Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3

by Ronie Kendig

  7 April—1705 Hours

  With her close-up-and-personal escort navigating and determining Cassie’s movements, she lost all sense of direction and bearing. Except she knew with the sun falling into shadows behind and to the left that she was headed north. At least for a little while. Then they’d banked right. Buildings whipped past, rushing her through a city. Every now and then she saw blurs of people. But nothing to guide her as to where they were taking her.

  What happens if I run out of gas?

  Even as the thought hit her, the light blinked out.

  Cassie resisted the urge to hit the brake and get rear-ended. Instead she let them deliver her into an underground parking structure where the lead vehicles slowed, forcing her to do the same until they came to a stop.

  The man who’d yelled at her in the village to get going hopped out of the black SUV and came toward her. He rapped on the window.

  Cassie rolled it down.

  “Out,” he growled, flicking his wrist and motioning her out of the car.

  Gathering what little courage she had left, Cassie shut off the engine, unlocked the door, and reached for her purse. She climbed out, clutching the purse to her chest.

  Tall and fierce, the man hooked her arm, shouting in Arabic to the others as he hauled her around the cluster of vehicles to a wide steel door. An elevator. He slid a card in then pressed his thumb against a pad. A light flickered and a camera behind a shiny black dome whirred.

  Unsettled, Cassie frowned at the man.

  When the door slid back, he tugged her into the elevator. Two men followed, silent and stiff.

  This was usually where the woman tells them she doesn’t know what they want or why they’d kidnapped her. But this wasn’t the movies. And Cassie did have something they wanted. As an intelligence officer, they could pry a lot from her thick head.

  Should’ve stayed at the base.

  She just needed to be prepared for when that door opened. If it was a hall, she’d try to catch them off guard and sprint away. But if—

  She felt the steel box alight and settle. The doors slid open.

  Cassie stilled. Brown marble spilled out in a rush toward a luxurious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city. A sunken living room boasted three white sofas and a glass table. Above it, a bar and grand hallway with a stunning chandelier glittered in the glow of what seemed like a thousand crystals.

  Her escort pushed her out of the elevator as a man emerged from a doorway on the right. “Mr. Takkar.” With a breathy whoosh, her fear and trepidation dumped out of her system, leaving her chilled and borderline giddy.

  Another man appeared behind him. Candyman. He looked ticked.

  Sajjan Takkar stood tall, lean, and proud—and a lot disapproving. His white turban made him seem noble and impressive. And dangerous. Murderously dangerous. He came toward her. “Forgive the manner of your delivery here. I am sorry for the delay in coming to your aid, but we did not think you were foolish enough to attempt such a journey on your own.”

  He let the reprimand hang in the air for a few seconds. “When I heard you left the airfield alone and most likely unarmed, it became apparent you did not understand the lands you operate on or its people.”

  Duly chided, Cassie knew she could only do one thing. “You are right. I wasn’t thinking—my only thought was to find someone who could help me. So thank you for your quick thinking and your protection. General Burnett trusted you implicitly, and I know that was not a lightly placed trust.”

  He lifted a hand toward a rear area. “Miriam will attend you.”

  Cassie shook her head. “I don’t need—”

  “Fresh clothes and a bath.”

  The words pushed Cassie’s gaze to her clothing. Torn. A part of her shirt hanging loose and exposing her strap. She covered it, darting a look toward the men hovering behind her.

  “When you are refreshed, we will talk.” Without another word, he spun on his heels and disappeared behind a set of double, ornately carved doors.

  A portly woman appeared from a hall, hands clasped in front of her.

  Cassie went toward the woman, who turned and headed down a dimly lit corridor. She pressed the handle on a door and stepped inside. Cassie did the same, surprised to find a bedroom, clothes laid out, and a shower already running.

  The woman shooed her into the bathroom and shut the door, clearly expecting Cassie to undress and shower, so she did.

  The heat of the water soothed the aches and scrapes that littered her body. She savored it. No sooner had she turned off the water than the door opened and the woman entered, gathered up the dirty clothes, pointed to the thick towel hanging on the wall, then left.

  Cassie dried off and wrapped the towel around her. Back in the room, she quickly changed into the clothes—a tan tunic and gray pants. Both fit, thanks to the elastic waist and almost one-size-fits-all styling of the tunics.

  When she opened the bedroom door, voices floated from the other end of the hall. From the living area, if that’s what you called an enormous space like that. She couldn’t help but wish Mila could see things from here.

  Back in the living area, she was surprised to find it set for dinner.

  “Better?”

  She jerked to the left where Sajjan, genie that he was, appeared again from the other room. “Yes. Thank you.”

  He came to her and reached for her.

  Cassie froze, surprised as he took her chin in hand.

  His trimmed beard, etched with silver and white, almost made him appear younger, but here, this close to him, she saw the lines of age scratched across his face and at the corners of his sharp, dark eyes that probably didn’t miss a heartbeat happening in the world around him.

  He turned her head to appraise her face. “Bruising will go down. I don’t think stitches will be needed. Dizziness? Blurry vision?”

  Still stunned at the apparent concern he displayed, Cassie shifted uneasily. “No.”

  “Good.” He released her and walked to the table. “I would hate for anyone to be injured or leave here injured.”

  Cassie’s ears rang with the obvious point—Hawk. “I take your meaning.”

  He arched an eyebrow as he and Candyman stood next to the seats, watching her. “Do you?”

  They were waiting for her to sit, so she eased closer and tugged out a chair. They moved in unison with her. “I was involved in the mission that… took place in your building, but I was there for a different reason.”

  A servant approached and began serving an appetizer.

  Struck with the man’s civility and luxurious life, Cassie waited until the servant left. “I came to convince Kiew Tang to leave.”

  “So, you were working against Raptor,” Candyman said, cutting into a thick steak.

  Cassie hesitated. “Yes, I was.”

  Candyman snorted and shook his head. “Why am I sitting here?” he said to Sajjan, who slid a hand toward him in a placating manner. With another shake of his head, Candyman stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth.

  “Look, wrong or right—I don’t know. But I felt it was right at the time. Things went very wrong.”

  “Yeah,” Candyman said around the steak. “She blew your theories to pieces, right along with a close friend.”

  Cassie sat there, fork in one hand, knife in the other, trembling. “Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. VanAllen.”

  His gaze bore into hers. “Tell me about it. Here we thought you were this nice, patriotic American officer.”

  She absorbed his verbal attack. “You mean to malign me. I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Tony,” Sajjan said, his hand reaching to the young man.

  “Look.” Cassie put down her utensil and focused on Mr. Takkar. “I need your help. Kiew contacted me. I believe she reached out because I am one of the few people who believes in her. I can’t explain the horrible things she’s done, but I think she might be acting under duress or…” C’mon, Cass, think!
“Maybe she’s not working for Meng-Li at all.”

  Sajjan set down his fork. Folded his hands in his lap and sat back against a richly carved chair. “Go on, Miss Walker. You have my full attention.”

  Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  7 April—1705 Hours

  With Brie Hastings and Fariz at his side, Dean entered the unconventional holding area—the back room of a now-defunct shop along the Boardwalk—the only place they felt would be out of sight from Ramsey. Holding cells would draw attention.

  Dean couldn’t shake the reminder of the other person who’d been in a holding cell—Hawk. His chest squeezed at the memory, unwilling to believe the guy was gone. They had to get to Fekiria and tell her. He’d take Sal later and visit her. Late but it had to be done.

  Two of Riordan’s SEALs stood guard.

  “How’s it going?” Dean asked as they approached.

  “I think she stopped crying,” Schmidt said. “But she’s not eating.”

  “Open it up.” Dean turned to Fariz. “Just remember—tell me what she says and tell her what I say. Do not add anything. Understood?”

  The boy nodded. “I do this, but I can leave after. Yes?”

  “I’ll escort you out myself,” Dean promised. Keeping Fariz on base only guaranteed Ramsey would find him.

  In the holding room, the woman shifted nervously as Dean stepped in. When Fariz scooted in behind him, his mother howled something at him.

  Head down, Fariz looked angry. “She says I have no honor. That I betrayed her, my brother and sister, too.”

  “Tell her your sister is alive because of you.” Dean watched the woman’s face as the boy repeated the words.

  Nawal Al-Bayati froze. Her gaze bounced to Dean’s. She whispered something quickly.

  “She asks if she is truly alive. If Muznah is alive.”

  “Tell her very good doctors are still fighting to save her but that every day she lives increases her chances of surviving.”

  Once the teen translated, the woman gripped her head. Wailed. Laughed. Wailed some more.

  “Ask her why she did this now. Why she tried to kill Muznah and your brother.”

  Fariz did, a stream of Farsi flowing quickly and freely.

  Nawal shook her head, crying, muttering something.

  “She says he had told her to do that if soldiers came. But he’d said something about not coming back. He said he couldn’t. That things were dangerous for him.” But then Fariz’s words turned hateful and furious.

  Dean glanced at the kid, realizing he wasn’t translating anymore but shouting at her, chewing her out for something. “Hey.” When Fariz didn’t reply, Dean hooked an arm across his chest. But the boy continued his tirade. “Hey!” Dean nudged him back until their gazes met. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “She said when he said he wasn’t coming back, that she said it wasn’t worth living. That is why she hurt Muznah. I told her a woman was no good who could kill her own child.” He spat in his mother’s direction. “She and my father”—he spit again—“they are nothing to me. I do not claim them!”

  Dean pushed into the kid’s face. “Hey. I get that. I do. What she did was awful. And no father should ever leave his kids just because things turn ugly. But I need your help. She won’t talk to me without you.” He eased back. Patted the kid’s chest. “Can you do that? Can you talk without getting angry?”

  “Without getting angry? No.” His dark eyes flashed with unrequited anger. “But I can… will help you.”

  Dean nodded. “Good.”

  “If you promise to kill my father.”

  “Sorry, that’s not how I operate, but I will promise that he will see the full extent of our justice.”

  “I want his head chopped off!”

  “There are days I want my enemies’ heads on platters, too. But that’s not justice. That’s vengeance.” He took a few measuring breaths. “Okay—back to the task at hand. Ask her why he was leaving.”

  Voice cold and unfeeling, Fariz obeyed. “He told her he’d done things and if they found out, he would be killed.”

  “Ask her who would kill him. Who he’s afraid of.” Was it the Americans finding out? Was he afraid of losing his career? If he was going to abandon his family so easily, then what was important to him?

  Fariz turned to Dean. “I do not have to.”

  “Please.” Dean cocked his head to Nawal. “We need to know.”

  “I do not have to because I know. He was working with one man sometimes, a man who came to our home.”

  “Who?”

  “He is known as Zmaray.”

  CHAPTER 35

  You sure about this?”

  Sal pushed a sidelong glance to Dean but didn’t answer as they made their way up the steps to Fekiria’s apartment. They’d waited this long so Zahrah could fly down and be here with her. A kindness. An obvious alert to what was happening, no doubt. He strode down the hall, feeling the battering of the storm brewing inside him.

  But as he turned the corner, he saw Fekiria through the window sipping a cup of tea and reading something… in her silk pink hijab. Fiery. Beautiful. Was there any other type of woman for a special operator?

  Sal slowed to a stop. I can’t do it. I killed her boyfriend.

  Behind him, he heard Dean’s shoes. “You don’t have—”

  “I do,” Sal bit out, hating himself for being weak. He pushed on. Crossed the two yards that separated them from the front door.

  It opened easily and Zahrah smiled. But then it fell, and only then did Sal realize Dean hadn’t even told Double Z about Hawk. “Come in.” She gave a concerned look to them then received Dean’s kiss on her cheek.

  Fekiria’s face brightened and with it, the tiny pink scar she got from the last mission. “Hello, Captain Dean.” She nodded to Sal as she set aside a binder—flight manual from the diagrams. “Falcon.”

  That’s right. They’d never really been on a first-name basis. And with the way he and Hawk had always butted heads, it wasn’t a surprise she didn’t even know his first name.

  “Miss Haidary,” Sal said, his voice tight. “Can we have a word with you, ma’am?”

  “I cannot help but think something is wrong with Brian,” Fekiria said, skating them both a nervous glance. “I tried to call him but he did not answer.”

  Sal sat across from her. “There was an…” How could he call it an accident when it’d been his fault?

  “An accident,” Dean put in, nodding to Sal.

  “I–Is he okay?” Her voice tremored.

  “No,” Sal said, looking down. Then back to her. “He… died.” They couldn’t tell her much because of security and protocols. And because they didn’t have much to go on. They hadn’t even recovered his body yet.

  A shaking hand went to her mouth. Brown eyes glossed beneath tears. She shook her head. “No.” Tears spilled over her cheeks. “No!” Her shoulders shook. “No! He’s strong. He doesn’t quit. Don’t you tell me he’s dead!” She punched to her feet.

  Sal rose with her, miserable. “I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t true. He—”

  “No!” Fekiria pushed against him. “Get back.” She waved her hands. Then clapped a hand over her mouth. Looked pale as if she’d vomit. But she gulped, lifted her chin. Pushed him again. “No, it’s not right!” She thumped his chest with a fist. “He’s a fighter! He’s—”

  Sal wrapped his arms around her. She crumpled against his chest, sobbing. “I’m sorry.” He held her like she was a fragile cup. “I’m so sorry.”

  Zahrah was there and pulled her cousin into her arms then lowered her to the sofa.

  “No!” Fekiria shoved Double Z back, stumbling toward the door. She held out a hand, again looking like she’d be sick. Then she darted to a room and slammed the door, her sobs carrying like agonizing howls.

  Numb himself, Sal stood there. He hadn’t even told her how he died. That it’d been his fault. He shifted and noticed Dean holding Zahrah, who cried as well.<
br />
  “I’m sorry,” Dean said. “I couldn’t tell you until you were here for security reasons.”

  Alone and guilty, you miserable creature. Sal stalked to the door. Yanked it open and threw himself down the steps. At the vehicle, he threw his fist into the door. Once. Twice. He gripped the hood and wished he could dig his fingers through it. Dig through until he could find some ounce of hope that his life wasn’t completely and utterly cursed.

  Dean cupped Zahrah’s face in his hands. He thumbed away her tears. “Hey.”

  She looked at him, blinking away more tears, their moment suffocated by the gut-wrenching sobs of her cousin.

  “Look, I know—it’s an awful time, but I have to do this.” He reached into his pocket, sensing an urgency. That any day someone could deliver news to her about his demise. He held out the box. “I wanted a romantic dinner and time alone, but—”

  Zahrah’s tears burst anew.

  Was he wrong to do this? He glanced to the door of Fekiria’s bedroom.

  Warm hands held his, wrapping around the box.

  “I want to marry you, Z. I don’t care when, but I want you to wear this. I want you to know there is no doubt I want to marry you. This world is so messed up, and we can’t know when our lives will end—but if I ever leave before… I want you to know how much I felt. How much I wanted with you.” He opened the box, revealing the sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring. “Will you?”

  Zahrah’s eyes were slits as she cried, still holding a hand over her mouth as she nodded.

  Dean slid the ring on her finger. Pulled her close. Tight. “Losing Brian made me see how much time I’ve already lost. I don’t want to waste any more.” He kissed the top of her head. Then kissed her. “I love you, Zahrah.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  8 April—0830 Hours

  According to records, Cassie had been missing for approximately eighteen hours. Reports had come from a village north of the base about an attack against a female journalist. Sal couldn’t detach his mind from Fekiria’s reaction. How else had he expected it to go? But nothing could’ve prepared him for the rawness of it.