the corpse from behind the wheel, and dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground.
More rounds cracked past Masonâs head, thumping into the cab of the truck. His brain yelled for him to get down, but he wasnât going to allow Zeus to get hit.
Zeus grinded the truck into gear and slammed on the gas. Mason lost control of the DShK and tumbled backward, barely managing to grab onto the mount that had been welded crudely to the floor. Mason reached up for the DShK and pulled himself to his feet, firing at the fighters caught in the open.
âFriendlies,â he screamed as they sped toward the building he hoped Renee was using for cover, careful to keep the barrel pointed down the street.
The front left tire blew, sending shards of rubber thumping into the wheel well and the rim cutting into the road. Zeus fought for control, trying desperately to veer away from an imminent collision with the building. He locked up the brakes, spinning the wheel hard to the right, and once again Masonâs grip slipped off the gun.
He was already off balance when the Hilux finally skidded to a halt, and unable to check his forward momentum Mason went tumbling out of the bed and onto the ground.
âBlue, blue, blue,â Zeus yelled, using the US militaryâs code for friendly forces.
He threw the door open, his AK chattering in his hand as Mason lay awkwardly on the ground, the breath knocked out of him.
âGet up,â Zeus shouted, grabbing Mason by his wounded arm and dragging him around the corner toward the door, which suddenly swung open.
Mason worked to catch his breath, seemingly content to let his friend drag him to safety once inside. Zeus dumped him in a corner just as a soldier slammed the door shut behind him. The soldier turned, and Mason smiled at the mixture of surprise and relief covering her face.
âWhatâs up?â he coughed.
CHAPTER 16
----
S ecDef Cage knew that President John Bradley was pissed. What had started out as a simple smash and grab had turned into a shit sandwich, and since it was technically his operation, he knew he had to take a big olâ bite.
Heâd done his best to give the president plausible deniability, but he couldnât keep a lid on the fact that the situation in Syria had gone sideways. There was a thin line between strategy and stupidity, and according to President Bradley heâd taken up permanent residence in the latter.
âHow could you be so . . . fucking stupid ?â Bradley shouted.
The president hated profanity, and Cage knew that on the rare occasions when his boss cursed, it was because he was furious. Not that the SecDef blamed him, especially after the briefing heâd just finished giving.
The SecDef hated the White House Situation Room. It was too small and way too clean. He was used to making decisions on the battlefield, in the dirt with his men, but, unfortunately, that time had passed. He waited for Bradley to calm down, hoping he still had enough stroke to calm the leader of the free world.
The burnished mahogany table and light-blue walls made him feel like he was in the conference room of a hotel, as opposed to the bowels of the White House. At the far end of the table, General Madewell, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat stoically in his Marine Corps uniform, his medals glinting from the overhead lights.
It seemed a lifetime ago that Cage had that very same job, and he could almost guarantee he knew what was going through the manâs mind.
âAnswer me,â Bradley yelled, forcing Cage to return his attention to the president.
âSir, it was a routine operation; it just went bad,â National Security Advisor Simmons said from his spot to the right of the president.
âWhen this appears on CNN in the morning, do you think itâs going to look âroutineâ?â
What no one else in the room realized was that Simmons and Cage had prepared for this meeting four
More rounds cracked past Masonâs head, thumping into the cab of the truck. His brain yelled for him to get down, but he wasnât going to allow Zeus to get hit.
Zeus grinded the truck into gear and slammed on the gas. Mason lost control of the DShK and tumbled backward, barely managing to grab onto the mount that had been welded crudely to the floor. Mason reached up for the DShK and pulled himself to his feet, firing at the fighters caught in the open.
âFriendlies,â he screamed as they sped toward the building he hoped Renee was using for cover, careful to keep the barrel pointed down the street.
The front left tire blew, sending shards of rubber thumping into the wheel well and the rim cutting into the road. Zeus fought for control, trying desperately to veer away from an imminent collision with the building. He locked up the brakes, spinning the wheel hard to the right, and once again Masonâs grip slipped off the gun.
He was already off balance when the Hilux finally skidded to a halt, and unable to check his forward momentum Mason went tumbling out of the bed and onto the ground.
âBlue, blue, blue,â Zeus yelled, using the US militaryâs code for friendly forces.
He threw the door open, his AK chattering in his hand as Mason lay awkwardly on the ground, the breath knocked out of him.
âGet up,â Zeus shouted, grabbing Mason by his wounded arm and dragging him around the corner toward the door, which suddenly swung open.
Mason worked to catch his breath, seemingly content to let his friend drag him to safety once inside. Zeus dumped him in a corner just as a soldier slammed the door shut behind him. The soldier turned, and Mason smiled at the mixture of surprise and relief covering her face.
âWhatâs up?â he coughed.
CHAPTER 16
----
S ecDef Cage knew that President John Bradley was pissed. What had started out as a simple smash and grab had turned into a shit sandwich, and since it was technically his operation, he knew he had to take a big olâ bite.
Heâd done his best to give the president plausible deniability, but he couldnât keep a lid on the fact that the situation in Syria had gone sideways. There was a thin line between strategy and stupidity, and according to President Bradley heâd taken up permanent residence in the latter.
âHow could you be so . . . fucking stupid ?â Bradley shouted.
The president hated profanity, and Cage knew that on the rare occasions when his boss cursed, it was because he was furious. Not that the SecDef blamed him, especially after the briefing heâd just finished giving.
The SecDef hated the White House Situation Room. It was too small and way too clean. He was used to making decisions on the battlefield, in the dirt with his men, but, unfortunately, that time had passed. He waited for Bradley to calm down, hoping he still had enough stroke to calm the leader of the free world.
The burnished mahogany table and light-blue walls made him feel like he was in the conference room of a hotel, as opposed to the bowels of the White House. At the far end of the table, General Madewell, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat stoically in his Marine Corps uniform, his medals glinting from the overhead lights.
It seemed a lifetime ago that Cage had that very same job, and he could almost guarantee he knew what was going through the manâs mind.
âAnswer me,â Bradley yelled, forcing Cage to return his attention to the president.
âSir, it was a routine operation; it just went bad,â National Security Advisor Simmons said from his spot to the right of the president.
âWhen this appears on CNN in the morning, do you think itâs going to look âroutineâ?â
What no one else in the room realized was that Simmons and Cage had prepared for this meeting four
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