by Ronie Kendig
“Nothing. And we’re not going to get involved until I get more answers. Whatever Ramsey’s doing, it’s gotta come out eventually. And I’m going to make sure that’s sooner.”
“Roger that.”
The far door opened and Titanis strode in with another man. An Arab. Who was this?
“I’ll do some digging, see what I can find. You and Raptor stay low. Get some rest.”
“Roger that, sir.” Dean stood as the two men joined him.
Looking far too pleased with himself, Titanis held a hand to the man with him. “This is Osman. He’s a local friend.”
With a nod, Dean acknowledged the man.
“He’s the best,” Titanis added.
Dean frowned. “At what?”
“Tattoos.”
CHAPTER 25
Somewhere in Afghanistan
17 June—0800 Hours
Twenty-four hours and nobody is talking about your disappearance.”
Zahrah tried to peer between the fibers of the hood where light shone through, but she could not see anything but shapes and blurs.
“Perhaps you are not as important as you thought.”
“I’m not important. I’m a teacher.”
Thud!
Her head knocked sideways. The world tilted. She felt herself falling. Hands tied behind her, she could not break her fall. Her shoulder thudded against the ground. Warmth slid down her lip. Since they’d removed her from her apartment, she remembered little. A pinch in her arm—probably a drug. Then traveling in a vehicle. And now this. It could’ve been days for all she knew.
And with Fekiria shutting her out … it was possible her cousin would not miss her right away.
Footsteps approached. Zahrah braced herself for another hit. Or kick. Instead, hands gripped her arms and shoulders, righting her.
“Please,” she whispered, “I don’t know what you—”
Shouts and thuds garbled her words.
Through the fibers, a vague shape burst into the room. He rattled in Arabic, “We need to leave. Americans are coming—they’re searching the buildings.”
Zahrah’s heart thudded. Thank You, God! Her father or Captain Watters had found out. They were looking for her!
“Get her ready.”
Someone approached and reached toward her.
Zahrah cringed. Get her ready. That meant they wouldn’t kill her yet. Right?
The person grabbed at the hood and yanked—along with a fistful of her hair. Fiery darts tingled along her scalp. Before she could do anything, someone grabbed her head. Jerked it so she looked to the ceiling. The other wrapped silver tape around her mouth—around her neck and head, too! Then he dropped a blue mound of material around her. The suffocating silk covered her, head to toe. She blinked. A small rectangular opening had a netlike barrier. A burqa?
Still tied and now robed in anonymity, two of her captors herded her down a hall. Pulling and pushing her. The material coiled around her legs. She stumbled.
They yanked her onward. Into a dark room then another. Right into—
She gasped. The old gym. They were back at the old school?
They shoved her into the backseat of a van, and someone, also draped in blue, moved in next to her. Another captive? Her heart surged at the thought of an ally.
The person jabbed something into her ribs. “Say nothing and do nothing, and you will live,” came a man’s voice.
Only then did Zahrah identify what was poking her—a gun!
Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
17 June—0815 Hours
In the mess hall, Dean sat with his lunch. Since budget cuts and no hot breakfast, lunch had suddenly become important. Falcon and Titanis joined him.
“Give any more thought to what happened last night?” Falcon lifted his burger and bit into it.
Dean nodded. “A lot.” He munched on some potato chips. “Either we’ve gotten sloppy or they were tipped off.”
“How?” Titanis shrugged his big shoulders. “Nobody but us knew we were going.”
“Except Hastings,” Falcon noted. The guy tipped back his head and guzzled water. He had strong facial features that made words unnecessary. With that hooked nose and longer-than-normal black hair, Falcon had his own style and attitude.
Arms folded, Dean leaned on the table. “Not convinced she’s trouble, but it’s something to consider.”
“We need to consider all facts,” Falcon said. “Something stinks. We go to Majorca. Yeah, it’s a diversion, but they knew our every move. They anticipated us. Pinned us. Had we not gone to water”—he shrugged—“we might not be sitting here.”
“Heads up,” Titanis said, eyebrows winging toward the door.
Hawk ambled in, stiff and looking wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes, he kept his right arm close.
“Think he figured it out?” Titanis asked, head low, eyes on his food.
“Has he punched you yet?” Falcon sniggered.
A few minutes later, Hawk slid his tray on the table. “Man,” he said as he hooked his legs over the bench and dropped down. “I’ve taken a bullet before, but this one …” He stretched his neck. Rubbed his shoulder and hissed. “Must’ve hit a weird muscle or something. My back is killing me.”
Dean stretched his jaw, fighting the smile. He hunched closer to the table. Shoulder shielding him from Hawk.
“Hey, what’d you find out about last night?”
“Nothing yet,” Falcon said, not missing a beat. “You get some acetaminophen from Harrier?”
Hawk nodded. “It’s not even touching it.” He dug into his slop. “Says eating a good meal will help.”
“Good thing we’re off the grid for a few, huh?”
“Amen. I slept till ten-hundred then hit the showers.” Another grunt. “My back felt like it was on fire.” He downed a sport drink. Dug two pills out of his pocket, tossed them in his mouth, and took a swig from a second bottle.
“Nice tat,” someone called.
Dean pushed to his feet and grabbed his tray. “Got some work to do.”
“Me, too,” Titanis said.
“Hey. Bledsoe.” A sergeant made his way over. “D’you hear me?”
Dean made a beeline to return his tray, rushing ahead of the oncoming storm.
“Saw that sweet tat when you were putting your shirt on. Where’d you get those wings?”
“What are you—?” The fleshy clap of a slap on the back sounded. Then a howl. “No!” Metal scraped against cement. “Titanis!”
Dean and Titanis sprinted down the hall, dodging soldiers. Behind them, the telltale thwack of the mess hall doors flying open pushed them. “If he catches us …” Dean shoved against the security bar. Broke into the sunlight.
A meaty roar chased them.
Dean couldn’t stop laughing. “He’s going to kill us!”
“He had it coming,” Titanis said with a laugh and shook his head.
“You sorry pieces of work!” Hawk yelled as he burst into the sun. Flexing his biceps, he fisted his hands. “C’m—”
Sirens blazed. The warning howl pierced the afternoon. Dean spun, searching his surroundings, weapon out, ready to take on a target. His nerves jangled, shifting from a joke to a life-and-death scenario. Troops getting hit by the locals they trained had become all too common. He felt Titanis at his back as they turned, searching for the threat.
“Stop him!”
Dean pivoted toward the chaos, toward the voice. Lined up his sights. Let the sight blur as he focused on the crowd at the business end of his weapon. A cluster of MPs rushed toward them. Thirty yards and closing.
Dean’s pulse knocked up a notch. What …? He searched for the target.
His gaze slid down a fraction. To the slight frame of a boy. Pumping with his arms. Leg still tangled in a cast, he hobbled. Terror gouged his face. His long tunic flapped hard, as if trying to take off.
Rashid!
“No!” He rammed his gun back into the holster and rushed forward, his g
oal stopping the guns aiming for the kid. “Stand down! Stand down!” he shouted to the MPs. “Blue—friendly! Don’t shoot!”
The boy flew the last twenty feet to him. Threw himself against Dean, screaming.
Hand out to stay the police, Dean held the boy close. Verified they weren’t going to fire. He peered down. “Rashid.” His lungs burned. “What—?”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I failed!” Rashid clung tighter. When Dean tried to pry him off, the boy clenched. “No, please! You must help.”
After wresting free, Dean went to a knee. Held the boy’s trembling shoulders as tears formed dark rivulets down Rashid’s dirty face. “Hey.” He gave him a light squeeze. “Rashid, slow down. What’s wrong?”
“I failed!” The eight-year-old boy threw his head back and struck his chest with another cry. “You gave me a mission and I dishonored you.”
Mission? What miss—? Dean’s breath jammed in the back of his throat. Zahrah. He gripped the boy’s shoulders. Stared into his eyes. “Miss Zarrick?”
A frantic nod. Dirty black hair fringed red-rimmed eyes as tears streaked down his face. “She’s gone! They can’t find her.”
“What do you mean, they can’t find her?”
“She’s gone! Just gone.”
“Rashid—”
The boy lunged into Dean’s arms and hooked his arms around his neck. “Please do not hurt me. I am sorry. I tried—”
Dean pulled the boy close. A hand cupped the back of the boy’s head as Dean glanced up at Hawk and Titanis, who stood there. Their faces bore the shock Dean felt. And the anger. Get it in gear! She’s missing!
Someone meant to harm her. Kill her. And … that meant Rashid could be in danger, too. All of them, for that fact.
He lifted Rashid into his arms, thankful the boy was on the small side. To Titanis he said, “Get Burnett. And the team.”
CHAPTER 26
Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
17 June—0900 Hours
Holy Mother of God, help me!
Lance stormed into the sub-base, the narrow hall clogged with a dozen or more soldiers. Titanis led the way, the man a mountain of muscle, so when he barked, “Make a hole!” the sea of uniforms parted as if God Himself had ordered it. They stepped into the briefing room.
Watters, who’d been sitting in front of the Afghan boy, stood. “Sir.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much,” Watters said. “They aren’t sure when she was taken or by whom. Just that she’s gone. She’d been staying in the dorms with her cousin.”
“When did the cousin last see her?”
“Unknown. The boy just heard his parents talking to one of the Haidary cousins.”
“But she was just taken this morning?”
“Unknown.”
Lance considered the boy. Short but stout in heart, the kid had lost his sister in the same explosion that ripped his leg up. Fear and sincerity marked the boy’s wide brown eyes. “You’re sure he doesn’t know anything else?”
Watters hesitated, eyed the kid, then nodded. “He’s a good kid. I’d made him an unofficial first sergeant after the explosion.”
Lance grunted. Were they too late already? Nothing had hit the wires. No ransom demand. No videos showing a beaten or otherwise harmed Zahrah. “Well, get over to the dorm and find some answers. I’ll send CID over, too.”
“Yes, sir.” Watters turned to the boy. “Ready?”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking him. He knows where she was living. We don’t.”
“You gone soft?”
“Too thickheaded for that, sir.”
Lance tried to laugh. But this was a butt-ugly situation. “You realize I have to make a phone call. And that someone is going to be climbing down your throat.”
Watters hesitated then nodded. “You can tell him to blame a certain general who got us out of the way so he could play war games.” His nostrils flared. “So help me—if I …” Dean’s jaw muscle popped. He shook his head, looking down.
“Take it easy with that anger, son.”
“No.” Dean cocked his head. “He put lives in jeopardy and now she’s gone. Had we been here—”
“You couldn’t have done anything.”
Watters drew up straight.
Lance held up his hands. “I hear you—I know you’re ticked. So am I. But we aren’t going to fly off half-cocked. Get the facts. Figure out our strategy. Then … then we’ll see.” Ramsey would be through the roof to have something like this happen as the American presence wound down. This wouldn’t go over well in the media. He’d fight like the dickens to make sure Zahrah Zarrick came home alive and in one piece. “We’ll see.”
“Just make sure I don’t see him because I make no promises.”
He’d chosen this man for a reason, and this was part of it. But if Watters lost control … “Just remember, if you do something to soothe that beast inside you, she may be lost.”
The man lifted his chin. The lines between his eyebrows knotted.
Good. Lance had made his point. “Her life depends on you keeping your head on straight.” He nodded. “I’m depending on you, her father is, and so is your team.”
“Hey, Cap’?”
Watters looked to the side where the communications expert waited, rubbing his shoulder.
Bledsoe stood. Surveyed the surroundings. “Had a thought.”
“Go on,” Watters said.
“Remember a certain school and late-night deliveries? A hooded captive?”
“Let’s move!” Watters launched out of the room.
CHAPTER 27
Mazar-e Sharif
The weight of his uniform, M4, tactical vest, M9 holstered at his hip, and helmet with live cam had nothing on the one sitting on his chest. A thousand-pound cement block called guilt. Dean jogged toward the waiting vehicles that would ferry them out to the airstrip. There, two Black Hawks waited, engines whining in anticipation of the flight.
Dean hustled toward the birds. His gaze hit a team waiting, and he slowed. The very SEAL team that had gotten them kicked off the mission, diverted from doing their job. The same guys, Dean felt, who’d sacrificed Zahrah’s safety and life for a bit of brass ego.
“No,” Hawk said with a growl over the din of the rotor wash. “No way are they coming.”
The SEAL who’d bumped Dean’s shoulder with his own two days ago offered his hand. “Lieutenant Commander Chris Riordan.” Ferocity defined his features. “Heard what happened.” Greased up and bearded, he held his M4 over his chest. “We want to offer our help.”
Dean considered the other half-dozen men. Six men he didn’t know. But they were six men interested in protecting and preserving lives, especially American lives. If they were doing an extraction, if this got ugly, more manpower never hurt. He stuffed his hand against the SEAL’s. “Thank you.”
“You’re kidding me!” Hawk threw his hands up then headed for the chopper. On board, he pointed to Commander Riordan. “After this—watch your back.”
One of Riordan’s men snickered as he passed Hawk. “You should take your own advice. Surprised that vest doesn’t hurt.” He slapped Hawk’s shoulder. Hard.
Hawk about came out of his uniform.
The tattoo. The SEAL knew about the tattoo Hawk now bore. As Dean climbed in, he leaned in and pressed Hawk down. “Later.” He patted his friend’s shoulder.
The ten-minute ride to the compound was made in virtual silence. They had their objective: secure Zahrah Zarrick at all costs. The SEALs didn’t know Dean’s connection to her. While they might know she was General Z’s daughter, he guessed they had no knowledge of her area of expertise.
Or maybe they did. Maybe he was the slow one. The one to blame for her disappearance. The numbing vibration of the chopper needled its way into his brain. If he’d figured out sooner what they wouldn’t openly tell him, he could’ve spent more effort on convincing her to leave.
“It is not my place to put
demands on how or what He does with my life.”
Maybe she wouldn’t take that liberty, but Dean sure would. God … You gotta keep her safe. This can’t happen. Not again. I can’t do it again.
Twisting his hand around the grip of his M4, he felt the Oakley gloves twist. Tighten. Constrict. Much like the agony of knowing how this could end.
Screams shrieked through the passages of time. Pierced the steel box where he’d stowed his heart. Stowed his ability to care ever again. He stared down at the steel hull where boots touched and felt as if he’d died in that cell ten years ago.
Dean Watters, the kid fresh out of Basic and still wet behind the ears, had died. In his place, the sole survivor emerged. Hardened. Focused. Maybe even a bit jaded. A screwed-up life and torture did that to a guy.
Blond, blue eyed, and so sweet, Ellen screamed into his present.
No. Gritting his teeth, he pushed her visage back. Refused her voice.
Descent pulled his thoughts out of the quagmire. He lifted his chin and found Commander Riordan watching him. Dean checked his NVGs and shifted to the edge of the seat, eyeing the city as it blurred beneath them. Almost there.
The Black Hawk hovered over the compound. Harrier went first, fast-roping down. Dean followed, the wind ripping at his duds as if telling him to hurry. Dirt peppered the little flesh exposed.
His boots touched ground and he rushed out of the way and went to a knee. The shelled-out building that once housed a large gym-like area gaped at them in shock that it’d lost a fight. Cinder blocks tumbled out like broken teeth. Stock pressed into his shoulder, Dean used the M4 for a line of sight, scoping the windows. Doors. Searching for combatants, expecting opposition like they’d encountered unexpectedly. Why hadn’t they come out fighting? Last night, they’d kept a safe distance but ended up eating bullets. Now, they were on top of them and …
Too quiet.
Pulse hammering, he again eyed the doors and windows as the team disembarked from the bird and took cover against the building. As soon as Falcon patted his shoulder, giving the all-clear, Dean sprinted to the building. Slammed up against the wall, back to the plaster, gaze down and to the side, waiting. Any moment it could open … or fly apart. His team with it.