Searching for Home - Kris Michaels
“Bogie in the south courtyard.”
Scott Evers held up his hand, and his squad of SEALs froze. As Officer in Charge, he had the weight of every life on his shoulders, the lives of his men and any innocent people inside the compound they were in the process of infiltrating.
“Clear.” Hawk, the team’s sniper, gave them the go-ahead through the comms. Scott extended his arm and gave the hand signal for his men to advance. The sound of boots against concrete and flagstone was hushed as they ghosted over the expanse toward the main house. Reports from the CIA had provided a headcount of ten bogies and five staff inside the main house. It was unknown if the staff were present at night or if they were loyal to the bastard his squad was there to apprehend. The host government of Somalia had provided them access to get the target out of their country, a task at which the men on this specially formed team excelled.
As he approached the divided hallway just past the massive kitchen that would split up his team, he signaled for Roach and his men to take the right passage. He and his five men would take the left. They divided and entered the house without being seen. So far, so good.
His team restacked behind him, taking positions for room entry and sweeps. Before they advanced to the upper levels, they’d clear the bottom floors. Equipped with suppressors attached to the muzzles of their M4A1s, the team would have a chance of making it to the upper levels undetected.
They worked in a rhythmic and well-rehearsed dance. “Clear.” The word was said repeatedly in a hushed whisper as rooms were searched and left empty. They mounted the stairs, staggered to provide the best three-sixty coverage. Each man moved in concert with the man in front of him. Weapons up, ready for anything. The second floor's landing groaned under Trucker’s weight, and the team’s point man froze.
“Stand by,” Scott whispered and waited to see if the sound would bring the personal guards from their stations. The outside guards had already been taken down or out and weren’t a worry.
“Movement in the target’s office,” Hawk reported.
They waited for several seconds before Scott ordered them forward. Trucker pointed to the area where he’d stepped, and each of his men avoided the spot on the landing.
As they advanced, a toilet flushed, and a door opened almost immediately afterward, directly across from Joker’s position. The target’s guard stepped out, looked up, and grabbed for his weapon. Joker neutralized the sentry. The sound of the suppressor was muffled but still loud enough to be heard. The footfall of running feet from further inside the manse was a battle cry they knew well.
“We’ve been made. Roach, we’re heading to the target.” Scott spoke, and he and his men advanced as Roach’s acknowledgment came across the comms. Thumper, his second in command, advanced to the corner and took up the lookout position as the rest of them cleared the rooms and followed. A sentry peeked around the corner. Thumper was ready for him, and his second in command’s shot sprayed the sentry’s skull and brain matter across the painted wall on the other side of the hall.
All hell busted loose at that point. Thumper held the corner, they advanced, and Joker kept everyone off their six. With a high/low spray of bullets, he and Trucker pushed down any suppressing fire, and his team slid around the corner. The sentries scattered into rooms along the corridor. Urban warfare. It was what they’d trained for and what they did better than any other specially formed team.
“Man down.” Roach’s call. “She’s got a gun. Where did she go? Female shooter.”
Scott shook his head; he couldn’t help Roach or the others. His group focused on taking out the three men that had scattered. Thumper picked off one as he and the men entered, searched, and cleared a room. That left one other before they made it to the office.
He spoke quietly into his comms, “Hawk, status on the primary.”
“Not moving. Three in the room. I can take out the guards. The primary is obscured.”
“Stand by.” He nodded to Trucker. They would be the entry force with Parlay and Ninja sweeping.
A man stood without a weapon, hands in the air. “I surrender.” His perfect English was loud and clear.
“On the ground. Now,” Ninja demanded.
The man dropped and extended his hands well in front of him. Parlay advanced, searched the man, and