Page 36 of Delta (Alpha #12)

I 'm with Rush, unsurprisingly, along with another man from RMI; we've split into four groups of three.

Each team has a man with a scoped rifle—RMI didn't come to play around.

We go over the plan once more and then break, splitting away and slinking around to our various positions.

The one thing working in our favor to a degree is geography—the rolling hills of knee-high grass may not provide enough cover for us to approach the walls undetected, but they do allow us to slither close enough to put the crosshairs on the men on patrol and the men on the walls.

Ulrich—a German national in his late thirties or early forties with salt liberally sprinkling his dark blond hair—creeps closer to the crest of the hill, and carefully creates a little nest in the grass, going so far as reaching out to break off individual stems of grass with his fingers in order to open his sight lines.

Once his nest is arranged to his liking, he settles on his belly with his rifle, spending several minutes fine-tuning his position and weight distribution and grip until he's fully satisfied.

Only then does he whisper, "U-Boat in position. "

I glance at him. "U-boat?"

He shrugs. "I am German and my name begins with U. And also, before I became a sniper for the KSK, I was a submariner."

Rush eyes him. "KSK is army, I thought."

"Ja, it is. My path to KSK was not…direct."

"I'd say," Rush says, chuckling. "Submarines to spec ops—I don't think there is a direct route, ey?"

Ulrich sniffs a soft laugh. "Nein, there is not." He looks at me. "You are the Harris girl, ja?"

I nod. "Yes. I'm Bryn."

"I am told you prevented a kidnapping, and in the process killed a man with a pencil to the eyeballs."

I snort. "Close, but not quite. I tried to prevent a kidnapping and got myself taken with the girl I was trying to save, because when it came time to shoot a man for the first time, I froze. And then I killed a man with a pencil."

Ulrich laughs at this. "That is funny. You freeze with a gun and come through with a pencil.

" He must see something on my face, because he amends his reaction.

"I froze, once. My second mission with the KSK.

There was a hostage situation, and I was ordered to take a shot.

But the person I was meant to shoot was a woman.

She had a gun to a little girl's head, so she was a threat, but I still froze when the order came to shoot her.

I could not do it. My spotter took the gun and made the shot, but it was messy.

He did not kill her as he intended, and her gun went off.

Innocent hostages were killed for my split second of indecision. "

"Jesus, Ulrich," I say. "That's horrible. I'm sorry that happened."

"I only say it so you know everyone has a moment of hesitation when they must take a life. If you did not, I would worry for your mental health." He claps me on the shoulder. "You stepped up to stop a situation when most would not."

A moment later, another team gives the ready signal across the comms, and within a few minutes all the teams are in place.

"Shooters, on my signal," Chico says. There's a pause of five or so seconds, and then: "Three…two…one…fire."

Ulrich's rifle cracks, and from four cardinal directions come three more simultaneous reports. Rush, on his belly with a spotter's scope, gives a quiet scoff. "Well fuck me, that worked a treat. Tango down times four. Good shootin', everyone."

“Move to position two," Chico orders.

We crawl forward through the grass at an oblique angle, stopping every few feet to watch and listen.

We can hear shouts in the distance coming from the estate.

Creep and crawl, pause. Creep and crawl, pause.

Rinse and repeat until we're a hundred and some yards closer—all four teams moved clockwise east to west so no one is in the same vector as their previous shot.

"Spotters, report," Chico orders.

"We poked the nest, boss," a deep, gravelly male voice says. "Lots of activity on the walls. They're looking for us."

"Pick a target and fire at will," Chico says. "And then move to position three."

Ulrich settles into position much faster this time, and now Rush and I are within reach with our carbines, so Rush puts away the spotter's scope and levels his carbine.

I pick a target on the wall—a dark smudge at this distance, but I'm not really meant to hit anyone from this position, only to keep their heads down and cause chaos while our snipers do the real work.

"One away," Ulrich mutters, and squeezes the trigger.

His rifle bucks with the deafening crack; I put my crosshairs a good inch above my target and pop off a round, re-aim and fire again. I've no idea if I hit my target or not, but the smudge is gone.

"U-boat reporting," Ulrich says. "Three tangos confirmed down. Moving to position three." He glances at me. "Excellent shot, Miss Harris."

Rush snorts. "Oi, mate—what am I, chopped liver?"

"No, friend, you are a professional operator with years of experience whom I know could make the shot. She is a rookie. We must encourage her."

"Yeah, yeah," Rush drawls, sarcastic and snarky. "Be all right and whatever."

Ulrich snickers at this. "I'm sorry, friend. Good shot. I am proud of you."

"Yeah, nah, it's too late to butter my biscuit now, mate."

Ulrich blinks at Rush. "I do not understand this, to butter your biscuit."

I pat Ulrich’s shoulder. “Don't worry about it, U-Boat. He only makes sense half of the time at best."

"What, is it pick on Rush time?" Rush mutters. "C'mon, you two. Position three. Unless you'd rather stay here and take the piss outta me."

We belly crawl through the grass at a snail's pace, trying like hell to rustle the grass as little as possible, moving back west this time rather than eastward again. Shots ring out from the walls, but none come close to our position.

"They know we're in the grass somewhere," Chico says. "Expect to take fire, now. Fire at will from position three and move to position four at your discretion."

We're now close enough at position three that I can make out the humanoid shape of my target as he crouches on the wall, peering through the reticle of his assault rifle, sweeping the grass.

We wait for Ulrich to settle in, and at his rifle's report, Rush and I open fire.

This time, we rake the walls after dropping our initial targets, and Ulrich's rifle cracks a second time, and a third.

The chatter of fire from the other teams overlaps ours, coming in staccato bursts.

Even to me, it seems like there's more of us than there is.

Activity on the wall is frenzied, figures rushing this way and that, dragging the injured out of the way, rolling corpses off the wall to tumble to the ground on the outside.

“No respect for their dead," Ulrich remarks. "Savages."

A bee buzzes angrily past my ear, a hot buzzing that's felt as much as heard. It's followed by a second and a third, and that's when I realize it's not an errant bumblebee.

"We're taking fire," I say, dropping lower in the grass.

"Noted," Ulrich says, his voice dryly sarcastic. "Let's move before near misses become hits."

We crawl straight forward this time, with bullets whipping and buzzing overhead—they know roughly where we are and can now see the grass waving and wriggling with our movements.

"The gate is opening!" Chico snaps across the comms. "Concentrate suppressive fire on the walls. Abraham, ready the Stinger."

As he's speaking, the gate in the ancient compound's wall swings open and a line of glossy black Range Rovers bolts through at breakneck speed.

A figure pops up in the grass in the distance, hesitates, and then a corkscrewing streamer of whitish-gray smoke streaks into the lead SUV.

The explosion shudders the earth as flames leap skyward, debris raining down for yards in every direction.

The second of four SUVs has no time to react and plows into the wreckage, but the third vehicle skews sideways under hard braking, rocks off the road and bounces around the wreckage, followed by the fourth.

Another missile makes a flat arc toward the fleeing SUV, impacting its hood.

The explosion sends the car flipping up and forward end over end.

The last remaining vehicle tries to swerve out of the way, but the embankment is steep and it topples sideways to roll down into the grass.

The nearest fireteam opens up from their position, pouring fire into the side of the upturned Range Rover.

After a pause, the fireteam approaches warily to peer inside—a few minutes later, the report comes across the comms.

"It was a fakeout," I hear. "One body in each car. It's doubtful Pugli was in any of these."

That's when I hear it—the distinctive thump of a helicopter's rotors. And even to my civilian's ears, I know that's not the Osprey. Seconds later, a helo rises into the air and peels away, nose angled down as it accelerates.

"FUCK!" Rush snaps, kicking at the grass. "Bastard had a bolt hole. The fucking Range Rovers were a distraction."

The satellite phone burbles in the pocket of my vest, then. I hurriedly dig it out and move to stand by Rush, putting it on speaker. "Dad?"

"We have Eliza," Dad says. "She's safe, she's unhurt. Scared out of her mind, but she's okay."

Rush drops to his knees with a relieved sob. "Thank fuck. Oh god, thank you." He takes the phone. "Can—can I talk to her?"

"Of course. Here. Eliza, sweetheart, your daddy wants to talk to you."

A small, high-pitched, sweet little girl's voice, adorably British-accented, fills the line, then. "Daddy? Is it really you?"

“Yeah, lovey, it's me." His voice is rough and ragged. "You alright, Lizzy-Bean?”

"Well, I'm not hurt. But they were rather mean. They just smashed every thing, Daddy. Even grandmama's favorite china, just because. Why did they break things, Daddy?" She says it grandmah-MAH .