Fatal Mistake

The Black Hawk’s rotors thundered over Cal’s head as he pressed his phone against his ear and listened hard for any word from Tara. He’d transferred her call to his cell and despite her phone remaining in her pocket, he’d picked up enough of her movements to stay current on her situation.

He’d heard the board crack against Keeler’s body and Tara’s footsteps as they’d pounded away from the pump house. And then…then…man, it had been gut-wrenching when a gunshot rang through her phone, and she’d issued a desperate plea for help. Every protective instinct in Cal’s body sat up and took notice. But even worse, the sound was followed by silence.

Deadly silence.

“ETA, four minutes.” Chopper pilot Zach Lawson’s voice came over Cal’s earbud.

“Copy that,” Cal said, trying not to snap at Zach.

Cal was worried about Tara—that was a given—but he also didn’t like this op. Didn’t like it one bit. His six-person team should be suited up and onboard with him. An FBI Critical Incident Response team, they always had aircraft and pilots on standby and could have wheels up in, say, an hour or so, but Tara couldn’t wait for an hour. He’d had to move on the fly.

So no backup. No team. No trained operators carrying out their assignment alongside him. Tonight he had only the phone connection to Tara, the red blip of her cell on his GPS, and an aerial map of the farm for intel.

Could be worse, he supposed. At least she’d thought to call the hotline manned by agents 24/7 so they could instantly respond to credible threats. If she’d called 911, the deputy who Cal instructed to stand down at the pump house could be racing after Tara and Keeler, getting both of them killed or even causing a SWAT situation that the deputy wasn’t prepared to handle.

“Three minutes,” Zach announced.

Cal couldn’t sit any longer. He needed to pace but with the small space he settled for standing, his shoulders and head bent to keep from hitting the overhead. He stared down at the boots he’d worn as a SEAL on too many hostage rescue missions to count. Missions that ended in more failures than Cal could accept. He slammed a fist into the chopper’s metal hull, the pain stinging up his arm and taking away some of the anger.

Some.

The rage had been simmering in his gut since a rescue gone bad where a seven-year-old boy died in his arms. Cal carried a boatload of regret from that op, and now, women dying at the Lone Wolf’s hands? That had added even more guilt to the equation. Too many lives lost on his watch. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen to Tara.

He jerked out his phone and checked her GPS dot. She continued to move deeper into the woods, and it would take him longer to get to her.

“Two minutes,” Zach said.

Cal shrugged into his pack and double-checked his assault rifle and ammo before stepping to the door. Outside the city, black clouds obscured the moon and stars. Obscured his landing.

Once they were on target, he’d fast-rope down to the road and be on Keeler’s tail without the guy even sensing his arrival. Perhaps Keeler would hear a chopper whirling overhead, hovering for a moment, then moving on, but nothing to put the guy on alert. Give it another hour or so and the full squad of operators would arrive.

Now that thought was smile worthy.

“One minute,” Zach said.

Cal lowered his night-vision goggles. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the greenish color tinting his vision and pulled on his assault gloves. Made with a Nomex and Kevlar blend for protection, they had a gun-cut finger for increased dexterity.

The helo went into a hover, and Cal glanced at Zach, who gave a thumbs-up.

Go time.

A burst of adrenaline raced through Cal’s blood, but he regulated his breathing. He nodded at Zach and jerked open the door. Air roared past, sucking and swirling. He kicked out the rope and grabbed it. Sliding down, the friction burned into his gloves. Thankfully, the Nomex shielded his hand. He hit the road hard, jarring his whole body. He wasted no time but signaled a successful landing, and the helo departed like a hummingbird whirling into the black of night.

He took a moment to get his bearings. To his right sat an open grain field. On his left, a thick grove of trees mixed with the darkness. He pulled out the GPS device and followed the red dot about five hundred yards ahead in the stand of trees. Still moving, Tara had slowed her pace. Probably tiring. Made her more vulnerable.

He had to move. Now!

He crept through the woods. Silently. Carefully.

Step. Step. Step. Break. A quick check of his surroundings.

Rinse and repeat. Over and over.

A tedious way to advance, but standard operating procedure for a hostage rescue professional dictated a cautious approach to arrive undetected and alive. After all, he had to protect himself first if he hoped to save another person.

In the thick of the trees now, Cal heard an owl hoot above, but otherwise deafening silence greeted him as he crept forward. Muggy spring air closed in, the forest feeling like a sauna, and sweat dripped from his body.

Fifty yards away from Tara’s location, he lifted his goggles and raised his rifle. He sighted in the area ahead and looked through the red crosshairs, but found no one.

He crept closer and swung the rifle to his right. Held his breath. Searched. Twenty feet ahead, Tara stood with her back to a tree, her chest rapidly rising and falling. No sign of Keeler.

Cal backed up and skirted behind trees to edge closer for a better look. He wanted to call out to her, but his sixth sense told him something was hinky. He took a stand behind a tree and scanned the area.

A branch snapped to his right, echoing through the still of the night.

He swung the scope, saw nothing, but dropped his finger to the trigger anyway. If Keeler and the Lone Wolf were one and the same, Cal wanted to take him alive to gain much-needed ISIS intel. But the most important thing right now—the most important thing at all times to a law enforcement officer—was to protect innocent life. Sure, if he brought the bomber in, or even put two in his chest, Cal might be stopping a future attack, but that attack wasn’t certain.

Tara’s life was on the line right now.

He ran his scope over the area, seeing nothing, but his frog sense kept screaming he was missing something. He continued to scan.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Show yourself.

A sudden explosion in the distance thundered through the air. The ground rumbled beneath his feet in rolling waves, and the sky flashed with brilliant reds and oranges. He estimated the blast came from the pump house, and now any evidence they might have recovered to locate Keeler should he get away burned in a red-hot inferno.

A gunshot split the night. A cry of distress followed. Cal swung his scope back to Tara in time to catch sight of her collapsing to the ground. He stifled a shout of rage and scanned the area. Saw no one.

“FBI. Don’t move,” Cal called out, though he didn’t have eyes on Keeler.

Cal remained in position, his finger itching to jerk the trigger, but he couldn’t very well go firing at random into the forest, hoping to hit a person who may or may not be the Lone Wolf. Who may or may not have just shot Tara. Cal needed more information to discharge his weapon.

Deep laughter rumbled through the trees behind Tara. “Nice try, Secret Agent Man, but I think you’ll want to check on Tara instead of chasing after me. Adios.”

The guy charged through the trees, the sound of snapping branches and crunching leaves soon trailing off. A sense of urgency to bolt toward Tara ate at Cal’s stomach, but he eased his way up to her, scanning the area with each step, looking for a trap. She lay on her back, and even in the thick of the night, he clearly saw through his NVGs the dark spot pooling on her abdomen.

A gut shot, one of the worst places to take a hit. She wouldn’t survive if he didn’t stop the bleeding and get her to the hospital.

Memories of the day the young boy lost his life on the raid came rushing back, filling Cal’s chest with apprehension, but he kept moving and grabbed his radio to connect with Zach.

“Alpha One, this is Alpha Two requesting exfil at secondary location.” A cold feeling of dread twisted through his body. “Hostage has taken a bullet. Radio the ER and let them know we’re bringing her in with a gunshot wound to the left abdomen. And get word to standby deputies that Keeler’s on the move. He’s armed and dangerous and heading due west of my coordinates.”

“Roger that,” Zach said calmly, the way all operators on the team would respond.

Cal stowed his radio, grabbed his flashlight, and ran the beam over Tara’s face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth pinched. He swung the light over her body, stopping at the wound. He positioned himself above her yet kept an eye on the location where Keeler had fled.

“Tara.” Cal put cheer he didn’t feel into his voice. “It’s me, Cal. I told you I’d get here.”

Her eyes fluttered open.

“I…he…” Her voice, a mere whisper, evaporated into the inky black sky.

“Don’t talk.” Cal tore off his gloves and ripped his medical kit from his pack. He flipped on his headlamp and pressed gauze pads on the wound.

She moaned, and the phone she clutched in her hand fell to the ground.

“It’s okay, Tara. I’m going to get you through this,” he soothed as her blood easily saturated the gauze, increasing his concern.

He grabbed a couple rolls of Kerlix and pressed hard. She groaned, a drawn-out, tortured expression of pain, but it was weaker this time. He rested his fingers on her wrist to find a fast and thready pulse.

Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

He turned his attention back to her face and cringed at the tightness he found there. He gently swept a strand of hair from her eyes and bent low. Her agony sent a visceral pain piercing his body, hitting him in a place in his heart he thought long dead.

“We’re going to take a little trip, sweetheart.” He did his best to keep his concern from his voice. “But don’t worry. I’m going with you, and I’ll get you to the ER in plenty of time.”

He picked up her phone, then lifted her into his arms, his promise hanging in the air. Why had he made another promise? Like the one he’d made to the boy on his failed rescue. Just a kid who didn’t make it.

What good was a promise when he had no control over the endgame and it was up to God to save her life?

12:20 a.m.
 

Pain kept Tara’s eyes clamped down tight, but she was vaguely aware of bright lights overhead, and the medical staff’s frenzied tones as they hurried her toward the ER and shouted words like peritoneal cavity, hematocrits, and pancreas. She remembered having a CT scan, but then her hematocrit had fallen, whatever that meant, and they now rushed her toward a surgical suite.

The gurney bumped through swinging doors and came to a rest, but she couldn’t summon the energy to open her eyes. The nurse cooed something in her direction. Wooziness along with peace floated around her, and she drifted toward sleep.

Memories of a man’s face lit by a beam of light from his helmet settled in her brain. He had a wide jaw and nose, high cheekbones, eyes that were dark and narrowed holding strength and conviction, but that wasn’t all. As he’d gazed down on her, they’d softened and filled with concern and compassion that she’d never witnessed in a man’s eyes.

Agent Cal Riggins, he’d said his name was. The FBI agent she’d called. He’d told her on the phone that he was there for her, and he had been. Just like he promised. Well, almost anyway. Maybe a few minutes too late. But he had come, and as she’d gone in and out of consciousness on the helicopter, she found him holding her hand every time she woke up, warming her heart. Chasing out her fears as she tried to recall everything she’d seen.

She remembered running in fear from Oren. He’d pursued her and shot at her, bullets racing past her head. Her arms. Shoulders. Then a fiery explosion shook the earth, and he’d fired his handgun again. She could feel the pain slicing through her stomach. Feel the cold ground rise up to meet her. Agent Riggins tending to her, his hands urgent and inflicting even more pain, yet his comforting gaze and tone holding regret over having to do so.