Page 2 of A Dead Man’s Pulse (Trident Security Omega Team #1)
Logan kept singing as the Afghanis stared at him in confusion.
His raspy voice was getting stronger with each word and so was his heart.
They hated all things American, and what was more American than “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”?
The only things he could think of were apple pie, a freckle-faced girl next door, and baseball.
“Ninety-three bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-three bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around, ninety-two bottles of beer on the wall!”
The men must have thought he’d finally cracked under the pressure because they left without saying another word. Logan got all the way to sixty-three bottles of beer on that damn wall before exhaustion began to overtake him. Who knew singing that ridiculous but catchy tune could be so tiring?
Logan had no idea how long he’d slept, but he was jolted awake when an explosion rocked the compound.
His eyes flew open just as a second, and then third, blast sounded, followed by automatic rifle fire, and deafened the world around him.
Struggling to stand on his weakened legs and bare feet, he tried to see through the thin spaces between the wooden slats of the door at the front of the building and the tiny, glassless windows at the sides and rear to figure out what was happening.
At some point during his sleep, the sun had set and the moon had risen.
A lit oil lantern sat on a shelf next to the door and illuminated the makeshift prison, but it prevented him from being able to see anything in the darkness outside.
It was too soon to know if this was a rescue staged by the US military, but a seed of hope bloomed in his gut.
“Stash!” His tone was filled with urgency. “Stash, wake the fuck up, man!” Logan yanked on his restraints, even though they hadn’t loosened all the other times he’d tried to free himself. “Stash!”
More explosions went off as the battle raged on outside. If this was a war between ISIS and anyone other than the US or its allies, Logan and Moretti would be dead sooner than expected. But since they’d be dead in another day or two anyway, maybe this was a better way to go.
Shouts filtered in over the commotion. Some were in Arabic, others in English. And not just the heavily accented English spoken in Afghanistan, but—thank you, Jesus—that of those who could have only been born and bred in the good ol’ US of A.
“Hey!” Logan shouted. “In here! We’re in here! Hey! Americans! In here!”
The door burst open, and to Logan’s horror, an insurgent rushed in, his assault rifle up and ready to blow the prisoners to smithereens. Without conscious thought, Logan dropped to the ground, trying to make himself the smallest target possible as the trigger was pulled.
But nothing happened. The gun had jammed.
The bastard shook the rifle as if that would get it working again just as two dark figures in camo and war paint skirted around the door frame and fired their own weapons.
The tango danced unnaturally as his body was riddled with bullets.
The gunfire ended when he fell to the ground, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
One of the two men let his rifle hang from the strap around his neck and back while the other kept watch for danger at the door. Occasionally he set off a burst of bullets at someone or something outside Logan couldn’t see from that angle.
The first man retrieved the keys from the dead guy’s body and worked quickly on the metal lock on Logan’s cell.
At least he didn’t need to blow it with C4.
As the steel door was pushed open, the man finally looked at him.
“Lieutenant KC Malone. US Navy SEALs are here to save your sorry fucking Marine ass.”
Never had Logan heard more beautiful words in his entire life. A turbulence of emotions rolled through him. “First Sergeant Logan Reese, and I think I love you.”
“Just don’t fucking kiss me, ’cause I don’t swing that way.
” Malone hurried over and, after finding the key to the shackles wasn’t with the other ones on the chain, dropped them and pulled out a lock-pick set.
As he worked to free Logan, he cocked his head toward the next occupied cell. “Are you the only two left?”
Logan had to swallow the lump in his throat. “Yeah, but Stash has been out of it for over a day with a fever. The others . . .” He couldn’t finish the statement.
Malone got one of his wrists free and started on the other. Sympathy filled his eyes and voice. “We know. We found them, and we’ll be bringing them home with us.”
It took a moment for Logan to realize the gunfire had died almost completely.
There were a few scattered bursts here and there, but for the most part, there was silence from the automatic weapons.
As more US troops entered the building, Malone paused his lock picking, stepped on the heavy keyring, and with a flick of his foot, slid it toward the open door behind him.
“Peanut, here’s the key to the cell door. ”
The shortest of the men, presumably “Peanut,” grabbed it from the dirt floor and then quickly unlocked the other cell. Hurrying to the unconscious Marine, he glanced at Logan as the second shackle fell from his wrist. “Is he injured?”
“He was saying he thought a few ribs were broken, and he’s got bruising on his back. Other than that, I don’t think so.” Logan touched his abused wrists, which had been rubbed raw, and winced. “But he’s had a temp for almost two days now and been out of it since around noon yesterday.”
While he hadn’t had a watch or clock to tell time, the sun’s location in the sky had helped him keep track.
As the SEAL assessed Moretti’s condition and began treatment, another man stepped into Logan’s cell. “Reese? You okay?”
Even with his face covered in black camo paint, the familiar voice told Logan exactly who the man was, and the empathy he heard almost ripped him to shreds.
Apparently, the rescue had been a joint mission between the SEALs and Raiders.
Captain Louis “Bear” Bradshaw was Logan’s team leader. “As good as I can be, Cap.”
There no longer appeared to be an urgency in the other men’s movements and tasks, so it was safe to assume the ISIS members had all been killed or captured.
Bradshaw stepped forward and pulled Logan into a manly but gentle embrace, clearly not caring that his charge was covered in dirt, grime, and sweat.
If his superior hadn’t been holding him up, Logan would have dropped to his knees as the relief at being rescued, combined with the grief for his lost teammates, hit him hard.
He wasn’t ashamed of the tears that spilled forth and rolled down his cheeks.
He was alive. He was going home. And he’d never be the same person he’d been before.