Page 51
Story: Delta: Retribution
Working in that part of the country with his SEAL team, he’d learned more than enough of the local tribal languages to get by. In broken phrases, he offered that he meant no harm, that he was US Special Forces, and could he look at their decorations?
The kids didn’t lower their weapons but did shed more candlelight on the dream catchers that hung at the door and windows. Dog tags dangled beside broken headlight glass and shards of metal. Trace couldn’t stop himself. He took out his flashlight and ran his fingers over them. United States military identification and tags from other countries too. His fingers touched them, and he turned to the boys, pointing to the tags hanging around the hut. “I need these.”
Without waiting for an answer, with his flashlight in his mouth, he started to take apart the elaborate designs, reading them as he put them in a bag.
Reeves, Michael A.
His heart stopped, and he could read no more. He didn’t need to see the rest of the identifying details to know. Shivers ran down his back, and tears welled in his eyes.
As though the boys in the hut knew, still brandishing their weapons, they nodded and stepped back inside when he clutched the metal to his chest. With a deep breath, he wrapped it around his fist, turned out the mag light, and slipped his night-vision goggles back on. He climbed the rocks and edges until he found the team waiting for him.
They must’ve heard him speaking to the boys in their earpieces, and they all stood watching him. No one made a noise. No one stepped forward because they probably didn’t trust his ass. But he lifted his fist, Michael’s tag barely visible in hand, and one by one, a “Hooyah” went up, and the men gave him pats on the back. A quick word from their CO, and they moved as a unit to the rendezvous location for a helo pickup.
“Reeves,” his CO barked.
No telling what the guy would say. He deserved the worst of it, no doubt. “Sir.”
There was a long silence, and then his CO nodded his head. “Job well done, son.”
Everything surrounding Operation Cinderella was then complete.
The kids didn’t lower their weapons but did shed more candlelight on the dream catchers that hung at the door and windows. Dog tags dangled beside broken headlight glass and shards of metal. Trace couldn’t stop himself. He took out his flashlight and ran his fingers over them. United States military identification and tags from other countries too. His fingers touched them, and he turned to the boys, pointing to the tags hanging around the hut. “I need these.”
Without waiting for an answer, with his flashlight in his mouth, he started to take apart the elaborate designs, reading them as he put them in a bag.
Reeves, Michael A.
His heart stopped, and he could read no more. He didn’t need to see the rest of the identifying details to know. Shivers ran down his back, and tears welled in his eyes.
As though the boys in the hut knew, still brandishing their weapons, they nodded and stepped back inside when he clutched the metal to his chest. With a deep breath, he wrapped it around his fist, turned out the mag light, and slipped his night-vision goggles back on. He climbed the rocks and edges until he found the team waiting for him.
They must’ve heard him speaking to the boys in their earpieces, and they all stood watching him. No one made a noise. No one stepped forward because they probably didn’t trust his ass. But he lifted his fist, Michael’s tag barely visible in hand, and one by one, a “Hooyah” went up, and the men gave him pats on the back. A quick word from their CO, and they moved as a unit to the rendezvous location for a helo pickup.
“Reeves,” his CO barked.
No telling what the guy would say. He deserved the worst of it, no doubt. “Sir.”
There was a long silence, and then his CO nodded his head. “Job well done, son.”
Everything surrounding Operation Cinderella was then complete.
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