Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  Fekiria covered the phone. “Please, don’t.”

  His jaw muscle popped again. The way he looked at her bespoke the anger he clung to, and he stepped out of her reach. Put the phone to his ear.

  She was so tired. So rattled from the last two hours. “Sergeant Brian, for the children I beg you.” But her words fell on deaf ears.

  “Hawk here…I’m good. In a”—he looked to the side, to where the girls huddled beneath the blankets and peered at him as they hugged each other—“situation.” Hand on his tac belt, he walked the length of the room. “No, pinned down. Can’t leave.”

  Fekiria glanced at Mitra, whose face had gone white.

  “Yes. A half-dozen others.” He nodded as someone on the other end talked, and then he glanced back at her. “I got the pilot.”

  Fekiria felt as if a window had opened with the icy blast he sent her way.

  “I’ll lay low then make the rendezvous after dark…roger. Hawk out.” Sergeant Brian lowered the phone. Let out a long sigh. Roughed his hand over his face—and hit the slick spot of blood.

  She motioned to the rickety table. “Come. I will clean your injury.”

  “No.” He came toward her with a menacing expression. “I want answers. You bombed our location. Tried to kill us.” He practically snarled at her.

  “Sit at the table. I will dress your injury and tell you whatever you want to know.”

  Again, he resisted her.

  “You are angry with me. I understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you understand the first thing about what I’m feeling right now.” He angled a shoulder in toward her. “Do you realize how many men you nearly killed firing off that rocket? Men who are my brothers? Men I took an oath to protect? And you want me to sit at a freakin’ table and act like that didn’t happen? And where is my coms piece?”

  Fekiria shot him a fierce expression to match his. Then moved her gaze purposefully to the children. “Please. Come sit.” She tugged his arm.

  The brooding man was like a reluctant bull being led by the ring in his nose. “Sit? You want me to sit when men are out there shooting at us?”

  “I want this to stop. I want you to listen to me.” Her anger flared across her chest, heating her.

  “Why were you flying that bird?”

  With her own nostrils flared, she moved to the table. Folded her arms. Waited.

  Mitra came forward with a bowl and a hand towel.

  Sergeant Brian stood unmoving, but she could see the turmoil playing out behind those green eyes. “No time for that. We need to get somewhere safe.”

  Mitra set down the bowl. “This is it. With the storm, there is nowhere to go. The children will not last in the snow and wind. We have no friends beyond those in this compound.”

  He stalked toward the rear hallway. “What’s back here?”

  “Bathroom, empty rooms,” Mitra said.

  Fekiria closed the distance between them. “You are scaring the girls.”

  “They need to be scared. This is—”

  BooOOOooom!

  CHAPTER 29

  Kabul Market, Afghanistan

  23 February—1800 Hours

  Down!” Brian wrapped his arms around Fekiria and dove to the ground. Plaster and dirt peppered his head and back.

  On his knees, he hauled Fekiria from the dirt and propelled her toward the far wall where the girls were huddled. He scrabbled up behind her and looked to the other woman. “Exit—we need a safe exit!”

  “The back, but”—the woman shot Fekiria a worried look—“the children. They’re not dressed. They need shoes, jackets—”

  “Do it. Hurry.” Brian shifted to Fekiria as another mortar round shook the building. “Help her.” He shuffle-ran to his rucksack on the floor. After shouldering into it, he knelt. Lifted the sat phone from his pocket as he eyed the women and children. He wanted to curse. How he ended up in a situation like this…

  Phone to his ear, he waited for the call to connect.

  “Watters.”

  “We’re being hit.” Brian watched an older girl help the smallest into a jacket and shoes. “I have six innocents. Children.”

  “We can’t move, Hawk.”

  His gut cinched. “They need help. This place is going to come down. We have to get out of here or they won’t make it.”

  “Hands are tied. Nothing’s moving, and I can’t get there. It’s too hot. Command won’t budge. Stay there. I’ll—”

  “They’re pummeling us with mortars.” Brian gritted his teeth. “This building’s going down. We have to move.”

  “Then get out. Find shelter.”

  Brian screwed his mouth tight. “Roger.” He pocketed the phone and shifted his attention to the woman bundling up a small girl. “Do you have a vehicle?”

  She glanced at him as she stuffed the girl’s arm into the sleeve jacket. “It was stolen last week.”

  Irritation clawed up Brian’s spine. This night had gone from awful to nightmarish. It was a wonder he was still alive, that he hadn’t killed anyone. Yet. He was still ticked with Fekiria. She had some serious secrets. His mind warred with the divergent images of her. Piloting that chopper and blowing up their building. And now the petite woman, head no longer wrapped in that silk number, bent over a little girl and buttoned her jacket.

  Girls. Five of them. They couldn’t be any older than ten. And the youngest—thank God they weren’t toddlers. It was inevitable that a toddler would scream and give them away.

  How did this happen? How did he end up a babysitter? To a bunch of kids. Unbelievable.

  On a knee beside Fekiria—he wasn’t letting her far from his sight, not after what she’d perpetrated against him and his team—Brian checked his weapon and extra magazines. As geared up as he could get considering the situation, he looked at the others. “Ready?” Though he barked it, there was something unsettling about the half-dozen pair of wide eyes that watched him.

  Were they afraid of him? Or expecting him to be the hero and save the day?

  Neither made him happy. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to face the questions about Fekiria that had exploded since he found himself face-to-face with her.

  “Mitra?” Fekiria eyed her friend then spoke in her native tongue.

  Brian hated being the odd man out. He had no idea what they were saying.

  Or planning.

  No, don’t borrow trouble. These women needed to get to safety as much as he did. And they were smart enough, he hoped, to realize he was their way out.

  Mitra rattled something in Pashto and seemed to go even paler. She rose and started across the room.

  Brian shoved to his feet. “Whoa. No.” He caught her arm. Looked down at Fekiria. “Where’s she going?”

  Joining them, Fekiria explained, “There is an older man and woman who live here, too. She wanted to see if they are okay.”

  “Not outside. She’s not going out there.” Was the woman crazy?

  Fekiria gave his response to the woman, whose face twisted up in grief.

  He handed his secure phone to her.

  She shook her head. “No phone.”

  Over the howl of the wind outside, Brian heard a distinctive, more ominous howl. “Down!” He grabbed Fekiria and pulled her close as he went down, covering both women.

  Crack! Thud!

  Brian’s gaze shot to where the girls had stood. His heart spasmed—between him and them, a pile of debris opened the ceiling. Snow and sleet pelted the mound. Crying, the girls grouped up with the eldest holding them close to the wall. Smart girl.

  Fekiria shifted beneath him. Brian met her large green eyes. What he saw—a mixture of fear, expectation, and uncertainty—made him feel like a chunk of an iceberg had broken off his heart. “You okay?”

  She gave a furtive nod as she pulled herself off the ground.

  Brian offered his hand, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze bouncing to his then to his hand as he placed hers in his. He tugged
her upward, catching her back as she found her balance. Mitra was already over to the girls, and by her tone, she was reassuring them.

  “Let’s move,” Brian said.

  Fekiria spoke to the others. “Sheevah, help Aadela.”

  But the little six-year-old shook her head violently. Shoved herself back against the wall, rigid with fright.

  Sheevah started toward the girl, who just kicked and screamed.

  He’d seen this before. It wasn’t unusual for a child to react so violently to a situation like this. “She’s in shock. Tell her to go easy on her.”

  Fekiria translated, but the little one still wasn’t having it.

  Brian stepped over to the two, touched the older girl on the shoulder, and nudged her toward the little one sitting on the cot, waiting. He slid his weapon around behind him, out of her sight. Anything to reduce the threat-stress levels she was experiencing right now.

  Reaching into a side pocket of his ruck, he squatted before the little one. Winked at her. Drew out a candy bar. He’d learned from his former teammate, Tony “Candyman” VanAllen, to always have a bar or two ready to win local favor. And right now they needed her favor because if he had to haul her out kicking and screaming, they might as well have a homing beacon on them.

  He held it in his hand but didn’t extend it. She had to come to him. And quick.

  “Aadela,” came the soft whisper of Fekiria’s voice in his ear.

  He nodded but said nothing.

  Aadela. Bright-eyed, short-cropped black hair. Hands and knees held close to her chest, she watched him. Warily. As if gauging whether she could trust him. The seconds felt like hours, with the threat of another hit any moment, as he waited for her to decide he would be safe.

  “Tell her I need a friend,” Brian said to the side, to Fekiria who hovered behind.

  The words came sweetly in Pashto.

  Aadela looked to Fekiria then back to Brian.

  He turned his hand so his palm faced up, exposing the chocolate bar. An offer. But not an extension.

  Aadela shook her head.

  Okay, maybe he needed to take the forceful route.

  She pointed to his shoulder. Brian glanced at his shoulder lamp. Unhooked it and held it in front of him. Aadela scooted forward. Took it.

  Brian lifted her into his arms and rose at the same time. “Go now!”

  Kabul Market, Afghanistan

  23 February—1815 Hours

  “What do we know about his location?”

  Grim-faced and exhausted, Sal scratched his beard as they sat under a bridge in the Humvee, avoiding detection. Avoiding exposure. “It’s hot. I don’t know what lit that area up, but there’s no way we’d get in without being seen.” He turned to the small radio he held and grinned. “Bumped into a cop.”

  And apparently bummed the guy’s radio. “What’re you hearing?”

  “Craziness. They’re talking so fast, it’s hard to catch—” He craned his neck, listening. Shook his head. Though none of them were fluent in Dari or Pashto, they all had a passing knowledge, able to pick up bits and pieces. Sal had the best grip on the language though. “They’re looking for a woman. I can’t tell what reason they’re giving.”

  “So, what? They’ve hit the wrong house?”

  Sal lifted a shoulder then went back to listening.

  “Can we get them out though?” Talking out loud helped Dean think through the situation, but it also gave the opportunity for one of the others to offer up a solution.

  “Unlikely,” Sal said. “They’ve got police, and I’ve heard some ANA chatter.”

  “That’s a lot of activity for Hawk,” Titanis put in.

  “So, what? Hawk’s in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Dean wasn’t buying it.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sal said with a grunt-laugh.

  “But not this time.” It felt different. Too quick. “They were on that house before we even got there.” Like it was planned.

  “Guys,” Sal said, his voice strained. “This…this isn’t military chatter. Or police. It’s…” His dark brown eyes hit Dean’s. “This sounds”—he tilted his head, thinking or listening—“this sounds like normal Taliban chatter.”

  “You’re telling me the Taliban are after him?”

  “Or after that woman. Didn’t Hawk say he had two women with him?”

  Dean nodded. “And the pilot. He’s got nearly a dozen innocents on his hands.”

  Radio in hand, Sal shifted in his seat, the Humvee rocking beneath them. “If we could get back to the base, we could coordinate—”

  “It’s more than an hour north,” Dean said.

  “There are kids there—Hawk has children,” Eagle said, his tone conveying his frustration. “This goes global if kids die. We’ll be put on a spit and roasted.”

  It was true. Kill as many adults as you wanted, but kill a kid and you ended up on the front page of the news, labeled a murderer. Kids. How did that happen? He didn’t get the whole story from Hawk and knew he couldn’t over the coms. Though their phones were secure, they were all too aware that nothing was “secure” anymore.

  “Look, I’m willing to face whatever risk to go in there and help him,” Eagle offered, his words thick with concern. “This whole just-sitting-here-talking isn’t working.”

  “But going in could put them in more danger than not going in,” Titanis countered.

  “So, we just leave them?” Eagle’s voice pitched. “In this storm— it’s about to dump a truckload of snow, and the wind coming with it could chew through granite. Hawk has limited weapons and supplies. Children and women depending on him, and we just walk away?”

  “Easy,” Dean warned. “No decision has been made. We’re talking.”

  “We need to quit talking and get moving.”

  Eagle was right. They couldn’t leave Hawk with women and children who were being targeted. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  “Command won’t like that,” Sal said.

  “They rarely do.” Dean pointed to the wheel. “Get us over there.”

  23 February—1825 Hours

  Crouched in a darkened alley, Fekiria held Wajmah close as they rested against the damp, cold wall. They’d escaped through a hidden door at the back that led into this narrow enclosure. Wind and snow snaked through the tight space, threatening. Chilling. Mitra slumped beside them, her daughter in her arms. Trailing them, Sheevah and Jamilah hugged each other. Hawk crouch-ran a few paces past them with a monkey-like Aadela clasped around him.

  Slowly, he lowered Aadela, motioned for her to stay, then raised his weapon. Head back against the wall. Bracing himself. Preparing himself. With a finger, he nudged aside a board. Peered through. Then to the other side.

  He turned his head, and his gaze struck Fekiria’s. With a nod, he motioned them forward. A buzzing seemed to rend the air, though the wind howled and in the distance sirens still screamed their presence.

  Sergeant Brian grabbed at his leg pocket, digging out his sat phone. He had no pale blue light to give away his location. He pressed the phone to his ear. His words were tight, controlled, low.

  Fekiria moved closer, careful not to be noisy. Cautious that she did not upset Wajmah, who shivered in her arms.

  Sergeant Brian looked at her as he listened. “Roger. Good.” He nodded. “Okay. Ten mikes.” He put the phone away and waved at the others. “We have a rendezvous.”

  Relief spiraled through her. Wait—had he said ten mikes? Was that minutes? That meant… “Where?”

  “Two klicks northeast.”

  “Two kilometers?” She tried to keep her voice as controlled as his. “They are children!”

  “If they want to live, they move.” He handed her his gun. “You know how to use that, right?”

  She nodded, mute.

  “We go three at a time.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Cross the street. Take shelter in the next alley up. Bound and cover. No straight lines. You know the drill, right?”

 
Fekiria’s heart pounded. She looked through the wood slot to the spot he’d mentioned. To get there, they’d be out in the open for a solid minute or two. Plenty of time to get gunned down. She would be responsible for making sure the girls were covered. “Are you sure?”

  His expression seemed to soften. “You’ll do fine. Just keep moving. Do not stop. No matter what.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Yes,” he said then smirked. “But if you don’t keep moving, they shoot you.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll cover you and bring up the rear.”

  “So you have nothing to lose by sending me first.” He’s American. Of course he doesn’t care about us.

  Surprise and hurt crowded his expression. He frowned. Then scowled. “You think I’m trying to get you killed?”

  Fekiria stared up at him. He stood at least a foot taller. Shoulders broad. Neck thick. He seemed to dwarf her. A measure of guilt coursed through her, but she would not take back the words. She had been betrayed by too many men.

  “Baby, if I wanted to kill you, I’d walk the other way. I can hide and never be seen for months. With seven of you, I’m a sitting duck.” He leaned into her. “There are easier ways to kill someone. Now, you done holding us up?”

  He might as well have smacked her. In truth, his words had. And it hurt. A lot more than she thought they would. “Sheevah,” Fekiria said, not breaking his eye contact.

  The fourteen-year-old came to her side.

  “Take Wajmah.” Fekiria turned away from Sergeant Brian. Away from his accusation. But she deserved it. The man infuriated her! “Let’s go.” She nodded to the opening.

  Wide eyed, Sheevah sucked in a breath. Shook her head.

  “Across the street, to the alley,” Fekiria said. “I’ll be right behind you. Do not stop. Run, and run hard.”

  Shouts and shooting far away startled everyone, gasps and yelps echoing through the dark alley. “See?” Fekiria said. “They are not near us. We must hurry.” And with that, she turned and angled herself through the wood slats Sergeant Brian held open.