Anything, Anywhere, Anytime (Wingmen Warriors 6)

Colonel Cullen nodded, slowly replaced his mug beside him, steady, rock-solid in spite of the tight cut of his clenched jaw, and keyed up his mike. "People, this is Alpha. Everyone settle. It appears they're about to hold a public execution."

Chapter 10

Execution?

The response popped through Blake's earpiece. Landed in his stomach like a cold stone as he lay flat on his belly in a shallow desert trench.

Stone.

Damn poor word choice. Shut down emotions. Quitting was not an option.

"Man or woman?" Blake grunted into the small boom mike at the corner of his mouth even though he already knew the answer because of that dump truck full of rocks.

"Female," Colonel Cullen answered.

The confirmation burned hotter than the setting sun.

Gaze jerky, Blake scanned the desert to the chain-link fence with concertina wire barbs spiraling the top. About two football fields away, he could discern the crowd. Barely, but he was mostly at the mercy of visuals supplied by command post with his team buddy sweating beside him in his desert tan ghiilie suit until his streaked face paint slicked.

"Is it one of ours?" Blake forced the question out, refusing to let his mind create the image of Sydney dropped into a stoning pit in the center of some godforsaken backwoods town square.

The moment's hesitation from the stalwart colonel scared the shit out of him.

Finally the headset crackled. "We can't tell. She's completely covered."

He swallowed down grit-laden dread and the memory of Sydney's pretty smile the day they'd met. It wasn't her. He wouldn't let it be.

His parabolic dish picked up sound, threw it to the satellite and bounced it back through transmitters into his earpiece. The roar of the crowd. A declaration in Arabic.

He tried to tell himself they wouldn't carry out the barbaric punishment. Many governments in the region had outlawed the practice.

This wasn't a government.

The need to charge ahead built. Surged. Pressed. He could all but feel her presence somewhere in

that crowd. So damned close. Not close enough. "Plan of action?"

"Hold steady," the Colonel commanded quietly. "Direct action is not called for."

Like hell. Quitting was not an option. Blake exploded from his low pit and scrambled forward before he finished forming the intent.

Weight tackled his back. Two hundred and thirty pounds of Carlos sandwiched him against the hard-caked sand.

"Oof." Blake reached behind him, twisted a fistful of ghillie suit. "Get the hell off me!"

Voices bombarded through his headset from around him.

"Pin him."

"Contain him. Now."

"Gardner, no direct action. That is an order."

"Screw your goddamn orders!" The hoarse response ripped through Blake's throat. "I'm going in."

"Gardner?" Korba's voice cut through the chaos. "Man, I know where you are right now but don't blow this. Think! It's probably not her. And there's nothing you can do. Nothing."

Nothing? Then he'd die trying before he risked anything happening to Sydney. He punched, bucked, adrenaline giving him the edge to reverse position to his back, staring up at Carlos.