Mike Bravo Ops: Iris Read online

  Mike Bravo Ops: Iris

  Eden Finley

  Contents

  Disclaimers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Also by Eden Finley

  Acknowledgments

  Iris Copyright © 2021 by Eden Finley & Saxon James

  * * *

  Cover Illustration Copyright ©

  Cate Ashwood Designs

  Photographer: Paul Henry Serres

  * * *

  Professional beta read by Les Court Services.

  https://www.lescourtauthorservices.com

  Edited by One Love Editing

  https://oneloveediting.com

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.

  For information regarding permission, write to:

  Eden Finley - permissions - [email protected]

  Disclaimers

  Udoola and Darbadeh are completely made up, along with the Muharib terrorist group. While loosely inspired by existing entities, they are all used in a fictitious manner. The actions of the US Army in this work do not reflect the real policies of any branch of the US military. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Iris

  Found family, drinks, and some R and R. It’s the perfect way to come down from a job. We’ve already had a few days to ourselves, and when our boss, Trav, suggested poker night, we all came running like good little puppies.

  I grab another beer from the fridge in the rec room of Mike Bravo headquarters, and on my way back to the poker table, I kiss Angel on the top of her head.

  “Stop trying to see my cards, asshole.” She’s feisty, and we all love her for it.

  “I was just showing you affection.” I pout.

  “Never going to happen.”

  Well, duh, she’s one hundred and fifty pounds of lesbian. Plus, even if she weren’t, she’s too scary to date. She’s an expert shooter and the best sniper on Trav’s payroll. She could take you out from a thousand yards easy.

  I smile widely at her and wink.

  We’re a family here, and I don’t know where I’d be if Trav hadn’t recruited me from the army. I’d probably be working minimum wage and getting antsy about not having access to explosives. Instead, I’m doing what I was born for under a command I trust. I don’t fear my teammates turning on me because of how I identify or who I like to sleep with. I’m what I like to call an equal opportunist, and certain uptight military folk never understood that.

  Trav does. As a gay man who served during Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, he wanted to create a safe work environment for anyone who needed it. I have to say, the private sector is a fuckton more fun. Fewer rules, more money.

  The only sucky part is finding someone who can understand why I’m gone so much. This job isn’t just my job. It’s my life. And that means I can be away for weeks or months at a time, doing something I can’t tell my partner about.

  And I understand it, I do. It would be hard to say to friends and family, “Oh, no, sorry, Iris couldn’t make it. He’s on a mission. But he won’t tell me where. I don’t even know what country he’s in.”

  I would have no idea how to do anything else. We’ve only been back for a few days, and I’m itching to get back in the field. How people with regular jobs don’t question their sanity is a mystery to me. Doing the same thing over and over again?

  No thank you.

  Zeus snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Your call, fuckface.”

  Ah, yes. Found family is the best. And they all love me. Clearly.

  “I fold.” I throw my cards on the table and lean back in my chair. “Hey, question?”

  Angel looks up at the roof. “Dear God, I promise I’ll stop having sex with women if you don’t let Iris ask whatever is about to come out of his mouth. Amen.”

  “All I was going to ask was who wants to hit a bar up after this.” I want to go out. I want to do something. I want to get the adrenaline pumping.

  Angel snorts. “Says the guy who’s almost out of chips.”

  “Exactly, but apart from being out of money, I need to get laid, and none of you are doing it for me.” That’s a lie. The truth is, I’d probably fuck each and every one of the Mike Bravo team if it was allowed. Which it’s not.

  Angel breaks out into a pitchy rendition of P!nk’s “U and Ur Hand,” and the other guys snicker.

  “Is anyone willing to go out?” I ask the room full of ex-military hardasses. “You know I can’t be left to my own devices.”

  But don’t even get me started on how I got the name Iris. I require intense supervision. It was during my first week of basic training when my COs started calling me that, and I endured it throughout my whole military career. I thought with switching to the private sector, I might’ve gotten a new name, but apparently my reputation preceded itself, so I’m stuck with it. That doesn’t stop me from milking it when it suits me.

  Domino calls out from across the room. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Ugh. Anyone who’s not straight want to go?”

  Domino flips me off, but I know he doesn’t actually mind. He’s the only straight guy on the team, but Trav hired him because they served together. Trav trusts him with his life and made him his second-in-command, so that’s good enough for us.

  I would jump at the chance to go out with Domino to some bar and find a woman to take home, but with the mood I’m in, I need the adrenaline hit of being with a man.

  Don’t ask me why it’s more thrilling hooking up with a dude, but it might have something to do with the roughness of it, and I don’t mean getting rough with them. I like it when they get rough with me.

  “No takers?”

  Trav enters the room, and his presence alone demands attention. It’s in the confident way he carries himself. It probably helps he’s a six-five walking wall of muscle. “Who’s up for an extraction job?”

  I raise my hand … that’s holding my beer. Damn it.

  “No,” Trav says.

  Zeus, Atlas, and Ghost raise their hands.

  “Get your gear,” Trav orders. “Wheels up in thirty.”

  “Where’s the op?” I ask. “I’ve barely had anything. I’ll be sober in no time.”

  My boss looks at his watch. “Fair point. Where we’re going, you could keep drinking for another five hours and still be sober by the time we get there. Get your stuff.”

  Yes, this is exactly what I need.

  The whooshing sound of helo blades relaxes me. It’s one of the few things that does. It centers me. It symbolizes either safety or imminent danger. It’s an adrenaline hit or an adrenaline crash, and that’s the shit people like us at Mike Bravo live for.

  Every
man strapped to this Hawk is here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with the nature of this op or our innate reflex to follow orders. It’s the thrill. The high.

  All I know is I’m thankful for the SNAFU from some government, top priority, classified team. I get to see some action and throw up a big double bird to the man while I clean up their mess.

  “Ten klicks out,” Trav says in my earpiece.

  Here we go.

  We do a last equipment check, and I tug on my harness as I prepare to rappel to some random rooftop in the hostile country of Udoola in North Africa.

  The night is a blanket of darkness, but it’s not like helicopters are known to be quiet. Chances of arriving unnoticed are slim to fuck all, because when you’re called out to a deserted village in the middle of nowhere, there’s nothing but nighttime covering you.

  The intel we received says a US black ops team fucked up their mission and were taken down by the Muharib extremist group. The Muharib has supposedly since moved on, but that intel is eighteen hours old, and we have no idea how many men are left to rescue or how many Muharib soldiers are waiting behind to kill us too.

  When the government sends you on a suicide mission, you better hope you hit your mark, or that’s how you end up here—relying on private contractors to save your ass. Because how else can the military justify a rescue crew for people who technically don’t exist on a mission that never happened?

  Trav’s behind the controls of this Hawk, and his calm and commanding presence has a way of reassuring me everything will go smoothly. We train for this. We’ve done it a billion times. But there’s always something about the real thing versus a training op. Death is a whole lot more real out here. And I live for it.

  “You’re up,” Trav says.

  Atlas and I move toward opposite sides of the helo.

  Zeus triple- and quadruple-checks my harness and ropes and gives me a thumbs-up, and then does the same for Atlas.

  “Holding,” Trav says, giving us the go-ahead.

  Backing up, my feet hit the edge of the platform, and I lean outward, ready to rappel.

  “You all know what to do if I don’t come back,” I say.

  The voices echo in my ear. “Wipe your browser history.”

  “Perfect.” With a mock salute, Atlas and I make our move, jumping in sync and rappelling as fast as we can without slamming into the rooftop and breaking our ankles.

  We’ve done this maneuver countless times, and it’s flawless.

  We’re unclipped half a second later and running for cover before any insurgents have a chance to take us out.

  We hit the stairwell and flatten ourselves against the wall to get our bearings, but the break is short. If there is anyone lurking around this place, we’ve put on a show for them, and now we have targets on our heads.

  Atlas waves me forward. He’s built like Trav, and it’s surprising a tank like him can even fit through the narrow stairwell.

  I’m one of the smallest on the team. I’m strong as hell but in a tight and agile package. It makes me fast. Atlas is the opposite. He’s an ex-SEAL and is as wide as he is tall. He looks like a mean motherfucker, but the opposite couldn’t be more true. He’s probably the nicest, most caring guy on the team. Don’t get me wrong, if it comes down to him or you in a fight, he will end you with a snap of his fingers as easy as Thanos, but in general, you know, aside from all the killing, he’s a decent guy.

  Maybe I should tell him to put that on his dating profile to spruce it up a bit. He’s a hopeless romantic, wanting to save his damsel in distress … or whatever the male equivalent of damsel is.

  When we get to street level, Atlas takes out a thermal imaging device while I reach for my counter-IED equipment. Trav can afford top-of-the-line, pre-market gadgets, but the technology still needs improving. All those spy-like devices in movies and TV are complete bullshit.

  I’d trust a bomb-sniffing dog more than I would this IED detector, but I’ve been told I’m not allowed one.

  Dogs don’t like helicopters as much as I do, I guess. That, and with me as an owner, there’s no way any dog of mine would know when to keep its mouth shut. Trav said it would be a disaster.

  Thermal imaging isn’t that great either. While it gives Atlas great night vision, trying to find live bodies or attackers in wait is hard when the view doesn’t penetrate through walls or buildings.

  We’re armed and in full tactical gear—helmets, gloves, goggles—and wearing as much Kevlar as possible without restricting our movements.

  Atlas leads, and I stay hot on his heels as we put as much distance between us and our landing site as we can in case they’re targeting it.

  In these situations, it’s live or die. There is no chance to get your bearings. It’s go, go, go from the moment your feet hit the ground. Any hesitation and you’re dead.

  We had a plan coming in—to clear the one-street town from south to north—hopefully finding some US operatives alive in the process. All the buildings are one or two stories, mostly made out of clay and mud.

  The night is still, but the air is humid even though it’s well past dark. Sweat drips off my brow as we move from building to building with quick feet.

  Atlas uses his device to quickly scan rooms, looking for any heat signature, but they’re all empty.

  We’re equipped with bodycams that send a live feed to Ghost back in the small city of Darbardeh. That way, we don’t have to relay feedback and our team can see what we’re seeing.

  Our intel has the black ops team last seen on the northern corner of the village, but on the off chance they’ve moved for safety reasons or by force, we need to check every nook and cranny along the way.

  We also want to make sure we really are alone out here.

  When we don’t find anyone, we take it as a good sign, but that’s also a bad sign. Because if no one really is here, where are our marks?

  At the second to last structure in the village, Atlas holds his hand in a fist, telling me to stop moving. He goes into stealth mode while I press myself against the side of a building. He gets low to the ground and crawls his way across the dirt path and sits under an open window.

  Atlas extends the handle on his thermal device, lifting the camera above his head to look inside where he thinks he saw movement.

  My breaths sound like thunder in my ears. I’m not used to silence. The guys joke the only time I’m ever quiet is when my life depends on it, so I’m sure they revel in these kinds of missions. It’s the only thing I hate about an op. Silence unnerves me.

  Atlas holds up two fingers to me, indicating how many people are inside, and then here comes the tricky part. There’s no real way for us to know if these are our guys, innocents in the wrong place, or targets we need to take out.

  I ready myself, tucking my devices away and slipping my assault rifle strap around so the weapon sits at my back. This needs to be fast and quiet.

  Atlas waves me forward, and I run in a crouch until I’m right next to the open doorway.

  The murmurings inside are an Arabic dialect I’m not familiar with, so I can only identify some words and definitely not enough to piece a sentence together.

  “Ghost?” I whisper into my comms.

  His native tongue is Dari, but he’s multilingual and gained US citizenship by translating for US troops during the war in Afghanistan.

  “I can get the gist,” Ghost says, “And this is paraphrasing, but they’re asking what to do with them. But they could be talking about anyone—the team of guys we’re looking for, us … Hell, they could be talking about their teenage kids for all I know.”

  There’s more chatter from inside.

  “The helicopter,” Ghost translates. “The other guy is saying: It was a flyby looking for signs of life. Not that they’ll find any.”

  I close my eyes and let out a silent breath.

  We’re too late.

  “Do we wait here? What if they come back?”

  “Let them. All they’d
find is bodies. Let’s get out of here and tell Farouk the job is done. I want to be nowhere near here when the air strike hits.”

  Air strike? Fuck.

  I can hear them on the move, and I know they’re coming my way. There’s no time to run. I slip my knife out of its holster strapped to my thigh. My Glock would be more accurate and effective, but we can’t be sure these two are the only ones around, and I’m not going to risk drawing attention this way.

  I know Atlas will have my back, but this is one of those times where I have to act, and I have to act now.

  The second one of them steps through the door, I grab him. Taking a hostage in this type of situation won’t work. Extremists are all about dying for the bigger cause. I’ve dealt with enough over the years to know if I try to get out of this by bartering their lives for mine, they won’t hesitate to take out their buddy as well as me.

  Which is why I do the only thing I can do. I get guy number one in a headlock, throw my knife at the other one before he can walk through the door, and then pray it hits him.

  I’m the best Mike Bravo has when it comes to knives, but it’s easier to hit a target when I can actually see it.

  I take out the first guy with my bare hands, and the second guy drops to the ground before Atlas even has a chance to round the corner.

  I’m that fast and that lethal.

  People tend to forget that about me when I’m in goofball mode the majority of the time.