Raptor 6

by Ronie Kendig

  Her shoulders bunched as she gave a small laugh. Then she sat next to him with a long sigh.

  “How often do they bring food or water?”

  Zahrah drew her knees up. “I have no idea—it seems like it comes only when I feel like I might die from starvation.”

  “That’s what they want you to think.”

  She nodded. “I wanted to lose a few pounds, but not like this.”

  “You don’t need to lose weight.”

  His words sounded like one of those “I like you the way you are” comments, but Zahrah wasn’t sure she dared hope it was true. Still, she looked to him. Despite the swelling and cuts, Dean was still handsome. Strong. Impenetrable.

  And completely unreadable.

  Earlier when he’d said, “Because they know I mean something to you,” Zahrah didn’t miss the fact that he’d said nothing of his feelings for her. If he had any. Wasn’t that always like her? Always falling for the guys out of reach. The quarterback in high school. Her advisor in college, which still embarrassed her that she’d developed feelings for the thirty-something professor.

  And here she was, pining after a man who wasn’t that much older—maybe five or six years—but an eternity away in terms of experience and direction. No small humiliation that he’d figured out she liked him.

  Her words, calling him a child killer, rang in her ears. She imagined that he’d done brutal things as a Special Forces operator. Endured the unimaginable. Protected innocents. Carried out lethal missions. And bore it like a warrior. Now, he sat here with his eyes closed, as if being a prisoner was of no consequence.

  Zahrah’s conscience tugged at her. “I don’t think you’re a child killer.”

  A miniscule smile flicked across his face. “I know.”

  “Those words … I just didn’t want to watch them kill you.”

  A quieter, “I know.”

  And he knew she liked him. How long had he known that? When had she been so transparent? “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  This time a bigger smile tugged at his lips but didn’t crinkle his eyes the way she’d seen one do before. He angled his head toward her, eyes still closed. “Yeah—how many men are here?”

  Mentally walking through her experiences here, Zahrah looked toward the door. “I’m not sure. I’ve seen two or three when they’ve taken me upstairs.”

  “What’s upstairs?”

  “Not much. Most of it’s empty or crumbling.”

  After a sigh of frustration, Dean ran his hand over his buzzed hair. “What else have you seen?”

  “Not much, really. They’ve kept me in here, night and day.”

  “What about when they brought you here? What d’you see?”

  “Nothing.” She eased against the wall and rested her head against the stones. “One minute they’d forced me into a tunnel, the next, I woke up in here.”

  “So, why do they take you upstairs if there’s nothing up there?”

  “The computer.” The face of the Chinese man popped into her mind. “And Zmaray.”

  Dean snapped toward her. “Zmaray?” The muscles between his eyebrows knotted and pulled together. “How do you know that name?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what they call him. Why, does it mean something to you?”

  “Too much.” He drew up his legs and rested his forearms on his knees, staring up at the grimy window.

  “Aren’t we past the whole confidential thing?”

  “Can you prove this room isn’t monitored?”

  Pride dinged, Zahrah relented. She’d taken his refusal to speak about the operation personally, but he laid the truth bare: There were listening ears—she knew that for a fact—and he couldn’t compromise anything else.

  Dean lumbered to his feet, wincing as he held his side. “The best thing we can do is keep conversation casual. Give them nothing to use against us.”

  Grateful for his presence, she squashed her frustration over the way his conversation came across more like a drill sergeant and less like the Dean Watters who’d drawn her attention and affection. The one who’d put the baseball cap on Rashid. The captain who’d brought his men to help find Ara. The one who’d texted her as Kamran stormed into the apartment.

  She eyed his clothes. Not the typical SFOC dress he normally wore. Black slacks and a white shirt, stained with blood, sweat, and dirt. “Where were you when they captured you?”

  “At an event with General Burnett.”

  Surprise coiled around her.

  He turned from the window and looked at her, something odd in his expression. “Listen, I need to say something.” Pacing, he scratched the back of his head.

  Zahrah tugged her legs to her chest and waited.

  “I need you to know—those feelings you have for me …” The man had the stiff stare down better than her father. “I don’t share those feelings, Zahrah.”

  Humiliated, she jerked her gaze to the pebbles at her bare feet.

  “You understand?”

  She managed a nod.

  “I’ve never wanted to get married. Have no desire to get married.” He shrugged. “I can’t even remember the last time I went on a date.”

  Choking on her own embarrassment, she forced a swallow. Hated the heat creeping up her neck and into her face.

  “I’m not saying this to be mean or hurt you, but here—where these people think they can break you through me, you need to know”—his chest rose and fell hard several times—“I’m not worth it. I can’t now, and I won’t ever, return those feelings.”

  Her vision blurred.

  “I know you saw something in me, and I’m honored.” He hunched in front of her. “This isn’t personal, Zahrah. You’re an incredible woman, but Special Forces is my life. I can’t—won’t—commit to a relationship knowing one day I could come home in a pine box.” Vehemence laced his words. “I won’t do that.”

  Throat raw, she nodded. “I get it.” She didn’t. Not really. Where was all that scientific talk from the books that said if a guy was into a girl, he’d find a way to be with her. Guess Dean just wasn’t that into her.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered. “Though it’s a pretty selfish way to live.”

  “Maybe, but it leaves my conscience clear.”

  Anger punched through her chest. “Does it?”

  “Yes.” Sincerity seeped through the green-flecked irises. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t said to hurt you.”

  “Then was it said for?”

  The door groaned open.

  Dean pushed back onto his haunches, then stood straight, stiff against the pain obvious in his face.

  Zahrah tensed as Kamran entered.

  “It was said”—the Asian entered and dragged his gaze from Dean to Zahrah—“in the misguided belief that you would let go of your feelings for him. That our efforts here would be nullified.”

  Dean glared. “It was said because it’s true.”

  Hands tucked in the pant pockets of his slick Italian suit, Zmaray gave Dean a smug smile. He lifted a hand out and flagged his fingers to someone behind him. “We will test your theory.”

  Two men entered, a metal bed frame carried between them. Another wheeled in a cart that held what looked like a battery and cables

  “Z,” Dean growled, his tension palpable.

  But she couldn’t take her eyes off the equipment. Or steady the rapid-fire of her heart as it vaulted into her throat as the guards set the bed in the middle of the room. The third drew the cart toward the bed, ran a long cord out of the room. This was bad. Very bad.

  “Zahrah!”

  Her stomach knotting, she flinched and darted a look to Dean.

  The two guards who’d ushered in the bed stalked to Dean and wrestled him toward the rusted metal frame. They then ripped open Dean’s dress shirt and yanked it off. A T-shirt hugged his toned torso, and they hauled that over his head.

  “Remember …” Dean’s voice carried the roar of a mighty lion.
“I’m not worth it.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Somewhere in Afghanistan

  I’m not worth it!” Dean struggled against his captors. He didn’t want her staring at the equipment. “Look at me, Zahrah. Right here.”

  Wide and glossy, her eyes finally drifted back to him. It felt slow. Too slow—like time had dropped into some suspended frame. Lips parted, terror gouged into the soft lines of her face, she shook her head, slowly at first then faster as she started backing up.

  “It’s okay. This doesn’t matter.” He fought the urge to curse, knowing the fire that would soon boil the water in his body. “I don’t matter.”

  “It has come to our attention that your great hero has a tracking device in his body.” This was the guy from the video, Lee Nianzu. He walked the cell with the casual grace of someone visiting a museum. “That presents a problem we must remedy.”

  Two guards hauled him backward toward the metal frame. Dean held no delusions. He was headed to torture. Pain and simple.

  Big paws jammed beneath his arms, the guards shoved him back. He fought, but the metal frame clipped the back of his knees. He went down—hard. Wire ring supports dug into his shoulder blades and spine. Might go down, but not without a fight. Tugging hard, he managed to free his right arm as the guy attempted to secure the belt. Dean punched the guard on the left.

  “Captain Watters,” Nianzu called, his voice preternaturally calm.

  Dean’s gaze skidded to his right. To where the Asian assassin stood. With a gun to Zahrah’s temple.

  Dean froze—just long enough to give the thugs an advantage. They fell on him with their full weight, pinning him to the metal springs. “You won’t kill an asset you need.”

  “Perhaps not, but I am not against making a lasting impression.”

  Zahrah’s whimper was enough to do Dean in. He hadn’t been able to control things with Ellen, hadn’t been able to shift the tide of torture, to stop her from behind hurt, killed. Remembering the splat of her blood on his face, the warmth … He breathed in. Out. In. Out. Had to center himself or he wouldn’t survive what this man intended to do to him.

  This would be over before it started. Zahrah would end up just like Ellen.

  Augh! No, can’t think like that.

  God, she trusted You. Livid, he closed his eyes. So where are You?

  Cuffs pinched his wrists as they were secured to the metal frame. His feet were strapped as well.

  He fought the curses sailing through his brain. This was familiar. Too familiar. Trembling overtook his muscles, knowing what was coming. Crap, did he ever know! Even though his body betrayed him, his mind raced for Zahrah. He wanted her to know it was okay. He’d be okay. They wouldn’t kill him. Not yet. Because he knew she wouldn’t give in so easily. Zahrah was a smart girl, too aware of what divulging that information would mean.

  A beeping swept over his body. A sensor, probably searching for the radio-transmitter signal. To his left, the repetitive beeping increased until it finally shrieked. He strained and saw a blue-gloved hand holding the black control over his forearm.

  A dark shape hovered to the side. “Here, Captain.”

  Dean eyed the bit offered to him.

  “We would not want you to die … so soon.”

  Ticked, he allowed the grit to be placed into his mouth. He clamped down and shot a look to Zahrah. Did she hear that? He wouldn’t die. Not yet.

  He expected her to turn away, but something flashed through her eyes. Her lips flattened and her gaze bore into his, surprising him.

  The buzz at first almost wasn’t noticeable. It carried up his arms and—grew! Fire! Pain. Dean ground down on the grit. Started to look away but remembered Zahrah’s determination. He locked on to her as his body vibrated. Convulsed. He threw his head back, limbs thrashing and bouncing against the voltage. He howled around the grit.

  A sulfurous smell mixed with a charcoal-like odor. Hair and flesh burning.

  The electric shock stopped.

  Body trembling, Dean shoved his gaze to the ceiling. Concentrated on breathing. On compartmentalizing the pain. On surviving. Ignoring Zahrah’s whimpers.

  “Again.”

  “No!” Zahrah cried out. “Ple—”

  Volts shot across his skin, sizzling and crackling. The buzz fried his concentration. This time was way worse than before.

  “Stop, stop!” Zahrah begged.

  Dean worked harder to fight the pain, to not react. But it was futile. The involuntary thrashing of his flesh as it conducted the amps made it impossible. His brain lost the fight as darkness rushed in like a hungry shark, chomping into Dean’s determination.

  The fire stopped, reduced to a smoking simmer that left his limbs trembling, his chest heaving for a breath that didn’t burn.

  Quiet dropped on the room.

  Air swirled, cool and acrid, with the scent of his burnt flesh and hair. Someone was close to him. He fought to open his eyes. The rubber-gloved doctor held a device over Dean, sweeping, searching for the sensor.

  Dean swallowed against a dry tongue. So much for Raptor finding his location. So much for a delayed-activation sensor. How did they even know? It shouldn’t have activated yet.

  The man nodded and moved back to the cart, where instruments clanked. Hopefully, he was packing up. Permanently. But that’d be too good to be true. The bindings on his left wrist snapped free. Then his right. Hands hauled him off the rusted frame, pushed him to the side.

  Legs rubbery, Dean sat on the edge for a second to get his bearings. Find his land legs.

  The frame shifted beneath him. He tumbled forward—a dull awareness that the Oriental and his goons left doing nothing but annoying him. Knees buckled. Felt himself falling backward. Jerked forward. The room blurred.

  Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Sweet and sweat mingled. Soft. Sweet. “Hey. It’s okay.” Zahrah eased him to the ground.

  On his knees, Dean shifted. Didn’t want to lose face, not in front of Zahrah. He struggled against his puppet legs. Teeth gritted, he winced as he flopped onto the hard-packed dirt.

  Zahrah was there again, arms around his shoulder as she slowed his descent.

  “I guess I’m getting old.” Dean swallowed again, this time his throat a little less dry as he looked up at her. “You … you did good.” He folded himself against the wall.

  Concern smoothed from her face, replaced by a shaky smile teasing the edges of her lips. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked down at him.

  He closed his eyes. “Thanks.” Relaxed, still feeling the buzz zipping through his veins.

  “For what? I did nothing.”

  “Yeah.” Dean tried to smile. “You didn’t cry, didn’t show them they were right.”

  Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal

  Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  Sajjan Takkar, his face sheer granite, betrayed nothing with his dark eyes. “It was necessary.”

  Lance tossed his phone on the desk in the semidarkened office. Only the hall light and a small desk lamp provided illumination. With a heavy exhale, he went for the fridge. “Do you realize the damage you did?”

  “On the contrary,” Takkar said, the epitome of calmness and confidence. “If I had not secured your safety, far greater damage would’ve resulted. I know you do not like that I intervened, but I could not let an asset like you die when I had the means and power to stop it.”

  “Asset? I’m not your asset—you’re my spook!”

  “I am owned by no government.” Pride glinted in the man’s eyes. “I did not say you are my asset.”

  “What you mean is that I can still be of benefit to you.”

  Takkar said nothing. He didn’t have to. Lance had no misconceptions about where power truly existed. Who held the better hand. Lance popped the top of a Dr Pepper and took a greedy slurp, savoring the fizzle that trickled across his tongue. “Half the time, I’m not sure if you’re workin
g me or I’m working you.”

  “We are working. Together. For the mutual good.”

  Hiking a leg over the edge of his desk, he sighed. “I’m not going to kid you, Sajjan. I need that mutual good to swing in my favor in a really big way. I need them back—Watters and Zarrick’s daughter.”

  Takkar turned toward the door. “I have done what I can.”

  Lance slammed the can on the desk. “What in Sam Hill does that mean?”

  “It would be cliché to say you have no idea what you are dealing with.” Olive skin and brown eyes seemed to grow darker. “But it is true. The players on this chessboard are”—he shook his head, concern digging into the practiced facade of indifference—“I have not seen a game this big in a long time.”

  “Is that supposed to scare me?” Though Lance tried to smile, he wavered and slipped beneath the surface of his exhaustion.

  “Do not think you can throw brute force at this one and win, old friend. Your enemy in this game is experienced and lethal. They are not simply one step ahead. Not even two or three. They are a dozen. They know your every move. They know your countermoves. They have studied you. They have prepared for you.”

  Lance muttered a curse and slumped into the chair beside Takkar. “You sure know a lot about this ‘they’ you keep referring to.”

  Hands in his pant pockets, Takkar said nothing.

  Defeat stunk up his office like a dead skunk. “What are you saying—give up? Because I’ll tell you—that’s not going to happen. I’m not leaving my man out there, and I’m sure not leaving Zahrah Zarrick for them to manipulate so they can systematically take down our secure network.”

  Takkar remained an immovable, impenetrable mountain of mystery.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lance growled. Bit back another curse. “I’ve never seen you lay down your weapon and walk away like this.”

  “I have laid down nothing but the truth. The fight … is not only at your doorstep. It has invaded your base, your command center, your men.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know!”

  Takkar inclined his head in cockeyed way. “Very well. Do not think this is something you can solve quickly. Do not think even if you get them back, that this will be stopped.”