Page 10

10

Lyon

“Damn, how many guards are in this prison?” Cyclone muttered under his breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many clustered together. There’s no way they’re all here for just the two guys we came to get. Someone important must be inside.”

I nodded, scanning the facility. “You think this is about the same guy our SEALs were sent to rescue? If they got caught trying to extract him, are they locked in with him, or did they get killed in the process?”

Raven let out a low breath. “That’s the real question. How the hell do we get in there to find out?”

“I’m working on it,” I whispered. “First, we need guard uniforms. That’s our ticket inside.”

“And where exactly are we supposed to find those?” Farron asked, skeptical.

I smirked. “We find the laundry room.”

Farron scoffed. “And how do we do that when it’s inside the prison?”

I shook my head. “Prisoners’ uniforms might be cleaned on-site, but the guards? No way. They’d send theirs out to a cleaner, either hiring someone or taking them into town. We need to find a local cleaner and casually ask if they handle the guards’ laundry.”

Cyclone nodded. “Makes sense. Let’s find the uniforms, then we’ll come back and see who they’re guarding. The upside? With this many guards, slipping inside unnoticed will be easier than we thought.”

“Easier?” I huffed. “We need to be careful. If they’re expecting more Americans trying to rescue those three, they’ll be on high alert.”

We’d secured a vehicle earlier to blend in with the locals, making it easier to move around unnoticed. Each time we spotted a cleaner’s shop, we stopped and checked it out. The first two were dead ends. The third? Jackpot.

Through the back window, I spotted five freshly pressed uniforms hanging in the rear of the shop. We circled around, checking for an entrance, and sure enough—there was a back door.

Cyclone, being the only one who spoke the language fluently, went inside alone. The rest of us waited in the vehicle. A few minutes later, he walked out—with his arm wrapped around a woman. Before I could process what was happening, he leaned down and kissed her. She giggled, then ran back inside.

I raised an eyebrow. “What the hell was that about?”

Cyclone slid into the car, tossing the uniforms into the back. “Sometimes, you have to sweet-talk people to get what you need.” He exhaled sharply. “Also helps when the woman is the owner’s wife.”

I frowned. “Wait, what?”

“She wanted me to follow her into the back room so I could ‘pleasure her.’ Her words, not mine. Apparently, her husband only married her to get control of her father’s cleaning businesses. He doesn’t touch her—saves that for his mistress.”

“Did she actually tell you all that?”

“Oh, yeah. Whispered it right in my ear while grabbing my crotch and trying to get my zipper down.” He shuddered in disgust. “It was either let her believe I’d come back later or cause a scene and risk blowing our cover.”

I chuckled. “So, did you promise her a romantic rendezvous?”

Cyclone shot me a glare. “Let’s just say I won’t be stopping by anytime soon. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

The uniforms were... less than ideal.

“These are tight as hell,” Farron grumbled, shifting uncomfortably.

Cyclone rolled his eyes. “Be grateful. If you want a bigger size, feel free to march back in there and ask her to measure you.”

I smirked. “What time’s the shift change?”

“We’ve got two hours,” Cyclone replied. “But we need weapons. Where are we getting those?”

“We take them,” I said simply.

Raven gave me a skeptical look. “You make it sound easy.”

“Because it is. We walk up to a couple of guards, pretend we’re one of them, knock them out, take their weapons, and tie them up. Then we get the captives out of there and head home.”

Cyclone huffed. “I hope it’s that simple.”

I shot him a sideways glance. “Why are you always so damn grumpy?”

“Because I am.”

We all laughed, but I knew the truth behind his mood. Cyclone used to be the easygoing one. That changed when he was overseas too long, and his fiancée married someone else—his cousin, of all people.

When Cyclone finally came home and found out, he beat the hell out of the guy. His family turned against him after that, blaming him for the fallout. He never talked about it, but Kat once said it still hurt him more than he let on.

The kicker? His cousin ended up divorcing her because she cheated on him, too. Poetic justice.

We spotted two guards walking toward the prison and pulled over. Cyclone got out first, engaging them in casual conversation. I knew he was talking about us—probably spinning some ridiculous story at our expense—because he kept glancing back with that damn smirk.

Then, without warning, he struck. One punch each. Both men crumpled.

“What the—” I started.

Cyclone was already stripping them of their weapons, tying them up, and swapping clothes with one of them. The guy was tall enough, but Cyclone’s broad shoulders stretched the jacket tight.

He dusted himself off. “Let’s move.”

We parked our vehicle near the prison entrance, positioning it for a quick getaway.

“Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact,” I reminded the team. “They’ll spot us as Americans in a heartbeat.”

They knew that already, but old habits died hard. I was used to telling them things.

“We go in two at a time,” I said. “Once inside, look for any Americans. If we can talk to one of them, we explain the plan fast and move on. I want to be in and out in minutes.”

Cyclone adjusted his collar. “Then let’s get this done.”

We straightened our stolen uniforms and walked toward the prison doors.

"Everyone, take a deep breath. Let's move," Cyclone ordered, his voice low but firm. "The SEALs we're rescuing know the drill. They'll be ready as soon as they see us unless something’s preventing them. Let’s hope that’s not the case."

Getting inside was almost too easy. We walked in like we belonged, moving with purpose. The key was confidence—act like you're supposed to be there, and most people won’t question it.

As I passed the fourth cell, something made me stop. Lieutenant Zack Taylor sat slumped in the corner, his face black and blue. This was the man Jason Jones and Sean Reed had come for.

Taylor’s swollen eyes met mine, and he slowly stood. I gave him a quick nod and kept walking. No sudden reactions. No tipping off the guards.

A few steps ahead, Cyclone suddenly veered into a cell and lifted Sean Reed, who looked barely conscious, into his arms. His expression was tight, full of rage.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered, stepping in front of him.

“I’m getting Sean some help,” he snapped.

“We help him when we’re the hell out of here. Follow my lead." I turned and motioned toward Taylor’s cell. “Leave Sean here with Taylor for now.”

Cyclone exhaled hard but followed my direction. I caught movement as he stood back up—a guard heading our way. I peeled off, letting Cyclone handle it.

Across the room, Raven was talking to someone—had to be the other SEAL. Then I spotted Farron moving toward me fast, his face tense.

Shit. We were screwed.

Guards trailed behind him.

I spun toward Cyclone. “We need to exit. Now.”

Cyclone hauled Sean back over his shoulder. I turned to Taylor. “Let’s go.”

Before we could move, an explosion rocked the prison. Dust and smoke filled the air.

Farron grinned.

I shot him a look. “What the hell was that?”

“Someone else is breaking out,” he said. “No idea how they got explosives, but hey—it works in our favor. Let’s move.”

Raven had Jason Jones half-dragging behind him. The man looked barely conscious. Without hesitation, Raven slung him over his shoulder and headed toward the exit.

We followed.

Taylor staggered, slamming against the wall. His skin was ashen—he was barely holding on.

I didn’t think. I threw him over my shoulder and pushed forward.

The chaos worked in our favor. Guards were too distracted by the explosion to notice us slipping through the front.

We sprinted for the jeep and piled in. I hit the gas, weaving through the streets, trying to put as much distance between us and that prison as possible.

For a moment, I thought we were clear.

Then— CRACK.

A bullet whizzed past my ear.

“Shit! We’re being fired on!” I shouted. “Get down!”

Cyclone twisted, aimed, and returned fire. Two shots, then a pained yell.

Then silence.

“Cyclone, you good?” I called back. No answer.

“Damn it, Cyclone, answer me!” I shouted.

Raven climbed into the back, carefully lowering Sean to the seat before checking on Cyclone.

“Shit,” Raven cursed. “He’s hit—badly.”

I clenched my jaw. “You need to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m on it,” Raven said. “He’s losing lots of blood.”

“I have the same blood type,” I told him. “Let’s get to the plane before we start a transfusion.”

Raven leaned out and took another shot at the jeep chasing us. I glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see the vehicle swerve off the road.

Two hours. That’s how long it took to reach the plane—two long, agonizing hours.

The second we landed, we rushed Cyclone inside. Farron sprinted to the cockpit while the rest of us worked on him.

I stretched out beside him, rolling up my sleeve as Raven prepped the transfusion. My blood flowed into Cyclone’s veins, but he still wasn’t waking up.

“Cyclone,” I said, my voice rough. “Wake your ass up. There is no reason for you to still be out cold.”

Nothing.

I checked his wound. We had stopped the bleeding. So why the hell was he still unconscious?

“We must have missed something,” I muttered. “Raven?”

Taylor, now sitting up, forced himself over to us. “Turn him over,” he suggested. “If there’s another bullet in him, that could be why he’s out.”

We moved Cyclone onto his stomach. I ran my hands over his back—nothing—no extra wounds.

Taylor reached for the back of his head, then froze.

“It’s here,” he said grimly. “A bullet’s lodged in his skull. We need to get it out now.”

I clenched my teeth. “Unhook me from the drip,” I ordered.

Raven hesitated. “Are you sure we should move it?”

“If it had gone deep enough to destroy his brain, he’d already be dead,” I said. “I have to do this.”

Raven pulled the needle from my arm. “You’re gonna be dizzy.”

“I’ll be fine,” I muttered, pulling out my field kit. “Cyclone’s always been hardheaded. Now I have proof.”

It took over an hour to extract the damn bullet. It was buried deeper than I expected—at least a fourth of an inch into the bone.

By the time I got it out, my hands were shaking. I exhaled, leaning back, my body screaming for rest.

Cyclone was pale as death. Too pale.

I cleaned the wound, pressed gauze over it, and wrapped his head carefully.

“Come on, man,” I whispered. “Wake up.”

Across the plane, Sean, Jason, and Taylor had managed to sit up.

“You guys good?” I asked.

Sean gave me a weak thumbs-up. “Yeah. Thanks for coming for us.”

I nodded. “You’d do the same for us.” Then I turned to Taylor. “You ever miss all that money you made as a singer?”

He smirked. “I still make money from it. But I wanted to be a Navy SEAL like my dad.”

I chuckled. “Guess that makes sense.”

Then I glanced back at Cyclone.

And I prayed like hell he’d wake up.