Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Marking Mariah (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read Free Page A

strange, hazy silence in the tent. It also served to open his battered eardrums all the way up again, making it feel like someone had buried a hook into his brain nice and deep. He groaned but at the same time experienced an odd sensation of relief—finally, he had somebody to fucking shoot at.
    Ignoring the pain that threatened to blind him, he rolled to his side and snagged his weapon—a Beretta M9 that he adored more than his own mother—from the holster he’d slung on the back of his temporary camp chair. A rush of nausea threatened but he got himself into a crouch, aiming at the tent flap now riddled with bullet holes.
    A quick glance to his right netted him a reassuring sight—Ghost, with his Benelli, an Italian-made automatic shotgun raised to his shoulder. When his superior officer gave him the “stay low” then the “cover me” signal, Terry sighed but did as he was told, keeping his weapon trained on the tattered fabric flapping in the stifling hot night. A fresh barrage of auto fire came from their left, forcing them away from the tent entry.
    Terry’s face burned hot, but his pulse remained calm. One of the reasons he’d breezed through the physical portion of the Delta training had been his superior physical shape. In spite of what they’d thrown at him, day or night, Terry O’Leary had knocked it out of the park. He loved the pure release it offered him and was never more at peace than when he was being pushed to his absolute limit—mainly so he could shove that bastard even further out.
    He waited, aware of the sounds of running footsteps, of the guttural bark of Arabic, and of his own calm breathing. Everything had gone muffled again, however, thanks to whatever damage he’d sustained from the initial blast. A drop of sweat hit his eye, blurring his vision for a millisecond.
    Ghost gave him the “I’m moving forward” signal. Terry gripped his weapon tighter. A loud shout broke through the fog surrounding him. Gunfire peppered the tent once more as a dark shadow crossed in front of the tent’s opening.
    “Drop,” he barked to Ghost as he gave the sensitive trigger a subtle squeeze once, then again. His target fell half in-half out of the opening. An arm in a dirty white covering flopped into the tent, the hand gripping something. Terry stared at it, his aching brain moving slowly—too slow.
    “Trigger,” Ghost yelled, reaching for him. “Outside, now.”
    “The computer,” he said, moving as if he were mired in molasses, the contents of his stomach doing alarming surges up his throat. His mouth watered and his nostrils flared in the rank confines of the tent. “I can’t leave—” His hand closed on the black laptop computer he’d been using before he’d been hit by some kind of primitive, yet effective explosive device.
    There was a slight clicking sound behind him.
    “Trigger,” he heard once more, the voice, urgent, but yet somehow distant.
    Then he knew nothing but white-hot pain, followed by cool, blessed darkness.
     
    ***
    Mariah stared out the window, watching California retreat beneath her. Regret and frustration fought for dominance in her brain. A tear slid down one cheek but she brushed it away, angry now, and determined that she’d done the right thing.
    “Hey aren’t you…,” her seatmate began. She sniffled and sat back, closing her eyes as the huge plane lifted itself higher into the air before banking right, turning east and taking her home. “Sorry, honey,” the older lady said, patting her arm. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
    “It’s fine,” Mariah insisted, swiping at her leaky, traitorous eyes. “And yes, I’m the girl from the show.”
    “I knew it,” the woman said. “I watched every episode you know. And I voted for you every single time. You’re so talented and pretty.”
    Mariah squeezed her eyes shut, partly to ignore the way her stomach dropped when the plane made its slow turn, but also to shut out the woman’s voice. Because