Headed for Trouble - By Suzanne Brockmann Page 0,105
the way he said it, the subtext was asshole.
“This is fucking weird. It looks like it’s five separate trackers, but they’re all in a single concentrated area.” Slinger, known by his parents as Jeff Campbell, was Shane’s gearhead. He was more than a computer specialist—he was practically part cyborg. The equipment that SEAL Team Thirteen was issued was not supposed to be tampered with or adapted in any way, so Slinger used his own, leaving the military-issued gear to Owen, who was this team’s second tech, aka the pack mule who carried the crap they never used.
And even though the SEAL team had dropped into an allegedly technologically challenged part of the world, due to the locals’ severely limited access to the electrical grid, and even though Owen’s military-issued equipment bag didn’t contain a tech-sweeper, Slinger had automatically gotten out his mini-tablet-slash-sweeper, and was using it to fully scan the landing zone.
Because Slinger knew Shane. And anyone who knew Shane knew that he verified intel reports—all intel reports. When he was out with his team in the very dangerous real world, he refused to assume anything.
If he’d received intel that the sky was blue, he’d verify that, too. Sometimes verification required little more than a quick glance skyward, but more often it required reconnaissance—either technological or the humint kind.
Because their very lives depended upon it. And in the course of his illustrious career, Shane had yet to lose a single man.
“You’re picking up only five trackers?” Shane confirmed. “Total?”
Oftentimes, enemy forces would seed the terrain with nearly invisible miniature tracking devices. Those tiny trackers would become snagged onto pant legs or lodged in the treads of boots or sneakers. But in those cases, the seeding would be extensive, and the entire team would give a positive read.
“Affirmative, LT,” Slinger reported as Shane leaned on the senior, his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders, so he could move forward. “I’m picking up a small cluster of, yup, five trackers and … Shit, sir, it’s on me and it’s …” He cut himself off and thrust his altered mini-tab at Owen. “Effen, take this and see if you can’t figure out what-the-fuck.”
As the newest member of Shane’s team, Jim Owen was considered the FNG, or the f-ing new guy. Magic, who was the king of bestowing nicknames, had started calling him Effen for short, and it had stuck.
As Shane watched, Slinger held out his arms, as if he were going to be wanded by airport security, and Owen ran the sensor over him.
“That’s weird,” Owen said.
“Yeah, right?” Slinger agreed as he unbuttoned and pulled off his overshirt and then his T-shirt beneath.
“How would it have gotten onto your T-shirt, Campbell?” the senior asked, his voice loaded with skepticism.
Owen frowned as he aimed the sensor at the shirts that were now dangling from Slinger’s hand. He then brought the sensor back toward Slinger’s now-bare chest. “Uh-oh.”
Shane braced himself for more bad news.
“What the fuck?” Slinger said again, as he took the device from Owen.
Magic moved to look over Slinger’s shoulder as both of the tech guys stared down at the readout. “Told you she was too pretty for you, Slingblade,” he said, which didn’t make sense.
“No fucking way.” Slinger thrust the sensor back at Owen, then went for his belt, unfastening his pants and pushing them down his legs. Like most of the SEALs in Thirteen, he didn’t bother with underwear. And like most of the SEALs in Thirteen, modesty was not an issue for him.
Owen circled Slinger, reaching out with the device to touch the taller SEAL on the lower left side of his back. “I’m reading the entire cluster here,” he said, then came around to Slinger’s front, same side. “And here.”
And then Magic’s words made too much sense. “The trackers are internal,” Shane realized. They were inside Campbell. Some beautiful counteragent had fed him … What? A cupcake with trackers in the icing? And five of them had managed to not get crushed by his teeth.
It ranked up in un-fucking-believable-land, along with Shane trashing his ankle on a relatively easy jump.
But it meant that they’d just been reduced from a team of eight to six. Or, realistically, even fewer. Son of a bitch. The pain in Shane’s ankle was now the least of his worries.
“What did you eat?” the senior chief asked Slinger. “Or maybe the more pertinent question is, where did you eat?”
“Approximately twelve to fourteen hours ago,” Rick chimed in. “Judging from