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Ghost Warrior II : Irish Sister

Tucker stopped at the corner room—windows on two walls, one facing the front yard, the other toward the road to town. He turned in the doorway, scanning the angles. “This one.” Rebecca tilted her head. “For sleeping?” “No,” Tucker said. “This’ll be our ops center. Views both approaches, decent cover, easy access to the stairs.” She nodded. “Your call.” Tucker turned to Keys. “Toss our bedrolls in the other rooms. This one’s for work.” “Roger that,” Keys said, already peeling off his pack. Rebecca watched them both, something steady in her eyes.  “You boys get settled, set up, whatever you need to do,” Rebecca said, standing in the hallway with one hand braced on the doorframe, her hair tied loosely over one shoulder. “I’ll head downstairs and make us some sandwiches. And coffee.” She looked between Tucker and Keys, eyebrow arched. “I assume you like it like Chris does—hotter than hell, darker than night, and strong enough to make a Death Star flinch?” Keys chu...
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Ghost Warrior II : Irish Sister

  2007   2130 Hours   Irish Rose Tavern   Outskirts of Refugio, Texas   The Irish Rose was alive tonight. The place pulsed with the kind of energy you only got when the weather stayed warm deep into the night, the beer stayed cold, and the music was cut from outlaw cloth. The old barn-turned-bar creaked with history, its rafters shadowed in amber light and streaks of smoke curling upward from hand-rolled cigars and clove cigarettes. Thick with sweat, whiskey, and stories nobody told in the daylight.  Ceiling fans spun slow overhead, stirring the thick, humid air like they were more concerned with aesthetics than airflow. The jukebox, tucked in the far corner near the apparel alcove, had just kicked into Waylon’s Lonesome, On’ry and Mean . A band—local favorites, tough and twangy—had just taken a smoke break, their guitars propped against amps on the stage at the back. The dancefloor was half-full, a slow circle of two-steppers making the rounds, boo...
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Ghost Warrior II : Irish Sister

  2007, 1350 Hours  Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU) – Dam Neck, Virginia  Kill House Training – Briefing Room The room stank of sweat, coffee, and CLP, or  gun oil — the unofficial scent of Tier One readiness. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, washing out color and casting long shadows on the concrete walls. A battered whiteboard stood to the left of a massive topographical map of the compound. Marker streaks from earlier runs had been only partially erased, red circles and notes bleeding through ghost-like beneath new scribbles. Master Chief Tucker “Tushka” Nash stood with arms crossed, back straight, his frame coiled tight under a gray moisture-wicking shirt darkened in places with sweat. His eyes scanned the room, not as a man looking at peers—but as a hunter reading his pack. His team had done four evolutions since 0400. Mistakes had been made. Time to fix them. “Hey! OK, Everyone listen the hell up.” The noise dropped instantly. Six ...
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Ghost Warrior - Chapter 8

Chapter 8  Somewhere in Southeastern Oklahoma - Choctaw Nation 2005 0600 Just as the sun is rising Hushi Minko Tushka ran like he was born to it. His body moved with the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime on the land, his feet hitting the packed dirt in steady, rhythmic strides.  He ran with the land, not against it. His stride was fluid, measured, each step a conversation between his body and the earth beneath him. The morning air in the Atoka Wildlife Management Area was crisp, touched with the scent of damp earth and pine.  The trail wound deep into the woods, twisting through thick patches of blackjack oak and towering shortleaf pine. The scent of wet soil and cedar filled his lungs, mingling with the early morning chill that clung stubbornly to the air. A thin ribbon of mist curled low across the creek beds, breaking apart as his footfalls disturbed the stillness. The reservation lay beyond these woods, but in truth, this land had no borders—not to him. It was al...
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Ghost Warrior - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 2005 Forward Operating Base Cobra Afghanistan – 0100 Hours Local Time The air inside the briefing room was stale, thick with the scent of sweat, coffee, and gun oil. The walls were bare save for a large satellite map pinned to a plywood board, covered in red markers, tactical notes, and satellite imagery.  Seated around the long table were six men—Echo Team, DEVGRU, Tier 1 operators who had spent years in the shadows, hunting the worst of the worst. At the head of the table, Commander Greg Harlan, their operational commander, call sign “Hardman”, stood with his arms crossed. Hard, weathered, no bullshit. A lifer in the SEAL teams, Harlan had run ops from Mogadishu to Fallujah and carried himself with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need volume to be felt. To his left, Case Officer Nick Rossi, the CIA liaison for the mission, a civilian in a tactical button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Rossi was agency through and through—sharp, cold-eyed, and built for di...
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Desert Son

  Desert Son The stale hum of recycled air filled the command tent, lit by the soft, flickering glow of an overhead fluorescent bulb. Sergeant Billy "Hawk" Henderson sat stiffly on a metal folding chair, his rifle slung across his back, as the unit’s commanding officer, Major Cole, outlined the operation. His spotter, Corporal Marcus "Dusty" Owens, leaned back in his chair, absently scratching behind the ears of Koda, the sleek black Belgian Malinois lying at his feet. “This is as black as it gets, gentlemen,” Major Cole said, pointing to the map projected on the canvas wall. “Your HVT is an arms dealer code-named Ibrahim . He’s responsible for supplying IED materials to insurgents. Intel suggests he’s holed up in an encampment here.” Cole jabbed a finger at a cluster of coordinates nestled in the highlands. “Your job is simple: find him, confirm his identity, and neutralize the threat. Exfil point will be at grid seven-four-nine at 0300, three days post-engagement....
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