He barely saw the laser flash in time to jerk to the left and kick into a spin. He circled too fast to see where the shot had come from, so could only judge by its trajectory. Close. Too close. Instead of wasting time trying to figure it out, or worse, having to dodge more fire, Laramie unhooked the D ring from his harness, tightened his grip and risked fast-roping the last twenty feet.
Not as easy as it would have been if nobody were shooting at him. Granted, the Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement Sensor gear meant the hits wouldn’t be fatal. But that wasn’t the point.
Because he was already free from his harness, the minute Laramie’s boots hit the ground, he rolled for cover. Crouched behind a large boulder, he jerked his shoulders to shed some of the sand. This was a communication-free maneuver, so he had no headset, couldn’t ask his teammates for input. Instead, he listened carefully.
There. To the west, the sound of fabric on stone. Laramie angled his head around his boulder, assessing. Miles of hot sand were interspersed with rock formations, some tall, some wide. He watched the grouping to the west, eyes narrowed. Not on the rocks themselves, but on the sand to their left.
And booyah.
A shadow.
Grinning this time, Laramie kept to the rocks, skirting around behind the shadow’s cluster and coming up behind.
He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who he was up against. The man’s size said it all. Laramie took a second to calculate how he was going to take down a man a good thirty pounds heavier and a hell of a lot more experienced than he was.
He had no doubt he could do it.
The calculations were simply to figure out how to do it fast, before he lost the element of surprise. He didn’t have a clear shot from here, and if he moved he’d be spotted. So he went for the dive, low and fast to hit the man’s knees. The element of surprise didn’t last more than that, if the fist that swung around at his face was any indication.
The fight was down and dirty, each man struggling to hold the other and reach for their weapon. Laramie got a grip on his, pulled the SIG from the holster strapped to his thigh, but a swift chop to his hand sent it flying. He let it go, and using that brief moment of distraction, Laramie used an armbar manipulation to bring the other man’s face to the ground, where he pinned him with a choke hold.
Knowing a captive was worth twice as many points as a dead body, Laramie dug in his heels and, choke hold still in place, shifted to bring himself and his combatant to their feet. About halfway up, though, the guy made as if he’d lost his balance. The move pulled them both forward into a roll, with Laramie hitting the ground, back first. He was on his feet in time to watch the other man finish his own flight through the air, land with a thud, then twist to roll to his feet in a single smooth move that Laramie had to admire.
Until he saw the pistol in the guy’s hand.
For a guy with the call sign Auntie, Castillo was one hell of a fighter.
Laramie grinned.
His eyes locked on the weapon, he anchored his hand to the rock, bending low and taking a deep breath as if the fight had left him winded.
He came up with a jump round kick, sending the gun flying. He feinted a palm heel strike to the face, wrapped his arm around the man’s neck and took them both to the ground. Before they hit, he had the knife out of his boot and carefully pressed the dull side to the man’s neck, tapping the sensor on his laser-engagement device to sound the hit.
As he did, a loud beeping sounded, then an air horn blared loud and shocking in the gritty air.
“Calling the win.”
“That means you’re dead,” Laramie said, as he reached out a hand to the body on the ground. “And you owe me a beer.”
“Dude, what’s with the backup blade?” Clasping Laramie’s outstretched hand to lever himself to his feet, Castillo gave the dirt on his fatigues a quick slap, then threw his arm over Laramie’s shoulder.
Now that the battle was won, they were teammates again. The sixteen-man platoon had split into two, each side battling “to the death” to test some new equipment. Laramie, O’Brian and Eckhart had led their side against Castillo, Morelli and Thorne’s team.
“Know your enemy. I figured your team would have some heavy hitters and I’d need everything I could bring to the game,” Laramie explained with a shrug. “That, and I saw the sheath inside the new boots and figured I’d try it out.”
“Nice.”
The two men strode off the mock battlefield, collecting the bodies of the others as they went.
“You girls call that a battle?”
The challenge bellowed out from a husky man so short that even standing there on that boulder, half the men on the team were still taller than him.
“Can I help you with your critique?” As ranking officer on the team during this exercise, Castillo’s offer was both militarily correct in tone, and a clear screw you in message. Just one of the things Laramie liked about the guy.
“Warrant Officer Murdock,” the troll-like man snapped, his words as sharp as his salute. “Here to take over CQC training.”
“You’re scheduled to report for Close Quarter Combat training on Monday at o six hundred hours.”
“I’m here now.” His heavy brow furrowed over beady eyes, the man spread his glare over the entire group before aiming it at Castillo again. “Do you have an issue with that?”
“Now why would anyone have an issue with that?” Fingers hooked through his belt, Castillo rocked back on the heels of his combat boots and grinned. “We’re trained to deal with ambushes.”
“Trained, my ass.” Murdock bent at the waist to stare into Castillo’s face. “You call that dancing around you were doing training?”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Thorne called out with a tilt of his head toward the field. “Show us how it’s really done.”
“You think I’m afraid of your big bad club?” Murdock’s laugh dripped with enough insult that Laramie felt as if he should shake it off his boots. “What makes you think you’re all so special?”
“We’re SEALs,” sixteen voices chanted together.
“Whatever. I’m here to teach you pansies how to really fight.” His words sneered down the extensive combat training and battle experience that each and every man there had under his special-ops belt. “The kind of fighting that requires more than guns or knives hidden in your socks.”
The sidelong looks of amusement slanted his way made Laramie smile. Hell, that move had won the battle. Like the others, he began unbuckling and shrugging out of the vest that held the various laser sensors for their mock battle. Being the last man standing, Laramie’s laser-engagement sensors were the only ones not lit, indicating he hadn’t taken any hits.
As if seeing that as a negative, Murdock pointed at the flashing lights.
“You bubble-blowing babies don’t even play with live ammo? What’s the matter with you? Lasers all you can handle?”
All that earned him was an eye roll since the SEALs were known to regularly train with live ammo. It was rare enough that they hauled out the MILES gear that a few of them had had to be briefed on how to use it. But the commander expected them to train with all available resources, and laser practice was considered a resource. Something Murdock probably knew if the disappointment on his face at not getting a reaction was anything to go by.
Still, while the platoon continued to silently strip down, Murdock continued his insult-laden introduction.
“The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.”
“At