Page 23 of Harris
I was uncomfortable.
I was bored.
I understood the plan, and the plan made sense. Didn’t mean Ilikedthe plan, though. But I was in no position to complain…about anything. Nick had been as good as his word: a complicated rescue plan had been formulated on the flight to Nevada and Nick made it perfectly clear that I would be part of it. To their credit, the guys never spoke a word of disagreement, and I saw, firsthand, what it meant to take orders without question, and to raise logical, respectful disagreements. Each person on the team had the full respect of everyone else, and it showed.
They were all tight, they were brothers. Tighter than brothers, as only men who have faced combat together can be. And now…Iwas going to be a part of that. It made me a little giddy, as well as more than a little afraid, which I felt was reasonable and expected.
I’d listened to the men formulate the plan and kept my thoughts to myself, knowing I needed to sit back and learn by listening.
We were in the desert somewhere in Nevada, waiting. Miles and miles and miles from anything. I was in the back of an ex-military Humvee, one of the huge wide mammoth ones. Tan, with gargantuan tires. Armored to withstand bullets. No creature comforts. No AC, no music, no diet Coke.
The plan was that Nick would bring the duffel bags full of cash in the back of an old Jeep Wrangler from his location a few miles on the opposite side of the drop-point from where we were. Exchange the cash for the girl, and then haul ass to us. Thresh and Duke would cover Nick’s approach to us, which they’d dubbed the “EZ” for extraction zone, Puck would be behind the wheel of the Humvee, and I would be in the back of the Humvee to be with Cleo. Once Puck had Cleo and I clear, Thresh, Duke, and Nick would cover our retreat, making sure Cain and his goons weren’t following us, or trying to double-cross us.
Nick was going in alone, unarmed, only a walkie-talkie to coordinate with the others. Just the bags of cash and the Jeep—which didn’t even have a top—and the clothes on his back. We knew from Lear’s surveillance that Cain had the drop location covered from every direction, and that we were outnumbered, and that his guys were all heavily armed. There would be at least a dozen cross-hairs on Nick at any one time. Sure, we had both Lear and Anselm with big old rifles covering Nick the entire time, but what could a couple of guys with rifles do against twelve or fifteen guys with machine guns? Sorry, assault rifles. Or submachine guns, or whatever. Anselm and Lear couldn’t keep them from shooting Nick. If someone got an itchy trigger finger, Nick would be dead, and no one could do anything.
What assurance did we have that Cain wouldn’t have his guys shoot Nick as soon they had the cash?
None, I was told.
That was the biggest risk.
It could turn into a firefight.
In fact, I think Thresh and Duke were planning on that eventuality. Planning? Hoping? With those two, it might equal the same thing.
As for me? I was wired, and bored out of my mind. And scared for Nick.
I had my Beretta 9mm in a black tactical holster on my right thigh, the belt going around my waist and the bottom of the holster itself fastening around my thigh. The holster also contained two extra clips of ammunition. I felt kind of like a legit member of the team, although I was under strict orders to not pull the pistol out unless my life was directly in danger and I had no other choice. No matter what happened, I was to leave the gun-slinging to the professionals.
Soon, that would be me!
No time to think about that now. Focus on the op, Layla.
Except, there was absolutely nothing happening. Not a goddamn thing. Puck was in the front of the Humvee, the engine rumbling with a deep diesel clatter, the door propped open, his feet crossed and propped in the V-gap where the door met the frame at the hinge. He had a laptop on his belly and was playing poker on it, a cigar between his teeth, lit and curling acrid smoke.
“Is it always like this?” I asked.
“What? Ops? Yeah. Boredom is part of the gig. Lots of sitting, lots of waiting.”
“Being wired and full of adrenaline and all that bullshit while bored at the same time is a weird feeling.”
Puck chuffed a laugh as he pulled a mouthful of smoke off his cigar. “Yeah, it’s a shitty feeling. You wanna go, go, go, but you gotta wait, wait, wait. It fuckin’ sucks.” He tapped at his laptop, playing a hand, and then returned his attention to me. “This feels a lot like my TOD in Iraq, actually. Sitting in a Humvee, bored out of my skull, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Kind of wigging me out a little, actually.”
“You don’t look like you’re wigging out,” I said.
“Yeah, well, fear happens on the inside. It’s what you do on the outside that determines the kind of person you are.” He didn’t look at me as he dropped that little nugget of wisdom.
“That was deep, Puck.”
“Nah.” He pulled on his cigar, blew out a stream. “It’s experience. My first firefight, I fuckin’ froze. Hid in a doorway ignoring my L-T’s orders to return fire. Bullets whippin’ past, buzzing and shit. They make this sound when they pass right by your ear, a kind of buzz—”
“Sometimes they make a…snapping sound,” I said, remembering Brazil, being in that old Defender, bullets going past my face. “Sometimes they snap, sometimes they buzz.”
Puck looked at me, a piercing stare that contained a new element of respect. “Yeah. The snap is when they’re not as close. You hear ‘em buzzin’, you best fuckin’ duck.”
“That first firefight, what happened?”
He returned his attention to his online poker game. How he was getting signal out here was beyond me, since my cell phone saidno service. “Like I said, I froze. By the time I got my balls back, the fight was over. L-T reamed me a new asshole, made me pull latrine duty for three days. All the guys ragged on me. Next time shit went FUBAR, I refused to let myself freeze. I was still pissin’ in my boots, but I didn’t freeze. After that, it got easier. Never is exactly easy, though, you just…deal.”