by Ronie Kendig
“Eight years SOC makes him more than a kid.”
“Not when you’re standing where I am.”
“And where is that?”
Another long glare.
Lance retrieved a Dr Pepper from his personal fridge and offered it to Peter, who waved it off. After popping the top, Lance moved to his desk and sat. He knew what this was about, what scared Peter almost as much as the thought of his daughter dying. “What did she say about him?”
Surprise skittered across Pete’s face, his eyebrows winging up and lips parting. “Who?” He rubbed his bushy eyebrows, something that had always given his friend’s nerves away.
Lance snorted. “She likes him that much, huh?”
Pete frowned, and for a second Lance thought he’d deny the truth. “She said he was like me.”
A laugh seeped up through his chest and took over. Lance couldn’t stop. Why hadn’t he seen that? “She nailed it.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “Seeing the two of you about to eat each other’s throats was like watching two pit bulls.”
Pete pushed out of the chair and paced behind it. He drew in a breath, maybe two, then turned and gripped the back of the seat. Blue eyes bored into his, laced with the ferocity that came with commanding coalition forces, facing untold terrors and horror. “Can he do it, Lance? Can this kid figure out how to get her back?” His lips flattened. “Or do I need to order another oak box?”
“If we knew where to go, he’d have her back already. But we don’t. We aren’t even sure why they took her.”
“Don’t give me that. You know full well they took her because of the cryptology stuff, what with those SCIFs that went missing.” He scruffed the back of his head. “Her and that brain of hers …”
Lance set aside his soda. “Pete, sit down.”
Peter Zarrick stuffed his hands on his hips.
Phone in hand, Lance punched in a number. “Better yet.” He set the device back down “Come with me.”
His longtime friend eyed him warily. “What is this, kiss and make up?”
“Quit your grumbling and come on.” They strode back to the command room. He pushed past the door into the area thick with tension. Conversations clapped shut. Lance expected the silence. It happened a lot. He didn’t expect the seething glares from the team. “Hastings.” He met her gaze. “Put that invitation up on the board.”
“Yes, sir.”
Huddled with Bledsoe, Straider, and Russo, Watters straightened and folded his arms over his chest.
“Captain.” Lance pointed to the board. “I need to show you something.” With that, he lifted a laser pointer. “Hastings dug out this information about a gala about an hour ago at the house of President Tahir, so I’ve been making some calls.”
“A benefit?”
“Party.” Lance beamed the red stream of light onto the paper. “Look at the name of the honoree.”
“Jeffrey Bain,” Watters said as eased closer, his posture stiff but his curiosity worse. “That’s the journalist we rescued a few months back.”
“One May. We executed with solid efficiency,” Falcon said.
“And crazy opposition,” Hawk muttered. “But we won. Got the journo out, intact and alive.”
“Correct.” Lance meandered around the room, positioning himself at the back, behind the men. Watching. Assessing.
“What the heck is Bain doing back in country after that nightmare?” Hawk asked, munching a protein bar.
“Never left.” Lance rubbed his chin, noticed the thickness around his neck and reminded himself the doc ordered him on a diet. But that was just die with t on the end. And he wasn’t going down easy. Just like the man of the hour. “Bain stayed in country and has been quietly reconnecting with his sources. This invitation is said to be a goodwill gesture, an apology.”
“Apology my big hairy butt,” Peter barked. “They’re going to make an example of him.”
“Exactly,” Dean said. “Lure him in, string him up, drag him through the streets.” When Burnett shot him a look, Dean lifted a shoulder. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Or the last.”
Good. Good. The two were finding common ground. Not good that the alignment was against his plan, but he’d turn that. “What you don’t know is that Jeff Bain’s mother married some Arab prince who has demanded a full apology for Bain’s imprisonment and treatment.”
Pete laughed. “He’s out of his mind.”
“Well, he’s not, in fact. This prince, we believe, has been funding … expeditions of late. We don’t have hard proof, but his fingerprints are all over the place. He’s influential, powerful, and very rich. Bain was held for ransom—a message to his stepfather, who had not been playing nice with the Taliban, that they could reach his family. Without his deep pockets, the bad guys would be hurting.”
“Which means without this guy, we’d be better off,” Hawk said. “Right? Please tell me he’s our next mission.”
“So, it’s legit, the big party?” Dean didn’t look or sound convinced.
“It is.” Lance hesitated. This was the part that would take some convincing.
“What’s your point?” Pete slid the paper back onto Lance’s desk. “What’s this rich prince got to do with Zahrah or getting her back? If it’s on the up-and-up, why bore us with it?”
“Bain’s going to the gala.”
Hooting, Hawk clapped. “Brothers, we’re going in! Slip this rich prince a permanent Mickey.” He held out this hands. “Please, General. Tell me I’m right. Nothing I like better than killing these—”
“You want Raptor to run security.” Watters nodded. “I like it.” Another more assured nod. “This could work.”
“Negative.”
Both men scowled. “No?”
“Bain’s going all right. But not with Raptor.” He looked up at them through a furrowed brow. “He’s going with me.”
“Sir.” Watters straightened, arms sliding free of the knot he’d formed around his chest. “That’s not tactically or strategically sound. If they discovered your—”
“I’m well aware of the risks, Captain, but there’s two reasons this is going to happen.”
Watters folded his arms again, his disagreement shouting through his tough posture.
“One: Bain is high risk—”
“All the more reason to have us there,” Bledsoe said.
“All the more reason we need to be shrewd but intelligent.” Lance had practiced this dialogue for the last several hours. “We put too many men onsite, and we might as well go in full dress, guns blazing.”
“Sounds like my kind of fight.” Bledsoe remained unrepentant.
“Lance, I gotta agree with the men,” Pete said. “This smells of stupid, sending you in.”
“I understand how you might see it that way, but this is how it has to be. Sadra Ali will be there, so it’s imperative that none of you are visible. He gets a whiff of you, and I’m dead.” He didn’t need to mention what that meant for Zahrah. The men knew, so did Pete. “Bain agreed to bring me as a favor for extracting him.” When Watters opened his mouth, Lance held up his hand. “Two”—he nodded to Hastings, who popped up a picture of a gray-haired and bearded Pashtun—“Behrooz Nemazi will be there.”
“Nemazi?” Watters scowled. “How do you know him?” The question came out as a snarl.
“Remember that ‘04 bombing outside Kabul? The one that cost us a SEAL platoon and a couple of Black Hawks?”
“And some sensitive intel,” Straider said with a nod.
Bledsoe and Russo eyeballed the Aussie with scowls.
“You’re not the only ones who have news, mates.”
“Nemazi and I were there,” Lance said. “We worked together to get things settled down. He was very grateful.”
“So, he owes you a favor?” Bledsoe grunted.
Watters watched Lance, keen intelligence lurking behind his eyes. He’d fallen out of the conversation. Gone pensive.
“So that’s w
hy I’m going alone. With Nemazi, I’m confident I’ll be safe, and I can almost guarantee he’ll know what’s happening. Maybe even give us a map to her location.”
“Then why haven’t we bagged this guy before now?” Pete demanded.
“Because he’s not easy to get to these days. Finding him is about as easy as finding your daughter right now.”
“Not what I want to hear.”
“Not what anyone wants to hear, but it’s the truth. However, with Bain’s invitation, I can get in and talk to Nemazi.” Lance started for the door.
“Sir.” Watters almost seemed pale. “With all due respect, I have to voice my objection to this. Once anyone there discovers you are DIA, the intel you know, we are screwed.
“We go in full black, You’ll never know—”
“I will know,” Lance said. “And so will Nemazi. If he knows, then his minions know.”
“Sir, there has to be another way. Nothing is worth losing you.” Watters glanced at Zarrick. “No offense meant, sir. But Burnett is key.”
“Plenty taken.” Pete was as ticked as Watters.
“No. It’s decided. I go alone.” Lance shook his head. “Sometimes, gentlemen, you have to take great risks that you know are likely to fail. But if we don’t try, the fallout is too high: Zahrah is lost, right along with the entire safety of the U.S. We all know the repercussions if they manage to hack SIPRNet. We’ll be dead in the water before we know what hits us.”
Merciful God, help me. It took him everything in his own power and a hefty dose of supernatural not to look at Watters before leaving the room. He hated himself for doing it, for baiting that hook, but Dean Watters was the only hope now for Zahrah. But would the captain embrace the mission and the possibility of death?
TODD & AMY
Nothin’ harder than watching the one you love deteriorate. As an elite soldier, he’d seen some of the worst violence perpetrated against humanity. It all paled. After she’d passed out two weeks ago at the barbecue, Amy declined. Fast.
“Please, don’t cancel the anime convention.”
Todd glanced at her as he stood in the bathroom brushing his teeth. He’d canceled the trip to the Grand Canyon. As Friday raced up on them again, Amy grew frustrated with her weakness. He rinsed and wiped his mouth then flicked off the light.
“There’s no hurry,” Todd said as he climbed into bed.
She laughed, but it never reached her eyes. “You just don’t want to put the costume on.”
“Busted.”
“I want to go.”
Though he knew the likelihood of her getting to go was slim, Todd couldn’t tell her no. “I won’t cancel the tickets.”
She traced his face and then his longer-than-normal hair. “I scared you.” Eyes rimmed in shadows of her former vitality, Amy sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Todd tried to nod. And whether he did or not, he couldn’t tell. It hurt to admit he’d been scared that he’d lost her. Right then and there. “I guess I realized how much I don’t want you to go.”
A tear streaked toward her ear as she lay on the pillow. “I don’t want to go either.” More tears, her eyes and lids reddening. “I’m glad …” She tried to compose herself. “I’m glad you weren’t ready … for children.”
Todd frowned. “I thought—”
“I wouldn’t want to leave … a child and a husband.”
“But if we had tried, maybe I’d have a piece of you to help me go on.”
She gave a weak smile. “Good thing it wasn’t in our hands.”
He kissed her nose. “Father knows best.”
A soft snort as she closed her eyes. “Does it bother you?”
“What?”
“Me dying.”
“Bother me?” He snorted. “It’s ticking me off.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said, a disbelieving laugh puffing into the air. “Nothing makes me feel more powerless than watching you suffer.”
“You’ve helped me …” She sighed again, her eyelids heavy. “… fight. Seeing … your … face. Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Being here.” She seemed to struggle for air. Then, “Loving me. I can … go.”
Her words were mixed and slow—was she falling asleep again on him like the last several nights?
“I’m … thirsty. Can you—?”
“Water coming up.” Todd threw back the covers. He plodded to the kitchen, where he filled a glass and returned.
Amy lay on the bed. Eyes closed. Hair haloed around her on the pillow. She looked so peaceful. “Here’s the—” Todd’s stomach plummeted. Her chest wasn’t rising. “Amy!” He touched her shoulder. Nudged it.
But he knew. She left me.
He dropped to the mattress and pulled her limp frame into his arms. He held her close, tenderly. A sob ripped from his chest. “I love you, baby.” Every breath was pinched in grief. “No regrets. Except that you’re gone.”
CHAPTER 32
Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
23 June—1400 Hours
Dean took to the heat and pavement to beat out his frustration. Running helped clear his mind and burn up some of the agitation building in his muscles and clogging his thoughts. Being cut out of the efforts to secure Zahrah, to bring down the men who’d taken her …
What was the point? Why shut out Raptor when they’d been neck-deep in this thing from the start? Had Burnett been out of the field so long that he’d forgotten the probability of succeeding? Granted, Burnett was DIA, but … walking in there alone?
It was a suicide mission.
Burnett had to know that. Had to know the chances of his survival were slim. Or at least, his chances of emerging without leaking vital and sensitive intel.
Burnett. Why Burnett? Why not Dean or one of the spooks?
It. Makes. No. Sense.
After a ten-mile circuit, drenched in sweat and frustration, Dean gave it up. Headed to the showers.
But the bigger mystery was Behrooz Nemazi.
After cleaning up, Dean returned to the command bunker. Trolled intelligence reports hoping for a sign of something unusual that might indicate or hint at Zahrah’s location. But it was like everything and everyone had closed up shop and gone underground.
Perhaps they had.
He dropped into his chair and rested his elbows on his knees, scanning the data. Glanced at the paper in his hand … Zahrah. Scrolled through the stills taken at her apartment. Printed the photo of Zahrah and her father to pin to the wall, a reminder to him and the team of who they were saving. Not just a beautiful woman, and she was that, but the daughter of one of their own. Almost a week she’d been gone.
He lifted the print from the feed bin at the printer and paused when he realized it’d printed two on the same piece of paper. He ripped it in half and pinned one to the wall. He stood back. He’d never seen her without the hijab. A half-dozen images of the woman who’d pursued a passion to watch out for children. Teach them. Protect them through knowledge and education.
Protect.
Something he hadn’t done for her. Something he couldn’t seem to do for anyone who mattered. He couldn’t protect Eagle from watching his wife go through the unimaginable. Couldn’t protect Hawk from getting shot. Couldn’t protect Ellen from dying ten years ago.
Or Mom and Dad twenty-two years ago.
He closed his eyes and tucked his chin, hands running over his buzz cut and down the back of his neck. The paper in his hand crinkled, dragging his attention back to it. Swiping a thumb over her image stirred something in him.
“If you can’t use my given name the way a friend would, if all I am to you is a liability …”
Friend and liability in the same sentence. Strangest part—it was true. Friends were a liability. Not because of a twisted attitude, but because those he cared about seemed to shrivel up and die. As if his presence proved toxic.
It was just the way it was. A curse, he guessed. The only friends he kept were his
team. They had a morbid way of living, a violent method, but they stayed alive. Thrived on the camaraderie amid the adrenaline, amid fighting death face-to-face. Zahrah didn’t fit in that world with hardheaded, smelly grunts. She was sweet, beautiful, and soft.
And I already failed you.
The kiss she’d planted on his cheek teased his mind. He hadn’t expected it. Didn’t give it a second thought.
Liar.
Okay, maybe not a third thought. He hauled his brain out of the fog she’d blasted him into. It’d been a simple gesture, a thanks, but—
Her light touch on his arm.
His gaze slid to the spot, where he could almost see her long, thin fingers. The floral smell that wrapped his brain in that fog …
I’ll find you. I swear on my life.
She might not belong in his world, but she didn’t belong or deserve what they’d do to her in captivity.
Which was why he had to sort out Burnett’s lies.
Going in alone didn’t make sense. They’d figure out who Burnett was and rip the truth right out of his skull. Bleed him—literally—of national secrets.
And Behrooz.
The bombing.
Staring at her oval face, Dean probed possibilities. What’s he doing? This wasn’t like Burnett.
That’s the point.
But … why? how?
A concussive boom from that explosive revelation heated Dean’s chest. No. The general couldn’t be that stupid….
“Hey.”
Dean jerked up and glanced over his shoulder to find Falcon crossing the room. “What’re you doing here? Thought you were going to grab some rack time?” He folded and slid the picture into his tactical pant pocket.
“I did. Four hours.”
Dean shot a look at the clock. He grunted.
“Been here all night?”
“Yeah. Lot to think through, maps to pore over, intel chatter … She’s out there, somewhere.”
“You haven’t slept in thirty hours.”
“I’m fine.”
Falcon’s dark eyes bored into him.
“I’m fine.” Dean pushed to his feet and went to the small coffee-maker. Started another pot.
“Got a minute?”