Using the enormous strength in his arms, he dragged himself across the rugged, freezing ground until he was nearly on top of the enemy, right under their wall. He smelled them. Blood. Fear. Stink of the unwashed. He knew he smelled the same way. He lay there breathing, hoping no one poked a gun over the wall and finished him off before he got his task done.
He took the last of his grenades and tossed them over the wall, trying to hit the enemy squarely, just judging the distance by the sound of their moving around. The explosions rocked the wall so that debris fell on him, but there was no movement. He couldn’t get off his ass to go check to make certain he had actually gotten the last of their enemies.
Malichai listened for movement. For groans. For anything at all that would tell him even one person was still alive. When time passed and he heard nothing at all, he began the slow, arduous journey back across the ground toward the slope. He still had to make it back to where the helicopter was landing, and it seemed a million miles away. In the distance he could hear it coming in, and he was thankful, but he knew, in the back of his mind, that he wasn’t going to make it.
He should have told Ezekiel he loved him. Funny, he’d never said it to him. Not to him, not to Mordichai either. Then there was Rubin and Diego. They weren’t brothers by blood or birth, but they were brothers just the same. He hadn’t told them either.
“Shut up, Malichai,” Rubin said distinctly. “Conserve your strength. You’re not going to die. You do that and Ezekiel’s most likely gonna shoot my ass.”
That was true. Zeke could be like that. Malichai peered up at Rubin. He was there, rifle slung over his shoulder, his image wavering in and out as if he were more of a mirage. Malichai poked at him with a finger. “You real?”
“Real enough.”
“You getting me out of here?”
“Something like that. You weigh a ton, Malichai. I’m going to tell Nonny not to feed you so much.”
Rubin hoisted him on his back and rushed toward the helicopter already set down in the snow and rocks, stowing the wounded inside as fast as possible.2What the hell do people do on vacation?” Malichai asked aloud.
He shook his head and turned away from the mirror. Staring at himself didn’t improve his looks any.
He was a big man, with obvious, defined muscles running through his body. What wasn’t so obvious was the fact that even as muscular as he was, those muscles were loose and he could move fast and use the speed and strength of them, and that his reflexes were astonishing. He had strangely colored eyes, always had them, even as a child, but the enhancements done on him in the service had further changed them so that they looked gold. Old gold. Florentine gold.
His lifestyle was beginning to take a toll on him. There was no getting around it. He went out on missions as often as possible. Mostly, they rescued soldiers shot up and needing immediate transport out of a hot zone. He was fast, he was strong and he was very adept at fieldwork. There were few better at triaging a wounded soldier or finding a vein and getting a needle in fast before the vein collapsed. He was dedicated to bringing his soldiers home alive if possible. So, he volunteered every single time they had to go in with guns blazing.
So, yeah, he’d been shot a few times. He’d seen more than his share of hand-to-hand combat. He’d taken on the drug cartels a few times. What else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t the kind of man women looked at and wanted for themselves. He didn’t know if a woman could live with him—he could barely live with himself. So, a home and family were out for him. He understood that, but he didn’t have to like it.
He’d grown up on the streets of Chicago with his two brothers, Ezekiel and Mordichai. Later, Ezekiel had discovered Rubin and Diego Campo fending for themselves as well, and they’d banded together. Schooling had been intermittent, just what Ezekiel could provide for them. Mostly they looked for food and kept the predators off one another. Malichai had grown up fierce, using his fists, learning every form of underhanded street-fighting known to man, and he’d learned it was life or death. He’d chosen life.
He sighed and walked to the door of his rented room. It was small and he covered the distance quickly, too quickly. Once he opened the door, he was expected to actually do something. Go somewhere. Enjoy himself. He’d forgotten how to do that.
He lived in the Louisiana swamps and he’d learned he loved it. He liked his “family” there, particularly his teammate Wyatt Fontenot’s grandmother. She insisted on the entire team of GhostWalkers calling her Nonny, which they did. Eventually, he had begun to feel as if he had a grandmother for the first time. She cooked amazing meals for them. There was always food on the table. He was always hungry. He was now.