Mission: Without a Trace - Nicole Edwards Page 0,45

storm rolled in shortly before midnight, and because he’d slept so little all week, Brantley had drifted off, sucked under into the recurring nightmare.

“We go on my command,” Brantley stated, standing at the ready while the rest of his team was in position surrounding the single-story house where the American scientist was said to be held in an underground bunker.

The recon was completed, and if all went well, they’d be in and out, getting the hostage to safety so he could, no doubt, find his way back into the hot seat. Seemed to be a trend for this guy.

“Copy that,” came the response from his team.

Waiting for the confirmation from his command, Brantley remained silent, still. They just needed one final check on the number of tangos inside. The last report had contradicted the one prior, leading them to believe there were six inside, versus the original three they’d seen from the eye in the sky.

“Phantom One, you’re cleared to go. We’ve got six heat signatures coming from inside. Repeat, there are six.”

Brantley glanced at his second-in-command, silently communicating that they were a go. They were going in pairs, his 2IC at his side while the rest of his team were storming in secondary doors.

“Move,” he ordered over the comms, leading the way.

Sticking close to the structure, he made his way to the front doors. No hesitation. He had a job to do and a damn good plan. They would stick to it, be out in under five minutes.

He paused, glanced around the side of the building. Nothing moved. He nodded, continued.

“Phantom Three, location?”

“In position,” came the response.

“Phantom Five?”

“In position.”

Brantley took a deep breath. “Go, go, go!”

No sooner had they stormed the building than the shouts began. Gunfire followed, the tangos panicking while Brantley’s team took them out one by one.

Brantley tossed and turned on the bed, his brain taking him back to that day. It didn’t matter that he was fighting the nightmare; it was taking root, dragging him deeper. His team moving in, taking out four of the six from the front.

“Clear the rooms!” Brantley shouted.

They split up then, moving from room to room to ensure they’d eliminated the tangos so they could retrieve the package.

“Moving,” he announced, continuing toward the target.

That was the moment the op went from routine to FUBAR.

After getting a visual on the room that would lead to the bunker beneath, Brantley stepped forward and—

In his bed, Brantley thrashed, the feel of the wire against his leg, the sound of the blast that obliterated the floor beneath him.

Falling.

Crashing.

The ground opened up, swallowed him down. Rock and debris fell as fast as he did, none of it giving a shit that he couldn’t keep his footing. Chunks of rock landed, pinning his leg, shattering the bone.

Pain.

So much fucking pain.

Outside the house, thunder rolled, lightning crashed, dragging him deeper and deeper into the hell of that night. For a moment, Brantley couldn’t breathe in, his lungs filled with the dust and dirt raining down on him. He couldn’t decipher reality from the dream. More thunder crashed outside, lightning flashing.

The sound of footsteps alerted him to the tango.

Within seconds, Brantley had his SIG in hand.

“Brantley! Wake. Up.”

The bark of words shot him from unconscious to conscious in seconds. He blinked his eyes open, saw the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. It took a second to recognize his brother.

Lowering his weapon, he fought the fogginess that surrounded his brain.

Home.

In bed.

Not buried beneath rubble.

No broken bones, no explosions to come, no building rattling, getting ready to cave in on him.

“Hey, man,” Trey said softly, stepping into the room.

“I could’ve shot you,” Brantley bit out.

“Could’ve, yes. Won’t keep me from checkin’ on you though.”

“What’re you doin’ here?” he grumbled, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand before dropping his feet to the floor, pretending not to notice the way his hands trembled. He remained where he was for a minute, got his bearings before getting to his feet. The SIG went on the nightstand when his brother passed over a bottle of water.

“Thought I’d check on you.”

“Yeah? Just outta the blue?” Brantley padded to the bathroom, splashed water on his face.

Thankfully, Trey gave him space, didn’t try to baby him while he pulled himself together. When he left the bathroom, he realized he was limping. The pain in his left leg was only a ghost ache. Not real yet it hurt all the same.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, he’d lost the