Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Redemption for Misty (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Pierce Securities Book 5) by Anne Conley Page A
Authors: Anne Conley
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cohort in a language Chris didn’t speak but recognized from his months in Syria.
Months he’d hoped to have left behind when he came back stateside.
The windows across the storefront showed a buzz of activity. People were everywhere—bleeding, crying, covered in dust from explosions, covering their heads as they scurried around. They were seeking cover, looking for loved ones or someone in charge. Police were barking orders, trying to find sense in the madness. Some hardcore protesters were still yelling at everyone, trying to get attention for whatever cause they championed—it was hard to make sense of it anymore. Chris saw teams of people working on explosive devices on doors around the square through a cloud of hazy smoke, but no one worked on the one on Misty’s door.
But one man stood still in the midst of the bedlam. A man in black fatigues, like everyone else, covered in gray dust—unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t know him.
Ghost.
Saul led them to a small round table, forcing Misty into his lap, gun still trained to her head, and Chris followed, sitting across from him, his profile to Ghost. Saul hadn’t seen the man; he was focused solely on Chris.
Leaning back in a forced gesture of casual nonchalance, trying to portray a visual of confidence, Chris rested his hands on his thighs. He flashed the number two with his fingers, followed by his pointer and thumb in the shape of a gun, to let Ghost know there were two gunmen. He pointed to Saul and then the kitchen to tell him where they were. Then he flashed four fingers and tapped his leg twice before pointing to the kitchen to convey there were eight hostages back there. Ghost took off at a controlled run around the building.
“So… is this a Muslim thing? I’m not sure I can garner a lot of sympathy with the powers that be over a religious turf war on American soil.” Chris spoke calmly, and to his relief, Saul put the gun down on the table. Misty practically sagged into Saul’s lap as the gun came down from her face.
Chris crossed his legs to have better access to his ankle holster. Sitting so casually next to the bomb on the door was freaking him out, but he could only handle one thing at a time.
“No. I told you,” Saul raked his free hand through his hair, “it’s about the refugees needing a home to come to.” The hand resting on the Uzi twitched. Misty sat calmly in his lap, eyes wide, waiting for a signal from Chris. He wasn’t going to give one. He didn’t want her to do a damn thing but stay alive.
“So tell me about it. How many are we talking?” He felt sick talking about this so calmly while his girl sat across from him in so much danger.
Saul scratched his chin while he was considering the answer. “There are thousands in the camps, but we just want our families here.” Chris held back his disbelief that Saul actually believed he could do something. He couldn’t do a damn thing, and he wasn’t about to try. He just needed a distraction, which seemed to be working.
When the gunshots went off in the kitchen, Chris took his opportunity. Misty reacted by jumping to the side and diving to the floor, and Chris’s gun was out of his ankle holster and in his hand in a nanosecond, trained on Saul’s face before he could tighten his hold on his Uzi.
Chris swept it off the table—toward Misty—and stood, towering over Saul. Misty grabbed the gun and held it like a novice, which scared Chris more than almost anything. He held his free hand out for her, and she rushed into his arms.
Checking the weapon, he trained it on Saul instead of his pea-shooter, feeling the familiar heft of the firearm.
“He has more guns under his coat,” Misty whispered.
“Okay.” To Saul, Chris said, “Hands up. I need to see them.” He wanted to know what was going on in the kitchen but needed to keep an eye on Saul. And the bomb on the door was an ever present reminder that there was a cluster-fuck happening outside.
“Misty?!”
Months he’d hoped to have left behind when he came back stateside.
The windows across the storefront showed a buzz of activity. People were everywhere—bleeding, crying, covered in dust from explosions, covering their heads as they scurried around. They were seeking cover, looking for loved ones or someone in charge. Police were barking orders, trying to find sense in the madness. Some hardcore protesters were still yelling at everyone, trying to get attention for whatever cause they championed—it was hard to make sense of it anymore. Chris saw teams of people working on explosive devices on doors around the square through a cloud of hazy smoke, but no one worked on the one on Misty’s door.
But one man stood still in the midst of the bedlam. A man in black fatigues, like everyone else, covered in gray dust—unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t know him.
Ghost.
Saul led them to a small round table, forcing Misty into his lap, gun still trained to her head, and Chris followed, sitting across from him, his profile to Ghost. Saul hadn’t seen the man; he was focused solely on Chris.
Leaning back in a forced gesture of casual nonchalance, trying to portray a visual of confidence, Chris rested his hands on his thighs. He flashed the number two with his fingers, followed by his pointer and thumb in the shape of a gun, to let Ghost know there were two gunmen. He pointed to Saul and then the kitchen to tell him where they were. Then he flashed four fingers and tapped his leg twice before pointing to the kitchen to convey there were eight hostages back there. Ghost took off at a controlled run around the building.
“So… is this a Muslim thing? I’m not sure I can garner a lot of sympathy with the powers that be over a religious turf war on American soil.” Chris spoke calmly, and to his relief, Saul put the gun down on the table. Misty practically sagged into Saul’s lap as the gun came down from her face.
Chris crossed his legs to have better access to his ankle holster. Sitting so casually next to the bomb on the door was freaking him out, but he could only handle one thing at a time.
“No. I told you,” Saul raked his free hand through his hair, “it’s about the refugees needing a home to come to.” The hand resting on the Uzi twitched. Misty sat calmly in his lap, eyes wide, waiting for a signal from Chris. He wasn’t going to give one. He didn’t want her to do a damn thing but stay alive.
“So tell me about it. How many are we talking?” He felt sick talking about this so calmly while his girl sat across from him in so much danger.
Saul scratched his chin while he was considering the answer. “There are thousands in the camps, but we just want our families here.” Chris held back his disbelief that Saul actually believed he could do something. He couldn’t do a damn thing, and he wasn’t about to try. He just needed a distraction, which seemed to be working.
When the gunshots went off in the kitchen, Chris took his opportunity. Misty reacted by jumping to the side and diving to the floor, and Chris’s gun was out of his ankle holster and in his hand in a nanosecond, trained on Saul’s face before he could tighten his hold on his Uzi.
Chris swept it off the table—toward Misty—and stood, towering over Saul. Misty grabbed the gun and held it like a novice, which scared Chris more than almost anything. He held his free hand out for her, and she rushed into his arms.
Checking the weapon, he trained it on Saul instead of his pea-shooter, feeling the familiar heft of the firearm.
“He has more guns under his coat,” Misty whispered.
“Okay.” To Saul, Chris said, “Hands up. I need to see them.” He wanted to know what was going on in the kitchen but needed to keep an eye on Saul. And the bomb on the door was an ever present reminder that there was a cluster-fuck happening outside.
“Misty?!”
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