Don't Let Go Read Free Page B

beneath the fragrant vines of a bougainvillea bush, swimming in adrenaline.
Nine. Eight. Seven
. . . They were loaded with gear, wearing gas masks.
Three. Two. One.
    At his nod, Teddy detonated the breaching charge. The ancient wrought-iron gate popped open. Vinny, Teddy, and Gus hurled smoke grenades out of the tree line into the courtyard. Summoned by the disturbance and hissing smoke bombs, rebels raced into view and reeled back, disoriented and confused.
    From the bell tower, Harley belted out the first stream of bullets while the masked specters of the recovery team stalked into the mission with their MP5s blazing.
    Behind the protective wall of their fire, Solomon began his search.
    A quick sweep of the medieval-style kitchen revealed that it was empty. His men blazed their way toward the chapel, laying out half a dozen rebels who’d put up a resistance that lasted less than five seconds.
    Vinny and Teddy flattened themselves against the stucco wall of the church as Gus, a lieutenant, kicked the double doors open and tossed in a flash bang. Simulating a stun grenade, its purpose was to disorient occupants and encourage their evacuation. Solomon peeked inside, just in time to glimpse through his NVGs the orange-red silhouette of a man darting behind a partition.
    Time to question a rebel,
he thought, as Gus signaled for him to enter. They left Vinny and Teddy to guard the door as they slipped along a peripheral wall toward the cowering man. “Come out with your hands up, and you won’t be harmed,” Solomon called out in Spanish, as they drew closer.
    Flipping up his mask, he determined that the emerging figure was just an adolescent and probably not a rebel, given that he wore the robe of a cleric. He held his arms high above his head, quaking from head to toe.
    “We’re looking for gringos,” he said, watching the youth’s reaction.
    His panicked gaze darted to the right.
    Solomon took note. “Where are they?” he asked again, and Gus hefted his gun threateningly.
    “
Abajo,
” squeaked the youth.
    “Below?” Solomon countered.
    “In a cellar,” Gus guessed.
    “
Aquí,
” the boy confirmed, shuffling back into the alcove and pointing at the floor.
    “Show us,” commanded Solomon. “Quickly.”
    With fluid movements that indicated this was an accustomed task for him, the boy drew a key from his robe, pulled aside a rug that covered the floor, and unlocked a trapdoor, pulling it open. “
Soy yo,
” he called down, identifying himself and adding that he was in the company of American soldiers.
    Given the odor rising out of the cellar, those in hiding had been down there for days. Solomon knelt, pulling out his penlight. Gus peered over his shoulder as they strobed the area below.
    At the base of a run of rickety steps, they counted three Caucasian adults and four indigenous children all blinking into his light.
    “Jordan Bliss?” Solomon asked, centering his light on the adult male.
    “No, sorry,” answered the man, who was obviously a Brit. “I’m Father Benedict. Miss Bliss, our teacher, is there.” He nodded.
    Miss?
He should have guessed.
    The beam of Solomon’s penlight revealed a woman in her early thirties—reddish brown hair, pretty features, eyes that braved the beam to regard him with suspicion. “Who are you?” she demanded in a voice rusty from disuse as she hefted a boy child in her arms.
    “Navy SEALs,” he answered curtly. “I’m Senior Chief McGuire. This is Lieutenant Atwater. We’re here to extract you and the British citizens.”
    “Praise God,” exclaimed an older female.
    “Did you hear that,
niños
?” Jordan Bliss whispered to the little ones. “These men are going to help us.”
    “Just adults, ma’am,” Solomon corrected her, gruffly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “No children. Let’s go.”
    She looked at him like he’d shot her in the heart. “No,” she protested, on a note as obstinate as his. “We
can’t
leave the children