Shell Game

Prologue

Somewhere near the Afghan border

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot—WTF. From his rooftop perch Luke "Brooklyn" Chapman had a clear shot at the last barrier between his team and the American journalist they'd been assigned to bring home. Only two things stood in his way. Enough C4 to blow not only the entire compound but also every member of his SEAL team and Nick Harper's Explosive Ordnance Disposal team to kingdom come. And the woman wearing the damn explosives.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Shit.

Intel had screwed with them again. Brooklyn had gotten wind on his own of possible mines and other booby traps along the target compound that official channels had discarded as unreliable. That was why Brooklyn was once again working with EOD. He'd requested Nick's team for this mission, and, pissed as hell with the increased stream of failed missions, his CO had approved it. Nick and his team were good. Damn good. And Brooklyn trusted them as much as his own men. Which was something rare for a frogger to admit.

"Team Bravo reporting, target spotted. We have confirmation on explosives. C4. Over."

"Can you take him out? Over."

"Her," Brooklyn corrected.

"Shit," Nick mumbled on the other side.

Tell me about it. Protecting women and children was etched in bold caps on the unwritten list of what military men were fighting for—right above Mom's apple pie and just under the American Way. Over time Brooklyn had grown used to dealing with hostiles of varied ages and sizes—but he'd never get used to fighting women. And the key question at hand was whether or not this particular female was in harm's way of her own free will or by order of some male family member.

Too often there was not enough time to determine if the explosive-wearing fashionistas were the former or the latter. In this case, Brent Callahan, one of the EOD team, was on the surveillance systems. Thanks to his Persian heritage on his mother's side and having spent over a year at the Defense Language Institute, Brent could eavesdrop in five languages spoken within a one-mile radius. If the female in question would only say something in the next few seconds allotted to determine friendly or enemy, Brooklyn's last kill for Uncle Sam's Navy might not have to be a woman.

Across the way on Team Alpha, Billy "King Kona" Everrett and Doug Hamilton, rappelled down the south wall. Nick and Kenny Yates, Team Charlie, were nowhere to be seen. Which meant the hostiles couldn't see them either. The difference being Brooklyn knew his buddies were positioned to have Team Alpha's six.

Damn, he wished Brent would speak up. In about fifteen seconds Billy would be in place, and Brooklyn would have to take the woman out. Ten... Five.

"Hold your fire," Brent said in Brooklyn's earpiece. "Make that two hostages."

Whoever the woman was, Brent must have heard enough to know wearing this season's dynamite trend was not her idea. Brooklyn spoke into his mic. "Affirmative."

"Copy," Nick replied, followed by Billy's echo of the confirmation.

This unlucky woman would live to see another day. All the team had to do was diffuse the jacket, subdue the enemy and haul everyone's ass out of hell.

* * *

"Nice place you got here." Brooklyn filed in last and dropped his gear beside the other duffels on the living room floor of EOD team member Billy Everrett's Kona, Hawaii, home. After getting everyone's ass out of the Afghan compound and safely returning to base with both hostages—the American journalist and the now bomb-free woman, Brooklyn was damn glad the timing had worked out for him to join some of the guys on leave here on the Big Island. A last chance to be among his Navy brothers that he didn't want to miss.