Raptor 6

by Ronie Kendig

  CHAPTER 17

  Kohistani School, Mazar-e-Sharif

  04 June—0900 Hours

  Thud. Thud.

  As Raptor team climbed out of the armored transport, each door closure pounded against Dean’s conscience and heart. This hadn’t been their doing—the collapsed building, the missing girl, the death tolls. But he couldn’t shake the sense of guilt that clung to him like the heat and dirt. If I’d just been here …

  That wasn’t a logical thought, but it plagued him all the same as Dean stood at the front of the MRAP in a pair of tactical pants and his combat shirt. No vest. No weapon. Surveying the scene, he felt the presence of his team. They’d agreed to do this, agreed to help however they could. It was what Raptor did. Winning hearts of the locals, one person at a time. But here, winning hearts wasn’t the goal. It was an end product of their mission to show the people here that they cared.

  The mud bricks that towered two levels up surrounded a cloud-shaped hole. Debris puddled at the bottom of the gaping structure that leaned heavily to the right. A dying sentry.

  Strapping on his gloves and jamming the fingers down for a snug fit, Titanis leaned toward him but eyed the same structure. “We need to stabilize that before we start.”

  “Looks like they attempted stabilization.” Falcon nodded to a piece of timber propped diagonally from the ground to the arching wall.

  “Won’t hold. I’ll get on it.” Titanis waved two soldiers from the engineering corps over with him.

  Dean took in the massive rubble pile that filled the gap between the two buildings that once served as a breezeway. That’s the same area Zahrah had stumbled out of. The same one he’d found Rashid in.

  A group of men withdrew from their digging and stood, eyeing them warily.

  “Eyes sharp,” Dean said, waiting for one to approach him.

  Director Kohistani emerged from a crowd of men working the large pile of rubble. Hands scratched and bleeding, he lumbered toward them, the weight of the job pushing down his shoulders. “Assalaam alaikum.”

  With a slight, respectful nod and hands clasped in front of him, Dean replied, “Wa ‘alaikum assalaam.”

  “How are you and your men doing?” Kohistani asked, his smile held in place only by societal rules.

  “Well, thank you.” Dean glanced at the team gathered. “We heard from Miss Zarrick that you still have people missing. We’re here to help in whatever way we can.”

  The director gave a somber nod. “Your offer is appreciated.”

  Shouts rose from the men at the site. Kohistani turned and watched. Thirty seconds later, the men passed a body from the rubble to a sheet spread on the ground. “Wafa …” The director watched, his face ashen, his lips moving slowly.

  “You knew him?”

  Kohistani flinched, as if he’d been hit. Sorrow kneaded his thick, bushy brows. “I knew them all, Captain.” Lines scratched into his aged face as he nodded. “This was my school—I met them all, their families, their friends. Wafa was twelve. Anxious to be twenty.” A smile wobbled on his thick beard.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He touched his forehead. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun.”

  Dean hesitated, unsure what the man said. If Zahrah had been here, she would’ve translated for him. But maybe it was better that she wasn’t—he didn’t want her seeing bodies of children being pulled from the rubble.

  “Forgive me—it means ‘To Allah we belong and to Him we return.’ ” He drew in a ragged breath. “It just seems more are returning than I could’ve imagined.”

  “Would you like to take a break?” Dean asked. “My men and I are ready to help.”

  Kohistani, his head partially bald and his face worn with grief, gave a half nod. “No.” He touched Dean’s upper arm. “You are here and have revived my will. If you, who have no relation here, can dig, so must I.”

  Tugging his gloves on and tightening them, Dean followed the older man to the heap. They were introduced to the others, who were coated in sweat and dust, hands bloodied from the digging. A few moved into the shade as Raptor joined the work.

  Dean made his way to the epicenter and started passing off debris to Hawk, who passed it to Falcon and so on until they had formed a human chain. The labor proved mindless as they worked through the mound that must’ve been five feet high. Locals had made a good dent in the removal, but this would take hours. Dean wouldn’t let his mind go to where it wanted—to the possibility of where Ara might be found. If she’d been with Zahrah …

  A flicker of movement to the far side snagged his attention. Dean glanced up as he lifted a rod with clumps of mud brick dangling from it. He handed it to Hawk, hesitating as his mind caught up with his vision. Zahrah. She stood with a satchel, one hand reaching in as she delivered bread and water to the men slumped in the shadows.

  “Need me to do the heavy work?” Hawk teased.

  Dean glanced at the coms specialist and refocused on the job. Where had she come from? Please don’t let me find Ara while Zahrah’s here.

  “Hey, Double Z’s looking your way, Cap’.” Hawk snickered. “Maybe I should take my shirt off. Show her what a real man looks like.”

  “Shut up,” Falcon growled. “This is a cemetery. Be respectful.”

  Even Dean felt chided. He’d taken a bit of pleasure in seeing Zahrah with her teal hijab and gray tunic. It’d felt like the sun had broken through a storm cloud called death. Besides, everyone knew it was Hawk’s way when times got tense to crack a joke. Lighten things up. And Dean had to admit—he liked that the guys had given her a nickname. Double Z. Nice.

  “Meant no disrespect,” Hawk muttered as Dean removed a piece of vinyl that had once probably been part of the upper floor.

  “Idiot. Laughing when we’re digging out bodies.” Falcon’s tone bordered on dark. Angry.

  Dean shot the team sergeant a glance. Where had the venom come from? One thing to be respectful, another to end up disgusted by an innocent mistake. And Dean couldn’t help but track Zahrah’s movements around the area as she showed her compassion and care for the people.

  As she inched her way closer to them, Dean wanted to tell her to go home. She didn’t need to see what they’d find. Not bodies. Not of children she’d taught and cared about.

  Nah. You’re just worried about seeing that wound in her eyes. Don’t want the guilt. He’d had enough of that when he’d served at Ellen’s funeral. Stood at his own parents’ gravesite, the dirt still mounded and wet beneath the pelting May rain.

  Stretching his neck did little to shake off the memories.

  “Water, Captain Watters?”

  Dean started. Looked to the side where Zahrah held a sweating bottle. He glanced at his watch, surprised to find they’d been working more than an hour. Not taking it would be rude. Taking it would keep her close to the rubble. “Thanks.” He accepted it and downed it in three huge gulps.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Zahrah said as she handed bottles to the team, who downed them and went back to work.

  “I could say the same.”

  Her face glowed beneath the sun’s bright touch. A strand of dark brown hair peeked from beneath her hijab, accenting her amber eyes. Smiling eyes. Always smiling. She bobbed her head a bit and bunched her shoulders. “I am here to serve.”

  But there was more to her being here right now, wasn’t there? A shimmer of trouble skittered through her olive complexion. She chewed the inside of her lip as she traced the worn-out men. Her gaze dropped several times. Guilt.

  Yeah. That made sense. She’d rushed the children back to the school right as the explosion happened. “It’s not your fault.”

  Her chin dimpled in and out with a wave of grief.

  “You know that, right?” Dean shifted to the side and stood before her.

  “She would’ve been home had they not stayed behind, had they not walked home with Fekiria and me.” A tear slipped down her cheek. With a knuckle, she brushed it aside.

 
; “Hey. Crap happens. Things we can’t control. What happened here was out of your control. You did your best to protect those kids. Got it?”

  She breathed a smile and nodded. “Just … just find her.” She looked at him and Dean felt the world tilt. “Please.”

  He felt the strings of propriety tying his hands and stopping him from giving her a reassuring touch. “We’ll find her.” With that, he returned to the laborious task. Zahrah faded out of view but never far from his thoughts. He dug his fingers around a brick, the cracked and hard material scratching at his fingertips. The way she’d asked him to find the girl, the way she looked at him …

  He passed the brick to Hawk.

  Shouts broke out. Dean paused and looked up.

  Hands held up at chest height, Titanis backed up, apologizing. Dean frowned as the Aussie walked around the pile till he stood beside Dean.

  “What happened?” Dean muttered, lifting more rebar and chicken wire.

  “There’s an area they won’t let anyone enter.”

  “Unstable?”

  “Only politically.”

  Dean frowned as he handed off another chunk of mud and looked at the big guy, waiting for an explanation.

  “Same area Zahrah said the men had been holed up in.”

  Dean reached for another brick. “Think something’s there?” His fingers grazed something. Something not hard. He froze, eyes sorting the debris. A dash of blue. A rock, rebar—

  Time powered down to an excruciating speed. One where his pulse thumped against his conscience. One where he saw the tiny gray fingers, slightly curled and bloodied. In the next heartbeat, his pulse spasmed. A tiny boom of his heart shot adrenaline through his body.

  He swiped away the dirt from the palm. The blue—it was beads on a bracelet. A little girl. Ara. He lowered his head and clenched his eyes.

  “He’s got something!” Hawk shouted.

  Dean shifted aside, assessing, figuring out which way her body lay. And in what felt like three heartbeats, he uncovered her. Hurrying so he could save her. Illogical, he knew. But maybe … God, You do miracles, right?

  He yanked off the bricks. Threw them aside. Beside him, the men did the same.

  Dean went to all fours, cement and mud digging into his knees and palms. Empty eyes stared back at him. Blood covered the left side of her head. Slumped with his head down and between his shoulders, he tried to hold it together. With a hitch of breath, he straightened. Cupped his hands beneath her broken, cold body. Lifted her from the rubble. Stared at the innocent face, hair matted with blood and dirt. He curled his arms, tugging her closer to his chest. Wanting desperately to protect her. From what, he didn’t know. She didn’t deserve this.

  Grief-riddled shouts and moans drenched the afternoon. A man rushed toward him. Dean stepped off the mound and stood before the man, who beat his chest. Cried out and took Ara from his arms.

  And suddenly, Dean felt empty. So very empty.

  Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif

  04 June—1310 Hours

  Right cross. Thump! Uppercut. Thump. He threw another right. It landed squarely, the impact carrying through his arm and shoulder. The telltale ache in his back haunted him, even after ten years. He toed the mat, bouncing and moving. Energy trained on the black bag. On shedding the frustration. The confusion.

  The truth was staring him in face.

  Had to be. “If you weren’t distracted by her pretty face, you’d know why I’m calling.”

  Pretty face.

  Dean threw a hard right. Connected. The impact rippled through his muscles. Felt good. Burned.

  The memory of her flowery scent and soft lips spiraled up and spiked his adrenaline. He aimed with a left cross.

  “Saw the boy went home yesterday.”

  Dean didn’t break line of sight on the punching bag as Sal came up beside him, removing his wraps.

  “That school teacher sure takes good care of those kids. Saw how it ate her up over that little girl.”

  An uppercut. He knew what was happening. Knew where Falcon was headed.

  “Have a nice chat with her?”

  Dean leaned back and drove his foot into the bag. Came up with a hard right. “D’you run the IDs?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  After toweling off his face, Dean moved to the speed bag.

  “Any closer to your mystery puzzle?”

  With a quick shake of his head, he tapped the bag. Right . . left … right.

  “Oy, word is that the schoolteacher is one of your top general’s daughter.” Titanis morphed from the shadows, gym bag in hand. “I’d be chuffed with that news.”

  “Not if her daddy was breathing down your neck like he is with the captain here,” Falcon said.

  Right … left … right, left, right, left.

  “That right? She’s a missionary, right?”

  Rightleftrightleftrightleftleft.

  “A bit crazy, mate. Coming into a war-torn country for religious reasons.”

  Rightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleft.

  “That won’t egg him on. See the wings on his back?” Falcon smirked—he could hear it in the guy’s voice. “He’s here for religious reasons, too.”

  “The wings are raptor wings, I thought,” Titanis said.

  “For us they are, but for Dean, the wings are also angel wings. Or so he says. That’s why he’s here.”

  “Wrong.” Dean stopped the bag. Held on, his breath heaving, his mind trampling the wrong assumption about the wing and sword tattoo covering his back, covering his scars. “I’m here because I wasn’t going to let them win.”

  Titanis eyed him. Then with a toss of his chin said, “Let who win?”

  Dean rounded on the men, startled to find the entire team huddled. Breath leveling, he used that as an excuse for more time. “The ones who tried to break me.” He ripped off his gloves and tossed them to the side. “Look, we have things to figure out. I’m not the mystery.”

  Titanis smirked. “Aren’t you though?”

  Dean eyed the Aussie.

  “That’s some artwork on your back. And I don’t mean the ink.”

  “It’s not relevant to our mission.” Dean grabbed his bag.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Dean slowed. Gritted his teeth. Hung his head.

  “I’ve been wondering why this mission has your brilliant tactical mind so clouded you can’t see the obvious.”

  He turned. Slowly. Met the guy’s pale gray gaze. “Obvious?”

  “Yeah.” Titanis seemed a brute of a guy, with a voice that wasn’t deep but contained a depth with what he said. “This girl—why is she here?”

  Hawk snickered. “Dude, she’s a missionary. They got religious fervor, need to proselytize everyone.”

  “Nah.” Titanis’s lips pursed. “See, I’m not buying that.”

  Though his heart beat a mean cadence, Dean waited. Listened. He’d wondered this, too. Beyond the normal stuff in the file.

  “There’s something behind her being here. What is that?”

  “Her mom,” Dean said. Now it felt more like bouncing off ideas with a like-minded soldier. Falcon used to do that. Till something made him withdraw. Their friendship hadn’t been the same.

  The guys looked at Dean.

  He shrugged. “Her mom was an Afghan.”

  “Maybe.” Titanis jutted his strong, bearded jaw. “But there’s more to it than that,” he said again. “See, you—you’re here because you want to beat what your captors tried to do to you, the lies they tried to beat into you. You’re here amid insane circumstances facing down death. That girl—she’s doing the same thing every day. And I just have to ask—why? What compels her to be in danger, day in and day out?” He shook his head. “I don’t know many women, or men for that fact, who would. So what’s behind it?”

  Dean nodded. This was good.

  “She’s here because of our captain.” Hawk chuckled. “She’s sweet on him.”

&nbs
p; “I think the captain’s sweet on her, too.” Falcon sounded ticked.

  “If he’s not, he should be. Or sign me up.” Hawk. Ever the gentleman.

  “You’re stating the obvious.” Titanis sounded like an instructor now. “Get past those rudimentary elements and dig a little deeper, eh, mates? This girl might be sweet, but we’d be foolish to mistake that for soft or schoolgirl behavior.”

  “What are you getting at, Titanis?” Falcon folded his arms over his chest, intent.

  “That girl has steel for bones to be here, to face Taliban who’d as soon kill her as let her teach. So why? What is here? She’s got this mind-blowing degree. What is she doing in a dusty school with children and death blowing up her front door?”

  Dean froze. Gaze darting as he mentally reviewed the data from her file. He grunted. “That’s it. Her degree. The SCIFs.” He slapped Titanis on the shoulder then looked at the others. “Shower up. Meet at the command center in twenty.”

  Scrubbed and changed into fresh duds, Dean sat at his computer in the command center. He logged in and pulled up Zahrah’s profile. Scrolled to her education. Eyed her internship. Dropped back against the rickety office chair. He steepled his fingers and breathed against his hands. He lunged out of his seat and stomped down the hall. He rapped twice on the door.

  “Enter.”

  “General Burnett,” Dean said, his heart thudding against the question he was about to ask. “Neither I nor my team has any room for games. We are engaged in a deadly scenario.”

  “Yeah, it’s called war.”

  “I need to know one thing.” Dean didn’t want to give voice to this. But he had no choice. “Is Zahrah Zarrick an enemy combatant?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal

  Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province

  You don’t really believe that, do you?” Lance Burnett leaned forward, feeling his temper in the bulging veins along his neck. “I thought you had more brains than that.”

  “Sir.” Tight lips, tense shoulders, the guy was ticked. “That is the last thing I want to believe about Miss Zarrick, but the dots are leading me there.”

  “Then get off the leash! Start walking this dog, Watters. That girl is no trouble to you or your mission. She has aided us countless times as translator and advisor.”