It was the kind of training demo Jackson hated. Being left out of the action was frustrating as heck, and he knew Seth shared his dissatisfaction as they sat there on the damp floor while their teammates got to have all the fun.
Shooting the shit wasn’t encouraged during these exercises, but the four of them broke the rules, captors chatting with hostages as they waited for their respective teams to make a move.
“Connor’s gonna smoke your guys,” Duke said smugly, an MP5 submachine gun hanging loosely from the strap on his shoulder.
While Jackson and Seth were completely unarmed, Duke’s and Lancelot’s weapons were equipped with blanks, but all four men wore the same camo gear with high-tech sensors that would register if one of them was “hit”. The sensor emitted a white light for a non-lethal injury, blue for a lethal one, and red meant dead. Both Jackson and Seth sported a couple of white ones already from the “beating” they’d endured during interrogation.
“Which one is Connor again?” Seth asked.
“Black hair, black eyes, didn’t say a word during briefing.” Duke chuckled. “He’s the strong, silent type. Best sniper you’ll ever meet.”
“Not if Ryan Evans gets in position like he’s supposed to,” Seth retorted. “Dude can hit a quarter off a man’s head from a thousand yards away.”
Jackson tested his bindings for the hundredth time, but the thin wire didn’t budge. If anything, it dug deeper into his wrists, and the moisture dripping down his forearms told him he’d fussed with the cord so much he’d drawn blood.
“Aw, poor baby,” Lancelot drawled when he saw Jackson shifting around on the floor. “Did we tie those wires too tight?”
Jackson grinned at the other man. “It’s really too bad you can’t see my hands. ’Cause I’m givin’ you the finger right now.”
“That’s a Texan accent, huh? Whereabouts?”
“Little town west of Dallas,” Jackson answered. “You?”
“Charleston, South Carolina.” Lancelot gestured to Duke. “And my man here is from Raleigh.”
“I’m from Vegas,” Seth piped up. “Which means I’m way cooler than all you losers.”
“Oh man, I love Vegas,” Duke declared. “Me and Hunter went there last year on leave, and we hooked up with the hottest showgirl on the planet. She was so flexible it was insane.”
Seth smirked. “Beat ya again. I’m married to a former showgirl.”
“No shit.”
“Yes shit. And before you ask, yes, she’s also insanely flexible.”
Lancelot glanced at his watch. “Been almost an hour. I think you boys are SOL.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the sound of gunfire erupted from far above them, prompting both Seth and Jackson to grin widely.
“Gee, guess one of you should go and investigate,” Seth taunted.
Duke and Lancelot had already snapped to action, the former sliding out the steel door while the latter stuck around, his gun trained on his hostages’ foreheads.
Jackson chuckled. “We both know you ain’t gonna kill us. Rebel leader would’ve ordered you to keep us alive for leverage.”
“Fuck off.”
Whatever was going on above them sounded like pure chaos. Shots rang out in quick succession, the ceiling above their heads vibrating as footsteps traveled over it.
Seth joined in Jackson’s laughter, his gray eyes dancing. “Looks like your sniper didn’t do such a good job keeping ’em off the sub.”
Another round of gunfire erupted from beyond the door, followed by a familiar voice shouting, “Clear!”
“Uh-oh, I think Duke’s outta the game,” Jackson said cheerfully.
A second later, the metal door flew open and more shots exploded in the air.
Lancelot managed to get off two rounds before he was KIA, lowering his weapon in defeat as Dylan and Matt O’Connor stormed the cramped space in strategically sensored wetsuits and armed to the teeth.
“You boys all right?” Matt drawled, his shaved head gleaming beneath the fluorescent light fixture.
“Peachy,” Seth said sarcastically.
Matt touched his earpiece and barked out a report. “The little birdies are back in the nest. I repeat, birdies back in the nest.”
Their comrades wasted no time cutting them free. Jackson rubbed his aching wrists, then cursed when he saw the flash of blue on Dylan’s thigh.
“You’ve been hit. Femoral artery,” he muttered. “You’ve got three minutes before you bleed out, man.”
Dylan sighed. “Do your thing then.”
Jackson was already ripping off his belt. Same as he would have done if this were a real op, he went through the process of applying direct pressure on Dylan’s “wound” and fashioned a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. No way of knowing if Dylan would lose the leg, but the sooner they got out of there, the better the man’s chances.
“C’mon, let’s jump ship,” Matt said briskly, his eyes and weapon trained on the door. “The corridor is wired with C4 and one of the Eighters managed to detonate half that shit before McCoy took him down. The entire lower level is in flames.”
The four of them raced to the doorway, Dylan playing his part to a T by limping on his “injured” leg. Jackson shouldered the other man’s weight, breathing hard as he lugged nearly two hundred pounds of muscle toward the exit point. Matt took the lead, MP5 locked and loaded, then swore and touched his earpiece.