Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  “Noah said he heard your dad say if I left the kids again, he’d take them away.”

  Covering her mouth, Sienna shook her head. “He hasn’t told me that…”

  “But?” There was a but at the end of that, wasn’t there?

  “He seems particularly critical of you,” Sienna said softly, her eyes lowering. “I’m sorry. I think they just want what’s best for Ella and Noah.”

  “I want what’s best for my kids!” Mitch slapped a hand to his forehead. “Unbelievable.” His phone buzzed again, prompting him to reply to the AHOD.

  Sienna touched his arm. “Go, Mitch. I’ll stay with the kids. They’ll have a good time.”

  He shook his head. A good time with their aunt, but not with their dad. What kind of father abandoned his kids at an amusement park? Will Leitner would have a field day with this. He’d use this against Mitch.

  “You were reporting back in five days anyway, right?”

  He nodded, gauging her confidence. Her assuredness. He’d entrusted his most prized possessions—Ella and Noah—into her hands over the last few years. Why would now be any different?

  Because of her parents.

  She squeezed his arm. “My parents won’t know. I’ll keep Ella and Noah with me this week, then drop them off at school, and they’ll go home with my parents just like usual.”

  It was deceitful. But he was desperate. “You’re sure?”

  “Completely.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Camp Marmal, Afghanistan

  20 December—1105 Hours

  Don’t preach at me, man.” Brian spun away and paced in the small barred cell he’d spent the last few days in.

  Eagle held his ground—in fact, he gained some when he took a step closer. “Get mad, if you want.”

  “Done.” Brian shot him a challenging look.

  With a throaty laugh—that wasn’t a laugh—Eagle gave a shake of his head. “Hawk, you have a weapon inside you. But you’re choosing to drink poison.”

  “Weapon? Poison?” Brian touched his fingertips to his temples and held out his hands. “Dude, have you lost it?”

  “No, but you have. Brian, you need help.”

  “What I need is for my friends to treat me like a friend, not a therapy subject.” The roar in his skull made it hard to think. To tame the flames of fury devouring him.

  “All I’m saying is you can’t do it on your own. You said you had gone to youth group.”

  “Girlfriend’s church,” Brian snapped. “Never met a more hypocritical bunch of people.”

  “Is that how you see Christians?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even me?”

  Brian shoved his gaze to the ground. “Just leave, Pops.” Would he ever get used to calling the oldest member of Raptor by his designated call sign, Eagle? “I’m not… I’m no good.” Man. Wasn’t that the truth. “I’m not good—tonight.”

  “Here.” Eagle slid a small book between the bars. “Might find some good in there.”

  “Tss.” Brian shook his head. “You gotta be kidding me.” But he took the pocket Bible. And pocketed it. Anything to get Eagle to leave.

  Movement to the side turned them both in that direction.

  A woman in a hijab and a facial veil stood there, only her eyes—wide green eyes—visible.

  “Son of a biscuit.” Brian closed his eyes and groaned. “I think God is punishing me.”

  Eagle grinned. “More like calling your number. Finally.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  A bigger smile. “I can’t wait to see this. If I know you, you aren’t going down without a fight. I know what happened to a man who wrestled God.” He nodded and pointed to the camo-clad Bible. “Read that. Find some answers. I’ll be back.”

  With a heaving sigh, Brian pinched the bridge of his nose—and cringed at the prick of pain. A swirl of cinnamon and something else hit his nose—and he knew by his growling stomach that she stood before him. Could he just keep his eyes shut and she’d go away?

  “I…I heard.”

  Guess not. “Kind of hard to hear when you aren’t there.” Brian finally looked at her, glaring.

  She ducked. “I—I know. I… When the fight started, I got scared.”

  Those wide eyes. She shifted on her feet—nervous. Guilty.

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. A million more times and he might get it into his head. “And you rabbited.”

  Confusion skidded across her face for a second.

  “You made like a chicken. Left. Skedaddled. Fled.” Though he tried to put disgust in his words, he couldn’t. Not with the puppy eyes she was working on him. Ya know—the way a puppy does when he knows he’s messed up and eaten your autographed Nolan Ryan baseball. Yeah. That look.

  “I could not let anyone know I was there.”

  “And yet, here you are. If the captain or Falcon sees you—poof! Game over.” He cocked his head, ignoring the way that blue satiny hijab made her skin look smooth and soft. This would be a good time for her to say she just couldn’t stand for him to take the fall for her. Because she cares about him too much. It’d be all romantic and stuff. Right?

  “Did you tell them?”

  Brian snorted. He should’ve known better. Shook his head. He started to turn away but faced her again. “You do realize coming here risks your little secret?”

  She lowered her head more. “It’s why I wore the veil. And I…I didn’t use my name on the register.” Left shoulder pressed against her ear, she briefly met his gaze. “I just wanted—”

  “I know what you wanted.” Why had he ever promised he’d keep her secret? Now—now his career was flushed down the latrine with a hefty dose of antibacterial cleanser.

  “Did you tell them? You can’t tell them! You don’t understand what I risk—”

  Brian’s blood boiled. “I gave my word,” he bit out as he angled closer, ignoring the burn in his side.

  “Yes, but your career—if you don’t tell them—”

  “I. Gave. My. Word.” Brian’s nostrils flared. “To you. Do you understand? I don’t go back on that.”

  “No. Of course not.” She tilted her head, shielding her face as an officer walked past them. “I am sorry…but I’m just worried. If you tell them—”

  “Look. Maybe in your country a man’s word doesn’t mean anything—heck, we’ve got ANA shooting their friends, trainers, and allies in the back or blowing them to Kingdom Come. But me? I gave my word.”

  “You Americans are not all good.” Defiance lifted her chin again. “I’ve seen what you have promised and what you have done. They are not the same thing.”

  “Guess y’all taught us well.”

  “How your word means nothing when a president wants to shift attention or when he needs reelection. And maybe next time—”

  “Babe, there won’t be another time.” Brian gritted his teeth. “Because this—you and me—isn’t happening again. When you walk out that door, I’ll forget you exist. You’ll never hear from me again, especially not another promise. Just go back to your soldier boy and forget this happened. Or wait. Are you going to stab him in the back, too?”

  Her face reddened. She shot daggers out of those green eyes. Fekiria whipped around and hurried down the hall.

  “I’ll take that as a yes!”

  Palm on the sergeant’s desk, ballpoint pen in hand, Dean hesitated over the login book as his gaze followed the black-and-white images on the security monitor. The woman rushed out of view, and from the feed, and he could tell Hawk was saying something as she left. What was that about?

  Dean slipped to the side door and pressed his shoulder against the wall.

  The woman scurried out the exit without a glance back.

  But he didn’t need to see her face to know it was Fekiria Hadairy. Couldn’t be. What would she be doing here—and talking to Hawk? He knew her attitude toward Americans, so hanging out with them…And what would she want with an unruly one like H
awk? So maybe it wasn’t her. Wouldn’t make sense for her to be here.

  “Specialist, everyone visiting signs in, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Back at the sign-in desk, Dean slid his pointer finger along the entry above his: Zahrah Zarrick. “Not even close,” he mumbled as his brain zinged through the meaning. Zahrah had a certain level of autonomy and clearance on this base because of her father. And me.

  Fekiria did not. But why would she use Zahrah’s name? Did she use Z’s name at the front gate, too?

  What are you up to, Fekiria?

  Two nights ago at the apartment, she’d stepped into his conversation with Z—Dean cocked his head to the side, looking out the door—about the disciplinary action. She mentioned the bar. When he hadn’t. He thought she’d acted a little strange, but then again, Zahrah’s cousin usually did act strange. She didn’t like that her cousin was dating him, but she respected the relationship. As far as someone so strident in her views could, he supposed.

  Dean stared at the camera that held the grainy image of Hawk. His mind sparred with the facts: Hawk. Fekiria. The fight. SEAL. Hawk’s silence over what happened. Fekiria knowing too much. Showing up here.

  “You okay, Captain?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Dean tossed the pen aside and strode down the hall to Hawk’s cell. He rounded the corner, unsure what the game was with Brian, but the fights and outbursts had to stop.

  Hawk lifted his booted feet to the mattress and was halfway down when his gaze slid into Dean’s. Eye still swollen, it now had a garish purple hue. Butterfly stitches on his right cheekbone and temple bore testament to the SEAL’s skilled punches. Hawk grunted. Swelling might be going down but his attitude wasn’t.

  “On your feet.” He worked to say the words evenly. He might not have succeeded by the hesitancy that skidded through Hawk’s battered face.

  Hawk pulled himself to his feet. “Can’t a guy get some rest?”

  Sarcasm. Dean tightened the reins on his slipping anger. “Saw a woman here.”

  Hawk grinned. “D’you get her number? For me—I know you’re tangled up with Double Z right now.”

  Dean stared. Hard. Kept his mouth closed, knowing he’d unleash on the guy.

  Hawk said nothing. He swallowed.

  “Want to tell me something about the woman wearing a hijab who just left in a hurry?”

  The guy didn’t need a dog—his eyes and body language barked his message. Ticked. And…something else, but Dean couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t care. Not this time. Brian Bledsoe wasn’t going to be forthcoming so he’d pay the price for that. Just like he’d pay for his out-of-control actions at the hookah bar.

  So be it. Dean gave a lopsided nod. “Once the doctor clears you, you’ll return Stateside. A month, maybe two with your family might set your head right.”

  “Stateside? We have a killer who’s hijacked our computers!”

  “If or when you return, you’ll have extra duties.”

  Hawk’s mouth tightened.

  “KP.”

  Hawk remained unmoved.

  “And latrine duty.”

  His jaw muscle jounced—once.

  “From there, you’ll be assigned patrol. In Bagram.”

  “Bag—” Hawk clamped his mouth shut.

  “You’ll lose a stripe, but you’ll stay in. Depending on your attitude during that time, you might regain your position with SOCOM—”

  “Regain?” Hawk’s brow knitted, darkening his intense eyes.

  When he saw the punishment hit its mark, Dean stepped back. “Hope we see each other again. Good-bye, Sergeant Bledsoe.”

  “Wait—bye?” Hawk’s arms spread. “Where—what about Raptor?”

  “Raptor is not your concern, Sergeant.”

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

  Rigid with anger and indignation, Dean slid closer to the bars that kept him from wringing Hawk’s neck. “Right now, you should be counting your lucky stars that I consider you a friend. That I know enough about you to know that this behavior, this idiocy, isn’t you. I am the only reason you’re still wearing a uniform right now.” His chest heaved with the effort to contain his anger. “Whatever storm is swelling inside you, Brian, calm it down. Or get out.”

  Hawk stood as if a steel rod had slammed down his spine.

  He was through here. Hawk understood the situation. Understood the ledge he stood on now. It’d be up to him to scramble to safety or jump off. There was nothing more Dean could do. So he backed up a step, gave a curt nod, then strode down the hall, the weight of justice served pushing down on him as if an entire courthouse had dropped on him.

  “So, what?” The rattle of bars and Hawk’s shout chased Dean to the exit. “I’m off the team?”

  BORIS

  The team lets me down. It’s like they’re making this easy for me.

  They can’t really be that stupid can they? I’ll be disappointed if that’s the case. I like the chase. Like knowing I have a formidable opponent. Facing off against someone who’s below you… Well, where’s the fun in that?

  Months of hunting them, backtracking to figure out where they were and where they were going finally paid off that night. And holy cow! If you could’ve seen the way Hawk put his fist through that other guy’s face, you would’ve paid me big-time for that. Why? Why could that not happen when I had a camera and a tub of popcorn?

  Note to self: see if Salim has video footage.

  But Hawk’s temper did me a big favor. Gave me the opportunity I needed to plant a bug that I could remotely control and attach to one of them. I’m really beginning to think those guys are all brawn and no brains. I mean, it’s practically a public service, handing them over to Zmaray and his master.

  A few brilliant keystrokes and now… “Ladies and gentlemen, we are back in business!” Which means my bank account is filling up, too. Or will be soon. And this time, they’re going to pay better. After all, I’m putting this—uh, that would be all of me—on the block.

  I activate the homing beacon then hit a switch. The small vent in the roof cantilevers with a squawk and the small UAV launches out. “Huh. Probably should WD-40 that.” I shift my gaze to the screen.

  As the UAV rises above me, I set it to lock on to the signal and power up its video feed. Almost instantly a live feed of the bird as it heads toward the base. Within a half hour, the bird is descending.

  Comparing the map with its “migration” gives me a surprise. “So, not in the north anymore, are we guys?”

  The Little B-1-r-d lands on a wire—not an electrical one. It’s programmed to detect those electrical fields and ignore them. As it soars over the barbed wire and sandbagged gate, I take manual control of his flight. The images aren’t the best, but they’re enough to help me guide the Little B1rd toward the SOCOM building. That’s easy to find, with the way the military tends to letter every building with signs. Sure makes it easier for terrorists to find their way around, I suppose.

  Little B1rd lands on the eaves.

  And I activate my Fly fly. Okay, I can’t help but laugh. It’s a fly fly.

  “Hehe. Okay, no wonder you’re single, Boris,” I mutter as I aim the tiny fly toward the vent. He spirals down and into the building.

  Voilà!

  Being with the guys again is like coming home for Christmas.

  Hm, interesting. Seems we’re missing some muscle on the team. Our handy-dandy captain is missing. So is the mouthy guy—Hawk.

  “Okay, let’s head out.” The Italian Stallion is in charge? What…why would they do that?

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I object. “If you head out I can’t spy on you. C’mon. Be sports, will ya?”

  But they’re out the door. Rebellious little thugs.

  That’s okay. I’m a fly on the wall. A fly on…the…wall…Buzzing above Eagle’s head, I am momentarily blinded when one of the guys shoves open the door. But the lens quickly adjusts and we’re heading out.

  I’m giggling by no
w. It’s so great. Technology totally rawks. These doofuses have no idea I’m following them. I mean—hello? I am right there. Can see the dandruff on Eagle’s head. “Oh, look! He’s thinning already.” Cackling, I almost miss him swinging his baseball hat up. He nearly catches my Fly fly.

  I whiz the fly out of striking zone but stick with the guys. They head to the motor pool. But hold up. Where’s Captain Uptight Pants? And my favorite guy? Why aren’t they with the team?

  Really, I shouldn’t be laughing, but being a literal fly on their wall—or in this case, on their Humvee as they head off into the sunset—can it get any sweeter?

  Actually, yes it can. The pot can always be sweetened. With cash.

  Running through my programs, I make the call. Make it impossible for them to trace it back to yours truly.

  The line connects. I hold my breath, waiting for someone to speak. Seconds tick by. “Hello?” I finally say, nerves jangled. “Zmaray?”

  “No,” a female voice answers. “You will deal with me now.”

  She sounds pretty. And mean. So not going there. “Not happening. Zmaray was my contact. I don’t know you.” I reach for the kill switch. “That means I can’t trust you.”

  “You cannot trust the person who deposited 13.2 million dollars in your unnumbered account, Boris?”

  Okay. Pretty, mean, and entirely too smart for her own good.

  For my good.

  “You’ve coded in,” she says. “Does that mean you have good news for me?”

  “Where is Zmaray?” Yeah, not answering any other questions till I know if they’ve offed the guy. Because if they offed him, then my neck is already feeling the sting of their blade.

  “He is right here. But things have escalated, would you not agree? The Americans killed our Afghan contact. They came entirely too close to uncovering our agent.”

  Agent? “Do you mean your guy on the base?”

  Silence crackled through the line, deafening. Terrifying.

  They know too much.

  “You are wasting my time, Boris. Do you have information?”

  I look to the screen. To the dusting of snow covering the terrain as the Green Berets make their way—I check the compass—south. “I do.” Gotta let them know I have value. “But I want to know Zmaray is alive.”