Dead Shot by USMC (Ret.) with Donald A. Davis Gunnery SGT. Jack Coughlin Read Free Book Online Page B

being jammed under his chin so hard that his head was forced back.
    The lights snapped on. Master Gunny Dawkins removed the pistol he held on Rawls and looked furious. A guy with a black mask had Travis Hughes pinned to the floor.
    “You people get in here!” Dawkins bawled in a parade ground voice. “You’re supposed to be hot shit MARSOC troops, and you are bumbling around like a bunch of Girl Scouts. Walked right into an ambush! You are on a mission, goddammit, and a lot of you would be dead by now if we were a couple of terrorists. There is no safe place over here, not even in Doha. So pull your heads out of your asses, right now!”
    The other Marines sheepishly filed into the room and gathered around Double-Oh. The man in the mask sheathed his knife and held out a hand to Hughes. “Get up, Trav,” he said. The voice was familiar. The masked guy sat on a bunk, and Captain Newman entered, locked the door, and joined Double-Oh at the front. The attention of the men was totally in focus now because they had been professionally embarrassed by letting down their guard.
    “Here’s the drill,” Newman said. He explained the snoop-and-poop mission and told them they would be providing fire support, if necessary, for Master Gunny Dawkins and the other man, who would be principal investigators.
    Dawkins then took over. “I know that you do not like going into a possible firefight with someone you don’t know covering your back, so we have to break a rule here tonight. You all have clearance for Top Secret material, and you will never speak of what we are about to tell you to anyone, ever. Understood?” He looked around and received nods from each of the six men. Then he nodded, and Kyle removed his mask.
    “This is Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. Because of special ops purposes, he was declared dead back after the Syrian mess. We both now work for Task Force Trident, which you don’t need to know much about.”
    “Haaaayyy! Shake!” hooted Travis Hughes, while others shouted “Dude!” and “Muthafucka!” and “Awrite!” They clapped, and a fewgave him high fives. Everyone knew Swanson, or knew of him. “Quiet down,” barked Double-Oh. “Save the happy horseshit reunion crap for later. Right now, everybody get a couple of hours sleep. We leave at 0200 hours. Be ready.”
    LONDON
    Juba showed his pass and walked without incident into the media grounds in Kensington Park, carrying his bag of tools. A small army of technicians was laying down rivers of cable, lighting specialists were clamping big, glaring bulbs into position, soundmen were rigging microphones, and makeup artists flung powder puffs and eyeliner on the TV news readers while writers pounded out copy and producers pulled their hair in frustration. Juba was just another tech and made his way effortlessly through the dozens of production trucks and the forest of satellite dishes atop thin poles. He spotted the distinctive Edinburgh vans and went toward them.
    A pretty young woman was seated on the steps of the truck, working on a laptop computer that was balanced on her knees. She looked up with a start when she realized someone was standing in front of her. He wore a technician’s purple and white jumpsuit with a belt of tools hung around his narrow waist. Even in the dark, he looked as if he had a deep tan. “May I help you?” she asked.
    The man referred to a scrap of paper. “Are you Miss Drake?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m from Edinburgh All-Media. They sent me down to give the vans a last-minute look to be sure you don’t have any problems tomorrow. Is your engineer around?”
    “Sure. He’s inside.” She led him into the cargo bay. “Harold? This tech is from the rental service and wants to see if anything is wrong.”
    Juba followed her in, shook the hand of the engineer, and turned back to Kim. “Nothing is wrong, Miss Drake. Just a precaution, mindyou. We want everything to go smoothly for you tomorrow. So, have you encountered any