Page 29 of Rescuing Mary

“Sitrep! Sitrep!” Ghost yelled, his voice echoing through the earbuds of the other Delta Force men.

Trigger and his team had secured the girls and gathered them all together in the largest of the three tents they’d been held in. Three had been killed in the raid, but Lefty, Doc, and Brain had taken out the men guarding them before they’d been able to shoot any more. Brain was put in charge of speaking to the girls, as he was the only one who could communicate with them. He was a language savant and spoke more than thirty different languages, hence his nickname.

Doc was tending to the injured girls, and seemed to be doing his best to keep his temper under control. The girls were beyond freaked out. They were emotionally scarred, and it was more than obvious which ones had been abused, as they cringed away from the Deltas anytime they got close. The little French girl was found hiding amongst them as well. They weren’t yet sure if she’d been assaulted. During the short time the teams had been watching the rebel camp, the captors hadn’t seemed to differentiate between the local girls and the international ones.

Oz and Grover were standing guard outside the tent holding the former hostages, and Lucky and Lefty were doing their best to get the trucks started so they could get the hell out of there.

Coach and Blade had disappeared into the surrounding trees, chasing after the rebels who had decided to cut and run rather than stay and fight.

“Dammit, Beatle. Truck. Sitrep!” Ghost barked harshly, even knowing they probably wouldn’t answer. He looked over at Fletch, who was staring at the smoldering tent that used to be standing thirty feet away, but was now nothing more than a smoking mess.

“Coach and Blade, get your asses back here. Pronto,” Ghost ordered as he and Fletch made their way cautiously toward where the tent had been standing.

“You need us?” Trigger asked.

“Hold,” Ghost said, his eyes scanning for his teammates. He’d heard the gunfire coming from inside the tent, but he’d been busy taking out his own share of the rebels. Beatle and Truck knew what they were doing, and he hadn’t been concerned. In all their surveillance, they hadn’t seen any weapons other than the rifles the rebels were constantly holding. No RPGs, no explosives. The rebels were prepared, but they weren’t exactly a well-oiled Army machine. Their clothes were worn and torn and the highlight of most of their days seemed to be chow time.

Ghost gestured to Fletch to go to the right and he went to the left, his eyes constantly checking for any kind of movement. He came upon a few rebels who were still alive and dispatched them without mercy. He’d seen for himself the terror in the little girls’ faces. He had no sympathy for the men who’d kidnapped and abused them. None.

At one corner of the smoldering rubble, he saw a leg wearing a pair of black pants.

Kneeling, Ghost frantically tore boards and debris away from the man. He sighed in relief when he saw a pair of familiar eyes blinking up at him.

“Beatle? You okay, man?”

Beatle nodded and slowly sat up, with Ghost’s help. He shook his head sluggishly and said, “Holy shit.”

“Where’s Truck?” Ghost asked, more relieved than he could say that Beatle seemed to be all right. There was a trickle of blood coming from the side of his head, but otherwise all his limbs seemed to be good, and he was quickly becoming more and more aware of his surroundings.

“He was over there the last time I saw him,” Beatle said, pointing to where they could see Fletch cautiously combing through the debris. “We were picking them off one by one when a rebel ran right toward him. Truck shot him and the guy went down to his knees. Truck yelled something, then kaboom.”

Ghost hauled Beatle up and kept one hand on his teammate’s elbow and the other on the trigger of his weapon. The last thing they needed was one of the rebels to pop up and shoot them. They made their way toward Fletch, their eyes constantly on the lookout for either bad guys or Truck.

By the time they made it to Fletch, Beatle was walking almost normally. He’d regained his balance and was kicking at wood planks that used to be tables as he went.

“Where exactly did you last see Truck?” Ghost asked, well aware that time was running out. They’d made enough noise for any rebel in a ten-mile radius to hear them, and they wanted to get the hell out of dodge before reinforcements showed up.

“There,” Beatle said, gesturing to a point about ten feet away from them. Without a word, the three men fanned out and began lifting every piece of wood they came in contact with.

“Oh, shit. Found him!” Fletch said urgently. “Help me!”

Ghost tasted bile in the back of his throat at the tone of Fletch’s voice, but didn’t hesitate to close in on him. With Beatle’s help, they threw off a large wooden tabletop, two arms, a leg, and someone’s intestines before completely uncovering Truck.

He was lying on his back, his arms outstretched, his weapon nowhere to be seen. He looked like he was sleeping, but all three Deltas knew that wasn’t the case.

Ghost leaned down and put his fingers on Truck’s carotid artery and held his breath.

He immediately breathed out a sigh of relief at feeling the strong pulse. “He’s alive,” Ghost told the others.

“Injuries?” Fletch asked.

“Not sure,” Ghost said. He looked up and saw a metal box lying nearby. At one time it probably held ammunition, but it was empty now. It did have a huge dent in the side…about the size of a human head. “Help me turn him over so I can check his back. Careful, keep his spine straight.”

With Fletch and Beatle helping, Ghost did a quick battlefield survey of their friend. His spine seemed all right, no protrusions of his spinal cord, and Ghost didn’t see any blood pooling under him either. Glancing down at his limbs, nothing looked obviously broken.

But with the way he’d been buried by debris, he probably had some fractures of some sort.

“Truck?” Ghost said loudly as he squeezed his friend’s shoulder.