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  Instinctively, Stoker dove back behind the rock and landed on his stomach. A steady barrage of bullets pierced the air around him. A shockwave of pain seared his right forearm. Stoker looked up just in time to see the rattlesnake coiled, ready to strike a second time. Before Stoker could pull his arm away, the snake pierced his flesh again. He yanked his burning limb away from the reptile and rolled to safety, exposing himself briefly to the gunmen. There was only one place that was safe from gunfire, and it sheltered the lethal viper.

  Time slowed. Fractional seconds expanded to slow motion in Stoker's brain. Stoker, genetically blessed with lightning-fast reflexes, enabled his training to take over. He reached for his Kimber 1911 Gold Match II and aimed the .45 caliber hollow point projectile into the snake's shadowed lair. Stoker had laser-like focus with weapons. One bullet flew past Stoker's ear with a supersonic crack, but his serenity only grew deeper. He pulled the trigger once, firing at a vague shadowed outline of the rattlesnake. Then, Stoker took a flying leap toward the rattlesnake's lair. His impact with the ground shocked him, but the realization that the snake must be under his hardened pectoral muscles was evident. He thought to himself, wait until I tell Rivera about this one.

  More enemy bullets flew around him. Time sped up, and the burning in his forearm almost overwhelmed him in his weakened state.

  Sitting up now with his spine pressing against the rock, he quickly inventoried his situation. "I'm breathing," he said aloud to himself. "I'm not bleeding." He needed to quickly tourniquet his arm until he reached safety. He had no idea how long it would be, hoping it was quick enough. He pulled off his belt, which luckily was the kind that had no holes, but rather ratchets. Stoker immediately and entirely restricted the circulation in his arm. He could stop the blood flow for forty to fifty-five minutes with no damage. It would be better than dying.

  The volley of bullets continued to fly around him. Excruciating pain enveloped him. Dozens of rounds had already ricocheted off the rock. His enemy’s lack of training was evident. They were wasting ammo. As far as he knew, he had fired one bullet and he had twelve more to go with one spare clip. He could hear the enemy getting closer. And so, Stoker used valuable moments to listen and wait as the men were taking turns providing cover fire and then advancing. He estimated they were a hundred yards away. Volleys of rounds continued. There was some concern about ricochet, but he did not believe he was in a line of fire—yet. His instincts could not be ignored. He had to live. But to live he had to kill. I am the predator. They are the prey.

  Reaching for his utility belt, he grabbed a grenade and waited. When the time was right, Stoker, with searing pain in his arm, pulled the pin and threw the grenade. It made its mark. The gunfire ceased as he heard frantic cries. The men recognized fate. Stoker positioned himself right against the rock and looked down at the dead viper and said, "Damn you," as he felt the report and the concussion of the grenade. The rock's protection and the distance from the explosion spared him from any damage. The assailants weren't so lucky.

  Stoker looked out from behind the rock. He thought to himself, Now is the time to go after those bastards. In a full sprint, he used precious seconds afforded after the grenade to reach a sandstone ledge. He jumped out and found three bloodied men on the ground. He didn't feel that they could provide any information. He did not want them to suffer. He put two quick bullets into each man's brain. These choices might have been difficult at one time, but they were easy now—almost a little too easy. Stoker had one thing on his mind, survival.

  He drew his FN Five-Seven pistol from his right leg holster. This was Stoker's choice for accuracy and distance. He loved the boat-tail bullets that filled his twenty-round clip. This gun was essentially a rifle with armor-piercing bullets—in his hand. He raised his weapon to his side and took a few moments. Stoker heard no footsteps. He quickly counted the bodies—or what he could make out of the grenade-mangled bodies. There were between thirteen and fifteen dead men.

  So much for my training! he thought. Stoker had risen to the occasion. It felt oddly automatic. However, there were still enemies missing! The group’s sarvan escaped the grenade blast and fell back. Stoker scanned the horizon, and with his laser-targeting monocular he found his man at about eight hundred yards. This leader knew he had to die. But, so soon? He was looking for the army that killed his men.

  Stoker really didn't have much time. The best outcome would be to discourage the sarvan from pursuing him. However, intelligence obtained from this man would be inherently useful. After scanning the horizon again, Stoker saw the battle-hardened officer taking cover behind some of the scant creosote bushes. Since most of the trainees were dead, Stoker decided to do something else seemingly outside of the military training box. He took aim at a patch of sand close to the sarvan's hiding spot. He compensated for elevation and squeezed the trigger. Stoker was a dead eye with an FN Five & Seven. He could hit a melon at a thousand yards, if he knew the approximate wind speed and humidity. The bullet threw up a puff of sand. After adjusting a few degrees, he pulled the trigger again. The second shot found its intended mark about two feet away from the officer. Stoker wanted to try to take him alive, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

  The sarvan emerged with fury from his insufficient cover, firing a standard AK-47, bullets spraying wildly. He didn't stand a chance at hitting Stoker. Even with his position compromised, Stoker still liked his options. He took a moment to survey the terrain behind him for avenues of retreat.

  The volley stopped. Stoker knew the man was turning the banana clip around, so he popped up and laid down three shots of fire from his Five & Seven. The first one made sand fly up just to the right of the Iranian's foot. The second one landed just to the left. The third blew into his right shin and shattered his tibia. The officer hit the ground hard, screaming in agony.

  With his foe immobilized, Stoker left his cover and started moving toward the sarvan. As Stoker approached the injured man, the Iranian reached for his AK-47. As he tried to raise his barrel, Stoker landed a round just to his right side and then immediately to his left. His stunning accuracy sent a message to the enemy. Stoker could kill him if he wanted. The message sunk in. The Iranian realized he was up against a formidable foe. Stoker gained another thirty yards, all the while watching his adversary writhing in the sand.

  He ejected his clip and popped in a new mag in less than two seconds. His adrenaline rush was wearing off. It had saved his life. Now the realization of his exhaustion and dehydration was starting to set in. He wanted to vomit. As Stoker was closing in, he decided that he didn't want to be shot at anymore. He shot at the man's right arm and hit it. Then, he aimed at the man's left shoulder hitting it square in the socket. At fifty yards, he was very accurate. Stoker intended to prevent the sarvan from his continued shooting. The man's trainees were dead, and the leader was lying in the desert with some possible critical information.

  Stoker realized that his energy levels were waning. His dehydration was a great concern. He forced himself to draw in two deep breaths. As Stoker reached the sarvan, another wannabe soldier jumped out. Only a few feet away, the man attempted to stab Stoker with a dagger. Stoker immediately blocked the weapon and quickly broke the man's jaw with a right elbow strike. As the stunned man started to fall to the ground, Stoker reached to his left side, grabbed his K-bar knife, and slit the man's throat. Stoker realized this was almost an instinctive response. It was either kill or be killed. Black and white.

  The sarvan was stunned at Stoker's intensity and ferocity. This single American took out his entire group. The leader's right arm would not respond, and his left was barely functioning. Stoker kicked his gun away, searched him for other weapons, and asked the man a question in Farsi. "What are you doing here in Mexico?"

  The terrorist couldn't answer. He was so thunder-struck and shaken that one man had killed all his men—and he also spoke Farsi! As he resigned himself to Stoker, he looked up, and there seemed to be a strange looking bird appearin
g in the sky. He felt as if he were dying.

  There was a roaring wind of turbines, steel, and sand that enveloped Troy Stoker and the dying man. The sarvan became fearful as the helicopter descended. It gracefully tilted forward and descended sharply creating a small sandstorm. With a banking turn, the helicopter circled to Stoker's left and came around. The bleeding man looked up and began shaking with fear. This was like no helicopter he had ever seen. He'd lost a lot of blood. Perhaps that was why he was hallucinating about this strange bird in the sky. And, this powerful man—perhaps an American—was now taking his hand and speaking in his own tongue of Farsi. The powerful man said to him, "Why are you here?" The man was so stunned he couldn't answer. He said again, "Why are you here?"

  The Iranian noticed he was getting medical attention for his arm and shoulder from some strange people in black. It all felt very surreal to him. Why were this infidel and these secretive people helping me? They seemed to be coming out of nowhere. The sarvan was shaking, not only from shock, but also from intense fear and misunderstanding of who these people were.

  Soldiers filed out of the helicopter to help Stoker with the injured captive. Even with his uncontrollable short, panting breath and searing pain from the rattlesnake bite, a brief smile of relief broke through Stoker's grimace. As Stoker stood, he realized that the Iranian was now in shock. He would have to be interrogated later.

  Stoker remembered an experience a few months before when this elite group of hand-picked warriors landed on a frozen pond in South Dakota to help him. Together, they detained the man responsible for the attempted murder of one of his patients and the kidnapping of his wife. This was Troy Stoker, M.D.'s new band of brothers. The Espada Rápida team was there to extract their newest and probably most gifted recruit.

  Thanks to Stoker's past military experience and his friendship with Errol Rivera, he had been invited into the private military fraternity. Espada Rápida took on special missions to protect and defend the United States. The low-profile, high-impact missions were less visible but essential in the ongoing war against terrorism and corruption. Espada Rápida's association with the FBI Joint Terrorism Taskforce put them on the front lines of challenging missions—the kind that rarely made it into the news.

  Three warriors fanned out from the helicopter to form a perimeter around the landing site and to monitor what appeared to be the remains of combatants. Two other warriors jumped out and started running toward their wounded teammate. "Troy, are you injured?" the warrior known as Z asked with urgency in his voice. "Yes," Stoker frowned as he answered gruffly. "But, I think the score is oh, I don't know, fifteen of them against one of me. And, I'm thirsty. Can I have some water?"

  Z removed a water bottle from his pack and shoved it toward Stoker. "Drink this first eight ounces slow and easy, Troy. Those are Rivera's orders. He doesn't want you throwing up in his helicopter. You're severely dehydrated, so we'll give you fluids through an I.V."

  With his one good hand and every bit of quivering energy he had, Stoker squeezed the bottle. In seconds, he drank all the water. Z opened another bottle and poured the water over Stoker's head. "Thank you," Stoker said as he reached for yet another bottle and took a swig. The relief was amazing. However, the pain from the snakebite interrupted the moment of renewal and demanded attention.

  "My arm." Stoker winced as he held it up. It was swelling noticeably. "I think we should treat this."

  Z looked at Stoker's injury and made a sour face. "Whoa! If that hurts half as bad as that looks—"

  "Yeah, and it's my left arm."

  Z turned and spoke into the radio headset affixed to his ear. "Colonel Rivera, LZ is clear. We need your doctor hands out here with Stoker. And, could you bring whatever you need to treat a bad-ass snakebite for this badass out here?"

  The helicopter door popped open and out jumped Errol Rivera. Warrior, helicopter pilot, colonel, and physician. He was also the original leader of Espada Rápida, which means "swift sword" in the language of his home country, Cuba, which he fled as a young man. He ran toward Stoker and Z.

  "What's going on, amigo? Why are you the one having all the fun?" Rivera asked as he fell to his knees beside the prone Stoker.

  "Oh, these damn snake bites, they're just a pain in the ass," Stoker grunted in pain as he knelt and elevated his arm. "They burn like hell. I'm sure that rattler envenomed me, and I need to get to a hospital to patch me up."

  Rivera responded. "My gosh, Stoker! You descended so quickly on your HALO jump. I guess winning the bet was not enough for you? But, I know why you missed your designated landing

  site—"

  "I had to change my designated landing site," replied Stoker, "because I didn't want those tangos getting a look at me."

  "Now I understand why you radioed," Rivera said. "I was just giving you a hard time. I know you were onto some tangos, but I had no idea you had to fight a small war singlehandedly. I'm sorry we weren't there to help you. But, you've turned into a real badass."

  Stoker responded to Rivera. "No, you've turned me into a survivor. I didn't have a choice. But, I spent a lot of effort trying to keep that one guy alive for you." Stoker pointed at the injured Iranian and frowned." I'm assuming he's the leader." Then Stoker pointed in a different direction and asked, "See that boulder? You'll see dozens of bullet marks on one side and a dead bloody snake on the other that yours truly jumped on."

  Rivera said, "Well that's one way to kill it."

  "No, no," Stoker replied. "I shot it first."

  "Well, that's another way to kill it I guess.”

  Rivera turned and ordered one of the soldiers. "Grab a plastic bag, and get what's left of that snake. The head and tail are the most important parts." Rivera turned to Z. "And, you get to help me with Troy. This snake bite could be serious."

  Rivera unzipped two medical bags. "Okay, Z," Rivera said as he examined Stoker's snakebite. "See the red line around the fang marks?" Rivera removed a Sharpie from one of the bags. "Take this indelible pen and draw a line around the border where Troy's skin is starting to turn a bright, beefy red." Rivera gently elevated Stoker's arm to shoulder height. Stoker winced and let out a grunt. "By drawing the line," Rivera continued, "we're documenting how the skin cellulitis damage advances. Every ten minutes we assess the swelling again and draw a new border. But if it doesn't advance, we don't draw over the same line. Got that?" Z nodded as he carefully held up Stoker's arm as he began to draw the outlines of Stoker's swollen snakebite.

  "Just a reminder that I know how to treat snake bites," Stoker noted. "Next on the agenda is pain medication. Just get me some Tylenol. I don't want any of that morphine or other opioid crap. We're in the Mexican desert, and I need to be alert, especially around you guys."

  "I'm terribly ignoring your pain," Rivera replied. "I'm worried about getting you rehydrated, but gradually. I'm starting an I.V.; you need more than just clear water. Then we're going to get you back to the field hospital. That Mossad doctor has a lot of experience administering snake antivenin. He's done it many times."

  "We'll make sure Allie knows you didn't take the easy way out with the opioids," Z chided. Allie Stoker was Troy's wife, and she had an incredible tolerance for pain. Avoiding pain medications became somewhat of a competition between Dr. Stoker and his wife.

  Rivera removed a pair of scissors from the medical bag. "Let me get to your good arm here, Troy." In mere seconds Rivera had cut away the sleeve of Stoker's desert camouflage shirt. Then he looked at Z. "With Stoker being so dehydrated," he said, "why don't you help me get an I.V. started on him?"

  "Sure thing," Z said. "You're a big doc, and I'm a techie. I love medical stuff, but I'm all thumbs."

  "Oh, just get the I.V. set up, I'll do the tricky stuff," Rivera said. "Just find one good vein just below Stoker's elbow—one that sticks out—and then pull some Betadine out of the medical bag and start cleaning and sterilizing the skin around the vein. A diameter of two to three inches should do."

  Z reached into
the medical bag and started to rummage around. "Betadine. Betadine. Where's the Betadine?"

  "They're little white packets," Stoker coached through his pain-clenched teeth. "Here do you want me to do it?"

  "Okay, here they are." Z tore a packet open. He removed the iodine drenched gauze and started to scrub. Rivera reached into his bag and removed an I.V. kit. In two minutes, Rivera had the I.V. inserted into Stoker's arm. He adjusted the drip to infuse the proper amount of saline into his friend. Stoker felt some relief after approximately two to three minutes. "Wow, I love I.V.'s; they're wonderful! And, I’d like some more water too, thank you."

  "I've got the snake," a warrior named Jessica said as she came running back carrying a bag filled with serpent scraps. She was a new Espada Rápida warrior. Z was also her new boyfriend.

  "Let me take a look," Rivera said. He reached over and spilled the contents of the bag onto a sterilized cloth. Then in a tone of open mockery, he said, "Let's see what the mighty snake slayer, Troy Stoker, has defeated today."

  Stoker cocked his head to the side and smiled with a wince that acknowledged Rivera's sarcasm. "I'm sure you'll keep mocking me about the rattlesnake. When you're done entertaining all of us, come help me treat this arm."

  Rivera was quite concerned but didn't want to show it. Stoker's condition looked serious. "All right, mister big-shot psychiatrist. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Just let me know when you're done using your therapy techniques, or whatever the hell they are." Rivera was still mocking him as he bent down toward the snake remains. "I only have a limited amount of humor skills. If you strip me of mockery and some occasional cynicism, what am I left with?"

  "Touché, Rivera," Stoker said. "And I have one for you! What would a psychiatrist be without therapy?"