Raptor 6

by Ronie Kendig

  She laughed and shook her head. “You’ve always known how to charm a girl.”

  Todd swooped up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Not just any girl.” He kissed her bare neck, inhaling that flowery perfume she liked so much. “My girl.” As he kissed and pulled her closer, he felt her boniness, felt how the cancer had already stolen so much of the woman he’d married. Fragile came to mind.

  She adjusted his bow tie, her eyes misty like an early spring dawn. “You wouldn’t even wear a tux for our wedding.”

  “Yeah, well … I was more worried about what your dad would do if he found out.” Todd shrugged. “ ’Sides, I wanna do this right.” He cleared his throat. “Just don’t tell the guys.”

  Hand around the back of his neck, she drew him down for a kiss. Todd dove in, savoring the taste of his wife, knowing their kisses were numbered. Her days were numbered.

  Amy gave him a coy smile. “I suppose we should go before you chicken out.”

  “Or you could distract me with more of those kisses.”

  “Nice try, cowboy.”

  He glanced down at the black tux. “No cowboy here. This fella’s all city slicker.” He let her take his hand and pull him out of the house to the dualie. “My lady …” Todd opened the door and helped her up into the cab.

  Tugging the seat belt across her, she smiled down at him. And he saw it—saw in her eyes the grief that came with the diagnosis. The grief that came in knowing she wouldn’t be with him much longer. He wanted to freeze the moment. Capture it. Memorize it—her. Amy.

  Throat raw, Todd hopped behind the steering wheel and cranked the engine. He shifted into DRIVE and eased the truck away from the house.

  Cool and delicate, her fingers rested on his thigh as they made their way into town. “You don’t like the opera.” She leaned against the headrest. “In fact, I do believe my hunky cowboy called it the place where they strangle cats.”

  Todd lifted her hand and kissed it. “Maybe I can put my operator skills to use and save some of those tortured felines. Sure could use them in the barn.”

  She playfully nudged his shoulder. Laughing, she rolled her gaze out the window. Only the sound of the engine and road noise filled the gaping silence.

  “Thank you,” she said in a whisper. “I’m sorry—”

  “No. Don’t.” He ripped the truck to the side of the road then angled toward her and held her face. “No regrets. Not here. Not now. Not ever. We’re all”—his throat constricted, making it hard to talk and breathe—“we’re all dying. God just gave us a cheat sheet with your timing.” Grief swam to the surface. “So, we do this. No apologies. No regrets. We live these next few weeks to the fullest. No holds barred.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Hindu Kush, Afghanistan

  Ddrake got a hit!”

  Heart in his throat, Dean held up a fist. He eyed the spot where the black-and-tan German shepherd sat then the path beyond. The choke point before going down into the walled-off village. Son-of-a-guns had booby-trapped the only path in. Those who knew about the IED would sidestep the spot where a few large rocks marked the location. A pattern he and his team wouldn’t have recognized.

  Which could’ve translated into a few missing body parts or team members.

  Dean glanced back at the team, spaced evenly out across the tangled mountain path toward the designated location. The others took a knee, waiting for the outcome. His gaze swung back to Titanis, who stood with the military working dog, Ddrake, and his handler, Sergeant Grant Knight, who had been assigned to Raptor for this mission.

  Ddrake’s tactical explosive device detection training already proved invaluable. After Dean’s experiences with the MWDs on previous missions, he tried to request an MWD team as often as he could. Which wasn’t often enough. But Burnett seemed willing to give him whatever he needed to get the job done.

  “Eyes out!” Dean went down on a knee and scanned the sloping hillside for insurgents with a trigger. Common tactic—lure the Americans to an IED then while they inspect it …

  Dean’s gaze instinctively flicked to Titanis.

  Designated engineering—had to make the Aussie useful—Titanis knelt beside the location. Sergeant Knight petted the dog and affirmed him for doing his job then lured the TEDD away with the promise of Kong time.

  Titanis shifted his weapon to his back and bent his large form toward the earth.

  Face to face with death.

  Dean shook off the thought and returned to watching their surroundings, protecting Titanis and themselves as the minutes fell off the clock like thousand-pound weights.

  “Found it,” Titanis said.

  “Need to give that dog some Scooby snacks when we get back,” Falcon said, cheek to his weapon as he stared down the sights monitoring.

  “Steak. That dog earned a steak for saving my parts,” Hawk muttered.

  Less than three klicks from the last location the caravan had been spotted. Even from this elevation, they hadn’t seen anything resembling that down on the road, hundreds of feet below. They’d chosen to hoof it along a footpath, hopefully get a line of sight. Be able to see what was happening without having to engage. Recon, in and out if necessary, but nothing more. Just report back. Tell them why these men were all secrecy and rushing.

  “Clear!” Titanis held up a soda can, the name written in Arabic script. “Haven’t you mates heard?” The guy grinned through his beard. “Fizzy can kill you.”

  “Fizzy?” Hawk chuckled. “That like your head?”

  Collective snickers flickered through the narrow footpath.

  “Let’s move,” Dean said. “Not give them a chance to pick us off.”

  TEDD Ddrake and Knight took point, canvassing the path. Quiet rose with the clear and present threat of danger. Dean kept his weapon ready, eyeing the slopes above them, the rocks below, the path …

  “Ddrake, heel!”

  Dean hesitated.

  Knight looked back. “Stairs.”

  “What?” Dean asked, incredulous. He eased up to the guy and peered around the sheer wall that formed a barrier. He tensed—not only was the earth gouged into a crude stair-path down the sloping hill into the mountain, but there was also nothing to hide behind anymore. Wide open.

  Waving the dog team back, he lifted his binoculars, suddenly wishing Eagle hadn’t already hopped on that flight back to the States. Dean sure could use him here, his keen eye. His keen sniping. While he wanted his man back on the team, Dean feared the way that could happen—with Amy dead.

  “Are they still there?” Falcon asked as he squatted beside him.

  Dean scanned the twenty-plus crumbling structures that had slums beat hands down. All connected. All plastered. Fabric covering entrances and lone windows. And circled around the largest building … “Ayup.” He swept the lens over each vehicle peppering the small village. “Seven, maybe eight.” Behind him, he heard frantic lapping and knew Knight was refreshing Ddrake.

  “Okay, let’s dig in,” Dean said to the team. “Ferret out their secrets.”

  The team settled into position, watching, waiting. For dark. For insertion. A few hours of recon should net info on how many had holed up down there. Raptor would be the eyes in the sky, so to speak, and know which structure had their objective. They’d go in, check it out, tag a truck or two, get their evidence, and get out. Burnett made it absolutely clear they could not be compromised. Nobody could know they were there.

  Titanis slid down, his back against the small canyon’s wall, weapon ready as he took up patrol.

  Appreciating the way the guy operated without yielding to the general resistance of the team to accept him as one of their own, Dean nodded to the burly soldier. “Did good back there with the IED.”

  Titanis nodded.

  “That there was a compliment, my friend,” Hawk said as he set up his position. “Not many cross the captain’s lips. I’d take pride in that, if I were you.”

  Straider’s intense gaze hit Hawk.
<
br />   Dean watched. Amused with the men who sat on two ends of the spectrum. Hawk with his smart mouth, straight-forward shooting. And Titanis, who hadn’t spoken much but his presence said plenty. Small on talk, big on action.

  The way it should be.

  Mazar-e Sharif

  “Hideous!”

  Zahrah shook her head as she stood in the makeshift classroom, eying the benches. Her cousin was more worried about her nose, now permanently bent. Makeup had done little to hide the yellowing of the skin around her eyes. For Zahrah, the students, the classroom, resuming the lessons took a higher precedence.

  “You can roll your eyes,” Fekiria said, “but your cut has almost healed. Mine will forever be disfigured!”

  “Don’t be absurd. You are still one of the most beautiful women in this country. Your new look only adds to the intrigue.” She eyed the clock again. Almost half past nine. They were supposed to start at nine. But the children hadn’t shown. Which she found odd since most of the families were used to the constant threats. One should not stop living because wicked men worked their evil.

  “Intrigue? Who wants intrigue? There is enough of that here,” Fekiria said as she walked around the cramped room. The room she had used before had structural damage.

  “Good news,” Director Kohistani said as he fluttered into the room. “We are in talks with the university to have access to three of their classrooms.”

  Zahrah moved away from the wall. A half-dozen questions peppered her mind at once. “Would the children still go? It can be as dangerous—”

  “We have little choice. We must move.”

  “Why? The children we serve are here,” Fekiria said. “Not near the university. They won’t go there. Many feel it’s too Westernized.”

  “We must!” the director barked, silencing further objections.

  Zahrah recoiled at the flood of his anger. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I … only …” Her thoughts tangled amid his swift shift.

  Like a tidal wave that rose, fierce and threatening, he crashed and receded. “So.” His smile swept in and out just as fast. “I will keep you posted.”

  “Are the children coming?” Zahrah braved the question.

  “No.” That flickering smile again. “I turned them away.” Sweat beaded his brow.

  “You what?” Fekiria’s eyes blazed. “You have no right—”

  “He has every right,” another voice boomed.

  Instinct shoved Zahrah backward. Her heart raced as the man who’d struck them loomed in the shadowed hall. Hand to her hijab, she verified she’d covered her head. The tunic hung long and plain. Nothing too flowery to draw attention. She did not want any from him. Ever again.

  Perhaps Captain Watters would come.

  Don’t be a goose. He wouldn’t show up every time there was trouble. Though he’d come twice now, that was coincidence.

  “There is no school today,” Director Kohistani said, shifting on his feet. “Go home to your family. I will call when we have worked things out.”

  Outrage coursed through Zahrah, but now was not the time to voice her objections. They would not be heard. Not by the director, especially not as long as the other man sat on Kohistani’s shoulder, whispering, controlling his strings like a puppet master.

  That—that—was what Zahrah hated about Taliban. Not so much their violence, though it was egregious, but their smothering of people’s minds, hearts, and souls. They lived in fear, captive by thought alone at what could happen. Captive in actions, afraid they’d do the wrong thing. Anger the wrong person.

  And though she had railed against that type of life, the one her mother had lived, Zahrah experienced a tingling when she realized that bondage had infiltrated her own existence. Hands trembling, not out of fear but out of anger, she turned and gathered her things. She would find a way to talk to Director Kohistani outside this facility, away from the puppet master.

  Books clutched to her chest, she turned.

  A wall of flesh towered over her.

  Zahrah drew in a breath, gaze locked on the man’s chest. She blinked and redirected her attention to his feet. Heat blasted through her body. “Excuse me,” she muttered in Pashto, noting by the dusty shoes that more had joined them. Her pulse whooshed in her ears.

  “You are very friendly with the Americans,” the big one intoned.

  The accusation stung. Perhaps he did not know she was American by birth. Perhaps it’d be best not to educate him on that detail. “It is said, ‘There is less goodness in the one who is not friendly or likeable.’” The words were bold.

  “Then you consider yourself good?”

  “I am only a servant,” she muttered then tried to move around him.

  He inched to the side, blocking her path. Touched her face.

  Zahrah sucked in a breath and jerked away. “Sir, it is not right that you touch me.”

  “Kamran, do not defile her,” the director said. “Her kaka is a generous donor to the school.”

  A crooked smile snaked into the man’s mouth.

  Heart thundering, Zahrah barreled around him, chased by a wretched fear and his taunting laugh.

  “Remember, Zahrah Zarrick, I am watching you. Would be a shame to rid the world of your pretty face.”

  Zahrah hooked her arm through Fekiria’s, and together they hurried from the building. “What does he want?” she hissed.

  “If you do not know, we are in more trouble than I thought.” Fekiria’s breathless laugh hinted at her nerves.

  Her cousin’s bad attempt at humor only tightened her agitation. “Why is he still here? What are they doing?”

  “Did your American boyfriend find anything when he was here?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, and how would I know what they found?” Zahrah felt enmeshed in warmth even as the face of Captain Watters filled her mind. They made their way around the gate, which had been strung together with wire and cord after the explosion, and headed back to the house. “I would suspect they didn’t find anything, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  “Or better, he would be here.”

  Zahrah stopped a few blocks away and scowled at her cousin. “I do not understand you. One minute you hate them, you’re yelling—”

  “No, not here.” Fekiria took her arm, her gaze locked on something behind Zahrah. “Wait.” They hustled a few feet before Fekiria added, “They’re following us.”

  Arms linked, they walked with heads tucked and voices low. “Why? What have we done?”

  “It’s your American soldiers.”

  “They’re not mine.”

  “But they show up wherever you are.”

  “Not true. They showed up at the explosion because the fire drew them. That had nothing to do with me,” Zahrah said.

  “What of the day Kamran hit us? Will you tell me that had nothing to do with you?”

  Zahrah swallowed.

  Fekiria started to turn then glanced back. “Later. In the house.”

  “I have a phone number….”

  Her cousin’s bright eyes flashed.

  “For if I remembered anything else. I could call….”

  “No. He is too far anyway. And it would mean trouble if he came to your rescue again. Let me call Adeeb.” She fished her phone out of her bag. Dialed. “Adeeb, men are following us … Yes, almost.”

  They turned onto the narrow road and spotted their bright, coral-colored home. Such a stark contrast in the city to the drabby outlying villages. The wide gate swung out and Adeeb stepped into the open. Zahrah quickened her pace. Though he didn’t display a weapon, the bulk beneath his vest made it obvious he was armed.

  A surge of giddy relief rushed through Zahrah as he welcomed them as if nothing were wrong then ushered them into the courtyard. “Go!” He urged them to the safety of the house.

  They darted up the stairs and into their room. Zahrah dropped against the bed, panting hard, aching to shed the memory of that disgusting man towering over her, touching
her—

  “You’re holding that like it’s sacred.”

  Zahrah blinked at her cousin leaning against the door. “What?”

  “Your phone.” A knowing smile sifted the fear from Fekiria’s expression.

  Zahrah glanced at the silver device clutched to her chest with both hands. Like a lifeline. “I … I …” When had she taken it out of her bag?

  “You must give up the idea of him, cousin.”

  Zahrah tossed her phone on the bed, right along with her cousin’s advice. “Why?”

  “Because he is American! And a soldier. Fighting our people.”

  “He isn’t fighting our people—he’s fighting terrorists. And I am also American like him. Or have you forgotten?”

  “You certainly should, especially with the attention of those men on you. They would as soon cut your throat if they thought you’d been corrupted.”

  “You are double minded!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, one minute you are chiding me about Captain Watters and the next you’re taunting me about him. I cannot make sense of what you’re doing, why you do this.”

  Fekiria bristled. “I only want—”

  “I know what you want.” Zahrah recognized her anger and frustration. She scaled it back. “You want your country back.”

  Fekiria slumped on the thin mattress. She toyed with her gold necklace. “Is it too much to ask?”

  “It’s understandable.” She joined her cousin. “But there is a restlessness about you that I do not understand. You love it here, yet you rail against it.” She brushed a black strand away from Fekiria’s brow.

  “The same could be said of you.”

  “I …” Zahrah checked herself before she went on. “I do not think I rail against it.”

  “You came here to help girls learn, but did you not also come to change it?”

  “No—”

  “Do you not wish me to become a Christian?”

  Zahrah felt the wind knocked out of her with the direct question.

  “I … yes, I would like that—”

  “Then you do rail against it.”

  “No, not rail. I love Afghanistan’s people, her heart. A cloud of evil shrouds the land, strangling freedom, and I do not like that.”