Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  Tiny arms wrapped around hers, binding Fekiria’s weapon arm against her side and forcing her to look down. Aadela’s pale face shone with the fear that gripped Fekiria’s own heart. She swallowed, lifting an arm to place it around the six-year-old. “Shh,” she whispered then readjusted so her aim was not hindered.

  “Where is—?”

  A shout came with a breeze that rustled the branches of the pine leaves, which teased the edges of Fekiria’s cheek. She remained unmoving, muzzle pointed out. Three men came into view, their Kalashnikovs dangling carelessly. Anger and confusion gouged hard lines into the grim, weathered expressions. The tallest of the three tugged on his scraggly beard. One whose beard and hair were more gray than brown waved the youngest up the path, while the beard-tugger pointed to the path.

  They know. Covering their path only created confusion, but it might buy them some time. It was a futile attempt—they were Taliban. Trained to track. Trained to kill. Merciless in both regards.

  But not covering it would have drawn immediate attention.

  Fekiria waited, watching and listening.

  “They could not just vanish,” Beard-tugger groused.

  “Hiding tracks does not work.” The older laughed. He turned a slow circle until his all-too-knowing eyes landed on the thicket. His eyes then narrowed as a sneer pushed his face into a menacing mask.

  The thudding in her chest threatened to betray her. Please, God!

  Aadela whimpered.

  Sucking in a hard breath, Fekiria yanked the girl farther into her, pressing her face against her hip. She crushed her to herself, willing the whimper to die on the wind. To not betray them. Holding her breath gave Fekiria little confidence they wouldn’t be found. Even the slightest movement of her head could betray them. The twig digging into the back of her head could shake loose some snow.

  The man brought his weapon to bear. Muzzle pointed right at Fekiria.

  A soft thunk sounded somewhere behind them. Both men yanked around.

  Stealing a glance—without moving her head—Fekiria met Sheevah’s glossy eyes. She tried to convey a “stay still, we’ll be okay” look, but the girl remained terrified.

  “Go. Check it out,” Gray-beard ordered. Minutes hung like hours as the fighters waited.

  “No tracks up the path,” the younger said as he returned, his weapon now slung around his back. He feared little, this one.

  Pine branches swayed against the tug of the wind, obstructing Fekiria’s view again.

  “What is Lateef doing?”

  “Who knows?” The younger shrugged. Beside her, Mitra moaned.

  Sheevah slapped a hand over her teacher’s mouth and drew her close. Fekiria saw the grayness of death crouching at her friend’s feet and prayed again they’d make it.

  When she turned back, with a jerk Fekiria froze.

  Beady black eyes peered through the branches.

  CHAPTER 37

  Tera Pass, Afghanistan

  24 February—0715 Hours

  A hand reached into the thicket.

  Realizing she’d lowered the weapon terrified Fekiria. She snapped it up and fired. The sound ricocheted through the mountain like a giant thunderclap that pounded against her chest.

  The man gasped and stumbled back.

  But unlike Hollywood movies, the first shot didn’t kill him. It only angered him. Solidified his determination to make her die an ugly death—she saw it in his eyes.

  Large nostrils flared against the graying beard. He uttered an oath. Spat something about her being an American lover as he raised his weapon.

  With a feral scream, Fekiria sprang from the thicket. Dove through the branches, carrying the man backward. They landed hard. His breath punched from him with a wheezing gasp. Before she could drive a punch into his face, she felt herself flipping.

  Wrestling with him was another futile effort. He was bigger. Stronger.

  Before she could fight it, Fekiria lay on her back with his hands around her throat. Squeezing tight. Tighter. Panic flooded her. She thrashed.

  Like a cord snapped in her, she regained control.

  Threaded her right arm up and under his. She threw all her weight to the right, breaking his hold. On all fours, she heaved raw, searing gulps of oxygen.

  A scream from Aadela jerked Fekiria out of her air-deprived stupor. The young Talib was bent over in the thicket.

  Reaching for him, Fekiria felt a noose wrap around her right leg. She clawed for purchase but found none. Just bone-numbing iciness.

  Yanked backward, she collapsed against the frigid, wet snow. Funneling her energy once again into freeing herself, she stuck her left ankle behind her right. Used her hips to thrust herself around. The man was dragging her so quickly, her sudden twist caused him to stumble. His grip broke. Fekiria pushed up with her hands.

  He didn’t stay down long. With a growl, he lunged at her.

  The screaming of the girls fueled her adrenaline. Told her she couldn’t stop. She had to kill this man. Kill all of these men before they killed them.

  She kicked him in the gut. He doubled over. Used his forward momentum to slam a hard right into her jaw. Sent her flying backward. Her spine hit something hard. Knocked the wind out of her. Before she could move—even think—he towered over her. Kalashnikov in hand. Sneer on his old, shriveled face.

  Crack!

  Thwump!

  Warmth splattered her face.

  Then Gray-beard tumbled forward.

  Fekiria rolled out of the way. Exhaustion weighted her. Relief flooded her. She still struggled for air. She heaved. Breathe. Breathe!

  Another scream—Sheevah’s this time—yanked her head up.

  The young Talib slumped to the side, a crimson stain widening like a sick, twisted halo around his head.

  Fekiria flipped over to a sitting position, staring out at the trees. Probing the terrain. The vegetation. Who’d shot the two Taliban? Please—please, be Brian. Scrabbling backward toward the girls, she saw a figure emerge.

  Brian trudged out from between two trees, face bloodied, clothes torn and ragged. In truth—he looked ragged. His right eye was swollen shut. Lip cut and bulging, he swiped his gloved hand across a large scrape on his forehead. Blood glistened around his leg. A bloodied scrap of material—from the hem of his shirt, she guessed by the untucked and torn tactical shirt—tied around his thigh warned of another injury. A large knot rose on his cheek.

  Fekiria lurched toward him. “Brian!”

  His arm came around her without hesitation. A brief tight hug flooded her with relief and courage. “Let’s move.” He panted through the words as he moved toward the others. “They weren’t alone.”

  Beneath the thicket, she knelt. “What happened to you?”

  “Later.” He gathered up the weapons from the dead Taliban.

  “There was another,” Fekiria breathed, glancing around for the last fighter.

  “Dead.” Brian’s voice matched the word. Weapons slung over his shoulder, he turned and reached for Aadela. A tear in his upper jacket sleeve revealed another angry gash. His jaw muscle popped as he gave a tight-lipped smile to the six-year-old. He was in a lot of pain. She could see it on his face. In the stiff way he moved.

  “Here. I’ll get her,” Fekiria said.

  Brian’s gaze hit Mitra. “She’s unconscious.”

  “No,” came a very weak response from the woman. Her eyes fluttered. “I’m…here.”

  Brian muttered a curse. Sat back on his legs, his chin resting on his shoulder, and he puffed out a breath. With another sigh, he nodded as if agreeing with something. “Mitra, look at me.”

  Her head lobbed in his direction, eyes shuddering open.

  “I have to carry you over my shoulder,” he said. “It will hurt. Understand?”

  Pale as the snow and covered with a similar sheen as the wintry elements, Mitra nodded. It looked like a drug-induced nod, but she understood. And whether she did or not, he had to carry her.

  But…how
would he? He was already limping and in a lot of pain.

  As Brian hoisted Mitra away from the tree she’d been propped against, he screwed his face against the pain. With one more hoist, he hefted her into a secure spot across his broad shoulders.

  Hand on her stomach, Fekiria swallowed the metallic taste that squirted through her mouth. That had to hurt. A lot. With the pain he was in and the pain Mitra probably no longer felt…

  It was too much to think about, especially knowing there was nothing to do but continue on. Fekiria knelt and let Aadela climb onto her back. With Sheevah’s help, she tied the extra pelt across the little one’s back. She looked at Brian, and he gave her a weak nod.

  He led them through the trees, off the path. They climbed at an angle across the rugged mountains. Leaden legs plunged into freezing snow. Fekiria pushed onward, refusing to quit. Refusing to fail. Refusing to let Brian down.

  24 February—1045 Hours

  He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  What’s the point, God? Brian pushed the defeatist thought from his mind. If he followed that course of thought, he’d end up at the bottom of a ravine again. But he couldn’t get away from the thoughts. He’d been tracking down a cyber terrorist. Now, he trudged across the back of a dragon buried in snow. What was this?

  Wind pushed against him, threatening as real and effective as an armed enemy. The thick clouds hid them from the sun. Hours they’d hiked, and he wasn’t sure they were getting anywhere. The rugged terrain was brutal enough, but he intentionally walked at an angle to avoid climbing up. They couldn’t go higher or they’d face colder temperatures and stronger winds. Aadela, who’d been whimpering and crying the last few hours, had frostbite, and the woman on his back was as good as dead if they couldn’t get real medical help soon. And Fekiria—the dogged determination…watching her fight that Taliban. Brian could not erase that image, of the man punching her, aiming his Kalashnikov at her… If he’d been two seconds later, he couldn’t have taken the shot. Fekiria would be dead.

  He missed a step. His leg buckled. On a knee, he stared up at the glaring white. His gaze rose toward the gradation of clouds. Light gray above them. And beyond that—a thick mattress of gray that warned him they had to find shelter. These girls would not survive another night in the elements. He wasn’t sure he would.

  “You okay?” Fekiria asked, her words gentle and warm as she came alongside.

  Brian nodded, hated feeling weak. Hated that he wasn’t 100 percent. “We need shelter.” He pushed her attention to the clouds, away from him. “That’s not good.”

  Fekiria looked at the sky then around them. “There’s nothing up here. I’ve flown over it.”

  “If we don’t…” No. He wouldn’t say that. Wouldn’t put those thoughts in their minds. He hated it—could see the hope in their eyes. The belief that he’d get them out of this. With the sun hidden behind the clouds, he was using that one rugged peak as his compass. He had no idea if it was the right way. He just had to keep moving.

  “She’s unconscious.” Fekiria touched the woman draped over his back.

  She’d passed out as soon as he lifted her onto his shoulders. He’d expected as much with her injuries and the pressure being carried would create, but they were negative on options.

  “If we’re caught out here when that storm hits… I’d guess we have an hour to find shelter again before this place is like night and brutal,” Brian said as he struggled to his feet again. Shards of pain clawed through his thigh as he put weight on it. He nodded to the little angel on Fekiria’s back. “She’s not doing well.”

  Snow swirled and danced around them again, thick and fat. Both of them considered the second wind the storm seemed to have taken. “Just when I thought we’d get a break…”

  Powerful fists of wind and icy rain shoved against him, forcing him to strain to stand still.

  “We have to get out of here. Descend.” But the freakin’ Taliban had been driving them farther up into the freezing maw of the mountain.

  He started walking. Talking did nothing but make them more aware that hope was getting buried beneath the blistering blizzard, just like them. Though he stumbled, he refused to slow. Got up again. Put one boot in front of the other.

  Going on thirty hours without sleep and rigorous hiking was taking its toll. But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t fail this. He’d made the decision to chase down Fekiria in the market. That led to this. Just like the other decisions that had gotten people killed.

  God, just a little more. And a little more. Whatever it takes to get them down.

  His feet tangled again. Brian went down—hard. Scored his knee.

  “A break,” Fekiria huffed. “Let’s take a break.”

  No! It wasn’t smart. It could expose them. Allow the Taliban to catch up. But instead of arguing, he nodded. Shifted to the side. He lowered the woman to a soft patch of pine needles at the base of a tree then dropped onto his backside. With gritted teeth, he stretched out his leg, slowly. Easing himself through the agony.

  Brian closed his eyes.

  A nudge at his shoulder snapped him upright. He caught the attacker by the hand.

  “Brian!” Fekiria’s wide green eyes were just inches from his face. “Easy, easy,” she whispered. “You fell asleep.” Her gaze fell to where his gloved hand, cut up and bloodied, grasped her jacketed arm.

  “Sorry.” He released her and roughed a hand over his face. “How long?”

  Fekiria knelt at his side. “Just a few minutes.” She studied him.

  Brian saw it—the disappointment in him, that he’d failed them. That mingled with her fear. “We’ll get out of here.” He met her beautiful eyes again. “Alive.”

  With a weak sigh, she slumped against him, staring out through the branches, obviously not believing him. She leaned her head on his shoulder in the quiet roar of the storm. Brian had nothing left. He’d keep going. Until the storm froze him from the inside out. He’d never felt so powerless. There was no call to make that gave them hope. They wouldn’t make it off this mountain without a miracle.

  God…I got nothin’ left. The woman leaning on him in more ways than one would die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Fekiria sat up straight.

  Adrenaline stabbed through his veins, heating them. Stinging. He grabbed his weapon, ready to fight.

  “No,” she said, putting her hand on his and meeting his gaze. “No, I think…” On her feet, she dusted off her backside and moved out of the trees. She walked up the slope a little.

  Brian struggled to stand, hobbling to avoid the agony ripping through his leg. “Fekiria!”

  His breath clogged his throat when he saw her running back to him. But then—she was smiling. Confusion raked through him.

  She threw herself into his arms. “I found it!”

  He frowned. “Found what?”

  “The shanty.” She pointed back toward a jagged rise. “Over that crest and down the other side there’s a shanty.” She shoved back her hood and the hair from her face. “I flew over it about a week ago. Thought it was odd.”

  Brian’s heart felt like a flooded engine. Flooded with so much gas—this time, the hope of shelter—the gears wouldn’t catch. “Seriously?” His gaze shot to the rise. “You sure?”

  “I checked. It’s there.” She hurried to the girls, talking quickly in Pashto.

  Hobbling up the rock and snow-packed incline, he begged God to give her that miracle. Give her a way out. Let her live. He eased up, lowering himself to the ground as he did. Low-crawling, he made the summit and peered over.

  CHAPTER 38

  North of Tera Pass, Afghanistan

  24 February—1515 Hours

  A gony had nothing on what Brian felt in his fingers and toes. Frostbite was a vicious predator. On the other side, the land sloped down fairly steep then leveled out and provided the perfect place for the mediumsized structure. Not exactly the size of a shanty. And it had mud-and-plaster wa
lls.

  “Do you see it?” Fekiria’s excitement reached him as she made her way up.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, not mirroring her enthusiasm. Especially not with the smoke rising out of that pit and the truck parked at the side. He lowered his head…and his hopes. It was there. Shelter. Just like he’d asked for.

  Just filled with Taliban.

  Brian pounded the ground. Tried to restrain himself.

  “What is wrong? What is it?”

  He shoved off the ground, still working to harness his frustration. Teeth grinding, he threaded his fingers behind his head. Just one break. Why? Why was that too much to ask?

  Fekiria was at his side. “Brian, what is wrong?”

  He turned away from her, away from the fact he’d failed her. Let her down. Brought her up here to die.

  She stepped into his path. Caught his arms. “Brian.”

  “What do you want from me, Fekiria?”

  “What did you see?”

  He tried to look away from her. To the side. But he could still see her. He dropped his gaze. Closed his eyes. Exhaled in discouragement. Her gloved hand touched his face.

  “Taliban,” he grunted. “It’s a freakin’ Taliban stronghold. We’re screwed. This whole thing is messed up. The girls are—”

  “Hey!” Fekiria’s expression ignited. “Listen to me.”

  The ferocity in her words surprised him. Stilled him.

  “We need you. So you have to keep it together.”

  Brian turned away from her, rubbing his frozen hands over his face. He shifted back to tell her it was hopeless. To say they ran out of options about thirty klicks back. Hands on his tac belt, he lowered his head again. She was right. He knew that. But he was empty. Fed up. Through. He pivoted and walked a few more paces down the path they’d just come.

  God, this would be a real good time—

  “They’re leaving!”

  Brian spun on his heels. Jogged as much as he could with his injured leg to the lip of the overlook. There, he flattened himself against the edge. Eased up, watched as the trucks filled with men. Shouts and hustling. In a hurry…

  The brakes of the truck groaned and popped as it lurched forward over the snow. With it went the despair that had threatened and overtaken Brian just minutes earlier.