the area for IQS. All on the down low so we don’t expose our man.”
Hunt snorted. “With one man? Who is this guy, Zeke?
Pratt pointed upward.
Great a higher up.
Stocker growled. “Sit, Pratt.”
Scott stood. “Enough.”
Fed up with the unusual adversarial relationship between the two agencies, Hunt interrupted the standoff. “My mission is to protect the doctor, first and foremost. We’ll help how we can, but where there’s a conflict, he comes first.”
“She,” Scott inserted, dropping back in his seat.
Stopped cold, Hunt forced stillness as a sharp premotion washed over him. “She?”
“Dr. Cait Michaels, combat trauma surgeon from the Army’s contingent at Craig Joint Theatre.”
Hunt’s stomach jumped like a skittish frog and then tumbled headfirst onto the rocks. Cait Michaels. Was she back in Afghanistan? BagramAir Base housed a small military community staffed by all the military branches and running the spectrum from medical to logistical to special operations, and even though he wasn’t here on a continuous basis, the dynamic, personable doctor sewed him up the last time he was here. That was before they dropped into a brief personal moment that still plagued his excellent memory.
Hunt stifled the “no way” that wanted to fly out of his mouth while rubbing the leg she’d sewn up.
