Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  Whoops and hollers went up as the convoy gained speed, racing away from the ambush. The newbs were ecstatic to survive their first ambush and come out with all parts intact.

  But… Brian couldn’t take his gaze off the sideview mirror. Didn’t make sense. Why’d they stop? They had us.

  Out of ammo?

  Then why would the villager aim at them? Why would the other guy try to stop him?

  Okay, so it was loaded.

  “Don’t look so mad that we made it,” Brennan said, his voice squeaky and tired with a trace of laughter—relief. “Give us more credit.”

  Brian eyed the guy. The sweat on his brow and upper lip. In forty-degree weather? Even geared up he shouldn’t be sweating like that. “We’re alive. But we’re not there yet. Let’s break out the bubbly after we get there.”

  In fact, they had two more villages they’d encounter before hitting the city where they’d have to navigate busy streets to get to the orphanage. That didn’t bother Brian. Ironic that he felt less threatened in a city with thousands more people than in a remote village with a few dozen. But he knew the ropes. Knew the Taliban soaked up remote locations so they could evade authorities and attention. And it was so much easier to lay a trap for soldiers traveling through and far from help.

  “You okay?” Davis asked, her voice just over his left shoulder.

  “No.” Right, make them panic, genius. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.”

  Brennan white-knuckled the steering wheel and burrowed into the drive.

  “Just…” Brian didn’t have anything solid. Just a gut instinct that this wasn’t right.

  But that same instinct had gotten him into the Green Berets.

  “Just stay alert.” The next twenty minutes felt like a wound-up jack-in-the-box. Any second, any turn, an explosion, another guy with an RPG, and then they’d be either dead or wishing they were dead.

  “You got a girl back home, Hawk?”

  Irritation scraped down Brian’s spine at the question. That was the guy’s idea of small talk? “Got a lot of them.” Wasn’t true. He had dated a lot. But bored easily.

  Brennan’s laugh was caustic. “Should’ve known.”

  This time, Brian glanced at him. But bit down on being baited into a conversation like this. His personal affairs—nice choice of words—were his personal affairs. He didn’t even talk about that stuff with Raptor. Somehow, dating made him feel…wide open for trouble. What it did to Captain Watters—the guy had gone all nutso over Double Z and then ended up a POW, tortured and left for dead outside a base.

  “You can’t tell me some girl hasn’t caught your eye,” Davis said, her voice way too soft and silky.

  Didn’t chicks know what that did to a guy?

  And why in this freezing, dusty world did Fekiria Haidary’s face blast into his mind just then? He’d been too quick with a promise, knocked senseless by a pair of ultra-green eyes and those full lips.

  Aw crap. She was in his head. He didn’t need that. Besides, she had that butter-bar, slicked-up officer who seemed to negate her “No American Soldiers” mantra.

  “What’s her name?”

  Brian skidded a glance to his left shoulder, where he found Davis’s knowing smile and pretty blue eyes. “Sam. First name, Uncle.”

  Laughing again, Brennan shifted in the seat. “Give it up, Davis. Guys like Hawk don’t date girls. They’re married to the Army. They’re machines.”

  The words burned like acid in Brian’s veins. Dialogue like this ended in bad places, ones that usually forced him to set records straight. But he was going to keep it together because there was something bigger than his pride, than his ego, than demanding the respect he’d earned, happening here.

  “Nah, guys like Hawk have girls flocking to him,” someone called from the back. “He’s a freakin’ Green Beret. Right, Davis—you got the hots for our own personal hero?”

  Brian snapped his gaze to the back of the MRAP where the half-dozen other grunts sat. The way the grunt had spoken reeked of disrespect, jealousy, and way too much attitude. He nailed the source of the words with a heated glare. “She’s your battle buddy. Treat her with respect. She may be the one who has to save your sorry carcass.”

  Twenty minutes of tension and laughter over Brian’s unwillingness to engage in the middle school conversation about girlfriends had to be endured before they reached the next village.

  “Speed up.” Brian keyed his mic and ordered the other vehicles to do the same.

  “We’re only stopping if we’re dead or at our destination,” he spoke over the coms.

  The situation drenched the interior of the MRAP with anxiety. Palpable, palm-sweating anxiety. Next to him, Brennan radioed in an update of their location and progress. Barreling along, Brian gauged the time and distance to the final destination. Another hour. Maybe ninety minutes if they hit some messed-up traffic in the city. Or a snafu here.

  Wind swirled dirt over the road like a demon dancing in the sand.

  Demon. Why’d he have to go there?

  “How long are you out here with us?” Brennan asked.

  “Till the job’s done.” Brian’s gaze tracked over the buildings. “Eyes out. Watch for unfriendlies.”

  Another gust of wind whipped dirt across their path twenty yards ahead. The wind was strong. Much stronger than—

  Every muscle in Brian tightened. He saw it. Saw the trap. “Hard right!”

  Brennan complied. Curses and yelps erupted from the back.

  “What’d you see?” Brennan demanded.

  “Convoy, road trap!” Brian shouted into his coms. “Veer right.”

  “Too late!” someone from the back shouted. “Red ate it.”

  Forty Klicks Outside Bagram, Afghanistan

  16 January—1700 Hours

  Checking his sideview, Brian glanced at the mirror again. Sure enough, the third vehicle had caught the edge of the trap. The front wheel hung down at least four feet, the vehicle tipped at nearly a forty-five-degree angle, its underbelly exposed.

  “Go back! Go back!”

  Brennan turned the MRAP around. Gunned it back to the other vehicle.

  “We’ll need to get them to safety, protect the vehicle.”

  “Davis,” Brennan said, “radio in for a recovery vehicle.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Eyes out,” Brian said.

  Brennan put the gear in NEUTRAL then pulled the yellow button. A loud pop and hiss signaled the setting of the air brake.

  “Be ready.” Securing the chin strap of his brain bowl, Brian eyed Brennan. “They trapped us here. That means they’re not done. Get your people to safety. I’ll cover, but I need three on me.”

  Davis—no surprise there—volunteered first then SmartMouth and Parker.

  “Everyone else with Brennan. Get the team in Red to safety.” Brian rolled out of the vehicle. He dropped to the ground, his weapon up as he traced the three one-story structures right that formed a south wall to the incident.

  Behind him, he heard the scritch of tactical pants and the crunch of boots following him. With two fingers, he pointed to the buildings. “Eyes out. Davis, twelve o’clock. Parker, monitor our nine.” He glanced at the other guy’s name strip, figuring he’d probably set off the grunt calling him SmartMouth. “Redding, stay here. I’ll take our six. You see anything, let us know.”

  The three spread out, a loose perimeter around the capsized MRAP. Brian slid up to where Brennan and his soldiers were already ushering the team from the vehicle.

  On a knee at the side of the second MRAP, Brian focused on the two-story plaster building directly opposite. Especially on the drab sheet that hung in a long window. It riffled on the wind.

  But there’s no wind.

  If he were with Raptor, he’d radio in the possible threat. But this team wouldn’t understand. Frustration mounted.

  “How we doing, Brennan?” Brian asked through his coms.

  “Two left inside—one unconscious, and the other
broke a leg.”

  “We have spectators,” he muttered, trying to hint that they had unwanted eyes on this situation.

  “Can’t believe they get off on watching us,” someone replied.

  “Perimeter team, report.” Peering through the scope, Brian eased his weapon to his right, scanning and assessing.

  “Redding here. All clear.”

  “This is Parker. Normal with a few stragglers and kids kicking around a ball in the alley.”

  Just another day in the neighborhood while Mom and Pop kill some Americans.

  “Davis here.” Her voice sounded tight. “I—There’s two women in a shop.”

  “Sounds like a mighty big ‘but’ coming, Davis.” Brian brought the scope back to the upper window. Nothing changed. He went higher, to the roof.

  “They seem…preoccupied with something or someone. They’re huddled in a corner.”

  “Stay on them,” Brian said as he returned to that window.

  His heart jammed up into his throat as a long tube pushed the dingy sheet outward. Even as he took aim, he heard a shout through his coms.

  “RPG! RPG! Take cover.”

  His mind ricocheted over Davis’s words. Did she see the same one he was sighting? Or…He steadied his breathing. Aimed, approximating where the shoulder…chest…placed in connection to the shoulder-mounted RPG launcher. He fired twice.

  The tube flipped up. Vanished behind the makeshift curtain.

  Fire breathed down Brian’s neck a split second before a strong concussive fist punched him forward. The ground rushed up at him. Brian dropped his shoulder and rolled through it. He came up and perched on a knee, sighting through the chaos, through the burning hulk of the MRAP that now lay in its own personal grave dug by terrorists, to the far side where Da—

  “Davis! Report.” Brian scooted back up to their MRAP for protective cover. In a hunch-run, he scurried up toward her position. “Davis!”

  “I’m—I’m here. A little shell-shocked, but here.”

  “Where’d that RPG come from?” Almost at Blue’s MRAP, Brian slowed, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Something’s not right.

  “The rooftop, sir. Above the two women.”

  Brian nodded as he pressed his back against the steel hull and glanced back to the window where he’d shot whoever tried to hit them with another RPG. “All right, team, we have multiple targets. Eyes. Let’s get everyone—”

  Tink! Thunk! Thunk-thunk!

  As the sound of bullets pinging off the side of the vehicle, Brian dove to the side, rolling beneath the MRAP. “Taking fire! Taking fire!” Prostrate, Brian peered out at the wreckage of the other mine-resistant vehicle spewing black smoke and flames into the sky—well, as much as he could see. He scanned for hostiles, shutting down the fear. Homing in on the warrior within him. The one who made sure everyone came home. The one who did what it took. The one most people didn’t understand.

  There, across from a small well-like structure, he barely saw two forms. One held a rifle, the other wrangled a launcher. “Eyes on target,” Brian spoke into his coms, his tone deathly even.

  “Spartan platoon, you are ordered to stand down.”

  Brian frowned. What the…? “Eyes on hostiles.”

  “Sergeant Brennan, get your team to safety and get out of there.”

  “Sir,” Brian said. “Sta—Sergeant Bledsoe here, sir. I have eyes on target and can neutralize the threat.”

  “Negative, Bledsoe. Pack it up and RTB.”

  Angry, Brian hesitated. “Sir—we are taking direct fire. Getting in the vehicles puts the team in direct danger, sir.”

  “You’re not listening to me—get out of there!”

  Ticked, Brian decided to ignore the booming voice ordering them back to base under a deadly situation. He pressed his cheek to the stock of his weapon and once again sighted the enemy.

  “One more mess up, and you’re gone, Hawk.”

  His palms went slick as Captain Watters’s words pierced his mind.

  He swallowed. Tried to shake it off.

  But he’d lose everything.

  Biting back a curse, he balled his fists. Glanced down the sight just in time to see the enemy take aim at Davis and Parker, who were rushing to the MRAP.

  “Nooo!” Brian shouted. “Davis, Parker—”

  The drilling sound of automatic weapons drowned his voice. Davis and Parker went down, face-first, into the dirt.

  Like a vacuum, Brian sucked back his grief. Gulped it down. Replaced it with fury. He resolved right then to kill the terrorists who had ambushed the supply convoy. Whether he had authorization or not. Fury ripping through his muscles, Brian lined up his sights.

  Two Hours Outside Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  17 January—0710 Hours

  Through a haze of blurry memories and vision, Fekiria woke. With a groan, she pushed herself off the mattress, the material warm and soft beneath her hand. Rolling her shoulders did nothing to dispel the ache in her neck. She rubbed the spot and squinted around the room. Sunlight peeked between curtains on the far window.

  Disorientation faded as the surroundings settled into her mind.

  She remembered the rifle butt flying at her. Instinctively, her fingers went to her temple. A prick of pain darted through her head, shoulders, and neck at the touch. She cringed and groaned.

  A noise—a jangle that felt entirely too loud and annoying—pulled her gaze to the left. To the dark wood door that swung open.

  Colonel Mahmoud stood just over the threshold. “How long will you keep us waiting?”

  Fekiria shoved to her feet, yelping at the spike of pain that felt like a steel rod shoved through her skull. Heel of her hand to her forehead, she crossed the room. “Where…where are we going?”

  “Where do you think we’re going?” Snarl in his voice, he pivoted and stalked out of the room.

  Feebly, Fekiria followed him. Outside the room, two guards straightened at her presence. They fell into step with her as she made her way to the sweeping staircase and descended. With the loyal guard dogs on her heels.

  Ahead of her, the front door swung open and light burst in.

  Pain radiated through her corneas, stabbing the back of her eyeballs. Fekiria ducked but kept moving. Outside. To the chopper. Back to the base. Just had to get out of here. Get back to…what? Captain Ripley, the one man who wanted her but she did not want?

  Why was she even alive? What purpose did she serve?

  “Wait.”

  The strong voice was unmistakable. Fekiria tensed, the move making the headache pound. Stiffly, she turned.

  Adeeb strode toward her. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the guard dogs scurrying back to the shadows. Who is my brother that they obey him so completely? He stepped into her personal space. Glanced out the door. Indecision glimmered in his dark brown eyes. He pressed his lips together then met her gaze. “If you speak of anything you have seen here, I will have you killed.”

  Disgust squirmed through her.

  “It would take just one word from me to tell Baba what you are doing”—his gaze slid down her body, taking note of her flight suit— “for Baba to have you hunted down and killed like the worthless—”

  “I may be worthless in your eyes, but I am an excellent pilot.” Fekiria lifted her chin ever so slightly—not enough to arouse his anger but enough to show him she did not fear him as he wanted her to. “I delivered your terrorists to your door—”

  He grabbed her hair bundled beneath the hijab at the back of her neck then slammed her face into the door. A sweet but metallic taste filled her mouth. “Release me,” she hissed.

  Again, he slammed her head against the door. “Do not think that because we have the same blood I would not hesitate to make an example of you.”

  She yanked free, readjusting her hijab and catching the warmth sliding down her chin. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Go. Do not keep them waiting. They cannot be late.” With that, he thrust
her out the door.

  Fekiria stumbled, surprised and angered at her brother’s animosity. “And you say I am the dog.” She spat at his feet then stalked toward the helicopter, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth where he’d split her lip.

  She walked the helicopter for her preflight check, disconcerted about what the men had been doing last night. But she found nothing out of place. In the cockpit, she tucked on her headset and adjusted the microphone.

  “Let’s go. Why are you so slow?”

  The words didn’t speed her up. They did make her go a little slower, however. After powering up the bird, she made radio contact with Kandahar. “November Romeo to Sierra Alpha Bravo Two.”

  “This is Sierra Alpha Bravo,” came the voice that was distinctly not Captain Ripley. “What is your status, November Romeo?”

  “Powering up to RTB.”

  “Copy that,” came the reply, filled with relief and yet some apprehension. “What is your ETA?”

  “Forty minutes.”

  “Copy forty minutes. Safe flying, November Romeo. We’ll see you when you get here.”

  “Copy. November Romeo out.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  17 January—0845 Hours

  W hat have you found?” Dean strolled over to the bank of laptops and devices, glad to be back with his team. He sidestepped to avoid cables strewn across the floor and zigzagged into one of two power strips.

  Sal straightened in his chair. “A whole lot of nothing.” He pointed to the map of the city—some parts redrawn by a Sharpie and others, a lot in fact, marked off with large Xs—and shook his head. “We’ve ruled out a lot but haven’t gotten any closer.”

  Dean lifted one of the chatter transcripts. “Ruling them out is closer.” He shuffled the papers, skimming as he searched for keywords. Zmaray. Lion. Though they’d had a massive confrontation with the guy who’d tried to take his victory out of Dean’s back, they hadn’t found the source.

  The papers revealed exactly what Sal said—nothing. Dean flicked the pages onto the table and looked around. Bunks lined one wall. A curtained-off area probably concealed the bathroom or shower. They had to make do with whatever was left of the run-down shop.