by Ronie Kendig
“Stop. Focus on this.” She sliced her hands through the air. “So. We’re… business partners.”
“Partner is no good.”
“Why?”
“Tower Two is residential. Tower One is commercial and corporate.” He shrugged. “They’ll want to know why we aren’t leasing in One. Unless you have unlimited resources—”
“Ha. U.S. Army does not stand for Unlimited Supply Army.” She sneered. “More like useless supply.” Hands cradling her head as she leaned on her desk, she sighed heavily. “Fine.” She straightened, as if bracing herself. “I’m your girlfriend.”
His eyebrows winged up before he could stop.
Brie seemed to go rigid, her gaze locked on the documents. “The condo has three bedrooms, so we’ll have our own rooms. Nothing funny.”
Again, he arched an eyebrow. He might not watch a lot of movies, but he knew how flicks with arrangements like that ended. Apparently, by the crimson hue of her face and her unwillingness to look at him, so did she.
Finally she slapped her desk. “What?”
Eamon gave a slow shake of his head. This was the most twisted assignment he’d been handed. But he had to admit—he liked the idea of having time to get to know her better. However, it flustered her. He needed to redirect. “What are we looking for?”
She seemed to relax. “Burnett wanted someone he could trust on the inside trying to get information on Meng-Li Jin. Information that can’t come from external recon. And with the way things have gone and Walker’s information turning out to be limited, eyes inside is more important than ever. We need to know what he’s doing. Plant some bugs and cameras. Monitor. See who’s coming and going.”
Eamon nodded.
“Do you have civvies?”
“Sorry?”
Her gaze swept his tall frame. “Normal clothes.”
“I know what they are. I wondered why you’d asked.”
“Put on your best duds, Titanis. We’re hitting the Kandahar Ritz, aka Takkar Towers, tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 5
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
26 March—1400 Hours
Water dribbled across his shoulders, a long cry from the hot showers of home, but enough to scrub the Afghan sand from his skin. Sal roughed a cloth lathered with soap across his arms and abs. The bubbles sickeningly reminding him of the general’s blood bubbling up between Cassie’s fingers.
Sal swallowed and hung his head, closing his eyes and mind from the memory. He breathed deeply. Felt the swell of distant images flooding in, thickening the water around him. Drenching him in the blood of not only the general, but of Vida and Mario.
No!
Heaviness shoved his shoulders. Weighted his muscles. His heart.
Palming the wall of the cubicle shower, Sal pushed back against the oncoming torrent. Despite his resistance, it came. He gritted his teeth, knowing it was his punishment. His penance. His world, his mistakes, thrown in a blender. Words clashed with visages. Voices with people. Truth with guilt. Blurred. Mixed up.
“We’ll finally be together.”
Happiness. She’d been so excited.
Kisses. So many kisses. Passion. Losing control.
“You’re such a good man. You honored my sister.”
An explosion. A bang.
Sal snapped his head up, hauling in a ragged breath. Somewhere in the showers came the plodding of feet. Only then did he realize the bang had been a stall door in the unisex bathroom. Breathing hard, he shook off the memories.
He’d failed her. Failed him. Failed the general. Failed himself.
Balling his fists, he ground his molars against the anger. She’s dead! Dead because of Cassie. The fury rose up like a volcanic explosion. He bit through the tears that demanded freedom. The pain that roiled like a tornado, whipping his life into a frenzy.
He banged his head against the prefab wall.
It’s your fault she’s dead!
So sweet. So trusting. He’d promised her… promised he’d take care of her.
Nobody should trust him. Candyman lost a leg because Sal hadn’t protected him. General Burnett died right in front of him. Vida died because of him, because of his weakness.
He growled. Against the truth. Against the litany of condemnation. The pressure built within him. Demanding release.
Sal reached outside the curtain and tugged his Ka-Bar from its sheath. Trembling beneath the weight of his anger, he placed the blade against his lifted bicep. Soap slid down his forearm, over the scarred ridges.
“We can get married now!”
Hand fisted, muscles taut, Sal drew the blade across. Freedom! Release! Pain sluicing with release. He closed his eyes for a second then breathed out. Lifted the blade again and carved another. Watched the crimson line speed down his arm, chasing time. Chasing memories. Chasing pain.
He clenched his eyes tight.
Go away. Just… go away.
Steel glinted beneath a mixture of blood and water as it pinched his flesh with another line between good and evil. Right and wrong. Sin and redemption.
“Falcon!”
Sal blinked. Stilled. Swallowed hard as his pulse jammed.
“You in here?” Dean’s voice was close.
“Yeah.” Sal cleared his throat. Glanced at the Ka-Bar. At the blood on the floor, diluted by the water. Dean wouldn’t understand. The guy had everything under control. Exuded authority and strength. He hadn’t made stupid mistakes that cost lives. Hadn’t convinced people to believe in him, trust him, then have their lives thrown under the bus of his idiocy.
Boots stomped closer… closer…
Sal swallowed harder. If Dean found out… if anyone found out, he’d end up with a psych eval. He could get put out.
He shook his head. Cassie would destroy yet another life. “Access to the prisoner came through. Need you over there now.”
“On my way.” Sal held his arm under the water. Rinsed his blade. Grabbed the keffiyeh, tore off a section, and tied it around his bicep. After drying off and dressing, he made his way to his bunk, verified he was alone as he stowed his gear, then removed the scarf and applied a line of wound sealer. Sal tensed through the stinging. He holstered his weapon and hurried to the detention facility.
“Captain Watters?” Sal asked the guard as he logged in.
“He—”
“Falcon.”
Sal shot a look over his shoulder and spotted Dean at the end of the hall. He dropped the pen on the clipboard and trotted down the narrow corridor. “You talk to him yet?”
“Titanis is having a go,” Dean said as they entered the fifteen-by-twenty room and folded his arms over his chest.
“Titanis?” Sal frowned. What was the Aussie doing here? Sal was second-in-command. Why had Titanis been chosen over him?
“I called him over after I found you. Thought he might have some persuasive methods—since he’s not officially on the team, he might get away with things we might not.”
Right. Not entirely true. But it’d be a distraction they could play with if questions arose.
Titanis hulked over the small-framed Afghan national. “Sorry, mate. We just don’t believe you.”
“It is true,” the man snapped.
Shifting to the side, Titanis afforded Sal a view of the man. And anger spiraled up from the places he’d tucked it not ten minutes ago. It didn’t look like anyone had touched the guy. Defiance oozed from the man’s posture and words. Why wasn’t blood dribbling from his lips and nose yet?
The thought gave Sal a start. Bloodthirsty…
“You had an assault rifle,” Titanis went on. “You ran from my team. You shot at us.”
The Afghan’s lip curled. “You cannot prove it.”
Titanis looked at Dean, who gave an almost-imperceptible lift of his chin.
Good. They’d step it up a little.
“Captain?”
Sal shifted as a man entered the cell and met Dean with a discerning gaze. He wasn’t
in uniform. Hair long around the ears and neck. Brawny. Tactical pants and shirt. All the marks of a Special Forces operator—and yet Sal didn’t recognize him. SEAL? MARSOC?
“Can I help you?” Dean asked.
“If you’ll call off your dingo”—he nodded toward Titanis—“I have work to do.”
Sal exchanged a look with Dean.
Shoulders squared, Dean didn’t move or answer for a few seconds. “And you are?”
“Running behind.” The man had a bag in hand. It didn’t look like anything official. More like something out of a thriller novel—leather satchel sagging heavily. Something inside it clinked and clanked.
“We have authorized access to this prisoner—he shot at my men. I’m not walking out of here.”
“Then you can answer to Ramsey for holding up information demanded by DIA and POTUS.”
POTUS? Since when? The president wanted to look good, not look at what was happening in the war theater.
Brawny gave a cheeky grin and swung his head toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me. I believe you have a phone call with Ramsey.”
Phone call my hairy backside. Sal shook his head. “You must think we’re stupid. We walk out of here and you beat the crap out of him or kill him. Then our names are on the logs and we take the heat for this.”
“Forget the heat,” Dean said. “He’s our prisoner. I need time with him.”
Brawny considered Dean. “Sorry, Captain. Playtime’s over.” He looked to the door then back to Dean then Sal. “Leave. Now.”
“Who gave you your orders?” Sal demanded.
“Ramsey.”
Sal started for the guy, not believing him. Not buying this story. But Dean slapped a hand on his chest. Sal shot Dean a glare.
“We’ll do it the right way.” Dean and Titanis headed down the hall together.
Sal glowered at the Painful Query Master. Saw the gleam in the man’s eyes. Knew that if he walked out of here, there was little chance they’d come back to a live prisoner. “I’m not leaving.” Challenge set, Sal held his ground.
Though the man betrayed nothing in his mannerisms—no flaring nostrils, no balled fists, no clenched jaw—there was something, a glint, a flicker in his eyes, that dumped cold dread down Sal’s spine. The man’s gaze struck the empty hall then bounced back to Sal. “Your captain left. I’m sure you’ll want to verify with Ramsey.”
Right. Verifying with Ramsey meant Sal left the cell.
Get help. Check the log. Dean would check with Ramsey. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Sal turned and walked out.
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
26 March—1445 Hours
Dean stalked to the Command building. They were beaten at every corner. Pushed back at each junction. Two steps closer to the truth. Five steps farther. It was time to stop playing the game with rules in place. Time to break out and end this.
He yanked open the door and stormed in. His conscience pinged, knowing that on a day prior to this one, he would’ve been storming to Burnett’s office. But the general was gone. A great loss haunted the halls of Command now.
Behind him he heard the steady thumps of Sal’s and Titanis’s boots. The rhythm gave him courage. He rounded the corner and aimed for Ramsey’s office.
Lieutenant Hastings emerged from the office, closing it behind her, as Dean shoved through the glass door. “Captain.” Eyes wide, she gaped. “Can I help you?” Her gaze flicked to the door as Falcon and Titanis entered.
“I need a word with General Ramsey.”
“He asked not to be disturbed.”
“How long?” Dean asked, his frustration peaking.
Hastings once again glanced at Titanis. “I’m not sure. He said he had calls to make.”
“Lieutenant, we need him. Someone just locked us out of talking with the prisoner.”
“I—” She blinked. “What? Are you sure?” She lifted a paper from her desk. “I have your authorization to question him right here.”
“Dean!” Sal jogged down the hall, his face twisted. “The guard’s gone.”
“What guard?”
“The gatekeeper for detention.”
Dean drew back.
“We need to go in there,” Sal said, pointing to the general’s office. “Something’s not right.”
“Agreed.” Dean nodded to the door. “Let him know we need to talk—now.”
The lieutenant shrugged reluctantly. “I—”
Sal strode around her and went for the door. “We’re short on time and answers.” He rapped on the MDF barrier.
Dean stepped forward. “Falcon—”
But Falcon was already entering the office, interrupting a steady hum of phone conversation. “General, we—”
“Get out of my office!”
Dean reached for Sal, ready to haul him out of there. He’d gotten used to wrangling Hawk, but Sal?
General Ramsey slid a manila folder over a stack of papers, his expression a tangle of anger and frustration. “Captain—”
Might as well grab the bull by the horns. “Sir, with all due respect,” Dean said, finding himself strangely confident. “You gave us exclusive access to the prisoner and we were—”
“I swear if you do not get out—”
“I want our access restored to the prisoner.” Dean wouldn’t waver now.
Red-faced and coming to his feet, Ramsey shouted, “I never revoked it!”
Dean stilled.
“So what are you doing in my office? Get in there and interrogate the crap out of that prisoner. Find out who sent him to kill Lance.” His anger pushed the boundaries of rage. “So help me if you break in here again, I will have charges brought against you.”
Dean frowned, skidded a confused look to Sal, who returned the expression. “Sir, we were shut out of the prison. Told to leave. He mentioned you.”
“Me? I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Ramsey scowled as he plopped into his chair, hand resting on the folder. “Who was it?”
Titanis edged in, smoothing a hand over his beard. “Some mate who looked a lot like a spook.”
“He said he had to get answers, told us to leave. That you ordered him in there.”
“He had a leather satchel,” Sal added. “I swear the guy had bloodlust in his eyes. He was going to get answers from that prisoner no matter what means—conventional or unconventional.”
Ramsey’s face drained of color. He faltered coming to his feet. He rushed around the corner of his desk. “Hastings, get the MPs to the detention facility!” He ran down the hall.
“Not good,” Sal muttered.
Dean pivoted and ran after the general, busting through the front door, and beat a hard path to the detention area. He caught up with the general as he shoved into the building.
The desk remained unattended. “Specialist!” the general shouted but no one answered.
Dean stalked around the counter and pushed into the small office. The door thumped against a leg. “He’s down!” He went to a knee. “He’s alive but unconscious.”
“The prisoner,” Sal hissed.
Boots thudded down the hall, hauling Dean back out of the room. He sprinted toward the end of the hall. Watched the other three enter the last cell.
General Ramsey cursed. Loud. Several times.
The prisoner, hands cuffed behind his back, lay cockeyed in the chair. Blood trailed down his neck and shirt from a bullet wound in the head.
Titanis crouched beside him, fingers on his neck. He slowly shook his head. “Dead.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean fought the wave of despair.
“Some work.” Sal stood beside Dean. “He knew what he was doing.” He pointed to the man’s neck where a red dot glared at them. “Probably gave him some drug to make him spill his guts.”
“Then he does spill the man’s guts,” Titanis said.
“I want to know who did this!” Ramsey shouted, turning as MPs jogged toward them. “Check the surveillanc
e. Find out who this assassin was!”
“We saw him,” Dean mumbled, thinking through the scenario. “He walked in as brazen as day and told us to leave.”
Sal folded his arms. “Which means he’s not worried about being caught.”
“Probably drastically changed his appearance for our benefit.” Titanis leaned against a table, his hands propped against the steel. “Makes me wonder…”
Dean nodded.
Sal crouched before the dead prisoner. “Our Afghan friend here knew something.”
“Something so dangerous they couldn’t risk us finding out.” Dean straightened.
“You know what that means?” Sal had death in his eyes. Fierce determination mixed with a lethal concoction of thirst for vengeance. “We finish this—at all costs.”
Kabul, Afghanistan
26 March—1545 Hours
“What are you doing with my HunkySoldierBoy?”
At the demanding question by his spunky stepdaughter, Sajjan slumped back in his leather chair. Timbrel VanAllen had every bit the beauty and wit of her mother, but with an added pound of combat-hardened attitude. He could only thank God that Nina didn’t have that or he wouldn’t have given her the time of day, let alone taken her as his bride. “You would be speaking of Tony.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the only HunkySoldierBoy in existence.”
He could not help but smile as she shrugged. “I am doing nothing with Tony.” He held his hand toward the empty office.
“You can try your spy games on me, but I’m not cool with this if you’re putting his life in danger.” She had never been afraid of anything or anyone.
“If you are concerned for that, then I think you married the wrong man. Tony thrives on action, does he not?”
“Yes, but he’s smart with it… normally.”
“Your words wound me.” Truly they did. Though his stepdaughter accepted his marriage to her mom, and though she gave voice to her acceptance of him, there lurked in her a hesitation. “You would suggest that he’s not smart with me.”
She narrowed her eyes and batted long brown hair from her shoulders. “Tony respects you. Admires you—”
“And you do not?”
Timbrel snapped her mouth shut. Considered him. “I wouldn’t have let my mom marry you if I didn’t. But I also know the games you play, the alliances you toy with. In fact, I’m not really sure any of us know where your allegiance rests.”