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Shot to the Heart
by
Emily Bunney
A SEAL Team Romeo Novella
Copyright © 2022 by Emily Bunney
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever with the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Art by Jada D’Lee Designs
Edited by Kraken Communications LLC
First published 2022 by Emily Bunney
www.emilybunney.com
Dedicated to my brother - we may not have always seen eye to eye, but I wouldn’t change you for the world. Love you xx
Chapter 1
Jake
6 years ago - Afghanistan
I’m cold. Endless hours of inactivity have turned my bones to ice. The large compound in the foothills of the Safed Koh mountain range has been in my rifle sight for the last twelve hours. I’ve been watching the comings and goings of the insurgents from my sniper nest and jotting down the guard changes in my dog-eared notebook.
I try to block out the constant chatter in my earpiece, though I’m still reporting in as I need to so that the assault team has the most up-to-date intel. They’ll be moving in at oh-four-hundred hours just before the next guard change. Hopefully these men will be tired and not on their A game when the team moves in and takes control of the compound.
According to our recon team, there are four American hostages inside, due to be executed on live video link today at noon, so this mission is time sensitive to say the least. As go time draws closer, I hear our Lieutenant give the signal for the team to fast-rope out of the helicopter, and they begin to hump it on foot the three miles to the compound.
This should only take our elite SEAL team fifteen minutes at most. I almost envy them–I’ve spent days crawling, climbing, slinking, getting bitten by every bug, scratched by every thicket, attempting to relieve myself while laying on my side, eating protein bars, looking through night vision goggles or my sniper rifle scope for endless hours, sleeping in fifteen minute bursts. So right now a fast three mile hike sounds great.
As the team draws closer to the compound, I prepare my gear, going through checks to make sure my rifle is ready and loaded, my line of sight is clear, and I’m ready to cover my brothers once the extraction gets underway. As a sniper, I often feel detached from the main action and the rest of the team, but then I remind myself that I’m covering their asses so that they can get the job done. We all have our jobs to do and not many have the stomach for mine.
As the chatter on the radio dies down to the bare minimum, I know the team is closing in. I keep my rifle scope trained on the evacuation point, but raise my night vision goggles to the east where I can see the team moving in.
After hours of nothing, the next few minutes are a crazy flurry of activity. The team splits up into smaller units and quietly takes out most of the guards, piercing their lungs with knives so they can’t make a sound to alert the others. Once inside, I see flashes of rifle fire as they take out the men inside, and I hear over the radio that the hostages have been secured.
Adrenaline still pumps hard through my veins as I watch the team begin to exit the compound, my best friend Pete bringing up the rear. I keep my scope trained on him; he’s in the most vulnerable position right now. The stupid son of a bitch always volunteers to be last man out. As the medic he likes to make sure no one is left behind.
So when I see the insurgent clamber out of an underground bunker and raise his AK47, all my instincts kick in. I fix him in my crosshairs and squeeze the trigger just once. The satisfying crack from the MK11 is followed by the insurgent’s head snapping back and his lifeless body falling to the ground. As the team registers the gunfire and turns toward it, weapons raised, I hear Pete thank me over the radio.
He’s been my best friend since we were kids, and we came up through the ranks together. I’ll always have his back, and he’ll always have mine. We’re brothers in every sense of the word.
That’s why I can’t believe I miss it as the insurgent I think I’ve killed gets to his feet and raises his pistol, firing off a single bullet before I can take him down for good. When I switch to my night vision goggles, I feel my blood run cold in my veins, seizing around my heart. Pete lies lifeless on the ground …
I sit bolt upright in bed, my body drenched in sweat, and my breathing sawing in and out of my lungs so quickly I feel lightheaded and disoriented. It slowly registers that I’m not lying in the dirt in the Afghan mountains watching my best friend die because of my mistake. I’m in my bed in the house I share near the Coronado Naval Base, and it’s been six fucking years since that night. So why does it still feel so raw? I dart my eyes around the room to remind myself that I really am safely at home and try to regulate my breathing.
As it calms down, I drag my fingers through my sweaty blonde hair, swing my legs out of bed and rest my elbows on my knees. That was the worst nightmare I’ve had in six months and it can’t be a coincidence that I have it the night before I’m due to head home on leave. Home to Crescent Bay, the same small northern California town Pete and I grew up in, the same town I haven’t had the balls to return to since his funeral. I’ve been quietly freaking out about it for a few weeks and even the team barbecue last night didn’t help distract me.
