The Omega Team: One Shot (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

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  One Shot

  By

  D L Jackson

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  The Omega Team

  Grey Holden was raised to believe in honor and duty and the dedication of men to fighting evil. Both his father and grandfather taught him the tradition of the Omega Male, men who carry a resourcefulness, cunning and strength to get a job done with their own skill. They take great pride in what they do without it manifesting as "ego." They differ from the typical Alpha Male who MUST absolutely be perceived by his peers as the toughest, most popular, and smartest. An Omega Male cares little for this recognition...but knows that he is all those things and more. It’s what made him a good soldier and what makes him a good security and covert agent. Athena Madero fits perfectly into his world. They meet when separately they are trying to prove that a wealthy and high profile political figure is actually The Snake, a shadowy arms dealer whose weapons armed the insurgents that Grey was fighting in Afghanistan.

  They form The Omega Team, an agency that takes on even the most dangerous cases. They draw as members of the team former military such as Delta Force, SEALs, Force Recon Marines, Coast Guard, Night Stalkers and others, law enforcement and private security who have the same code of conduct and dedication they do. They will also work with similar agencies on some joint ventures. Headquartered in Tampa, Florida, they accept assignments all over the world, no matter how dangerous.

  Note to my readers: I know that when writing a military story, the devil is in the details. Vets and service members are picky about the facts. Therefore, I want to clarify a few items in this story that may seem off to anyone who has served. I’ll admit, I took liberty with some details, as this is fiction, but did my best to keep these alterations as realistic as possible. The underground bunkers do not exist on Fort Drum. They are strictly a work of fiction. I was stationed there in the late eighties and early nineties, so it made a reasonable setting for where I wanted to write my story.

  Please also note, the U.S. Army Sniper School is located at Fort Benning, GA, not Fort Drum, NY. Therefore, I relocated for “special” purposes.

  As of the time I started this story, the United States didn’t allow women into combat arms; this included military operational skills, such as snipers. This, however, changed about halfway through penning One Shot. I neither agree, nor disagree with this. Some female soldiers can handle it, some can’t.

  As an interesting side note, excluding women from combat arms is not the case with some other countries. In WWII, Russia had a whole division of female snipers. Lyudmila Pavlichenko, known as Lady Death, is considered the deadliest woman sniper of WWII, with over 309 confirmed kills of enemy soldiers.

  Last but not least, for my brothers and sisters in the 10th Mountain Division—Climb to Glory.

  One shot, one kill—The United States Army Sniper Creed.

  For centuries, brave men have served America, taking out dangerous targets before they can attack. But women are about to shake things up. When the daughter of a senator, Sergeant Paige Davis, is offered an opportunity to follow in her father’s bootsteps as an Army sniper, she jumps on the chance, knowing it’s the only one she’ll get. If the pilot program fails, it could be decades before women get the chance to enter combat arms again.

  Enter Staff Sergeant Nolan Stone. He’s a Marine reactivated by the Department of Defense as an instructor for the controversial sniper training he’s very much against. Women don’t belong in combat arms as far as he’s concerned, and the program is sure to fail.

  When he meets Paige face-to-face, Nolan realizes he might have to change his way of thinking. The strong-willed Davis is more than his match on a battlefield and in the bedroom, and if he’s not careful, she just might bring this MARSOC Marine to his knees.

  He’s got one shot to make her a sniper and win her heart. If he fails, he’s going down with her.

  Prologue

  I sat with my eye to my scope, watching. My spotter, Nolan Stone, and I, had waited at this location for twelve hours, arriving at o-dark-ugly and not moving a foot from the spot we’d scouted days before, or taking our eyes off the street below. We knew they were coming, but not when. We’d stay here for days if we had to.

  We had one shot to take this man out. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t get another, and he’d unleash holy hell on the United States. Operatives in the field had warned us of a plan to detonate several dirty bombs in many of our larger cities, and we’d come here to cut the head off the snake.

  It was never easy to kill, even if you’d trained to do it, to put someone in your sights and pull a trigger, knowing when they went down, they’d never get back up. I had over eighty confirmed kills, and I would never forget the faces of every man and woman I’d shot. Not a single one. They haunted my dreams, but if I hadn’t taken them out, they’d have killed many of our servicemen and women. And I’d pay the price a hundred times over to keep them safe.

  This deployment counted as my fourth and final tour. My second as a sniper. Once I left Afghanistan, I’d never come back. I’d done my time and wanted to move on.

  “Your nine. Here he comes,” my spotter, Staff Sergeant Nolan Stone, said. I peered through the scope and braced myself. One last shot. One last kill. This bastard had been murdering women and children throughout Afghanistan, all because they refused to grow his poppies, which he in turn sold to fund his terrorist activities. He didn’t know it, but he was about to kiss the “Murderous Bitch’s” bullet. Their nickname, not one I’d select for myself. I’d heard it used to reference me in Dari, once, and an Afghani friend had kindly translated at my request.

  Abu’s the last, and at the top of my list. Once I took him out, I’d finished my tour.

  They hated me here. They also had a list, and I could guarantee I’d made it to the top, a female who dared to target and kill them. Snipers always made the top, and females, we were extra special.

  You probably wonder how a woman ended up here, on the other end of a sniper rifle, killing terrorists. Well, every soldier has a story. This was mine. My name is Sergeant Paige Davis, and you’d better hang on. My tale is a wild ride.

  Chapter One

  One shot, one kill. ~ U.S. Army Sniper Creed

  Fort Drum, NY, June 12th, 2012

  “Let me borrow your friend. I’ll show you how the infantry do their shots.”

  There’s something I’ve never seen. Something about a woman entering a testosterone-saturated environment, i.e., the on-post watering hole, tended to raise the hackles of the local grunts, who felt the need to prove to said opposite sex, in this case, me, they had a set between their legs.

  I shook my head. Just add alcohol and the chest-thumping amplified. I lifted my drink in salute. By all means, let the pec-pounding commence. I tipped the beverage back and drained it.

  “Davis?” Smitty
spluttered as the tall drink of water who’d just announced how special grunts were tugged her toward the bar, pushed her to a stool, and spun her back to the countertop. Her gaze darted over to me.

  “Lean back a skosh, sweetheart.” My new Neanderthal friend touched Smitty’s shoulder, and Smitty complied. The last night before we started training, we’d gone out to party and found plenty of trouble.

  The bad boys weren’t regular patrons of our haunt. I’d never set eyes on them before. The one I’d picked out as the leader had a cocky attitude and brought enough heat to melt me in my panties and heels. On a drool factor scale from one to ten, I’d place him as an eleven. A do-me element radiated off him like a bunker blast. Every woman in the club watched him like a hungry wolf. I wasn’t an exception.

  I took my time, visualizing him naked. I’d bet he had a nice happy trail, the kind I could lick down to fun-land. He was tall, with dark hair, and eyes I couldn’t tell the color of in the smoky room, but the spooky depths sent tremors racing up and down my spine and heat pulsing between my thighs.

  Thus far, Smitty had held up well and hadn’t burst into flames. I had to give her credit for hanging in there. I surmised it could have to do with her being a lesbian, but then again, she did claim to go both ways. Regardless, I admired her tenacity. Any other woman would’ve been a puddle by now. One of the many reasons I adored Smitty.

  Spunk under pressure.

  Dressed in a spaghetti-strap top that accentuated a more than ample chest, with a little skin exposed above jeans riding low on the curve of her hip, Smitty looked lethal. Small and delicate, and standing at five foot one, Smitty wasn’t the typical soldier. Many mistook her for a civilian, an officer’s daughter, maybe, or wife. With dark-brown hair in a cute pixie cut and eyes so dark they bordered on black, she stopped cars, hearts, and dropped jaws wherever she went.

  Tonight, she’d caught the eye of a rogue special forces squad, and the equally devastating leader of said posse, who made me wonder if there was a set of dry panties in the house.

  God. Where does the Army find these guys? I did my best to appear unaffected, refusing to let him smell the blood in the water.

  “Give me a shot of Jose.” My walking wet dream tapped the bar next to where he’d propped Smitty. He wedged his body between her knees and leaned over, pressing against her breasts. Her eyes shifted in my direction, and Smitty gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, begging for a rescue.

  Ha! Not going to happen. You sit back and enjoy it, bitch.

  So much for spunk under pressure. A rescue? I gave her a wicked grin and lifted a brow. I’d give anything to have him wedged between my legs. I refused to save her. As a friend, in good conscience, I couldn’t let her escape his clutches. It would be a crime.

  She screwed up her face. Yeah, I’d pay for it later.

  He turned his smoldering eyes on me and smiled. I clamped onto the bar, my knuckles turning white. There were two types of soldiers on post. The kind you’d bring home for Daddy to meet, and him. I licked my lips and caught my breath. Irresistible—orgasmic trouble. Yummy.

  If we hadn’t been on a military post, I’d have questioned whether they were soldiers. His hair touched his shoulders, his jaw darkened with a couple of days’ worth of scruff, typical of the bad boys who went out on special ops, where they needed to blend with the civilian population. A standard 11B bullet-stopper wouldn’t get away with breaking as many regs as he had. Some first sergeant would have him up on Article 15, and he wouldn’t be in here, partying. I plucked at the napkin under my now-empty glass and let my gaze drift down, to confirm my suspicions.

  Standard military issue, his boots were worn down to slippers, the tread almost nonexistent. It took miles and miles of humping across rough terrain to bring them to the state they were in—signature grunt. You wouldn’t catch him wearing them in formation, but a guy like him would never go to the field or on deployment without them. No wet-behind-the-ears soldier there.

  Then I caught a peek at a black tag hanging around his neck. Add two and two. Special forces, Uncle Sam’s force amplifiers, or, in my case, heat amplifiers.

  If appearance wasn’t enough, the attitude gave him away. The bartender slid a shot glass along the bar, and he caught it without looking. It took a special kind of warrior to do the job he did, and boy did they know it. He picked it up and raised it for the room to see then worked it into my friend’s cleavage. Her eyes popped wide, and she narrowed them on me, promising retribution. I shrugged.

  “Salt and lime,” he called out.

  A salt shaker and lime were handed to him. “You ready?”

  Smitty gave a tiny nod.

  He leaned down, licking the top of Smitty’s tit. She sucked in an audible gasp as he seasoned her breasts as though they were Sunday dinner. I shifted on my feet. He had me going.

  “Bite on this.” The way he’d said it sounded so dirty, so wrong, and I wished I’d found a spot on his stool. He pressed the lime to her lips, rind first, and she took it in her mouth.

  “Three, two, one….” The group counted back, and his tongue snaked along her chest, picking up salt. He used his mouth to pick up the shot and tip it down, flinging the empty glass with the flick of his head to a soldier on his left who caught it. Smitty squirmed again, and he took the lime from her mouth with his own, his hands remaining flat on the bar on either side of her shoulders.

  The bar erupted into hoots and catcalls as he turned around and stared straight at me, crooking his finger. “Your turn.”

  I rolled my eyes. If they thought we’d be their girl toys for the night, they had another think coming. We’d had our fun. Now, we should go.

  “What?” He laughed.

  “Lame.” I shook my head.

  “Don’t knock it, if you haven’t tried it.” He tossed back another shot. “You scared? You’ve been staring at me like you want to eat me, so come on, take a seat on my stool.”

  I jerked my chin toward the door. “Come on, Smitty. Let’s get out of here.”

  Smitty stared glassy eyed, mouth agape, not moving.

  “Smitty?” I urged.

  “Okay, so you don’t want a ride on the stool. How about I give you one hundred dollars to do to your friend what I just did.”

  “Please. If you think I’m going to suck salt off Smitty’s tits so you can get off, no thanks—not for a Benjamin.” I turned for the door. “Let’s go, Smitt.”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  I froze in place. “One thousand—as in Benjamin and his whole extended family? To do a shot like you just did?” I spun around. “Let me see it.”

  “Ante up, boys.” Hot Stuff motioned for his squad to fork over cash. Hands were thrust into pockets, wallets pulled out, not a sliver of hesitation. They stuffed the cash into his hand until he had a pile of bills in his palm. “Uncles and distant cousins.”

  I charged up to where Smitty still sat. “Bartender. I’d like a shot of Jose.”

  “Uh, Davis?” Smitty finally snapped out of her trance. “This will be like kissing my sister.”

  “No worries, Smitty. I’ll share the booty.” My comment brought more hoots and catcalls in response. I glanced around. “The money.” God. Did I have to spell it out for all of them?

  “Davis,” Smitty said again with more emphasis.

  I stepped up to her and pushed her back against the bar, setting my keys down. “Stick ’em out.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. Imagine the boots you could buy with five hundred dollars?” Yeah, it hadn’t exactly been fair, yanking out the big guns. I knew the one temptation Smitty couldn’t pass on. Shoe whore.

  Smitty stuck her chest out. We all had our weaknesses. CFMs, come-fuck-me shoes, were definitely hers.

  Trouble in Combat Boots shoved a shot glass of tequila into my hand and held up the prize. I snatched the pile, stuffed it down the front of my top, and stuck the shot glass in Smitty’s cleavage. As I picked up the salt, the
bar went silent.

  I leaned down and licked the top of one breast then salted it. Smitty had a white-knuckle grip on the barstool, holding her breath. I stuck a wedge of lime between her lips.

  “Three.”

  “Two.”

  “One,” the entire bar counted down.

  I licked the salt, captured the glass with my mouth, and tipped my head back, draining it, before I slammed it down on the bar. I grabbed Smitty’s head, sucked the lime into my mouth, and kissed her. I took my time, making sure they’d suffer for their antics.

  Someone hissed, a couple of others groaned. When I pulled away, the room had gone dead silent. I wiggled my brows at Smitty and spit the lime slice into the glass.

  “I’ll give you another five to do it again,” someone yelled out from a dark corner.

  I shook my head, having no desire to continue entertaining the perverts. “One shot.” I took Smitty’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Later, boys.”

  We darted out the door, giggling like little girls. “You should have seen the look on his face,” Smitty said and broke out into another fit of laughter.

  “I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes on my back. I think there will be a round of cold showers to go with the shot.” My head buzzed, and excitement washed through me. Damn, I loved the adrenaline rush.

  “They deserve it.”

  “Deserve what?”

  I jumped—startled he’d followed us out. “To deal with raging hard-ons and Rosie Palm as backup,” I said as we continued down the street.

  “Harsh.” The stud who’d talked me into the shot trotted to catch up. “You’re going to leave—just like that?”

  I turned to him. “Yes. I have to be up at o-dark-ugly.”

  “It’s early—hours away. Come on. Stay. Party.” His pleading expression nearly undid my defenses. The man was good.