by Ronie Kendig
“But where would we go? The children …”
He tossed up his hands. “We have nowhere else.”
“Over there,” Zahrah said, going to the section of the building where her classroom stood. “It does not seem damaged. What if we had someone block off the left side and—”
“We can’t stay,” Fekiria said, her tone sharp.
Zahrah eyed her cousin. “But we have to resume school. The children will need to know that some things cannot be stolen from them. That life goes on.”
“But for some, it does not. And putting the lives of the children in danger is foolish!” Fekiria’s tone bordered on hysteria.
“What—?”
A form coalesced from the shadows of the heavily damaged building. Zahrah recognized it—him. The man. The same one. Involuntarily, she took a step back.
Director Kohistani lowered his gaze.
Fekiria, back to the man, pleaded with Zahrah. “Let’s go, we should—”
“You have been at the American base,” the tall, strong man said in Pashto, his voice loud and forceful.
Zahrah would not be bullied. But she also knew better than to engage in a confrontation with this man, with any man. She averted her gaze. “Of course I went to the base.” She kept her voice light. “I was injured. They kept me overnight to make sure I wasn’t hurt more.”
“Then you went back this morning.”
Zahrah felt a gush of warmth across her abdomen. Fear. This man had her followed. She must retain control. Not show how much he scared her. “Yes, I went to see Rashid, a little boy who was hurt in the explosion. I—I took his mom there.” When she saw Specialist Homewood step forward, Zahrah flashed her a warning to stay back. “He was badly injured in the explosion, and she wanted to see her son.”
When he lurched toward her, she drew her arms up to protect herself.
He grabbed her wrists. “Who do you think you are lying to?” His crushing grip forced her to cry out. “You’ve drawn the anger and attention of the Taliban, you stupid, lying woman!”
“Please! I am not lying.” Zahrah wrestled the panic writhing in her chest. Pulled away from the man. “Release me!”
“It’s true,” Fekiria said. “She took Rashid’s mom.”
The man reared back and rammed his elbow into Fekiria’s face.
Her cousin yelped and covered her nose with her hands, drawing the sympathy of Director Kohistani. Would no one help her? No, of course not. This land was plagued with fear of those who wore hatred and vengeance like a mantle.
“Release me,” Zahrah said. “It’s improper!”
His hand came down hard on her cheek, clattering her teeth. “Do not speak to me, wh—”
“Americans coming!”
CHAPTER 12
Kohistani School, Mazar-e-Sharif
29 May—1405 Hours
D’you see that?”
Two Afghan males darted out of sight as Raptor’s MRAP rolled through the gated entry. “Titanis, Hawk, Harrier, walk the perimeter. See if you can figure out who they were and where they went—and eyes out. There could be more than those two hiding.” Dean shoved open the armored door. “Falcon and Eagle on me.”
Helmet on, Dean climbed down and adjusted his M4A1 slung around his chest. “Nice and easy,” he muttered into his mic, taking in any place insurgents could hide. Once he’d noted the layout and possible hot spots, he turned to the man in gray. “Director Kohistani?” He briefly met gazes with Homewood.
The man gave a bow with his capped head then smiled—fake—at them. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Pleasure. Right. “Captain Watters, U.S. military. We are doing a routine patrol and thought we’d follow up on your school after the explosion. We’ll take a quick look around. Be out of your hair soon.”
“You have no right—”
“Innocent lives were taken and others injured, including an American. It’s our responsibility to ensure safety.” Dean came around the civvie vehicle that had delivered Zarrick here. His gaze fell on her now, and he stopped. Something squirreled through his chest as he noted the red, swelling spot on her cheek that glistened.
She reached for her bright hijab that had slid back, leaving long, dark strands of hair in full view. He noticed her beauty, but more than that—the red marks on her wrist. She’d been manhandled.
She looked down, then her gaze flicked to the other woman—her cousin, if he remembered right—who adjusted her silk scarf, not meeting his eyes. Blood spotted the front of her hijab and orange kaftan.
Zarrick wouldn’t look at him now, and that bothered him. She wasn’t a hider. Heat poured across his shoulders. “You okay?” he finally asked.
With a furtive nod, she moved to her cousin’s side. “Just a rough … afternoon. Thank you for your kind concern.” Her wide brown gaze hit Kohistani’s back and her eyebrows raised with meaning.
Right. Dean shifted to the director. “Have you found the little girl yet? My team and I are here to help.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. They say it is not safe yet to dig.” He motioned to a crane and large equipment.
“I appreciate that, but I have orders to look around since Americans were involved. We’re looking for some men, possibly Taliban, who assaulted my team in a village a few klicks north of the city. They escaped before we could intercept.” Dean watched the director’s face to see if any glint of recognition flickered through his eyes. “We thought they might have been the ones who hit the school, too.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
What Dean didn’t like was the implication behind this question. Nobody was shot or killed, so he could hear the ill-placed logic that there was nothing to worry about because nobody got hurt. A common stance among locals who didn’t want to face the wrath of Taliban leaders. Which was part of the reason Dean wasn’t climbing down someone’s throat for the marks on Zarrick. His gaze collided with hers. His promise to make sure she didn’t get hurt again churned in his mind.
“Check it out,” he said, finally releasing the men hovering nearby.
“I do not—”
Dean shot a fierce look at the director.
The man cowered. “Forgive me, I just … I am not sure your presence here is such a good idea.”
“Don’t blame us for this,” Dean said, his chest rising and falling faster with each breath. “You were bombed before we showed up, remember?” He squinted at Zarrick again. Then pointed at her. “Besides, if that’s how you protect the innocents under your charge …” He balled his fists, realizing how much he wanted to punch someone.
“Captain, please.” Zarrick eased forward. “Without the director, this school would not exist.”
“No,” Director Kohistani said, skirting a gaze to Dean then back to Zarrick. “He’s right. I should’ve stopped them from harming you.” Fierce and defiant, he glared at Dean. “But I did not have anything to do with the horrible things. And that you accuse me—”
“Whoa, chief,” Falcon said, his voice slick and smooth as he stepped closer. “Nobody’s blaming you.”
Kohistani turned, challenging. “Then why are you here?”
Dean stepped forward. Not in a threatening way. Just to let him know they weren’t backing down. “It’s our job. And no matter whose side you’re on, it’s wrong to beat women and bomb schools. I’m sure we all want to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
The man wilted. “Of course, of course. You are right.” He touched a hand to his chest. “Forgive me. I am so … there is so much stress. The school”—he waved to Zarrick and her cousin—“the teachers. So much hurt and fear. I am tired from it all.”
Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You and me both.” He skirted around the slick-talking guy, careful not to put his back to him—that would be rude. An insult. And the last thing they needed was more bad PR. Standing almost perpendicular to Zarrick, he craned his neck and eyed her. Over his shoulder, he tossed, “Harrier—med kit.”
Z
arrick’s hand went to her cheek.
“Director.” Falcon motioned the guy toward the vehicle. “Ca’I have a word, sir?”
Now able to face her full on, Dean didn’t like the way her cheek was still dribbling blood—not a lot. But maybe deeper than he’d first realized. He reached toward it. Surprise knifed his bravado when her lips parted and her shoulders drew up at his touch. “Easy.” He hesitated for a fraction, thankful the Oakleys hid his gaze as he probed those large brown eyes that slowly came up. Then back down.
“Stitches?” At their side, Harrier dropped his med pack and dug into it.
Dean stepped back. “Maybe.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Zarrick said.
Again, he secretly probed her eyes. Was she embarrassed, or was this to defuse tension that would register on a Richter scale? Dean turned to the other woman tended by Harrier, who’d just tossed bloody gauze into a contamination bag. “How’s she?”
“I’m fine,” the woman hissed. Then stabbed a finger at Dean. “You leave her alone, hear me?” Her ultra-green eyes surfed the courtyard then locked on him again. “They find out, and they will kill her!”
Dean gave a quick shake of his head from the whiplash-style tongue lashing she’d just issued. “Excuse me?” But even as he said it, General Zarrick’s warning blazed across his mind. The cousin knew? She knew and he didn’t? Dean closed in on her. “If they find out what?”
Her head snapped straight and she avoided his gaze.
“Find out what?” How on earth …? If it was so dangerous to her existence, why wouldn’t anyone give him a clue? He invaded her personal space. “Tell me. If you value her life—”
“The way she looks at you. The way you look at her.”
Seriously? That … she was worried about that? “Lady, don’t sweat it. That’s not a problem. Not for me.”
But she was right. The only way Zahrah Zarrick’s life could get worse was if the American—strike one—Christian—strike two—woman—strike three—was involved with an American—strike four—soldier—strike twenty.
In his way of counting, that equaled dead. Capital D.
Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province
There was not enough Dr Pepper in the universe to heal the wound that gaped in Lance Burnett’s chest today.
“Get your nose back where it belongs, Burnett.”
“I’m just asking questions. Mighty suspicious that my team finds a secure computer—”
“Your team?” General Ramsey shouted. “You’re military intelligence, DIA. Operatives. Spooks. What the heck are you doing with an exclusive SF team?”
“Diverting the conversation. Nice try.”
“I’m warning you, Burnett.”
“Threats now?” He chuckled. “I must’ve hit a nerve.”
“I don’t care who you think you are. You get your nose out of this, and stay out.”
“We just want the authorization to explore options.”
“You have no options, Burnett! And if you don’t get that through your thick head, you’ll find yourself picking those stars out of the trash!”
Lance tossed the phone on his desk and pushed back in his squeaky leather chair with a heavy expel of breath. Roughing both hands over his face, he fought off the drowning and suffocation.
“He said no?”
With another heavy sigh, he glared at Lieutenant Brie Hastings.
“That along with a half-dozen expletives attached.”
“But, sir—”
“There isn’t a butt big enough, Hastings.” He shoved out his chair and stalked to the minifridge. He grabbed a burgundy can and popped the top, letting the tssss settle his nerves. Guzzling, he reminded himself that he’d been sure many times before that there was no other scenario. That the situation was hopeless.
“Raptor needs to ferret the source of that SCIF. All facilities need to be on alert.”
“Good. Because if whoever is behind this overruns a facility and gains more, then the ability to compromise the network goes up at least tenfold, perhaps one hundred fold. That cannot happen.”
“Agreed. CID is working on it.” Head tilted, she expressed her disapproval with a seething look. “Our men are there. They know what to look for.”
“And our troops are pulling out soon. We’re powering down. Can’t afford any incidents.”
“You mean like ANA soldiers turning against the very heroes who trained them? You mean like—”
“Stand down, Lieutenant.”
She recoiled as if he’d struck her.
“I’m with you.” Holding the can, he pointed two fingers at her. “Hear me, okay? But we have a fine line to walk.”
“Sir, with all due respect, that fine line may just be a walk down a plank.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
She gave a half smile-grunt. “Sir …”
Tenacious had a new name: Brie Hastings. But why? She’d gone all guppy over their operatives before, but she’d never shown interest in any of the Raptor guys since Cardinal flew the coop. No, this wasn’t her distraction with one of his men. “Do you know something?”
Hesitation answered for her.
He waited. But nothing came. He chuckled. “I couldn’t shut you up two minutes ago. Now I give you the floor and you go dark.”
Trapped in her hesitation, Brie sat there, eyes darting back and forth over the carpet. Thinking. Considering. “I came upon something using … less-than-conventional methods.”
“Most of what we start with happens that way.”
She gave an acknowledging nod. “Yes, sir. But this could cost me my bars.”
Lance drew up. Tensed. “Go on.”
She slid a photo onto his desk. “In my … trolling, I found this.”
The eight-and-a-half-by-eleven photo was divided into four sections, each holding a different image. “Same building?” he asked, sliding on his reading glasses.
“Yes, sir.”
The upper-right image provided an aerial image of the building, intact. Undamaged. The other shots were from various angles, capturing varying degrees of damage. Black marks scorched several doors. The bottom right revealed a sizeable hole in one section of the roof. “Where is this?”
“It’s one of our secure data facilities.”
Without lifting his head, Lance peered up at her over the rim of his readers.
“It was attacked last night. The only reason I know about it is because of an inordinate amount of chatter in and around the facility. We have a couple of officers there, and it snagged my attention.”
“Attacked? By whom?”
“Insurgents, as far as I can decipher. They overran the facility. Reports have six dead. No official report of this.”
“You gotta be—”
Hastings handed him another file. “Just before I came in, SATINT picked up a caravan traveling far north of the villages.” Brie nodded to his monitor. “I sent the image.”
He opened the file. Took a cursory glance. “Bedouins.”
“No, sir.” She came around his desk. “I believe it’s the same group that hit Raptor.” She pressed her finger to a grainy image of a large white truck then laid out another image over it. “Bullet holes in the side.”
Lance laughed. Loud. Hard. “Get out of my face if that’s all you have. Half the vehicles in that country are like that.”
“Sir.” Brie sounded ticked now. “Think about it. If I’m right, if that’s who hit Raptor, the same ones who had the stolen computer … what if they went back for more?”
“Then who are the men at the school?” Lance asked.
“Maybe opposing forces. Maybe forces competing for the same prize—breaching our systems.”
“You’re reaching, Lieutenant,” Lance warned, but his mind churned the very scenarios she mentioned. What a nightmare that’d be!
“You’re considering that I might be right, so let’s talk it through.” Dag-blame it if she did
n’t know him well enough to seize on his internal hesitation. Brie pointed to the monitor again. “That’s a lot of trucks heading north. I know you don’t need a geography lesson to know what that could mean.”
“Besides one brutal trip over a rugged terrain?”
“What if they have our secure computers—?”
Lance dragged the first quad-photo sheet closer. “Ramsey would’ve told me.” Even as he muttered the words, he knew they weren’t true.
“Right, because he’s been so open and honest already.”
Lance felt his blood pressure pop like a sonic boom. He ground his molars.
“Sir, what if they hit that location and Ramsey is covering his six? The bad guys get over that mountain with our computers, and … what happens to our secure network?” She looked stricken. “The name of every operative, soldier, troop movement, strategy, code names …”
“Okay, okay!” Lance waved her away from his desk. “Get out!”
She was right. He knew it. She knew it. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t cause one massive headache if he went with their gut instinct on this. Agitation ticked its impatient fingers along his spine, like a big hairy spider. If he made this call, he could end up busted down to private. If he didn’t …
Lance grabbed the phone. Coded in. “Gear up. Raptor’s going in.”
TODD & AMY
She had a way about her, one that made a guy lose his good mind. And maybe that’s what put him here now, dressed in a monkey suit. Death by bow tie. Great. Try explainin’ that to the guys. Todd jabbed his arms through the tux jacket and headed out of the bedroom, avoiding the mirror. One thing to attend a formal event, another to have to see it for himself.
Hustling down the stairs, he fought with the gold links at the cuffs. Darn things—who needed something this fancy on sleeves? Probably just end up dipping it into his food. His foot hit the bottom step and movement from the corner of his eyes stopped him. Heart in his throat, he grinned. The light from the Tiffany lamp stroked her brown hair and made her complexion look finer than any China she had in that cabinet that cost as much as his truck had. Amy stood in a little black number. Emphasis on little. Emphasis on, “Sexy Mama.”