One Killer Force: A Delta Force Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

to Webber, but the massive shoulder tattoo certainly was. It stretched from just above the base of his left bicep, captured the entire swole deltoid, and engulfed his entire left pec muscle, depicting Spartan warriors with their battle shields tactically aligned and raised in defense as arrows rained down on them. As Webber neared, he realized the tattoo was pretty fresh, maybe a few days to a week, still slightly swollen and burnt red. Then he noticed the phrase “Molon Labe” and smiled. The mark was as significant as the statement. Webber understood Kolt was covering the vicious scarring from the blue-on-blue bullet he took at Yellow Creek.
    But, something wasn’t sitting right with Webber. Something was strange about Kolt’s demeanor. His eyes were distant, barely blinking naturally. He couldn’t be sure, but the Delta commander had seen this before in other operators over the years. For a second, he thought Kolt Raynor was showing the classic signs of shell shock.
    “New ink, I see, Major,” Webber said.
    No response. Webber took a few steps closer to Raynor, raised his right hand to wave it in front of Kolt’s eyes.
    It worked. Kolt’s head shook slightly as if he had just been pulled from a deep trance. “Uh, yes, sir, sorry,” Kolt said, coming around and seemingly not worried at all. “Nice night for a swim.”
    Webber tried not to smile. He knew Raynor, if anybody, had earned the right to ink his body any way he saw fit. As long as he didn’t go full sleeve, or full auto chop shop and ink his neck and face, at this point, after over a decade at war, Webber didn’t give two shits.
    He also knew Kolt’s recent meetings with the unit psych, Doc Johnson, had revealed potential flaws in Kolt’s mental capacity to command a Delta squadron, something Webber didn’t plan to share with the special mission unit board members. Something he wasn’t entirely surprised about, given the trauma Raynor had suffered during the Yellow Creek debacle. But something Webber hoped like hell was a temporary condition that his top officer would soon overcome. All things considered, as long as Kolt didn’t fall off the wagon, Webber figured he could manage the trauma.
    “You okay, Raynor?” Webber asked, extending his hand out to shake Kolt’s.
    “Yes, sir, I’m all right, just a little cold at the moment,” Kolt said.
    “No, listen to me. Are you okay?” Webber asked, speaking low and slow.
    Raynor blinked and looked around the flight deck before looking back at him. “It sucked, but I’m fine. My reflexes were fast and I kept my head. Hell, I saved that squid’s mutt. I’m one hundred percent. Well, high nineties, anyway.”
    Webber held Raynor’s gaze for several seconds. If Kolt was bullshitting him, he was brilliant. Webber nodded. “Right. Get yourself squared away, knock out a quick hotwash with Slapshot and the pilots, then get to my quarters,” Webber said. “I’ve got a job for you.”
    “Something that is more important than hot chow first, sir?” Kolt asked, surprised at the urgency, considering he was almost dead less than fifteen minutes ago and still wet from his crotch to his toes.
    “Afraid so, Racer,” Webber said. “I’ll fill you in soon enough.”
    “C’mon, sir,” Kolt said as the medics started to pull his dry suit down past his ass and to his ankles, revealing Kolt’s black Under Armour Boxerjocks. “Can’t you give me a mad minute or warning order now?”
    “All right, Kolt,” Webber said, knowing the old Kolt had come back to earth. “We’ve got intel on a high-priority target in Syria. It’s actionable, but only if we go now. I want you on the mission.”
    Raynor didn’t react, which was impressive considering he’d nearly lost his life not half an hour ago. And now here he was asking Raynor to go put it on the line again. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
    “My team—” Raynor started to say, but Webber cut him off.
    “No. You’re going without