by Ronie Kendig
“Quite a coincidence.”
Okay, enough. “What’s wrong, Kiew?”
Kiew leaned away, her face an impassive mask of civility. “What could possibly be wrong?”
A waiter appeared like a gust of wind with her glass of water and a china cup of black tea for Kiew.
“I will have the bok choy. My guest will have the salmon and rice.” Kiew gave Cassie a measured look. “You still like salmon, yes?”
“I love it.” What she didn’t love was the change in her friend. But Cassie had never been the confrontational kind—in fact, she’d walked a wide mile around conflict to avoid it. She laid the linen napkin across her lap and lifted the small water glass and sipped.
“How long have you been in Afghanistan?” Kiew asked as she raised her steaming tea.
“About three months.”
“Aren’t you scared?”
Cassie frowned. “Why would I be?”
“The attacks.”
“How do you know about those?”
Kiew sniffed. “It is all over the news. Local outlets take great pride in the damage done to the Americans.”
“I’m sure they do.”
The chatter between them did not improve before the food arrived, forcing them into silent eating. Something was wrong. Or maybe Kiew had just changed. A lot. This wasn’t the same girl she’d known and considered a blood sister. Sure, Kiew had always been quieter and more reserved than Cassie, but not cold and aloof.
“You have changed,” Kiew finally said quietly.
Yes, that was true, too. “Life has… challenged me.”
Kiew laughed. “That is a good way to put things.”
“I could be angry and bitter about what I’ve been through, but in the end, that only makes me miserable.” Cassie couldn’t help but think of Sal’s anger and bitterness. She could understand his anger, but what… what happened to Kiew? “What about you? How have you been?”
Kiew’s gaze fell to the table and silence blanketed them. A chilled silence. “I’m…” She breathed in and then exhaled. “I have changed, too. Life has, as you say, challenged me.” Her eyes sparkled and, for a brief moment, the old Kiew peeked from behind the reserved facade. “I am not sure, however, that I have conquered where it threw me.”
Cassie set her plate aside. “I’m not sure I can say I’ve conquered it either, but I’m fighting to have the life I want.” Why did Sal just leap into her mind with his handsome, brooding eyes? She had to change the subject. “So, what do you do for work? Do you travel a lot? Do you think we can see each other again?”
Kiew laughed again. Cassie remembered loving the sound, so much that she would make up things to say so Kiew would laugh. “One question at a time.”
With bunched shoulders, Cassie grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. So—job. What are you doing here?”
The stony mask slipped back into place. “Protecting interests for my… boss.”
The words seemed as carefully picked as plucking roses from a thornbush.
“That sounds… mysterious.” Cassie wrinkled her nose. “When you were in school, you said people teased you because you were so smart.”
“No.” Kiew glanced down at the napkin she folded and smoothed. “I said, because I was too smart.”
“There is no such thing as too smart. Crazy smart? Maybe.” Cassie laughed. “That was you—I always envied your brain.”
“And how happy you were.”
Now it was Cassie’s turn to look away.
“But I see that you are not quite as happy.” Kiew considered her. “What happened? I see a wound behind those eyes, and I do not mean the injury on your temple.”
Cassie’s hand almost went to the knot. How ironic that the knot and her subdued happiness were both connected to the same person. “Things happened. I let my naïveté and gregarious nature get me in trouble.” She lifted her chin. “But I bounced back.” After years of heartache.
“What was his name?” Kiew asked, her voice thick with understanding.
“Trouble.”
Kiew eyed her.
They both burst into laughter, drawing more than a few looks from the other patrons. Kiew tucked her head, making Cassie laugh more. Finally she caught her breath, though she felt a snigger tugging at her. “What about you? What was his name?”
“Me?” Kiew tried to look surprised.
“Yes, I can tell—”
“Miss Tang.”
Kiew glared at the attendant, but then her gaze flicked to the side. Her normally pale face went white. She immediately set aside her napkin, lifted her small clutch from the floor, and stood. “If you will excuse me, Cassandra.”
A northeasterly blast would’ve been warmer.
Cassie searched for the source of her friend’s sudden change. Three men stood near the trickling fountain in the center of the room. One wearing a fierce expression and staring at Kiew. The man was none other than Daniel Jin.
A man broke away from their group and started toward her. Dread spilling into her stomach, Cassie eased back, hiding behind the foliage, willing herself to vanish.
“Miss Walker?”
Cassie couldn’t move when she met the man’s gaze.
“Please come with me.”
EAMON
What do you call this again?”
“Qorma-e-Aloo Baloo,” Eamon said as he finished the last of the dinner he’d prepared. “My mother loved it.”
“She doesn’t anymore? Maybe you should stop cooking it then.”
Removing his plate to the sink gave him the chance to hide the pain of her teasing. “She died. Four years ago.”
“Oh.” When he turned around, Brie sat with her head bowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No worries.” He scrubbed the plate and dried it off then set it in the cabinet with the other furnished dishes. “I know you meant no harm.”
She was at his side, a little of her serving still on the china. “Really, I’m sorry. My mom was a champion—raising five kids and homeschooling them.”
Eamon took her dish and cleaned it, too.
Palms on the counter behind her, she pressed her back against it. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“No,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Mom always thought I was enough to handle.”
“Is she the one who taught you to clean up? You’re like a househusband or something.”
“My first flatmate was a slob. Disgusting habits. Drove me mad with the bugs it drew.”
Brie stared at him as she stood there. He wiped the towel around the sink, hoping she’d break the silence. But she simply stared.
Eamon shifted toward her, a hand propped on the counter. He peered down into her blue eyes. “Do I have something between my teeth?”
Brie didn’t look away. “No. You just look… different without your beard.”
He dragged his fingers over his jawline. “Feels naked.”
“It looks good.”
Words like that, simple phrases, could be innocent. Or they could have hidden meaning. He was sick of trying to figure out clues. “Okay.” He tossed down the towel. Planted his hands on either side of her and leaned in.
Surprise and something else slid into her expression as she eased back slightly.
“I’m not going to play games. Life is too short and I’m getting old. You intrigue me, Brie Hastings. Your character and professionalism speak loudly. You’re beautiful and fascinating. I want to know if you feel the same way.”
She hesitated, her gaze evading his until she finally ducked under his arm and moved to the table. “I really don’t think this conversation is appropriate.”
Eamon faced her, hands on his belt. “Inappropriate?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding to the room around them. “We are on assignment.”
“So?” If it weren’t for the assignment, for the times they were put together on missions, he wouldn’t have met her.
“And we’re… alone.”
&nb
sp; Eamon drew up, affronted by her insinuation. She thought he’d take advantage of her while they were alone. “Brie—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.” He tried to temper the frustration and indignation clawing through him. “My attraction to you started the first time I met you. It has nothing to do with being alone and wanting to take advantage—you don’t seriously think that of me, do you?”
She averted her gaze, swallowing.
“Brilliant,” he muttered.
“See?” She swallowed. “See why I felt it was inappropriate? You’re upset now.”
“Because you just called my character into question. I serve with honor. I live by that. When have you ever seen anything to the contrary from me?”
“Titanis, I only meant that opening this box now invites trouble.”
Unbelievable. “Understood, Lieutenant Hastings.” He stretched his jaw and worked to smother his frustration. “We have work to do.” Moving to the table took a colossal effort, to not show agitation. He lifted a document on which they’d detailed tasks to accomplish from within Takkar One. “We need to walk the building. I’ll head to the basement.”
By the time he stood in the elevator, Eamon couldn’t figure out what made him angrier—that she had accused him of trying to sleep with her, or that when he’d reset the button on their relationship, she didn’t comment. Or when he walked out, she hadn’t called him back. Apologized.
With his weapon in his side holster, Eamon made his way down to the basement with his camera and a whole lot of insult. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. How could she even think that? He’d never made a move. But she was right. It wasn’t the right time. He’d missed that mark. Walking halls and planting more devices would clear his head. Put distance between his mistake and her reaction.
He glanced at the blueprint of the building on his secure phone and banked right as he stepped out of the elevator. Six paces brought him to a T-split, the walls nondescript, the ground bare cement. A blue sign indicated right for laundry and vending, left for maintenance and electrical. The drone of machines and industrial blowers pressed against his ears.
A door clanked open behind him. Eamon checked over his shoulder. A man strode from the door marked STAIRS and gave him a nod before banking left.
Eamon stood at the juncture, glancing down both sides. Light spilled out of two open doors to the right. And to the left, darkness had a fist hold. According to the engineering plans, the rooms down there would be of little interest. The maintenance and electrical were no more than closet sized. One in, one out. He wasn’t sure which one the man had entered. But he must be cramped. Eamon would need to wait for the man to leave, or he’d show his hand here.
He headed toward the laundry-service area, sliding his thumb across his phone to the RECORD tab as his boot struck the light of the laundry room. Before he entered, he barely heard the thump-whir-thump of a machine and anticipated company.
The room was lined down the middle with industrial-sized machines. Flanking them stood enormous tumbling dryers. A woman in a sleek black uniform and hijab stood at a table folding linens. She only afforded Eamon a perfunctory glance before returning to her task.
He backed out and headed toward the vending. There, he found a soda machine, the normal scrawl of Coke done in Arabic but unmistakable all the same. He deposited a crisp bill and bought one to give himself a reason for being down here. Beside that machine stood a snack dispenser.
Back in the hall, he returned to the juncture. He hadn’t seen or heard the man come out, but with the din down here, it’s possible he’d just missed it. But the doors were closed.
Angling his head to the side to see farther into the darkened corridor, Eamon felt a warning skid across his shoulders. Moving forward, he held the Coke low, gently shaking it, as he eased his hand back to his weapon.
Each step blackened the darkness until he couldn’t see. No light seeping beneath doors. He released his weapon and lifted his phone once more. He used the ambient light from the display, which exploded like a beacon in the darkness.
He aimed the beam away from him. Traced the first door marked MAINTENANCE and followed the wall down to the last door. Electrical, no doubt. He tested the handle but it didn’t budge. Not surprising. They wouldn’t want someone wandering in and rewiring something.
Backing up, he made his way back to the maintenance closet. The door gave way easily. He flipped on the light and grunted when his expectations were met. Cramped and smelly, the closet offered a place to clean a mop—one that dangled over the built-in basin and silver knobs. Three large garbage receptacles lined up against the far wall. Floor slick with grime, the greatest irony.
Eamon reached for the light switch.
A bloodcurdling scream seemed to climb out of the walls. He froze, listening. The scream… it sounded distant. Yet close.
What…?
He deposited the soda on a shelf then rushed into the corridor, lifting his weapon.
But the screaming seemed partially muted now. Eamon turned a circle, taking in the lights, the variation of brightness, the hum of the air-conditioning unit. Slowly, he returned to the maintenance closet.
The screaming had stopped.
Or maybe it wasn’t there at all. Maybe it was the shriek of a turbine or something. With all the machines and hum of electricity and groan of air units…
What if the electrical room wasn’t an electrical room?
If that was someone screaming… He had a job to do.
Eamon moved back into the darkness. Found the door. He rammed his heel into the handle. Pain jarred through his leg and hip. The door didn’t give. He repeated the move, this time harder. More deliberate.
The door flung open. Lights blinked and flickered along wall-to-wall electrical units. Eamon snapped up his weapon and aimed into the room, the lights giving adequate illumination for him to see the room had enough space for a man to stand, maybe squat, but nothing else. The walls couldn’t be seen for the electrical hubs.
Maybe he had been hearing things.
Shaking it off, Eamon made his way to the elevators. He punched the call button and waited, but his gaze kept climbing the walls and ceilings, searching. Probing for an indication that he had heard someone screaming. But why would they have anyone down here?
His gaze hit the door to the stairs. The man had come from there. Then went down the hall. And vanished.
Two long strides carried him to the door. He pulled his weapon and punched the door open. Gun low, he stepped into the stairwell and propped the door open with his boot. He scanned right, traced the wall around to the next, then came around.
A blur flashed at him.
Pain exploded across his temple. Snapped his head back. Hit the wall. His vision swam. Warmth slid down his jaw. His legs twisted and tangled as he went down. Eamon scrambled, fought to stay alert.
On all fours, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Splotches of blood appeared on the floor. Just beyond his right hand, his weapon had skidded and hit the wall. He dove for it. Even as he did, he heard the door clap shut.
CHAPTER 8
Kabul, Afghanistan
27 March—1420 Hours
Look, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“I doubt that,” the man said as he guided her through the rear of the restaurant.
“How do you know my name?” She eyed the cement stairwell and swallowed hard. If he wanted to kill her, nobody would hear her. They could dispose of her body out back and nobody would be the wiser.
But she was trained for this.
If she could just think through her panic. Remember that her every move was being monitored. Which meant someone would come to her rescue, right?
No, she was on her own. That was made perfectly clear before she set foot in the country.
“What do you want with me?”
He shoved open a door and thrust her through it.
&
nbsp; Cassie swung around, ready for a fight.
“You have the package?” He held out his hand.
She froze. Package? Her thudding heart caught up with her racing mind. This was her contact? But he’d been with— “The rain stays on the plain.”
He rolled his eyes. “Only in the movies.”
That wasn’t the right response. At least not completely. “Which one?”
“Do you have it or not?”
Fifteen Klicks North of Kandahar, Afghanistan
28 March—1635 Hours
Sal pressed his gut to the hard, rocky terrain and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. SATINT had spotted their spook heading out of the base and racing across Kandahar City to this remote village at the bottom of what appeared to be a dried-up streambed. Raptor peered down from the rim. He flipped to thermals and scanned the buildings. Set in a horseshoe formation, they effectively provided an advantage to those inside—only one point of infil and exfil. Pockmarks peppered the plaster structures, giving credence to the suspicion that this wasn’t just a quiet, remote village, but one that harbored terrorists. And now, spooks.
A half-dozen heat signatures lurked behind the southernmost wall, which was also the back side of the largest building, presumably a two-story residence. One signature bent over something, laboring. Cooking? Two others were small—children. Another sat near the one laboring. And two were huddled in a corner. Six possible hostiles in all.
“Blue two,” Sal said, indicating the position of the two in the corner, and passed the nocs to Hawk. “What do you think?”
Propped on his elbows, Riordan looked down at the scene. “One could be our guy.”
Rocks crunched and popped as someone settled beside Sal. Dragging himself up to the ledge, Hawk returned from recon of the surrounding area. “’Terp said a shepherd saw the spook head in there about three hours ago. Hasn’t come out.”
Their interpreter was a man who had Afghan parents but had been born in the States and joined up at eighteen. They trusted his word. Trusted that the target was in there. Hiding. Among skirts and children.