What Lies Within Read Free Page B

the time.
    Rafe leaned forward, listening. No sounds from the other room. Good. He didn’t wake Tarik this time. He hated disturbing the boy’s sleep with his nightmares.
    The ache in his leg worsened, and with a deep sigh, he turned to the ruby eyes watching him. “Mornin’, fella. Ready for another day?” He lifted the cane beside his bed, letting his fingers trail across the silver lion’s head handle. A farewell gift from his unit. A lion for the lion, they’d said.
    Since their team was known as the Pride, it only seemed fitting they called him Asadi. Swahili for “lion.” Which was cool. Shoot, it beat what they’d
started
to call him.
    The image of that night sprang to life, and he closed his eyes. Now
this
memory he’d take.
    As clear as if it were happening again, the night sky darkened overhead. Rafe and his team, bivouacked after an especially grueling day of training, sat around the fire, absorbing its warmth. Jesse Green, Rafe’s assistant communicator, and David Thales, the primary communicator, sat there, MREs in hand, studying their sergeant.
    “You’re something else, sir.”
    Rafe wasn’t sure who Jesse Green was talking to, but one look at the misplaced surfer told Rafe the comment was directed at him. Even if Green’s sun-bleached hair hadn’t given away his L.A. roots, his lanky swimmer’s build would have.
    “He’s right, Sarge. You somethin’ else.” David Thales looked like he’d been born in cammies. The southerner stood six foot four, was solid muscle, and lacked only one thing: a neck. First time Rafe saw the one-time star of his high school and college football teams, he hadn’t been too sure Thales could move with the stealth they’d need on their missions. But years of bow hunting had made the kid as silent as a heart attack. And equally deadly. Good thing his small-town southern upbringing made him bona fide nice.
    Rafe trailed his gaze from Thales to Green. “I’m nothing special.”
    “Gotta say I agree with them, Sarge.” Pride shone in Rashidi Martin’s dark eyes. “Like the motto says”—he jerked his chin toward the Force Recon tattoo on his coffee-colored upper arm—“ ‘Swift. Silent. Deadly.’ That’s you, Staff Sergeant.” He glanced at Thales and Green. “Oo-rah?”
    Agreement sounded swift, certain. “Oo-rah!”
    Thales stretched his tree-trunk legs in front of him. “Never seen no one move like you, Staff Sergeant. You remind me of somethin’—” He pursed his lips, then a big grin broke across his broad face. “I got it. I was out huntin’ one weekend with my pappy and gran’pappy. We was sittin’ around the campfire one evenin’, jus’ like this. ’Cept it weren’t quite dark. And it weren’t in Iraq. Anyways, the dogs was secured, an’ we was just sittin’ and drinkin’ coffee.” He leaned back. “Man … I loved being out there like tha—”
    “
What
are you talking about, boy?”
    Rafe eyed Kevin Monroe. His dark hair blended into the night, but that pasty midwesterner skin glowed like a beacon. At just this side of twenty-three, Monroe claimed the spot of youngest unit member. Pure farm boy from the heartland of America. “You saying the staff sergeant looks like coffee?”
    Jesse Green pushed his boonie hat back off his forehead and hooted. “Naw, man. He’s sayin’ he looks like one of the dogs.”
    “No sir!” Thales’s spine stiffened. “I ain’t sayin’ that at all, Staff Sergeant, sir.”
    Rafe didn’t even try to respond. Didn’t need to. His team was doing just fine without him.
    “Well, what
are
you saying?” Kevin Monroe might not be as tall as Thales, but he boasted an equally powerful build. “I swear, Thales. Does everyone from the South take this long to spit something out?”
    Thales’s jaw tightened. One thing you did not do was impugn the South. Not in this man’s presence. “Look, farm boy, just ’cuz you puke out words without givin’ ’em a thought—”
    “What?”
Thunder