Mace Killmer remained hidden just inside the Highlands tree line waiting for the Night Stalker Black Hawk helo bearing his new sniper, to arrive. New year, new sniper. They were in the dry season of Peru and even at eleven thousand feet, it was cold an hour before sunset. A hundred yards either side of his position were his other two special forces sergeants, M4’s with bullets in their chambers, watching and keeping an eye out for Volkov and his band of killers. They had run hard through the jungle, climbing from seven thousand feet to the present elevation, keeping the local Russian team at a distance. Volkov had no idea they were in the area, stalking them, and Killmer wanted to keep it that way. Still, he was uneasy with the ex-Spetsnaz Russian who was known as The Butcher. The Russian team had five ex-Spetsnaz soldier in it. His team only had three.
It was always a cat-and-mouse game that Killmer had to play with these Russian mafia drug teams. A radio call came in and he pressed the mic once, letting the pilot know he was in position at the correct GPS in order to land. His gray gaze swept out in the open area. To his right sat La Paloma, a village, a mile away. He saw the men slowly moving around in that village, getting ready to end the day’s work. Thin wisps of smoke rose from tripods with kettles beneath them, the thatched hut village surrounding the food area. The smoke from the fires spiraled into the air, moving down toward the lower altitude far below them.
He heard the thunking of the blades of the Black Hawk. Lifting his spotter scope, he saw the dark green, unmarked Black Hawk, climbing up the face of the Highlands. The altitude they flew in made it tough on the machine. Restless, he stood up, remaining hidden for the most part, behind the wide trunk of a hundred foot tree towering above him. The light was getting better. He and his men had cleared the landing area of any loose rocks and twigs so they wouldn’t be swooped up by the blades as the Hawk landed.
His CIA handler, Tad Jorgensen, had spoken highly of the sniper from Shield Security, that was coming in to assist them in finding and killing Volkov. He snorted. The last damned sniper sent down to them was a woman. Lauren Parker had promptly gotten herself kidnapped by Petrov, which threw their entire team into chaos. Instead of going after Petrov, they now needed to search and find her before Petrov killed her. Luckily, the managed to locate and rescue her and Nik Morozov, who helped her escape. Rubbing his stubbled jaw, Killmer scowled heavily. He’d told his handler he wanted no more women snipers. He didn’t give a damn how good they were. One was fucking enough for a lifetime.
The Black Hawk became more and more sharpened and crisp looking the closer it go to where they were located. Mace called his men, letting them know the Hawk was landing. The sniper on board had orders to clear the helo and head directly into the tree line. There was no way Mace and his men were going to stroll out in the open. Not with Russian mafia teams around. And they knew without any doubt, that the Army Special Forces teams were on the ground, in their back yard and hunting their asses. They were very watchful, more so than usual.
Mace slipped his M4 off his shoulder, snapping off the safety, holding it tensely, his gaze ranging widely. He wanted no surprises when this Hawk landed. He needed that damned sniper alive and hungry for a kill. He watched the Hawk lower quickly, the Night Stalker pilots bringing the bird in fast. They were most vulnerable at take-off and landing, so it was going to be a swift egress. He’d been told by his handler that S. Chastain was a Marine Corps trained sniper. That was good. They were the best trained in the world. Bar none. He might be Army, but he would at least acknowledged the Marine Corps did SOME things right. And well.
The gusts of out flow wind as the Black Hawk’s nose came up, sent ninety-mile an hour gusts in all directions. Mace told the helo to land. The copilot acknowledged his order and he saw the nose level out, the tricycle wheels touching the earth. Huge clouds of dust rose around the bird. Mace crouched, rifle in place, watching to the right and left, like his men were doing. They were responsible to keep that Black Hawk and the pilots safe.
The noise was deafening, the whine of the engines on top of the helicopter familiar to Mace. He couldn’t see the bird land because it was swallowed up in the thick, roiling dust that was lifting twenty to thirty feet skyward into the sky. The puncturing of the blades buffeted his body and he leaned into the side of a tree for balance, so it wouldn’t send him ass end over tea kettle. It had happened more than once.
The copilot notified him that the passenger has egressed and they were now lifting off. Mace rogered the radio transmission. The Black Hawk went straight up like an arrow shot out of a bow. It banked and then slid down over the side of the harsh, rugged cliff face where they had come from. Mace took a breath of relief, standing to his full height, watching the clouds of dirt intently. Any moment, that sniper would appear out of the dust.
His gray eyes narrowed as he saw someone with a rifle in one hand and a heavy ruck on their back, trotting out of the billowing dust. He saw the long legs, the cammos the sniper wore, his face and shoulders hidden by the roiling clouds. He was pleased the dude was humping his gear without a problem, heading straight for where Mace was standing. As the figure got clear of most of the dust, Mace’s black brows dove downward. WTF? His eyes stung and watered from the dust being sent like a storm into the tree line. Wiping his watering eyes, he blinked several times. He HAD to be seeing things!
Mace’s mouth dropped open. He promptly snapped it shut, rage tunneling through him. The figure materializing out of the dust was a woman! He clearly saw her face, those long black braids she wore down the front of her cammie jacket. She was tall and medium boned, her shoulders wide and capable. She was carrying her ruck which he knew easily weighed around sixty pounds. She was in good shape.
Mace did not want to stare at her face, but he did. It was oval, a golden color and she had high cheekbones, her face wide, brow broad. He swore she was Native American because the black hair framed those fearless looking green eyes that reminded him of the swamp oaks where he grew up in North Carolina. And damned if his lower body did not take off like it had smelled a woman in heat! Damn it! Grimly, he moved out and just in front of the tree so she could spot him. And spot him she did, making a quick, trotting correction toward him.
Mace did not want to be influenced by the fact he thought she was a damned hot looking woman. She could not be more than in her late twenties. It was her wide green eyes, framed by thick black lashes, that grabbed his immediate attention. Big black pupils surrounded by that rich green color, a thin black ring around her iris. The look of an eagle. She didn’t miss a thing, Mace saw, as she aimed herself at a steady trot right up to where he was standing.
He saw the calm look in her face and he couldn’t tell what the hell she was thinking as they silently sized one another up. She moved her XP sniper rifle, enclosed in a rain proof sheath to her left hand. Thrusting out her right hand toward him, he heard her say, “I’m Chastain. Sergeant Killmer?”
Mace stared down at her offered hand. She had long, tapered fingers. A graceful woman’s hand. He quickly saw a number of old, white scars across the pack of her hand. A part of him wanted to grip her hand and feel her flesh, feel her feminine fingers. Another part reared back in anger. He refused to take her hand, glaring down at her. Mace saw her full lips purse, her eyes hardening as she dropped her hand.
“I’m Killmer. Shield was supposed to send a man,” he snarled. “What the hell happened?”
“They decided a man could not handle this assignment, Sergeant. So they sent a woman instead.”
He reared back at her droll reply, her gaze unwavering and never leaving his, challenging him. Mace would have respected her if she’d been a man. Never mind that he could see the soft fullness of her breasts even beneath that thick cammie jacket she wore. Chastain was tall. Maybe five ten or five eleven. And she sure as hell wasn’t afraid of HIM, her face giving nothing away except the fact she was pissed off at his poor manners.
“This is a mistake,” he growled. He called in his men, ordering them to meet them. They had to make tracks or they could run into Volkov and his blood thirsty team.
“Sure is,” she said in a growl that matched his own. “Let’s get this show on the road. I want Volkov sooner, not later.” And then she added acidly, “So I can get the hell away from the likes of you as soon as possible.”
Mace almost laughed. Almost. Well, he could see she was nothing like Lauren Parker insofar as personality went. “What’d you do, Sugar? Drink a quart of vinegar this morning for breakfast?”
Her fine nostrils quivered and her eyes went narrow as she considered his gruff reply. “I don’t like bullies, Sergeant.” She jammed her index finger down at the damp floor of the jungle. “Let’s settle this right now because I don’t want to spend one more minute in this team energy of yours with your attitude. I’M NOT YOUR ENEMY. Volkov is. So get your head screwed on straight about this op and stop this sniping at me because I’m sure as hell not taking it from anyone. Especially you.”