Hot Zone (Elite Force 2)

Hugh Franco.

Dread knotted his gut. Liam had lived through hell on earth before, but it was always worse when his men’s lives were on the line. They were his family, no question. As his three ex-wives would attest, he was married to the job.

“Franco? Franco?” Liam shouted into the mic. “Report in, damn it.”

His headset continued to sputter, some voices coming through piecemeal. None of them Franco.

Crappy headset… Liam’s hands fisted.

“Shit.” He punched the tractor. Knuckles throbbing, he resisted the urge to pitch the mic to the ground.

Wade “Brick” Rocha edged around the tractor. “I’m going in after him, boss. I’ll follow the cable, dig through, and—”

Reason filtered through the rage. He needed to level out, stay in command.

“Hold steady. Not yet. I don’t need two of the team missing.” He refused to believe Franco was dead. Only his voice was gone. Just the radio connection fading. “Let’s check in with the cleanup crew, maybe nab one of the search dogs again to confirm the exact location, since things have shifted.”

Scrubbing along his jaw, he scanned the crews returning to business as if nothing had happened. Training kicked into overdrive at times like these. The cold-sweat stage would set in later, once there wasn’t anything to do but sit and think about how very wrong the day could have gone.

How badly it could still go, as they all hung out together in an active seismic zone.

Guards formed a circle around the perimeter. American soldiers armed with M4 carbines stood alongside multinational troops carrying Uzis, all on the watch for looters targeting more than just store goods. Food and clean water were at a premium, which made them a target, since they had both, thanks to the air force’s RED HORSE unit: Rapid Engineer Deployable Heavy Operational Repair Squadron Engineers. Whether in a war zone or natural disaster, they responded within twenty-four hours with food and water-purification units filling up water trailers called water buffalos.

Liam scanned the outskirts. Everyone from starving survivors to rapists trolling for a defenseless victim.

His M9 pistol stayed strapped to his hip, loaded. Ready.

For now, he had to find Hugh. He steadied his voice and tried again. “Franco, check in.”

“Roger… here…” the familiar voice cut through the chatter, sporadic, but alive.

Thank God.

“Am okay…” Franco continued, the connection crummy with broken interference. “We’re shaken… No exit. Would appreciate… dig us… soon.”

“We’re on it. Not leaving until you’re clear,” Liam promised without hesitation.

Franco was alive, and if anybody could scrap his way through, he could. The guy was the most fearless, the most tenacious on the team.

All the same, Liam intended to bring as much help to the table as he could wrangle out of the already-overtasked people scurrying around the buckled piles of concrete and rebar. He scanned the construction crews—a mix from around the world—for a spare soul to help out.

And came up empty.

He scrubbed a gloved hand over his face. God, his people were maxed already, working alongside a rescue task force from Virginia for the past eighteen hours without sleep. He was running on the fumes left over from his catnap during the cargo plane ride over.

More C-17s dotted the sky, a trio landing one after the other in the distance with more supplies and personnel. Much-needed help. Except it would be hours before they were in place here.

But the helicopter hovering closer? The supplies and personnel that chopper contained would be available in minutes. His headset buzzed with news of a relief dog handler being sent from the Virginia USAR—Urban Search and Rescue—team.

He zeroed in on the cable lowering from the craft. A wiry figure dangled from the end—appeared to be a female in rescue gear with a dog strapped to her chest.

The helicopter was sending in a fresh search pair. A gold mine for a depleted team stretched to the max after over eighteen hours without sleep. These two were also closer than whatever troops or supplies might be loaded in the C-17 still circling in the sky.

He clapped Rocha on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Keep talking to Franco.”

Sure-footed, he jogged across the jagged debris toward the chopper, eyes homed in on the duo spinning on the end of the descending cable.

He was a scavenger from way back, and intended to be first in line to claim her.