by Ronie Kendig
The way Falcon asked that, with tension and gritted out, pulled Dean around. And he saw it. The storm that had been simmering on the horizon had blown in full force. “Sure.” Dean fixed his coffee then returned to his station.
“Look, I just need to clear some air.”
Cuppa joe halfway to his lips, Dean paused. “A’right.”
“I think it’s time we ditch the Australian.”
Nuke out of left field. “We need him, especially with Eagle gone.”
“We don’t need him. He’s duplicating a role.”
Dean eyed his friend, the Italian who’d been a wrecking ball when he’d first come into SOC. “Your role.”
Falcon’s mouth twitched. “He’s stepped in on me more than once.”
“His advice is solid, tactical experience invaluable, and he’s been right there more than once.”
Lips tight, jaw muscle popping, Falcon looked at the ground. “He’s stirring up trouble—and what’s with you letting him bring in that tat artist to ink Hawk?”
Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “Hawk had that coming. You and I—”
“That’s right. You and I …” Falcon’s face reddened.
“Sal,” Dean began as he rose to his feet again. “You’re my first, the team daddy. Titanis—”
“Shouldn’t be here. And if you can’t see that, then—”
“Then what?”
“Have you even realized how long Eagle has been gone? Or checked his Facebook page?”
“I’ve been a little busy running ops.”
“So have I, and it takes exactly one minute to find out his wife died.”
The words knifed Dean’s heart. “Wha …? When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Nobody informed me.”
Falcon’s fury left but not his tenacity. “And Knight.”
“What about him?”
“He’s been reassigned. We lost him.”
Dean shrugged. “He wasn’t ours to lose.”
“But we need a dog like that. Ddrake saved our sorry backsides out there.”
Still scrambling—no, reeling that his friend’s wife had died … that he hadn’t been there for him—and frustrated with the line of questions, the thinly veiled accusations, Dean drew in on himself. Coiled up the ball of tension and pitched it behind the vault that held him in check. But Sal had hit a nerve. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying, you’re not all in.”
That bass drum thumped against his chest again. “That right?”
“I’m not accusing—”
“Don’t play me, Sal. We’ve been friends long enough, been through enough—”
“Exactly. And the last few weeks, you’ve been distracted.”
Dean blinked. Laughed. “Distracted by what?”
“Ya know, I wasn’t sure at first, but now …” His steady eyes considered Dean. “I think it’s the girl.”
“What girl?”
Sal snorted. “You’ve always been a bad liar, Dean.”
“There is nothing more important to me than the team, the mission. You know that. I’ve always held our team in top priority. Show me one time I’ve been derelict, where I’ve been distracted and compromised a mission.”
With a shake of his head, Sal distanced himself. A tactical move to disengage. “I can’t.”
The satisfaction of the answer didn’t touch the insult his friend had thrown, that he’d compromised the team. Distracted!
“I think this is about you not liking that SOC put Titanis on the team, that he’s a top-rate soldier and can hold his own against you. I’m not going to ask for his removal. He adds too much to the team.”
“Yeah.” Sal pursed his lips. “Maybe you’ll listen to him … maybe with him, you don’t deflect the truth by pointing the finger back at me.” He turned, walked out of the room, and punched open the door.
Crap. Dean lowered himself into the seat and buried his head in hands. Sal was right—he’d deflected the blame. But seriously, he felt ambushed by the accusations. He’d thought he held it together pretty well. Then an RPG soared straight into a concealed area—his heart.
Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province
26 June—1040 Hours
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lance considered the soldier standing at ease. “That’s a serious charge against your commanding officer, Russo.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I know, sir. I didn’t feel I had a choice.”
“No, I guess you didn’t.” Lance folded his hands. “But tell me, how do you plan to go back to the tent, sleep, eat, and operate with Captain Watters now that you’ve reported him on something based on suspicions? How will you look him in the face?”
“Sir.” He tensed. “Not suspicions. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He’s compromised. Not thinking clearly.”
“Russo, do you have a psych degree now?”
“No, sir.”
“Then leave it to them to write the diagnosis.”
“But, sir. His past—”
“Is as screwed up and ugly as mine.” Lance gave him a smile. “Are you going to my bosses now to tell them I’m compromised?” He saw Watters headed this way from down the hall. Well, great. This could get interesting.
“No, sir. But I do believe he is compromised because of his past.”
“Your concerns are noted.” In the back of my head. Put this on Watters’s record, and the guy would get passed over for major on his next performance eval. Speaking of—Watters ducked into the briefing room. Time to get rid of Russo. No need to aggravate the situation. “Dismissed, Russo.”
Confusion rippled across the guy’s brow. He saluted then pivoted and left.
He saw a collision down the hall with Russo and Watters. The two bumped shoulders, apologized, then stiffly went in opposite directions, bringing Watters to him. Dean glanced back at Russo once before knocking on the door.
Lance waved him in.
“Sir, a word?”
“Shut the door.”
Watters entered and closed the door behind him.
“Just had a talk with your team daddy.” Something in Watters’s expression shifted, but something so slight, Lance almost didn’t notice. So, Watters knew about Russo’s concerns. “D’you have something you wanted to talk about?”
The facade slipped back into place. A granite one. “Sir, I do.” Watters hesitated for a second. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Always.”
“I’m going to the event with you.”
“I told you I’m going alone.”
“You also said you’d met Nemazi in Kabul in ‘04. But I know you didn’t.”
Lance struck his most menacing pose and leaned forward. “You calling me a liar?”
“Perhaps a bender of the truth, sir.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Nemazi wasn’t in Kabul in ‘04. He was in Jalalabad.” Watters swallowed—hard.
“And what proof do you have?”
Lips tight, Watters fisted his hands. “The scars on my back, sir. Nemazi was my captor, the one who beat and tortured me.” The man’s chest rose and fell in a run cadence.
“So, you’re saying I lied to you and the entire team?”
“I’m saying you altered the truth, sir.”
“What reason would I have for doing that, Watters?”
“To bait me, sir.”
Lance laughed. “Bait you? Did you forget I’m your superior? Why would I bait you when I can just order you?”
“You needed me to come to this decision on my own, sir. Or I’d have fought you all the way.”
“Kicking and screaming,” Lance said with a smile.
“Like a little girl.”
“Now that you’ve taken the bait, tell me why you’re doing this, son.” He pointed to the door Russo had exited a few minutes earlier. “Your team sergeant thin
ks you’re distracted.”
“I am, sir. But not in the way he thinks. I can’t let go of this mission, of what the end game is for these people. I just know it’ll be unlike anything we’ve seen, sir.”
“Agreed. And with Zahrah, the knowledge in her mind …” Lance saw a dozen different scenarios with the American military being crippled, with U.S. national security compromised, buildings crumbling, nukes detonating … And that young woman—Pete’s daughter. “And you’re sure about Zahrah?”
“Sir?”
“You’re sure this is about just the mission?”
“Sir, it’d be foolish for it to be about anything else.”
Lance almost laughed. “A lot worse has been done for love.”
The guy looked like someone punched him. “Sir—that’s not going to happen. I’ve known since I signed up that I wouldn’t get married. I knew before that. Men like me don’t marry. I’m smart enough to recognize that.”
“To recognize it, or avoid the effort it’d take to make things work?”
Watters snapped his gaze to the wall, lips tight.
“Made you mad, huh? Over what? You said there wasn’t anything there.”
Nostrils flared and his jaw flexed.
“I have to be honest with you, Dean.” Lance almost felt like a father to this soldier. “I know about your family, what you’ve been through, and I can’t help but wonder if Russo has a point.”
The man flinched. Face red, he said nothing.
“You are distracted.”
“Sir—”
“No.” Lance took a moment to gather his thoughts. “You’re going to hear me out. I’m one of the few people you can’t shut down, you can’t control.”
Surprise marched through those young-but-seen-too-much eyes.
“You’re an excellent soldier, Dean. You know the drills, you know tactics. And for the most part, your team has your back because you’ve earned their respect. It’s the mark of a real leader.” Lance didn’t like digging into the personal affairs of his men, but this time, personal got public—and militant. “I think you do have feelings for this girl. But maybe you can’t see it because you’re too scared to tempt the demons inside you.”
Watters looked as if he’d puke.
“Which is exactly why I did bait you, why I laid the trap so you’d enter it. I knew you’d risk something you fight every day to avoid.”
“Captivity,” Watters said, his voice and expression grave as it slid to Lance. “If we do this … we go in … we aren’t coming out.”
Lance took his time responding so he could keep the panic from his own voice. “Yes.” He sat in the chair and motioned for the captain to do the same. “You survived Nemazi once. You knew how to buy their favor and another day.”
Seated, Watters held a hand over his fist, rubbing his knuckles.
“She needs you, Dean. You’re the only one who can bring her out alive.”
Bobbing his head, the man had tension roiling off him like thousand-degree heat waves. “You say I’m the only one who can bring her out alive, but you can’t guarantee that I’ll make it out alive this time.”
Watching Watters wrestle the demons of his past carved a long, deep gouge through Lance’s heart. He’d never—never—asked something so personal. “Nobody can, son.” Lance’s heart caught when Watters started shaking his head. Scrambling to think through a line of reasoning to convince this guy … and yet wrestling with the fact that he was—possibly—asking him to lay down his life.
Voice quiet and words raw, Watters said, “You know what I went through….”
Lance said nothing because they both knew that answer.
“They raped Ellen right in front of me.” Stony face. Staring at nothing in particular. “Over and over …”
This time, Lance swallowed.
“They wanted to break me by breaking her.” He leaned forward and propped his right forearm on his knee as he slid his gaze to Lance. “General—” A shuddered breath dragged through Watters. “I can’t watch that happen again.” The clock ticked … ticked … “Not to Zahrah.”
“Then help me get her out of there.”
“I … I have to think about this.”
Disappointment chugged through Lance’s veins. “We don’t have time, son. Don’t be afraid to sacrifice your life for hers.”
After a caustic laugh, Watters got to his feet. “Dying doesn’t scare me. In fact, I think I’d welcome it.”
“Then what is it—what’s stopping you?”
Hand on the knob, gaze on the floor, Watters paused. “Surviving.” It seemed like he was staring into the past. To something painful. “Surviving if she doesn’t. Remembering what I didn’t stop. How I failed to protect her.”
“Failed to protect her …” This was as much about ‘04 as it was about now. Lance met him at the door. “Dean, what happened to Ellen wasn’t your fault.”
His greenish-brown gaze hit Lance. “Wasn’t it?”
CHAPTER 33
Somewhere in Afghanistan
Thudding pain hauled her from the stiff claws of sleep. Zahrah lifted her head, blinking through the semidarkness. Hard-packed dirt smeared out in a confusing mural of rock, dust, and shadows. What…? She pushed her torso up off the floor.
Searing pain exploded between her eyes.
With a yelp, Zahrah dropped to the ground and clutched her head. With the stab of pain came the recollection: She’d been kidnapped then forced into that tunnel. That was the last thing she remembered. More gingerly this time, she lifted herself. Took in her new prison. Dank and dirty, it reeked. Reminded her of the diaper pails in the nursery at church when she worked Sunday school. Of the slums on the outskirts of Mazar-e, where mothers and children foraged for scraps of food in the waste piles.
A small rectangular window no longer than her leg and not even as wide as her arm stretched along the upper portion of one wall. Grayish in color, no light filtered through. Or maybe that gray was the light pressing in against a grimy window.
Propped against the wall, Zahrah felt protrusions digging into her spine. She ran her hand along the surface, feeling the rocks sandwiched with mud. No, too grainy. Maybe mortar? To avoid additional discomfort, she shifted until she could sit without aggravation. Well, the throbbing headache wasn’t going anywhere. What happened to her head? It felt like the pain emanated from the back—
Pain shot through her, like a fork through her eye, as her fingers grazed a spot that felt stiff and hard. More gently this time, she fingered the spot. Dried blood crusted in her hair. A scab at the base of her skull, just above the beginning of her neck. Had someone hit her?
The injury told her she’d been out long enough for the cut or whatever to form a scab. What scared her most was that she had no idea where she was now. How she’d gotten here. Or what … what might’ve happened while she had been unconscious. Mentally, she checked herself, felt no other pains indicating … anything.
Had God protected her in that regard?
I choose to believe You did.
Like a chilled whisper came the question, Why didn’t he protect you from getting snatched?
Zahrah struggled to her feet. Thoughts like that would drag her down a sinkhole of depression. That wouldn’t serve her well in escaping or surviving. She had to keep her strength and wits up. Couldn’t do that if she sat being morbid and depressed on the cold floor. Hand on the wall, she walked. The rippling, partially jagged texture of the stone wall gave way to a plastered one. She worked her hands around the area, straining in the darkening light—it is getting darker, isn’t it?—to see the wall. Was this an interior barrier? Could she somehow break through it, given enough time?
She grunted. She didn’t want enough time—she wanted out!
But no. It was just a wall, so she moved on. Another four feet. She stubbed her toe and turned left. Two steps later, she felt something hard beneath her hand. Cold. Smooth, mostly. Maybe a little rusted. Steel? Her fingers traced the outline o
f a … “Door,” she whispered. Rats! No handle or lock. Not even braces for her to pry off. It bumped out several inches, but again, nothing to work.
With a grunt, she raised her fist to bang out her frustration. Then froze. No need to draw attention. Let them think she’d died in here.
Keep moving. Keep thinking.
Four more steps delivered her to the next juncture. She turned left and the smooth gave way to more stone. And then the wall with the window or grayish indention. On her toes, she reached up, fingertips barely grazing the lip. She strained, ignoring the thump against her temples, and—yes! Smooth glass.
Could she clean it? If she did, maybe she could see out, figure out her location. She reached for the hijab—and stilled, remembering her hair, the scab. No hijab.
Okay, so no hijab.
Maybe if she just wiped the glass. On tiptoe again, she tried.
“It will not do any good.”
Zahrah flipped around and sucked in a breath. Hands against the uneven surface, she searched for the source of the voice. “Where are you?”
“Here,” the man muttered. “To your left—the cell next to yours.”
Cell? I’m in a prison!
“There is a small hole in the wall.”
Inching closer, still half afraid the owner would jump out at her, she squinted. “How … how can you see me?”
“I can’t,” he said, his voice gravelly and weak. “I hear your movements. I’ve been here long enough, I trust my ears, not my eyes now.”
Dread spilled into her stomach, hot and putrid. “H–how long have you been here?”
“What year is it?”
“2014.”
The man groaned. “Ya salaam.” A strange noise filtered through the darkness and stench.
Zahrah stumbled toward the noise, toward where the voice had been. She crouched. “Are you still there?”
The strange noise, almost like . . . crying. She used it to hone in on the hole he’d mentioned. Crouched near the base, she found the small opening. No bigger than a small apple.
Her heart clenched. “Staa num tsa dhe?” Asking his name wouldn’t cure his broken heart, but maybe …
“Majeeb.”
“Khushala shum pa li do di, Majeeb. I am Zahrah.” Sharing names somehow shared hope. That’s what it did for her.