Page 1 of Striker
Chapter
One
“Careful. Don’t want an anaconda to bite off your puny dick,” Havoc, the moron, taunted. The guys laughed with him.
“Ha-ha,” Atlas said with a scoff. He kept his back to his friends as he zipped up his fly and backed away from the big-ass jungle tree. No way he’d let on that Havoc’s remark had echoed his own fears—minus the puny-dick part because he’d had no complaints in that department. “At least I can find my cock,” he quipped.
Wraith wiped his brow. “Can we get a move on, lads. I’m sweatin’ me bag off.”
He agreed with his fellow soldier. The Panama jungle was hot as fuck and crawling with shit that he didn’t need in his fucking pant leg.
Atlas fought the urge to rib Wraith about his Scottish accent. Half the time, the American-raised dude spoke more Southern than he did Scot. But with his height and fair skin, he certainly looked like a Scotsman.
“You idiots done jerkin’ each other off?” Rogue, their leader, growled, his AK-47 in his hands. “We’re not here for leisure.”
“No shit.” Viper’s irritated tone matched Rogue’s expression.
“Copy,” Atlas said, nodding. He knew Rogue wasn’t in the mood. His boss had left his girlfriend, Laine, and her daughter, Emmy, at home.
Nope, he wasn’t pokin’ that bear today.
The five of them moved across the damp earth. Reaper, their team member with his helicopter license, waited in the chopper. If they came in hot with their target, they could get off the ground quick.
The sound of the chopper’s engine ceased. The air filled with jungle noise.
Hisses, croaks, and distant animalistic screeches invaded Atlas’s eardrums. He preferred the roar of propellors.
Keeping their guns trained in front of them, they moved in on their target.
Rogue’s voice came through the earpieces they all wore. “Quarter mile ahead.”
Daylight was fading rapidly. The only thing worse than navigating this region of Panama was doing so at night—even with night-vision goggles. His luck and he’d step on a fucking jaguar’s tail.
“Striker,” Havoc said sharply. “On your left.”
Responding to his callsign, Atlas swiveled his weapon and dodged away from a snake glaring at him from a nearby tree branch. Fucking fuck.
“Losing daylight, boss,” he reminded Rogue.
“Forward.” His boss strode ahead to lead the way.
They stepped quicker through the dense foliage. The mosquitos and flies were nearly as thick as the sweltering heat. The bug spray had to be attracting the bastards—it sure as hell wasn’t repelling them.
Atlas moved with little effort. Skill and training had him focused on the job despite the extra weight of his Kevlar, ammunition, and emergency pack. Sweat rolled down his face and the back of his neck. He swiped his brow, drenching his sleeve. The scent of wet dirt and rotting vegetation was damn near as smothering as the bugs.
He swept his gaze left and right while also keeping an eye ahead for shit he could step in and things that could fall on him.
Five minutes later, Rogue lifted his fist in the air, motioning for them to stop.
Atlas froze. His gun trained beyond Rogue’s shoulder, he scanned the wide, thick leaves and the gnarly branches and trunks everywhere.
“Motion sensor,” Rogue said in his ear. “This is it.”
Satisfaction rippled over him. They’d reached their target’s compound. Now they had to lie low and wait.
An hour later and night encased them. The only noise, aside from the buzzing of insects and the hissing of who-the-fuck-even-wanted-to-know, was the low hum of a generator. If it weren’t for the outdoor lights surrounding the compound, they’d be in complete darkness.
“How long we gotta sit here, Rogue?” Viper grumbled.
