by Ronie Kendig
Todd pushed to feet and held his hand out. “C’mon. Meat’s probably burning.”
As they walked, he dusted off his pants. Seeing the amused and yet thoroughly pleased looks their friends shot them, he announced, “The aggressor is subdued, ladies and gentlemen. No regrets!”
A collective gasp and widened eyes followed.
Todd glanced to the side. Amy lay on the ground. Unconscious.
CHAPTER 23
Palma de Mallorca, Balearic Sea, Spain
14 June—2010 Hours
Legs trembling, he made his way into the dark alleys. Toward the empty warehouse that had been their “last resort” option. Their only way out. Jaxon promised to have a van and driver there to ferry them to a private airstrip that would give them a hop to U.S. Naval Air Station Rota in Spain. From there, he and the team would get back to Mazar-e. Their cooperation with Jaxon and his wife was over. They wouldn’t see them again. Had to be that way.
Compromised. How? What happened? They’d had nothing identifying. They’d been brutally meticulous and careful. How could so much go wrong so fast? Had they been betrayed? But by whom? And why?
The musty stench of rotting food and sewage, that sour, pungent smell that makes eyes water, swarmed him. Choked him. Much like his failure, it wouldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t escape it.
No weapon. No passport. Life hanging on the lone thread of hope that Jaxon would make good on his word. You’re trained for this. One way or another, they’d get home. But there was a piece of him that wanted to lie down and give up.
Until an oval face and brown eyes swam into his mind’s eye. Was she alive? If he gave up, who would protect her?
Who’s protecting her now? No one.
He pushed on, refusing to surrender to the gloom.
“Hey.”
His feet tangled. He shifted and leaned against a wall, not moving. Hoping whoever saw him would ignore him.
“Raptor,” the voice hissed. “Inside. Quick.”
It took seconds to register the voice—Falcon. Dean flopped around, strained to see in the dark alley. Slowly, his vision adjusted and he spotted his buddy. He shoved off the wall and hustled toward him.
Falcon hauled him in. “Van’s here. Waiting on Hawk then we’re good.”
Dean nodded and climbed into the van. He dropped against the vinyl seat and slouched. Rested his head against the window.
“How long do we wait?” the driver asked.
“Till he comes,” Dean growled.
It took fifteen minutes for Hawk to show up, his shirt plastered to his bodybuilder frame with sweat. He sprinted into the van. “Go, go! They’re following me.”
The van lurched out of the warehouse and careened down the alley without lights.
Ping! Tink! Crack!
“Shooter,” Dean said.
But they couldn’t do anything. No weapons. No identities. Their only option—escape!
Dean gripped the driver’s seat as they whipped around a corner. Barreled down a crooked road. The van screeched right then launched onto a busy street.
Searching the road behind them, Dean sought their pursuers. Nothing but more of the same—cars, lights, and the normal congestion of tourist nightlife.
“We need to get out of here,” Falcon snarled.
“We’re fine. No more tails,” the driver said as he wove in and out of traffic, zipping through the crowded streets.
Fifteen minutes of running red lights and avoiding pedestrians delivered them to a private airstrip and to the droning noise of a prop plane. They crowded in and were airborne almost before the door could be secured. A half-hour flight had them touching down on another airstrip where a Seahawk waited.
“It’s good to be home,” Hawk shouted as he jogged toward the helicopter that had a small contingent of armed operators protecting them.
Dean could almost breathe easy as he slid onto one of the canvas seats. They were ferried to Rota air station. There, they were immediately put on a C-17 Globemaster III back to Afghanistan.
Head back, he closed his eyes. Forced himself to walk through what happened rather than fall asleep. He hadn’t just failed. They’d floundered, lost a man, and two were wounded. Technically, Dean didn’t qualify his scratch as a wound, but it’d get logged in his AAR, and that didn’t sit well with him. Guilt plagued him. What could he have done differently? Could he have stopped Ashgar from the suicide mission?
“Sir,” someone shouted.
Dean flinched and opened his eyes.
A private stood over him with a sat phone and shouted over the din of the engines. “You’re ordered to code in ASAP, sir.”
Right. Because yelling into a secure line on a troop transport made sense. But if he didn’t, he’d never hear the end of it. Phone in hand, Dean freed himself of the crowded row and made his way to the comfort pallet, where he stepped into the walled-off latrine closet. Shoulders practically rubbing the walls, he leaned back against the door and coded in. Dean wasn’t small, but he knew someone like Hawk would probably get stuck.
“What in Sam Hill happened down there?” Burnett’s voice ricocheted through the receiver.
“That’s what I’d like to know, sir.”
“Two people got shot, our target is dead, and all of Majorca is screaming.”
Dean gritted his teeth.
“Well?” Burnett barked.
“They were on us from the second we set down. It was like they knew we’d be there.”
“And how in this sick planet would they know that?”
“Again, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“Are you blaming me, Watters?”
“Negative, sir.”
“You sound ticked.”
“Yes, sir.” Dean’s pulse amped up. “We were ambushed. My men were put in danger. Lives were lost. Operatives were compromised. The target ate a bullet so he couldn’t be forced to talk.” He held his forehead. “It was a waste of time. Sir.”
“Well, get back here. We need to sort this thing out.”
“Roger that.”
“I’ll start with Ramsey.”
“Good enough, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“How—?” Dean clamped his mouth shut, startled at what was about to escape his lips. Would not go there. The general already had a noose around Dean’s neck. He didn’t need to give him ammo, too.
“What?”
“Nothing, sir. I’ll code in when we’re boots on ground.”
“Good.” Burnett’s huff carried through the line. “By the way, she’s fine.”
Dean’s eyes slid closed. He gave a nod but said nothing. Couldn’t voice how big that weight had been that lifted from his shoulders.
“Get some rest. Full debrief at 0800.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s fine….”
Breathing in deeply, he rested his head against the wall. His prayer had worked. God kept her safe. Roughing a hand over his face, he thought of the dream. The one where little Ara Mustafa morphed into Zahrah Zarrick. The images, the possibility of that happening, punched a hole in his gut. No way he could live with that. Why wouldn’t she just trust him and go back?
He saw it in her eyes that day of Ara’s funeral. The conviction that told him she wouldn’t leave because she believed in something. And Someone. It’d angered him. Frustrated him. Scared him.
He snorted. He’d been scared a lot. But not like this.
Why? She wasn’t anyone to him except a missionary teacher.
But she was the only missionary teacher he’d wanted to spend time with. Learn about. Get to know better.
“Call me to make sure I’m still alive.” The sarcasm of her words had annoyed him. It wasn’t a joke. She could end up dead. Even now, though Burnett gave reassurance that she was fine, that information was old. It’d take just a split second for that to change. And still … he wasn’t close enough.
He considered the phone in hand. What if something did ch
ange? What if Burnett hadn’t been right? Thirty-four thousand feet above the earth, Dean couldn’t do a thing to keep her safe. The walls closed in on him. Reminded him of another time when he’d been powerless. Scared. Unable to fight back.
Shots banged through the house. Shouts. Screams.
“Donny, no!”
Bang! Bang-bang!
Even from his darkened closet in the bedroom, Dean heard the screams. Heard the howl of death. Felt the sting of betrayal.
Feet pattered to his room.
He drew his legs closer. Tighter. Curled against the wall, the phone clutched in his hand. Prayed against all odds his brother wouldn’t find him.
The door swung open.
He sucked in a breath.
“Dean—”
A rap against the door startled him. Dean straightened, his thoughts slamming shut with the weight of a steel vault. He drew in a breath and exited. Nodded to the specialist waiting then waded through the sea of bodies and wedged in between Hawk and Falcon, the two snoring loud and long.
Dean thumbed the keypad again.
Mazar-e Sharif
They wouldn’t have desks after all. Only tables and benches. And just half the children would return. Zahrah spent the better part of the day trying to reach the families by phone, mostly to no avail, and then visited the ones she couldn’t reach. If she didn’t have children to teach, what good was she here?
Her mother had taught her not to question the bad things. But to embrace them—because God was there regardless. God wasn’t taken by surprise when things went wrong. His plan hadn’t changed.
Yet … what if the plan she thought was God’s ended up vanishing before her eyes? Did it mean she had misunderstood? Or maybe—the niggling she’d had the last six months—there was a bigger plan shielded behind the smaller one that had flopped?
Either way, she would thank God the few children who would return could sit in chairs and not on a dirty floor or mats. They’d have electricity and running water. The children should be safe here among collegiate students on a large campus. But it was a false sense of security. If someone was determined enough, no security protocols would stop them.
With her purse and books in hand, Zahrah started for the door. As she flicked off the light of her first-floor classroom, her phone buzzed. She fished it out, saw Fekiria’s name on the display as she pushed through the door. “Ah, just in time. Where do you want to meet for dinner?”
“I, uh …”
Dusk wrapped her in its embrace as Zahrah stomped her foot on the path. Then she felt foolish. “You can’t tell me you’re having dinner with him again.”
“I think he really likes me!”
Never had she seen her cousin so … “This isn’t like you, Fekiria.”
“What would you know about that?”
Zahrah frowned and slowed. “I’ve lived with you for the last eighteen months. We’ve been like sisters!”
“You’re American. You’ll never understand what it’s like to be a real Afghan woman.”
Shocked and numbed, Zahrah tried to fight the stinging tears. “How can you say that?”
“I have to go.”
“Fekiria, please.” She wandered to a quiet spot. “Talk to—”
The call ended with a loud, droning noise. Grief weighted Zahrah as she stumbled the rest of the way to her dorm apartment she was supposed to share with her cousin, who had been more absent than present since the move four days ago. It was as if she’d found her wings and flown the sanity coop. Her cousin had a deep passion for teaching, for helping others, but she’d also been irritable for the last several months. Zahrah prayed her cousin wasn’t getting into something that would shatter her, something that would shame the family. While Kaka Jahandar had been reserved in his behavior, a fierce loyalty to Islam hovered beneath his facade.
As she crossed the parking lot, she scanned it for signs of the white pickup or the man from the school. Skirting the perimeter, she saw no threat. Zahrah hurried up the steps, into the apartment, and secured the locks. She eyed the small green light peeking out of the hanging ivy plant in a corner. Fekiria hated the thing, but Zahrah told her to leave it alone. She made her way to a cabinet, opened the door, nudged aside a couple of cans, and eyed the black box. She slid the cans back into place and headed to the bathroom. A long, hot shower would work the knots in her shoulders, the sense of defeat over the classroom, and she had to admit, the lingering frustration over her conversation with Dean Watters. As the water warmed, she sat on the edge of the tub with her forehead propped on the heel of her hand.
“God,” she whispered, bone weary, tears right on the verge of spilling over. “I know I’m supposed to be here, but everything—everything—is going wrong.” It wasn’t that she expected things to go perfectly, to be easy, but could just one thing be good? She’d thought she found that with Dean.
“And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
Zahrah groaned. “Then you must be very strong, but I am very weak right now.” She undressed and slipped into the shower. She scrubbed her hair clean. “I should’ve gone home like Dean asked.”
Shampoo slid into her eye.
“Augh!” She rinsed out the stinging soap. “Okay, okay, I get the point. No more complaining.” After she was clean and refreshed, she wrapped her hair in a towel. “Would it hurt, Lord, to help me know I’m on the right path?” Her mother had called them kisses from God, moments when something happened that left no doubt God had orchestrated it. A bread crumb along a hard path.
Tummy growling, she made her way to the fridge. It sat almost empty. She grimaced. Nothing really edible. They hadn’t really had time to do much shopping, and Fekiria loved takeout. “Which … looks like that’s what I will have to do.” The campus cafeteria had okay halal, but it wasn’t like homemade. She really missed Khala Hafizah’s cooking.
Guess it’s takeout.
Dressed, she retrieved a scarf and returned to the small living area. Her phone buzzed. Had Fekiria changed her mind? “Oh!” She hurried to the phone. Maybe Fekiria would grab something on the way home for dinner. She eyed the caller ID. Hm, weird number. The message read: THOUGHT I’D CHECK—STILL ALIVE?
Warmth flooded Zahrah as she slumped onto the small cushion with a smile. “Dean,” she breathed.
Thumbs poised over the keypad, she hesitated over how to respond.
A noise outside her door drew her attention. Kids again. Had she really been so foolish at twenty?
She typed, QUITE ALIVE, TH—
Crack!
The door flew inward.
Zahrah jolted. Dropped the phone.
A half-dozen men flooded in. In the split seconds of their entry, her mind registered several factors: With their faces hooded, they didn’t want to be recognized; they were heavily armed; they said nothing, though her ears rang with the intrusion.
Terror replaced her calm. She spun around—not to search for a place to escape, but to stare at the plant. Her only hope. Please, God, let them find it!
A weight plowed into her back.
Her cheek collided with the short table as she went down. On all fours, she took a second to collect herself. To not panic. Daddy said panic and stupid reactions got people killed.
“Who are you really, Zahrah Zarrick?” a man demanded.
She started to look up, only to see a fist flying. It connected with her upper cheekbone. Pain exploded across her face and neck. Snapped her head back. She crumpled beneath the weight of the blow.
“I asked who you are,” the man—not the one who attacked her, but one behind him—demanded again, removing a glove. The black-and-white keffiyeh made his chest appear broad and thick. He waved and two men hoisted her onto her feet.
“I’m Zahrah Zarrick, a missionary teacher with the—” Something smacked across her face and jaw, spinning her vision. Warmth slid down her mouth.
“No!” he roared. “You are not a mi
ssionary. You are not this innocent little teacher.”
“I am!”
“I will ask one more time: who are you, and why are you in my country?”
“I told you—”
He jutted his jaw toward one of the men.
Zahrah saw the man rear back with the butt of his weapon. “No! You don’t have to kill me!”
They lunged at her. Something sharp pricked her neck.
“No …” The word gargled in her throat against a paralyzing body.
“You are the daughter of General Peter Zarrick and the niece of Jahandar Haidary. A teacher? Perhaps,” he gloated. “But of what? What secrets are you stealing from us, Miss Zarrick?”
Zahrah shook her head. “No secrets! No secrets.”
The rifle butt flew at her face. A flurry of fists hit her. Zahrah felt an oppressive dark cloud blanketing her.
O God—help!
“See? The truth is much easier when you don’t fight.”
CHAPTER 24
Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
15 June—0945 Hours
Lights out. Thirty-two hours without sleep made him hit the rack like an M1 Abrams. Dean closed his eyes. Welcomed the greedy claws of sleep with an audible groan. He just wanted to sleep. An hour. Two, if God felt generous. Trembling muscles caved to the powerful force. Surrendered the nagging irritation that Zahrah hadn’t replied to his text. Wasn’t hard to say, I’M ALIVE. Then again, maybe it was hard—she could still be mad at him. Whatever. He had to rest. Sort it out later.
“Watters!”
Dean jerked. Eyes open, he stared at the tent ceiling, digging through his foul mood to find a modicum of civility. “What?”
“All hands,” Hawk said bending to retrieve the tac vest. He tossed it across his legs. “Might need this.”
Groaning, Dean peeled himself off the cot. He hadn’t even removed his boots. “Where are we going?” On his feet, he threaded his arms through the vest. Strapped on his belt.
“Don’t know.” Hawk shot him a fierce look. “But we won’t be alone.”
Securing his gun clip, he eyed the communications specialist. They were pairing Raptor with another team? Why? “Who?”