Page 7 of Delta Mission
Wrestling with my rifle strap, I tried to release it from a metal spike embedded in the dirt, but it wouldn’t budge.
Another bullet slammed into my chest. “Son of a bitch!”
I let go of my weapon and tumbled ten feet onto a concrete floor. I yanked down my night vision goggles, pulled my Beretta from my holster, and did a three-sixty spin.
Large plastic tanks lined a wall.
A massive explosion erupted above me, raining bits of crap from the ceiling over my helmet and shoulders. Shouts from my men seemed miles away.
I slammed my back against the nearest tank and spoke into my mic. “Moose. What’s your position?”
Another explosion boomed overhead, and more dirt rained onto everything.
“Wolf to Moose, do you read? Over.”
Static buzzed in my ear.
“Wildman. Moose. Do you read? Over.”
Voices crackled in my receiver. “Retreat . . . kill that shooter . . . where the fuck . . .?”
Moose sounded panicked. It wasn’t good.
“Wolf to Moose, do you hear me? Over.”
Squinting into the darkness, I strained to hear the jumbled voices of my five soldiers fighting above me.
“. . . ambush . . . too many . . . where’s Wolf?”
Fucking hell! Moose was losing it.
“I’m here!” I yelled into my mic.
A shadow moved to my left. A bullet narrowly missed my shoulder and took a chunk out of the concrete wall.
In a crouching run, with my weapon ready to put a bullet through the asshole’s brain, I raced through a gauntlet of rusty old equipment. Scanning left and right, I searched the green glow for movement.
Where’d he go?
“. . . gotta retreat.”
“But Wolf is . . .”
“Need to go . . . surrounded . . . hundreds of—”
The shit storm above was spiraling out of control.
Giving up on the asshole, I sprinted to the wall and raced along it, searching for an exit.
Another explosion boomed overhead, further away than last time.
“He’s dead,” Wildman screamed in my ear.
“Get out! Get out!” Moose yelled.
“Who’s dead?” I asked. “Moose, Wildman! Fucking talk to—”
A man shot out from behind a forty-four-gallon drum.
