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Back Into the Storm Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Book Description
  3. Books By Rachel Grant
  4. Dedication
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Chapter Nine
  14. Chapter Ten
  15. Chapter Eleven
  16. Chapter Twelve
  17. Chapter Thirteen
  18. Chapter Fourteen
  19. Chapter Fifteen
  20. Chapter Sixteen
  21. Chapter Seventeen
  22. Chapter Eighteen
  23. Chapter Nineteen
  24. Chapter Twenty
  25. Chapter Twenty-One
  26. Chapter Twenty-Two
  27. Chapter Twenty-Three
  28. Chapter Twenty-Four
  29. Chapter Twenty-Five
  30. Chapter Twenty-Six
  31. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  32. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  33. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  34. Chapter Thirty
  35. Chapter Thirty-One
  36. Chapter Thirty-Two
  37. Chapter Thirty-Three
  38. Chapter Thirty-Four
  39. Chapter Thirty-Five
  40. Chapter Thirty-Six
  41. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  42. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  43. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  44. Chapter Forty
  45. Chapter Forty-One
  46. Chapter Forty-Two
  47. Chapter Forty-Three
  48. Chapter Forty-Four
  49. Epilogue
  50. Fiona Carver Series
  51. Flashpoint Series
  52. About the Author

Now he knew the awful truth: he’d destroyed his family, before he even had one.

Chapter Seventeen

Paul jolted awake at the sound of stomping boots. There was a rumbling noise in the hall outside the ballroom. A moment later, the door burst open. He squinted in the darkness to see who was entering. He found it hard to focus and wanted to rub his eyes, bleary with sleep and pain, but his bound hands prevented it.

All he could do was wait to make sense of what he was seeing as the mercs pulled something into the room. A moment passed before it did.

Four-wheeled garden cart. But there weren’t garden tools in the green-sided metal wagon.

No.

Motherfucker.

No.

A SEAL.

The cart came closer, and even in the dark room, Paul could see the blood. The wound on the left shoulder, at the edge of the SEAL’s body armor.

The merc pulling the cart stopped in the middle of the floor. He lifted one side of the cart and dumped the body unceremoniously to the floor.

The SEAL groaned.

He’s alive.

Across the room, the other trainers stirred. All four were alive, and now, at last, awake and no longer willing to hide that fact.

Smith, a medically trained Special Operator—SO—let out a curse and turned to the mercenary commander who’d followed the man with the cart into the room. “I’m a medic. Let me treat him.”

The commander was silent. Would he ignore the request?

Finally, the masked man said, “You make a move to try to escape, and we’ll slit the throats of every one of your bound comrades.”

“I just want to stop the bleeding. Give him a chance.”

The commander gave a sharp nod. “You may bandage him.”

“I need my first aid kit,” Smith said, nodding to the packs that were piled by the ballroom’s cold fireplace.

The merc looked to his commander, who nodded.

No one was doing anything without express permission from the boss. Paul figured they were afraid of the guy, given the looks they gave his back.

With permission, the minion grabbed the large first aid kit and set it by the SEAL, then he released SO3 Smith from his handcuffs. “I need an assistant.”

“No. Just you,” the masked merc said.

Smith set to work, talking to his patient, who he identified as Collins. If Paul remembered correctly, the guy was a PO3—Petty Officer Third Class—and relatively new to the teams.

Smith tried to ask the barely conscious man questions—whispering as he removed the petty officer’s body armor and combat uniform to reveal a gaping wound just above and to the left of his heart.

The sound of a fist slamming on a table drew everyone’s attention to the merc commander. “You work in silence, or you do not get to bandage him at all.”