by Ronie Kendig
“Falcon to Raptor,” he said around a raw throat.
Silence was the only reply.
Sal sagged under the oppressive realization that he could very well die down here. If Raptor couldn’t find him… if they couldn’t dig their way through…
And would that be a bad thing?
He’d die in the line of duty.
Nobody would be the wiser to who he really was.
Defeat thickened the air, making it harder to draw a breath that wasn’t painful. Really, suffocating to death… it wasn’t all bad. He’d simply go to sleep and never wake up.
His parents would never know about Vida. Neither would her parents know his guilt in her death.
I’m not guilty. Cassie is.
Her face hovered behind his eyelids like a tormenting ghost.
Why? Why had things been so screwed up with them? Things had been good for a while, but then things changed. Time brought Vida to the base. Reminding Sal of his responsibility. His promise.
He’d been beaten by his own doing. Just like now.
I’ll die here.
Pulling in several ragged breaths, he lay there. Unable to move a limb. Barely able to breathe what little oxygen remained.
It was wrong.
He was wrong.
It’s not Cassie’s fault.
He burned the thought as soon as it ignited in his brain. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known.”
Cassie had said those words to him more than once. And like an idiot, he believed them. Wanted to believe them. Wanted to be what she saw in him.
Then he broke her heart.
To keep a promise.
A promise he hadn’t wanted to keep. Grief pushed against Sal’s resolve. What kind of coward leads a girl on with a promise of marriage then falls for another woman, and yet still keeps that promise, breaking the heart of the woman he’d fallen in love with?
You are some kind of screwed up.
Right now, he just had to get out of here. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think about these things anymore. Didn’t want to die with those thoughts on his brain.
With those regrets burned into his heart.
Sal wriggled his other arm. Hope jolted through him when it gave a couple of inches. He reached, straining… his fingers digging around the rocks. Scraping his knuckles. Never thought moving his hand would take such a Herculean effort. If he didn’t get help, he was dead.
Surprise ripped through him. How many times had he silently wished he could just die? And yet—here’s a perfect opportunity. But Sal refused Death’s offer. With his fingers, toward the ear mic. Pressed it. “Falcon to Raptor.”
Nothing.
Darkness swam in his vision and leapt at him, dragging him into the deepest, darkest abyss. Just as he deserved.
Rubbing his beard, Tony glanced at the rubble. The tunnels had snaked out from the center of that main structure.
“Hey.” Riordan pointed toward the rusted-out truck. A depression there gaped back.
Tony clapped the SEAL’s arm. “Thanks.” He walked toward the gate. “Eagle, you have eyes on this?”
“Copy that,” Eagle replied, his tone grave.
“I want you to trace a path approximately fifteen meters from the structure.”
“Roger that.”
“You’re looking for a depression. Some of the tunnels caved in. If we can find one that—”
“Got it,” Eagle said. “Sixteen meters due north of the structure. Left five feet.”
Tony pivoted. Hawk, Knight, and Riordan were already running toward him. They rushed around the wall. Halfway across the open rocky terrain, he spied the depression.
“Dig!”
“With what?” someone balked.
“Those things on the end of your arms,” Hawk bit back, the first to go to his knees and start clawing at the dirt.
“Move!” Riordan shouted.
Tony bent down, but someone caught his arm. He glanced to the side and found an elderly man with scraggly gray-white hair holding a shovel. Relief speared Tony. “Thank you.”
Another boy trotted up and passed off a shovel to Hawk.
Each shink of the shovel against the hard-packed earth gave Tony hope of finding Falcon alive. The sooner the better. He was short on time and air. He threw the steel into the dirt.
The ground gave way.
Tony stilled, staring into the dark hole that opened up.
Ddrake jumped in, barking. His paws rapidly dug through the dirt, exposing something.
“Boot!” Hawk pointed to the heel of an ACU combat boot. He grabbed at the rocks, rapid-fire digging.
Tony did the same, feeling the bump of shoulders as soldiers and sailors dug hard. “Falcon! C’you hear us?” He grasped the calf. Felt a twitch. He paused and glanced up the mound, imagining his buddy under there. “Falcon, can you hear me?”
Tony’s heart slowed when there was no response. He resisted the urge to look at the others. “If you can hear me, move your leg.” Hand clamped around the calf, he waited. Waited.
Nothing. The others shifted uneasily, unsettling rock and dirt around their feet.
“A recovery,” someone muttered.
“Shut it!” Tony refused to believe this had gone from a rescue to a recovery effort. He squeezed the leg and silently willed Raptor’s team daddy to respond.
Then… a flex.
“He’s alive! Dig!”
Shoulders rubbing with others’, Tony hauled the dirt in as big scoops as he could manage. Sailors and soldiers worked. When two of Falcon’s legs were exposed, he grabbed one. “Pull!”
Hawk had the other. They tugged. Falcon’s body shifted.
“Again!”
More hands clamped on to Falcon. They tugged him back. Drag straps on his pants now exposed, Falcon wiggled.
“Haul him out,” Hawk roared. “On three. One… two… pull!”
The tunnel rumbled its objection, surrendering Falcon to their efforts.
They dragged him free but he lay unmoving.
Tony checked him. “He’s not breathing!”
CHAPTER 11
Get him up!” Hawk shouted.
Two SEALs climbed out of the collapsed tunnel and assisted the effort to get Falcon on terra firma. The team passed Falcon over the lip of the depression onto the ground. Beard and face coated in dark red dirt, Falcon lay death-like. Mouth open. Eyes closed.
Tony watched as Harrier ripped off Falcon’s tactical vest and started compressions. Hawk was there with the oxygen mask, squeezing air into the team daddy’s lungs.
“C’mon, c’mon, Falcon,” Hawk shouted. “You’re too mean and ugly to quit like this!”
Pump. Pump Pump. The compressions continued, Harrier never breaking rhythm.
Falcon coughed, his spine arching. His legs drew up as another spastic cough overtook him. He dragged himself onto his side, heaving to take in greedy breaths. On all fours, he barked out the dust. His limbs shook with the effort of pushing himself up.
“What’d I tell you? Help him up,” Hawk ordered.
Breathing hard, he shook his head, leaned back against the ground.
Tony knelt beside him. “Where do you hurt?”
Falcon tugged at the chin straps of his helmet and pushed it off. That’s when Tony saw the hole—a bullet hole, right over where the man’s forehead would be. A centimeter lower… “Dude.” He lifted it from Falcon’s grip. Turned it around and showed him. “You about met your maker.”
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
28 March—1930 Hours
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
Cassie should’ve known this was too good to be true. She’d been asking for the last fifteen months to work this region, to be near Sal in the hopes of finding reconciliation. When the assignment came through, placing her here, she’d leapt without looking. And apparently, without thinking.
She knew better than this. Knew better than to believe they would do anything
in her favor. How many times had they told her it wasn’t about her? That she was working for her country’s benefit and safety.
But this… this was going too far.
Phone in hand, she coded in.
“Cassie!”
She looked up and froze. Brie Hastings was running toward her. I’ve been discovered. “I thought you were outside the wire?”
“Had to come back for some things. D’you hear?” Brie’s face was flushed as she kept moving toward the front door.
The fervor in the woman’s face pulled Cassie to her feet, the phone almost forgotten. “What?”
“Raptor—they were hunting down a spook. Falcon got buried alive.”
Her pulse whooshed in her ears, her heart thudding against her ribs. “H–he’s dead?”
“No. C’mon—the hospital!” Brie shoved out the door.
Numb, Cassie stood there. Sal was buried alive. But not dead. But… needed medical attention. God, You can’t let him die. Not when I came all this way to resolve things. She was halfway to the door before she realized it.
Outside, Cassie spotted Brie jogging toward the hospital. She raced to catch up. “What happened?”
“He was tracking a spy through some tunnels.” Brie tugged open the door and hurried inside.
Cassie slowed, catching sight of the field uniforms. The SEALs hanging back, but the familiar, bulkier shape of Candyman stood out. The team stood huddled, shoulder to shoulder. Intense. A German shepherd panted in the corner, squinting as if to say he’d done his job.
“I’m fine,” a voice growled.
Sal. That was Sal. And hearing the irritation in his voice made her smile. Her breath shuddered, pushing relief through her veins.
“You’re not fine. You have a concussion—that bullet might not have pierced your skull but it gave it a good whack,” a man in scrubs said.
“I’ve had worse,” Sal groused.
“And the bullet in his shoulder?” Titanis asked.
“A graze—one that cost me a sixty dollar tac shirt,” Sal said as he lifted his bare arm, the material having been cut away.
“He’s right. It’s a graze, but we want to do an MRI and make sure there are no internal injuries from the collapse.”
“Just bruises and scrapes.” Sal shifted off the gurney, remnants of what he’d gone through evident on his face. The beard—it was so strange to see that on him, even now—had dust and blood in it. A red, angry welt across his cheek and nose made him look like a prize fighter. And the fire in his eyes roiled.
Cassie couldn’t help but smile. That was Sal. Never one to take things lying down. A man of action.
“Am I cleared?” Sal scooted to the edge of the gurney—his gaze struck Cassie’s and he slowed.
“Not so fast,” came a firm, authoritative voice. Captain Watters strode toward them. “Doc, get him checked out. Do that MRI. Make sure that tunnel doesn’t permanently bury him.”
“Dean—”
“Two hours, Sal. Meet us back at Command.” Captain Watters turned to the others. “Let’s debrief.”
As one, the team shifted and headed out the door.
Cassie hesitated off to the side, not wanting to leave Sal and yet not willing to brave his acerbic comments.
“Get him in a gown and down to imaging,” the doc said as he left the bay.
A nurse pulled a gown out of a bin and set it on the bed next to Sal. “Change into this and we’ll get you back in action ASAP.”
Sal huffed. Grabbed the blue folded gown—and grimaced. He winced and tried to tug his arm through the hole. That’s when she noticed the red, raw lines on his upper arm. Not scratches like she’d thought before. They were too even. To narrow. Rocks would leave jagged marks.
He tried again and growled, clearly in pain. Sal lowered his head, eyes pinched tight.
How she ended up next to him, she wasn’t sure. But when those chocolate eyes flared with anger at her closeness, Cassie pushed a pleading expression into her face. “Just let me help.”
“I know how you help. And I don’t need that,” he spat at her as he tried again to remove the shirt. “Leave.”
“Sal—”
“Get out, Cass!”
“You can’t shut me out forever. We need to talk.”
“No. We don’t.” He tangled his arm in the hole and lost his balance. His foot caught the edge of a wheeled tray and he pitched forward.
Cassie caught him by the sides.
Anger exploded through his face but he was free, the shirt dangling around his neck. Sal pushed her. “What did I say?”
Stumbling backward, she tensed. Slammed against a locker unit. “Please, stop.”
Sal towered over her. “How do I get through to you? I don’t want you here. Ever since you killed Vida—”
“I did not kill her,” she bit out, her throat burning.
“Might as well have.” His words were hissed, his hot breath dashing across her cheek. His nose pressed into hers. His eyes bore into hers, his breathing hard.
Her vision blurred with unshed tears, aching for the time he’d stared at her with respect and love, not anger and disgust.
But then something shifted. His gaze. It went to her lips. Skated around her face. His expression relaxed. Amid the sweat-caked dirt and scrapes, his handsome features again beckoned to her.
He punched the locker by her head.
With a blink, Cassie sucked in a ragged, startled breath, but their eyes remained locked. Vulnerability roiled through her. Always powerless beneath his gaze, she stood there. Felt hope spring through the dregs of his anger.
His thumb slid down the side of her face as his eyebrows knotted. Each breath of his skidded along her cheek. He angled closer. The mechanism of time powered down to a microscopic pace. She saw his lips part beneath his beard. His gaze softened as he homed in.
CHAPTER 12
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
28 March—2010 Hours
Her lips were soft, willing, as Sal gave in to the demons that had tormented him far too long. He curled a hand around her waist, ignoring a dart of pain. The chasm of passion that had lured him into falling in love with Cassie over four years ago gaped, swallowing him whole.
The surrender felt good. Being with her felt right. Always had.
But no. No, he shouldn’t do this.
But she was perfect. Sweet. Even after—
Vida.
Vida’s dead. Because of her. What the heck are you doing, Russo?
Breaking the kiss, Sal snapped his head to the side. He heard her heavy breath but wouldn’t meet her gaze. Why did Cass have to be here? Alive, beautiful, sultry. And Vida… dead. Gone.
Sal punched the locker again. Pain rushed down his wrist and arm, resonating in his shoulder. It felt good. Pain felt good. He punched it again.
Cassie sucked in a breath with a whimper as his fist connected a third time. She blinked and recoiled, her chin trembling.
He hated himself. Hated that he’d fallen into this weakness again.
“What’s going on here?” a male voice demanded.
Without a word, Cassie ducked and left. “H–he needs help.”
More than she or anyone else could ever know. Knuckles to the locker, Sal didn’t dare move. Didn’t trust himself with his stupidity. His anger. His demons and self-hatred.
Weak. He was weak and dumb. A little pain and near-death experience and he was already willing to fall into the arms of the woman who’d bewitched him into betraying a promise he made to his high school sweetheart.
“You ready, sir?”
Sal stepped back. Drew himself up straight with tight lips and muscles as he turned toward the nurse. “Yeah.” On the tray by the bed, he saw the scalpel.
One word flooded his mind at the sight of the shiny blade: relief.
Kabul, Afghanistan
30 March—0800 Hours
“He has agreed to look into things.”
Daniel stood at the window of his c
ondominium on the thirteenth floor of Takkar Towers, staring at the embattled city. The crumbling city. This sandpit of a desert had nothing on the energy and vitality of Shanghai. Why had Sajjan insisted on continuing to build his empire in such a wasteland?
“He was suspicious.”
At this, Daniel smirked. “Of course he was.” He turned, sliding his hands into the pockets of his silk slacks. “I would be concerned if he were not.” He strode to the bar and lifted a snifter from the glass cabinet.
“But if he learns of what you are doing, what you have planned…” Aamir scurried forward like some street rat fleeing a mangy, unclean dog. “If he learns what you are doing, he will stop you. You should kill him before he can interfere.”
Fury surged through Daniel. He flashed an angry glare at the man.
Aamir drew up, his dark face going white. “You do not realize the power he has. You have not been here long enough to see how far he can reach. They listen to him. All the mullahs and imams respect him—”
“They do not respect him. They fear him.” Daniel felt disgust at his words and let the rancid taste hang for a few seconds. “And that is what we will capitalize on. If we sever the serpent’s head, the carcass will be thrown to the winds.” But even he knew he could not kill Sajjan Takkar. It would betray the memory of Daniel’s father. Somehow. He wasn’t sure how, but the thought had kept him awake more than once.
Aamir’s eyes widened. “Sever…” He shook his head. “No. No, you cannot do this.”
After sipping the vodka, Daniel let the heat of it spill through his body. Drew strength from it and the reaction Aamir had given, convincing him he was indeed on the right path. He would not literally decapitate Takkar, but he would decapitate his ability to control the company so resolutely. And by severing that control, Daniel would also restore the power and strength to China, as his father had long dreamed. “Do you believe in our plan, Aamir?” Glass in hand, Daniel returned to the window. He lifted his phone from his pocket and sent a message.
“You know I do, bu—”
“And do you have what it takes to see this through? Or do I need to find another? One who is not so easily moved by unrealistic fears?”