Raptor 6

by Ronie Kendig

  But still … my heart trembles.

  “Do not make me say it again.”

  Not sure if my heart or shoes thud louder as I cross the steel floor, punch in the codes—snap! I race back to the computer and enter my passcode for the disable function on the primary security. Ya know, the ones that will kill everyone if I don’t disable. I also protect my computers. They’re my babies. Mothers would strap bombs to their chests to protect their children. So would I.

  “My patience is wearing thin.”

  “Right. Just one more …” I hit ENTER and the lights around me turn blue. Glancing up and confirming their neutral status, I hurry to the door. Swing the wheel and release the locking mechanism.

  Light explodes through my steel cave, and I blink. And freeze as the business end of a gun presses between my eyes.

  “Step back,” Goon One says.

  Hands up, I’m moving. “Easy there, turbo. I’m the good guy, remember?” Okay, that’s almost hysterical. “Well, not really the good guy since I’m spying on the real good guys with a wad of your cash.”

  “And what,” a slick-suited lanky man glides into the hovel, a hand in his right pant pocket, “are you doing with”—he sneers down his flat nose as me, those slanted eyes filled with more heat than the Afghan desert in summer—“my ‘wad of cash,’ Scythe.”

  A laugh-grunt thumps from my chest. I can’t believe I actually got him to use that nickname. It’s kind of twisted, really, but— “Okay, okay!” I wince as the gun presses hard into my temple. “I’m working. Day and night.”

  “It would seem so.” His lip curls as he takes in the portable cave as Goon Two enters and closes the door, standing in front of it like a mafia thug. Seriously? “No housekeeper either.” Really, it’s amazing the way Boss Man sounds British and Chinese at the same time.

  “L–look, we agreed.” I swipe my tongue across my lips. It’s obvious that I’m scared, but … “This is massively uncool. Remember, we agreed: You do your thing, I do mine, and”—I take a deep, shuddering breath of nerves and let them out—“we’re both happy.”

  He turns around, both hands in his slacks pockets now, and slumps against one of my supercomputers. “I am not.” Arms folded, he looks like he might work out. I wish I hadn’t noticed that. “Not anymore.”

  “Wh–why? What changed?” I scowl at Goon One and lean away from the weapon. “Seriously? Is that necessary?”

  Boss man gives a nod and Goon One backs up to the door, standing just like the other. Thing One and Thing Two?

  I take a step forward, hands out. No way I want to tick off this guy. He’s got the guns—literally—to take me out. “Why are you here? I’ve provided all the transcripts, all the information you need—”

  “You do not determine what I need.”

  Dude. The world had totally shifted, and I’m not even sure I’m still on the same planet anymore. “I don’t understand. We had a contract. We agreed. I gave you everything you asked for. I had—”

  “It is not enough.” The calm on the guy’s face is just … sick. And not the cool sick either. He’s in complete control and knows it. What’s worse—so do I.

  “I want to see the video you have secured. I want their faces. I want to see it for myself.”

  “Why?” This makes no sense. I gave him everything needed to take them down. But then it dawns on me. And suddenly there’s a warm surge at the back of my throat, and I swallow the bile. The words sneak past my lips before my brain can engage. “The girl.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Palma de Mallorca, Balearic Sea, Spain

  14 June—1845 Hours

  Three massive cranes towered over the docks like steel scorpions waiting to inject their poison. Between the second and third, a black sedan waited. It sat ominous and predatory, out of place in the dingy surroundings mucked by the seawater and years of use.

  Concealed, Dean verified his team’s location. Jaxon and his wife waited a half mile out in a nondescript boat. Titanis and Harrier kept their distance, set up on a rooftop with a bead on the car and its occupants. Five feet behind and stuffed in one of the rubber bumpers shielding the cement dock from ship hulls, Hawk waited.

  “Ready?” Falcon asked.

  Dean nodded. Rolled his shoulders then started walking down the dock toward the waiting car. Anything and everything could go wrong here. Especially with the warning Titanis brought that the “they” knew Raptor team was here. Nerves tingling, he felt himself again reach for that tendril of faith that seemed to be growing since his first encounter with Zahrah.

  God, keep her safe. Help me make it back to ensure that.

  Doors swung open as they approached.

  “Welcome party,” Falcon muttered.

  Two men who could easily compete in the WWE or against some of Dean’s SF brothers emerged. Arms out, awkwardly.

  “And armed.” Falcon grunted.

  “Just messengers.” Dean resisted the urge to run his hand over his short crop. They needed Ashgar in the open and he hadn’t even shown his face yet. Dean had no weapon, no coms piece, nothing. Just him, Falcon, the terrorists, and … God. He hoped.

  “You’re late.”

  Jaxon’s warning slammed to the front of his mind. “They will try to take control, put you on the defensive. Don’t let them.”

  “Not true.” Dean slowed to a stop, six feet from the man. “We’re right on time.” He put his hands on his hips, trying to visibly show he wasn’t armed, unlike the men facing him. And unlike the team surrounding the area. “But we do have a problem.” He squinted against the sun glaring off the water.

  “What would that be?” Distinctive Arabic accent. Curly hair. Arrogant.

  Dean brought his gaze from their surroundings, acting like he wasn’t comfortable. “You’re not the man we need.”

  Challenge lurked in the man’s eyes. He looked to the other guard then grinned. “Who do you think you need?”

  Dean glanced at Falcon, shook his head, then started to walk away. “This meeting’s over.”

  The thunk of a door handle hit his ears, but Dean kept moving. He’d dealt with enough terrorists not to show fear. Or weakness. Make them want it. Make them show the weakness.

  “One cannot be too sure,” a slow, menacing voice said, “in this business who is a friend and who is not. You would agree, would you not, Mr. Michaels?”

  Dean slowed, turned. His heart thumped a little harder as he met the steely gaze of Ashgar Asad. Behind him, Sadi Ali. “I would.” He purposefully met Falcon’s gaze. They’d need to divide up the two men. It just got complicated. “But I’d also say we’re wasting time playing games.”

  “Games?” The man slid a stick of gum into his mouth.

  Dean tensed. Was that a signal?

  Chewing loudly, Ashgar eyed him. “You think being safe is a game?”

  “I think we both went through a lot to set up this meeting. If we can’t trust our contacts, we’re in the wrong business.”

  “History is filled with traitors, Mr. Michaels. Benedict Arnold, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, Aldrich Ames …” His gaze surfed the waters, then came back. Almost smiling. Deliberate. “Wang Jingwei.”

  Dean waited. Didn’t know the man’s point. Or the significance of the traitors mentioned. “Forget it, man,” Falcon said. “I’m over this.”

  “Your friend is impatient.” Ashgar smiled.

  Dean took the cue. Paced to the edge of the dock. Huffed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Hawk hunched in the rubber tire-like bumper. Rubbing his jaw, Dean looked out across the waters. Acted perturbed. He pivoted, stayed close to the edge. “My friend is right. It’s over. You should’ve checked us out. The longer we’re here, the more risk of exposure.” He shrugged. “You don’t want our money”—another shrug—“fine.”

  Ashgar held up a hand, chuckling. “Be at peace, my friend.” He ambled toward him.

  Yes. A little closer.

  Angling sideways, Dean glared at Sadi Ali. Tried to ke
ep up appearances.

  “My friend, you are too jumpy.” Standing a head shorter than Dean, Ashgar patted him on the shoulder. “You need some time on a boat with some beautiful women to relax.”

  Sadi Ali laughed. “Does wonders for the soul.”

  “Are you ready to do this?” Dean asked. But not to Sadi or Ashgar. He gave a signal. Threw himself into Ashgar. A shout collided with the movement. His body jarred against Asghar’s rigid frame. And they were falling …

  Dean crashed into the murky water, Ashgar in his grip. He pushed downward. Water rushed around him. Devoured his hearing. Blinded him. Movements took on a warbling sound.

  Ashgar writhed against him. Fought him. Railed.

  Dean held tight. Felt a pat against his shoulder. Released Ashgar as something slid into his hand. He slid on the air bladder and the rebreather into his mouth. But with Ashgar’s panicked flailing, if Falcon didn’t get him rigged, the guy would drown. Once more, Dean dove into the guy, propelling them down into the depths, but also away from the docks. Toward the boat that should be waiting a few blocks away beneath a pier.

  A tap on his shoulder alerted him to Falcon, who slid a rebreather toward Ashgar. The man stilled, his wild, frantic eyes connecting with theirs. With Falcon’s help, the Arab accepted the breathing apparatus. As he calmed, Dean noticed a dark plume around the guy’s left shoulder.

  Shot!

  No time to assess the wound. Impossible to dress it underwater. He hooked arms with Ashgar, and Falcon did the same. Together, they swam to the rendezvous point, his only thought the consequences if the man died. No answers on what was happening back in Afghanistan. The entire military community could be in jeopardy. Zahrah— He squeezed off the thought. They had to make it. Time pounded against his every breath, warning him of the imminent failure.

  It grew harder to swim. He must be more tired than he realized. While the swim was strenuous, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

  But they were sliding … down. Not forward.

  Only as he glanced to the side, did he notice Ashgar’s head hanging limp. He shot a look to Falcon, who nodded. Then checked his compass.

  Dean pushed himself to swim harder and faster. They could not lose this guy. He was their only hope of making headway with whatever was happening back in Afghanistan.

  Finally, he saw the hull of the boat bobbing. They slowly broke the surface. The Brutus lurked five feet in front of them.

  Jaxon stared down at them. “About time—”

  Dean whipped the water out of his face and removed the rebreather then swam to the edge of the boat. “He’s shot,” Dean said, panting. “Left shoulder.”

  Jaxon and another man hauled Ashgar out of the water. Dean and Falcon clambered aboard and slumped on the deck. The burn in his lungs had nothing on the burn in his mind as the two men performed CPR on the Arab.

  “We need him alive,” Falcon said.

  But even as his first said the words, Dean eyeballed the wound then the quickly growing pool of blood beneath him. Ashgar hadn’t been shot by accident. It was a sniper shot.

  Ashgar coughed, gagged, then slumped, hauling in several long breaths.

  Dean did the same. Relief. Sweet, painful relief that the man was alive and breathing.

  Then … chuckling.

  Frowning, Dean went to his knees and stared down at the man.

  Ashgar snorted. “You thought you had me….”

  “We do have you,” Falcon said. “Your men shot you.”

  With a shake of his head, he closed his eyes. “My … orders … never taken … alive.”

  “Why? What are you protecting?”

  The man’s eyes seemed to focus on Dean. Then on the sky. “Ever’… thing.” The left side of his lip, a rivulet of blood sliding down his jaw, lifted in a smirk. “You won’t … win. Won’t stop … him.”

  “Who?” Dean grabbed the man’s sodden clothes and jerked him up. “Who’s behind what’s happening?”

  Ashgar’s head jerked. A gurgling sound replaced a laugh. He slumped, limp.

  Dean released him. Dropped back against the boat. Defeat clung to him heavier than the water that sucked his clothes against his frame. He shoved dripping seawater from his face. Kicked the boat. Punched the seat.

  Thudding his head against the back of the boat, he fought off the despair. Where? Where would they go from here?

  “We’ve got company!”

  Dean lifted his head, glanced to the side.

  Jaxon and his guy raced to the front, to the steering well. The boat’s engine revved and they ripped away. Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw a large speedboat roaring up their six.

  Falcon cursed.

  “Hey,” Jaxon shouted, bringing their attention back to him. He tossed an M4A1 at Dean. Then an M16 to Falcon.

  Dean verified a round was in the chamber, the safety off, then went to a knee. The boat bounced over several waves, tossing him against its fiberglass hull. He gritted his teeth and pushed back into position. Sighted the speedboat driver. Eased back the trigger.

  The Brutus went airborne. Dean grabbed the rail and held on.

  Fire lit across his arm, leaving a trail of blood. He hissed against the graze but refocused on the target. He couldn’t hear them firing, but the graze told him they were. He’d return the favor. Dean again targeted the black speedboat driver. Fired. The man flipped sideways.

  Falcon kept a bead on the boat. Fired. Again and again.

  A spark. A ball of fire. Black smoke shot into the sky.

  “Hooah,” Falcon shouted. “One speedboat down.”

  “One to go.” Dean pointed to the slick boat whipping up alongside them.

  “Over, over,” Jaxon shouted.

  Falcon cursed, snatched up his rebreather, and dove over the side of the boat. Doing the same, Dean dropped into the depths of the water. It’d been Plan B if they came under attack. They couldn’t be found together, the American military with the spies.

  Exhausted and defeated, he swam. Pushed himself to the ends of his strength and mental abilities. When he crawled up on the beach, the sun had set. Darkness loomed. He hiked down to the pier, retrieved a pack planted there earlier, and changed in the shadows. He was alive. His men were alive, as far as he knew. Good things. But that’s where the good stopped.

  This failure, this defeat felt as if he’d taken a bullet straight to the heart. Though he couldn’t explain why, he knew today would prove to be a catastrophic failure.

  In the pack, he felt a buzzing. He rifled through the contents and dug out the throwaway flip phone. He opened it. His heart vaulted into his throat at the message:

  COMPROMISED. GET OUT OF COUNTRY.

  TODD & AMY

  How ya doing, son?”

  Todd looked at his father. Then at the beautiful brunette sitting in a rocker on the back porch with his mom and good friends while he stood here by the hot grill. How was he doing? Besides having his heart ripped? Going to bed every night wondering if she’d be there in the morning? Afraid their adventures would end badly, either in an accident that cut their little time together short or if she collapsed….

  He turned back to the sausages and turned them.

  “I’m proud of you. The leave you took from the Army, the way you’ve been here 100 percent for her—”

  “Should’ve done this years ago.”

  “Nah, don’t do that to yourself. You had a job, so did she.”

  “Maybe.” Todd trained his attention on the grill, on the heat plumes, on the smoke, on anything other than this conversation. “But my job took me away from her.” He closed the lid so the smoke would seep into the meat. “She wanted to start trying for a baby last year.” Now there’d be no baby. No Amy. His life would be empty.

  His fingers closed around the handle—tight.

  Something splatted his face. Todd twitched and swiped it away.

  Water?

  Another splat.

  He turned. Amy stood there with a ba
zooka soaker. She laughed.

  “Ha. Ha. That’s enough—I’m grilling.”

  She didn’t stop.

  “Amy …”

  Pumping that thing at him for all she was worth.

  Todd set down his grill tongs and launched himself at her.

  Dropping the water machine gun, Amy squealed. Sprinted around their guests. Todd navigated the table of food and the lawn chairs, sailing clear over one that held a friend’s four-year-old son.

  Amy zigzagged and raced around toward the barn. Into the waist-high grass. Laughing hysterically, Amy slowed. A lot. He caught her shoulders.

  She tripped. Went down.

  Todd cringed, frantic she’d get hurt. He dropped beside her but quickly realized, with her laughing gasps, that she was fine. He crumpled beside her. “All right, Rambette.”

  Laughter bounced her chest against his.

  The wave of grief came stronger than ever before. He didn’t want to miss her laughter. Didn’t want to miss chasing her through the fields. Didn’t want to miss her feistiness.

  “I am your prisoner, Mr. Special Forces.”

  He couldn’t help the grin. This was their private joke. “I guess I’m going to have to torture you.”

  A twinkle glittered in her blue eyes, just the same as on the night of their honeymoon.

  Todd leaned against her and kissed her. “I love you Amelia Celine Archer.”

  “Hey,” someone shouted. “You still have guests over here, you know.”

  “Reminds me of our wedding night. The guests just wouldn’t go home.” Amy ran a hand over his short hair. “I’ve always loved your reddish-blond hair. Your beautiful gray-blue eyes.”

  “I’ll tell my parents they did good.”

  She laughed again.

  He smoothed her hair from her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

  “Hey.” She held his face. “No.” She kissed him. “Regrets.” Another kiss. “Todd.” “Amelia?”

  At the sound of her mother’s voice calling uncertainly, Amy groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’d think I was still living at home.”