“I know the enormity of what I’m asking you,” Gabe said softly, all but reading his mind. “And under any other circumstances, I’d be the first to say hell no. But these aren’t normal circumstances and this isn’t a mission I’m willing to refuse. So are you up for this?” he asked after a long stretch of silence. “Tell me right now if you’re not.”
Seth swallowed. He was not broken. He could do this. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be ready.”
Chapter Five
The team wasn’t happy to see him. Nobody said so out loud, but the good-natured ribbing and off-color jokes he could hear from where he stood in the hallway stopped when Seth finally entered the hotel conference room. Not that he blamed them. After the botched training mission, he wouldn’t be happy to see himself either if he were in their shoes. The silence in the room fit like a too-tight boot.
Finally, the door opened and Gabe strode in with Quinn, and Greer Wilde.
Greer looked no better than he had last night. If anything, the bags around his dark eyes were more pronounced, the lines etched into his forehead speaking of massive amounts of stress.
“All right, gentlemen, let’s get started.” Gabe produced a folder from his pack and opened it on the table, then motioned to Greer with his chin. “Most of you probably already know him, but for those who don’t, this is Greer Wilde. He’ll be in charge of this briefing. Greer?”
Greer nodded. As he came forward, Jesse Warrick leaned back in his seat and tipped his cowboy hat in greeting. “Thought you left this kinda work, Wilde.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Greer muttered. “How are you, Jesse?”
“Better than you from the looks of it.”
“Been a bad week.” Greer stopped at the front of the room and stared down the length of the table, his eyes landing briefly on Seth before he picked up a photo from the open folder. The picture showed an unsmiling man in a turban with dark, unreadable eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. “This man is Zakir Rossoul.” He produced another photo and held the two up side by side. The second showed the same man, beardless and grinning, wearing the tan beret of an Army Ranger on his close-cropped hair. “Also known as Sergeant Zakir ‘Zak’ Hendricks. He’s a second-generation Afghan-American, decorated former Army Ranger, and—” Greer paused and cleared his throat before continuing. “For the past eighteen months, Zak has been working deep undercover in Afghanistan. He was supposed to stay there until April, but two weeks ago we received a call from him via sat phone.” He withdrew a small recorder from his pocket and hit play. Static filled the room, broken intermittently by a deep, unaccented voice.
“I repeat, this is Sergeant Zak Hendricks. I’ve been made. Get me the fuck outta here.”
“This is the last contact we received from him,” Greer said and spread a map across the table. “He tried to give us his coordinates, but the call failed. Best we can figure, his last position was here.” He fingered a spot high in the mountains near the Pakistan border, then looked up at the team. “We want him back and we tried to find him, but since it was a fully deniable mission, our government is doing fuck-all to help bring him home. It’s not acceptable.”
Several of the guys murmured agreement.
“What was his mission?” someone asked.
Greer hesitated, obviously weighing his next words, considering how much to divulge. “In five months, Afghanistan will be electing a new president. What happens during that election will affect the timetable for the withdrawal of American troops. Now as much as we’d like to see all of our guys come home, we don’t want to leave the country in the hands of an extremist leader with a hard-on for the U.S. And unfortunately, several of the candidates for presidency are exactly that. Most don’t have a snowball’s chance of winning, but there is one man who has Washington worried. His name is Jahangir Abdul Rab Siddiqui. He’s Pashtun, and popular with religious conservatives. He already has the ear of the current administration and has spent the last several years stacking the Supreme Court and National Assembly with his buddies. There are rumors of his Taliban sympathies and suspicion he’s behind several suicide bombs that have killed foreign peacekeepers and anti-Taliban leaders. Zak’s mission was to get in close to Siddiqui and dig up all the dirt he could. His secondary mission, in case Siddiqui did get elected, was to make sure the man never made it into office, but something went wrong. We don’t know what or how. All we know is what you heard on that recording. Zak called for an exfil, but by the time we got men in the area there was no sign of him.”
As Greer spoke, the pictures of Zak Hendricks circled the table, both finally landing in front of Seth. He stared down at the grinning man, his stomach churning. “How do we know he’s not already dead?”
“We don’t,” Greer admitted. “But I seem to remember another situation not all that long ago, where a team of SEALs went into the mountains on questionable intel, all to rescue a lost Marine…”
Every eye in the room swung in Seth’s direction. He set his jaw. “That was low, Greer.”
“Yeah, but I’m not playing fair. I’m already breaking all kinds of laws by bringing HORNET into this, but fuck it. Zak is one of my best friends and I can’t leave him there.”
Gabe Bristow stood and clapped Greer on the shoulder. “You’d better head back to DC before anyone notices you’re gone. We’ve got this. We’ll bring Zak home.”
“Thank you,” Greer said tightly and headed out. He paused beside Seth’s chair. “I’m sorry for bringing up your situation, but you have to see the similarities.”
Seth did, but resentment still burned inside his chest and he couldn’t give any more response than a curt nod. If Greer Wilde was looking for forgiveness, he’d have to keep searching.
Gabe waited to continue the briefing until after the door shut behind Greer, then he passed a thin stack of papers around the table.
“This is all the information we have on the key players right now,” he said. “Granted, it’s not actionable intel—yet—but we’ll have a better chance at getting something of use in-country. Once we’re airborne, Harvard will gather what information he can on Sergeant Hendricks and Siddiqui and prepare an in-depth report I expect you all to read and know by heart.” He glanced to Harvard for confirmation.
The ex-CIA analyst and all-around computer genius nodded. “Got it.”
Gabe continued. “Jean-Luc, when we land, you’ll take Seth to make contact with HumInt’s local asset, a man by the name of Hamid Fahim.”
“Wait,” Jean-Luc said. “Why Seth?” Then he winced and tilted his head in semi-apology. “No offense, Seth, but I’d rather have one of the guys I know at my back in case things go fubar.”
“Too bad,” Gabe said. “Seth is just as much a member of this team as the rest of you. He’s to be treated as such. We’re not frat boys and there will be no hazing of every new guy I bring on. I won’t put up with that shit. Am I understood, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” everyone answered, albeit halfheartedly.
Gabe gave them a moment to let that decree sink in. “After Jean-Luc and Seth have secured supplies and a safe house from Fahim, we’ll set up a forward operating base with internet access so Harvard can continue working. From there, our first course of action will be locate and plant a GPS tracker on Jahangir Siddiqui’s vehicle. He’s the key to the actionable intel we need. Any questions?”
Some of the guys tossed out questions, but they were working off limited information and Gabe admitted he didn’t have the answers.
Marcus Deangelo, a former FBI agent, drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, I hate to be Debbie Downer here, but I’m not real comfortable with stepping on the military’s toes. The FBI in Colombia was one thing,” he said, referring to the team’s first mission together, which Seth hadn’t been a part of. “They were in the wrong. Hell, even my ex-partner thought so, which is why he risked his career to help us.”
“Yeah, when is Giancarelli gonna give up the Bureau and come over to the dark side?” Jean-Luc a
sked.
Marcus snorted. “He’s considered it, but it’s not happening unless his wife says it’s okay. And she won’t.”
Jean-Luc made a tsk tsk tsk sound. “Man’s pussy-whipped.”
“Can you blame him?” Marcus asked. “You have seen his wife, right?”
“Good point. If I had a woman as gorgeous as Leah Giancarelli in my bed every night—”
“You’d ask her sister to join you for a threesome,” Quinn said, deadpan.
Jean-Luc grinned. “Fuck yeah. Common sense, mon ami. Common sense.”
Even Quinn cracked a smile at that.
Seth stayed silent through it all and flipped through the handouts. Zak Hendricks’s stats, service record, family history… Nothing that would help them find the man.
He closed the folder and pushed it away. “The military won’t do anything until Sergeant Hendricks shows up bleeding on an Al Jazeera news feed. And if it was a black op, probably not even then.”
“That’s the general consensus, yes,” Gabe agreed after a beat of silence, then looked at Marcus. “Which is why I’m not all that concerned about stepping on the military’s toes here. If Sergeant Hendricks was captured by Siddiqui’s Taliban buddies, they plan to make a very public, very graphic example of him. They don’t take prisoners. To date, there are only two known POWs in A-stan. One soldier has been held captive since 2009 and is being used as a bargaining chip for the release of Taliban prisoners. And one Marine—” He broke off abruptly. Clothing rustled and the seats creaked as everyone shifted to look at Seth.
All seven stares crawled over Seth’s skin like needle-legged spiders, and a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He hated it, hated being the center of attention, hated that Gabe had just boiled his life down to nothing more than an example in a briefing. But he wasn’t a coward and if they wanted to use him as an example, then so be it.
He gulped down the rising panic, shoved up out of his seat, and very deliberately lowered the hood of his sweatshirt. Then he jerked the thing off over his head, tossed it on the table, and held out his arms. He always wore long sleeves in public, but if they wanted to stare, they might as well get the whole fucking picture, right? Scars and all.
He met each of their gazes with a challenge in his own.
Harvard visibly swallowed and looked away first, adjusting his glasses and taking a great interest in his laptop screen. Marcus looked at him with pity, Jesse with the assessing eye of a medical professional. Jean-Luc shifted uncomfortably and for a moment, Seth almost took pity on him. The Ragin’ Cajun didn’t do well with heavy stuff and right now, a thousand-pound elephant sat in the middle of the table. Quinn nodded once in his direction, a gesture of respect. Gabe stood at the front of the table, silent and stone-faced. Ian, one arm draped over the back of the chair beside him, rolled his eyes.
Seth dropped his arms, but didn’t reach for his sweatshirt. “I know how these militants work. If they haven’t already cut off Sergeant Hendricks’s head and they haven’t yet issued a ransom demand, then they’re torturing him.” He couldn’t help the crack in his voice on those last two words, but plowed onward, determined to be of some use to the team. “Maybe they’re trying to get info out of him, maybe not. Either way, Gabe’s right. They’re making an example of him—‘Look at the infidel, so weak, so broken. These are the men who want our country, who want to corrupt our women and our culture. See? We can beat them easily. We are powerful. Allah is on our side’…and so on. Even better if they can keep him alive and make a hundred examples out of him, day after day after day.”
Nobody spoke.
Seth grabbed his sweatshirt from the table, but paused before pulling it on. “Honestly, for Sergeant Hendricks’s sake, I hope we’re going in after a body. I hope it was a quick and easy death because I wouldn’t wish this”—he motioned to his chest—“on anyone except the assholes who did it to me.”
Chapter Six
Kabul, Afghanistan
The bazaar was a vibrant place, full of movement and color that put Seth’s teeth on edge. Vendors who could afford tables stood under bright umbrellas, shaded from the sun and wind. Those who couldn’t just spread their wares out on blankets on the ground or in rusted wheelbarrows, selling everything from sheep heads to dried fruit, fabric, and even toys.
The sounds were just as much an assault on Seth’s overwhelmed senses as the sights. Vendors called out in rapid-fire Pashto or Dari. Or, occasionally, even broken English when they spotted a Westerner. A lot of chatter, haggling. Laughter. Yelling. Honking from the crowded street as cars weaved around pedestrians. The putter of motorbikes zipping through stagnant traffic. Traditional music filled the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
It all combined into a quagmire in Seth’s mind that had him about ready to jump out of his skin. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder every time someone pressed in too close behind him. Couldn’t control the jitter that made him tense up at every contact or loud noise.
Fuck, he had to get over this. Kabul was a relatively safe place—or at least as safe as any city in this godforsaken country could get. Logic dictated he had nothing to fear here. These were just everyday, average people going about their lives. Just like citizens in America, some of these people had no interest in politics and only wanted the endless warring to end. Not everybody had a political agenda. Or even a religious one.
They weren’t all the enemy.
This was another test, he reminded himself, and sucked in a calming breath through his nose, inhaling the scents of people, spice, smoke, garbage, and exhaust. Of all the men Gabe could have sent to the market to meet Fahim, he’d selected Seth to go with Jean-Luc, even though several of the guys had done tours in Afghanistan and they all had at least a basic understanding of Pashto. Certainly enough to go to the market and meet with an asset who supposedly spoke perfect English.
So of course this was a test. With good reason, Gabe wanted to see if he could handle being back here, and he’d be damned before he failed.
Had to pull it together. Stay alert. Stay focused.
And most of all, stay fucking calm.
As they weaved their way through the market, Jean-Luc was his usual cheerful self, just as comfortable halfway across the world as he was in his beloved New Orleans. Laughing, joking, conversing with the locals in flawless Dari. At the moment, he carried on a spirited debate with a teenage boy over the price of a scarf.
Seth kind of hated him for his blasé attitude.
“Little thief,” Jean-Luc said good-naturedly and returned to Seth’s side with his hard-won scarf.
“You paid too much for it.”
“I know. Like I said, kid’s a little thief.” But he smiled as he looped the scarf around his neck. “Gotta admire him for it. Besides, what am I goin’ to do with a handful of afghani bills if we end up running around in the mountains? Up there, it’s only good for toilet paper. But a scarf? Now, mon ami, that’s useful.”
“Good point.” So there was a method to Jean-Luc’s madness after all. Because of his propensity to joke around more than anyone on the team, it was sometimes hard to remember he housed genius-level intellect behind that mischievous grin.
But still, these little shopping excursions were taking too much time. And Seth got twitchier with each passing second. Time to get their job done and get the fuck out of here. “Now let’s find Fahim and—”
“Ooh. Shiny.” Jean-Luc strayed from the path to another vendor’s blanket of goods.
Seth stopped walking and heaved a sigh. “You’re as bad as a crow feathering its nest.”
A sudden memory of Emma bobbed to the surface of his mind. She’d oohed and ahhed over the sparkly shit when they’d picked out an engagement ring before his deployment. Actually, kinda the same way Jean-Luc was now.
“Scratch that,” Seth said. “You’re more like an engaged woman in a jewelry store.”
Jean-Luc held up a hand, his knuckles ador
ned with different rings of varying sizes. “Aw, see, you have much to learn, grasshopper. Women adore sparkles. I adore women. Therefore, I buy sparkles to give to women and I get laid.”
“Jesus Christ. Does your every thought revolve around getting laid?”
“Pretty much. Doesn’t everyone’s?”
“No.” He hadn’t thought about sex since…well, since that night after he bought Emma her ring. And in all honesty, the idea of getting naked and sweaty with anyone ever again had bile surging into his throat. Hell to the no.
“See, that’s what’s wrong with the world today,” Jean-Luc said. “Everyone’s so…repressed. Politically, religiously, emotionally, sexually. Everyone needs to say fuck it, let it all go, have some fun, and just live.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s the problem with—” Paranoia crawled up the back of Seth’s neck and he turned to scan the marketplace. Was it him, or had the crowd thickened? He glanced from face to face, looking for the slightest hint of malicious intent. Save for one woman who seemed to be staring at him—it was hard to tell for sure through the veil of her traditional blue chadari—nobody paid any undue attention to him. So maybe it was nothing. Hell, with his track record for paranoid outbursts, it probably was nothing. But he swore he’d felt unfriendly eyes on his back moments ago and he wasn’t going to ignore his gut instinct again. Not after the way Ian had gotten the drop on him in the swamp back in Florida.
He tapped Jean-Luc’s arm. “We need to go.”
“Yeah?” The Ragin’ Cajun’s easy smile faded, but unless you were up close and personal with him, nobody else would have noticed the slight shift in his demeanor. He continued to examine the ring selection like everything was still hunky-dory. “What did you see?”
“Nothing.” And didn’t that make him feel stupid? “Just…gut feeling.”
“You don’t have the best track record with gut feelings, you know.”
“Yeah, but—” Seth cut himself off, spotting a man standing off to the side of the crowd, a cell phone raised to his ear. He carried on a very intense conversation with someone on the other end of the line and kept glancing in their direction.
Honor Reclaimed Page 4