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- Herausgeber: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
-Delta Force romance story #9- In three days, Betsy retires from a decade as a Delta Force tracker and shooter. But a training mission gone wrong...or perhaps “strange” is a better word...sets her one last challenge. St. Nick’s lead reindeer, whose name is actually Jeremy, has gone missing. The dangerously handsome chief herder elf, Horatio, needs the best tracker in any world. Is Betsy hallucinating? Can Christmas be saved? Is there enough time left for: DELTA MISSION: OPERATION RUDOLPH
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Delta Mission: Operation Rudolph
a Delta Force Romance Story
M. L. Buchman
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Chapter 1
Live-fire training.
She didn’t need any blasted live-fire training. Especially not during a freak snowstorm that was inundating Range 37 at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Betsy’s personal thermostat was currently set to Congo jungle, not three-days-before-Christmas blizzard.
Okay, the pretty white flakes fluttering down on the rifle range didn’t count as a blizzard—though she’d grown up in Arkansas and it was more than she was used to—but it was cold enough that they were sticking to everything, including her. And her breath showed in puffs. She focused on breathing only through her nose to cut down on the clouds that might give away her position to the instructors.
The fact that she was out of Delta Force and the Army in three more days didn’t matter to them. She’d done her decade in the field and Christmas Day would mark her release from service. But when command said you did a training, you did one. She was theirs to order about until the moment she walked out the gate.
Betsy kept low behind a stone wall and pondered the enemy’s next move. She’d barely had a glimpse of the artificial town that was the core of the training range’s purpose. The Fort Bragg training squadron was always rearranging it in unexpected ways. She’d been in the field for a full year on her latest deployment, so the hundreds of hours she’d spent here over the years were now irrelevant.
The hundred-plus acres of Range 37 was a 360-degree, live-fire shoothouse. Some parts were modern urban, others Kandahar Province-low-and-crammed-together.
What kind of idiot training scenario sent a solo soldier on a snatch-and-grab mission? Minimum for that type of operation was a four-man team: two to grab, two to guard. Instead, they’d sent her in on her own without any explanation.
The only way out is through. Old axiom.
Of course solo was the story of her life. Dad gone from the beginning. While her high school classmates had been discovering friends and sex, she’d been caring for her mother through a fatal bout of cancer. Delta Force, the true loners of the US military, had been as natural to her as breathing. One of the only women there? Sure. Whatever.
But a one-woman snatch-and-grab operation? She was probably the best they had for that—no matter how stupid an idea it was. Perhaps they were using her to test some crazy scenario just to see how it worked.
Fine! Time to show them just what she could do.
She lay down in the snow and fast-rolled across the gap between the stone wall she’d been crouched behind and the brick building next over. As she rolled, she kept her rifle scope to her eye. Her best moving shot for rooftops was actually on her back, not her stomach—an unlikely trick she’d learned by accident in Mosul. Head tipped back, HK416 at the ready, she spotted two hostiles atop the wall on the far side of a broad courtyard. She hit both from her back, rolled onto her stomach, double-tapped an armed bad guy target crouching by a plywood maple tree, then two more into the mannequins on the roof from her back just to make sure the targets stayed dead.
The six hard clangs of bullets striking metal targets registered only after she was safe behind the red brick.
She held her fire as two children mannequins peeked at her from a nearby window. A dummy woman rushed across the street, her form gliding on a hidden track. A rough-painted man close behind her, using the woman figure as a shield, had an AK-47. Two harsh rings of metal echoed between the buildings as Betsy shot him twice in the face—all she could see of him—and one more as she hit his knee through the fluttering back of the woman’s dress.
A particularly large snowflake plastered itself across the lens of her shooting goggles. It left a wet smear when she brushed it aside.
Betsy had tracked her quarry off the edge of the map somewhere, slipping out of simulated Afghanistan into a quaint French village setting that she didn’t recall ever seeing before.
