Raptor 6

by Ronie Kendig

  Guilt swirled through her stomach.

  “She is a very intelligent woman.” Zmaray lifted a silver device in one hand. “And now that the box is off, she knows she can solve this puzzle very quickly. But she fell in love with a man. And she’s very loyal to him and her country.”

  “Leave him alone,” Zahrah said with a growl.

  “So we need to make sure she does her very, very best.” Back against Rashid’s chest, Zmaray held out the hand and splayed the fingers. He slid a cigar cutter over Rashid’s pointer finger.

  “No!” Zahrah screamed. “Don’t do this!”

  Meaning spiraled through his gaze. “You have done this to him.”

  Zahrah wrenched. “Stop!”

  The cutter closed around Rashid’s finger.

  The boy screamed.

  Zahrah screamed. “Stop! Don’t—no!”

  Red sped down Rashid’s finger.

  “Please! Stop.” Zahrah yanked and tugged against her chains, straining to intervene. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Just leave him!”

  Rashid howled.

  Zmaray slid the cutter off. Straightened. “Next time I will not be so compassionate.” Chin lifted, anger in his eyes, he stared down his nose at her. “How long before you have it broken?”

  Wiping the tears from her face and beneath her eyes, Zahrah looked at the computer. “A day, maybe two. I don’t know how intricate the system is yet.”

  He leaned toward her. “You have two hours.” His breath smelled of curry and wine. “For each hour you go over, Rashid pays.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Residence, Balkh Province

  01 August—2010 Hours

  Thunder had nothing on the rotors of a Black Hawk. But stealth also had nothing on the technology that silenced the rotor wash to prevent giving away their presence. Grabbing a line, Dean fast-roped from the helo, a challenge with only one good hand. He dropped from the nylon cord and hit the ground hard. He stumbled, righted himself, and plucked the M9 from the holster at his waist.

  The team swarmed into the compound.

  Gunfire erupted.

  Frantic, ongoing sprays of fire were answered by the operators’ tight, controlled bursts of three to four shots at a time. Control. Precision. That’s what told him they’d beat this. They had to.

  With thirty operators descending on the compound, the bad guys didn’t have a prayer. As they flooded into the night-darkened palace, Dean mentally mapped the route. His gaze hit the grand staircase that led to the upper level. That’s where the party had been. Where they’d lured him into a lesser room, though still opulent. Where they’d ambushed him. Beaten him and dragged him out what must’ve been the servants’ entrance. He’d been mostly unconscious, fading in and out.

  Hawk, Falcon, and Eagle pied out through the main room. Moonlight pushed through curtain cracks and transom windows over the French doors. Patio lights glinted off the Olympic-sized pool.

  Dean stuck close, but gave them room to operate.

  Movement near the French doors drew Dean’s attention. He aimed his gun that way. A sea of black-clad operators rushed through the doors.

  SEALs. Dean let out the breath he’d been holding.

  It was quiet here. Too quiet.

  Through a tall, narrow door, Dean shifted to the side and turned to aim his gun at the door, watch the team’s six as they moved and cleared it. His heartbeat whooshed in his ears, every sound amplified in the deathly quiet palace. The scritch of his tactical pants. The subtle squeak of tac boots.

  “Occupants located orange three.”

  Upper level, third section.

  “Secured.”

  Dean breathed a little easier knowing the innocents were locked down, narrowing the chances of finding the bad guys with each minute.

  “Thermals show staff snoozing,” came Eagle’s voice. Laid up on a rooftop, he was monitoring the team’s movement with a high-powered scope that showed infrared and bled through buildings.

  Staff quarters lined the northeast wall, so seeing through those walls had been easy and essential. If they could secure the staff and prevent them from entering the active mission, Raptor reduced the risk of innocent casualities. They moved on. Two offices. A sitting room. A green room. Butler’s pantry. Regular pantry. Kitchen. A room for refrigerators and dishwashers. Incredible when one considered the relative poverty of this country.

  What took two hours to prep and plan had been executed in less than five minutes.

  Their objective, they believed, would be in underground storage areas. Or third-level quarters, which the SEALs were clearing even as Raptor moved toward the kitchens.

  The hall was narrow and cramped with artifacts and treasures. Dean narrowly missed toppling a statue. He grabbed it and stilled. A garish representation of a giraffe. Maybe. But he remembered it from them dragging him out.

  “Levels two and three clear,” came the final report.

  Raptor went right. Only one more room.

  But … Dean hesitated in the kitchen. A large metal island with a rack dangling over it. His gaze drifted to the right. To the bank of refrigerators. He walked to them. Opened one. Then the second. The third.

  “Captain.”

  The fourth—he snapped back, weapon up, heart thrumming at the darkness that glared back. It wasn’t a fridge. It was a door. “Got something.”

  The scritching of tac pants preceded a tap on his shoulder.

  Dean nodded and held his stance as Hawk aimed his shoulder lamp into the darkness.

  “Stairs.”

  Keying his mic, Dean followed Hawk into the underground passage. “Underground passage in the kitchen. Raptor going in.” Behind him, Falcon, Harrier, and Titanis crammed into the space.

  Light beams bounced and sparked against dust particles.

  A half-dozen doors on either side. Raptor entered the first one. Dean held the tail because of his arm.

  Harrier blurred to his right.

  Dean swung that way, his mind coalescing the movement with the image his brain snapped. “Stop! U.S. military!” Even as he started that way, Hawk rounded him.

  “What’d you see?”

  “To the left. Someone ran left.”

  They rushed forward. Hawk cleared the corner and moved into the darkness. Dean with him, both with their NVGs and cameras active.

  Something swung out at them. Popped Hawk in the head and knocked him to a knee. Dean eased back his trigger at the wielder. In the microscopic second of muzzle flash, he saw someone else dart into another room. He heard the thump of the wielder falling but pressed on.

  Three quick strides delivered him into a wide room. He shoved himself to the right and against a wall, pieing.

  Through his NVGs, he saw Hawk do the same on the left. As their lines of fire crossed, Dean stilled. Two glowing forms—no, three. A man with a gun to the head of— “Zahrah!” Dean shoved forward with renewed purpose, stalking right as Hawk continued. Flanking the guy. Forcing him to choose one or the other.

  The gunman pressed the barrel harder against Zahrah’s temple. “Stay back or she dies.”

  “Not going to happen,” Dean shouted in Pashto, recognizing the man’s voice as Kamran. Oh sweet justice! Would God really let him repay this man for the harm he’d done Zahrah? “Release her and the child. Now!”

  “Dean,” Zahrah said, her voice clear and focused. She wrapped her arms—were those chains on her?—around Rashid. “I’m ready.”

  His heart sped. Ready? It took a second for the understanding to register.

  He gave her a nod, then glanced at the kid. “Rashid, is that you, recruit?”

  The boy nodded with a whimper.

  “You done good, Rashid. Looked out for her just like I asked.” And he prayed—begged God to have Zahrah understand. “Now!”

  Bending at the waist, Zahrah drove her elbow into her captor’s stomach. When she did, it brought Kamran forward, giving Dean a clear head shot.

  He fired—just as he saw the w
eapon pointed at him.

  Deafening cracks peppered the stale air.

  A strangled cry—from Zahrah!

  Dean’s heart stopped as time spun into a deathly slow motion. She pitched forward. Back arched. Eyes wide. She stumbled. He lunged into her path as gunfire exploded. Dean quickly eased her to the ground. “She’s hit!”

  Something loomed from the shadow. Dean whipped his weapon that direction. Verified the target in a split second. Fired. Twice.

  Kamran Khan spun and raced for the door.

  Dean focused on Zahrah. On her gushing wound. “Z, stay with me.”

  Her hand covered his, snapping his gaze back to hers. A slow smile came to her face as a sleepy-peaceful expression smoothed out the knot between her eyes.

  A stream of bullets flew from Hawk’s M4. “Take that!”

  “Heads-up,” came a voice through the coms. “Twenty or more coming your way in two trucks.”

  “Take them out,” Riordan’s command crackled through the coms.

  Boom-boom!

  Walls trembled. Dirt rained down.

  “Z, stay with me. I’ll get you out of here.” When she didn’t respond, Dean touched her face. “Z—with me?”

  Zahrah blinked. “Rashid,” she breathed, then her eyelids slid shut.

  Rashid? “Hawk—the kid!” Dean checked to make sure she was still breathing—good. He spotted a small form huddled in the corner.

  They had to clear out. The enemy knew they’d found her, and they weren’t going to let her go easily. If he lifted her, he could risk permanent injury to her spine if the bullet was close. But if he didn’t—

  Dean scooped her into his arms, pushed to his feet. After another nod to Hawk, who had the boy, Dean started for the exit, where Titanis and Falcon waited.

  “Raptor coming out with objective plus one. Both wounded. Need medevac,” Falcon said as he led the way, clearing each corner in a swift—but painfully slow to Dean—way.

  A shooter appeared at the end of the hall.

  Falcon fired but never stopped moving, even to step over the combatant’s now-still form. Up the passage and back into the kitchen. There someone came at Titanis with a knife. The SAS soldier managed to turn the blade into the attacker’s stomach and put him down. Falcon led them out the back door.

  Light pushed against Dean’s eyes. He struggled, his arm pounding, as he hurried toward a secure spot where he went to a knee and set Zahrah down. “Z.” Eyes closed, she lay unresponsive. He ripped off his glove and jabbed two fingers against her carotid.

  A second large boom detonated from the far side of the compound. Dean covered Zahrah against any falling debris. The gunfights, the shouts, all went silent.

  Worrying over the gray pallor seizing Zahrah, Dean keyed his mic as he looked at the sky. “Mockingbird, where are those choppers?”

  CHAPTER 56

  Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif

  02 August—1345 Hours

  Rhythmic beeping numbed his mind as Dean sat in the private room. Cold plastic dug into his legs after having occupied the chair for the last three hours. Forearms resting on his knees, he stared at the bed. At Zahrah propped on her side in the bed. Clinging to life.

  “Anything?”

  Dean glanced to the side. There stood General Peter Zarrick. Zahrah’s father. Haggard but looking a bit better since Raptor returned her to American-held soil. “Nothing. Not yet.”

  “Since Nianzu escaped, Burnett and I are concerned they’ll come after her again.”

  Dean nodded. He’d had those thoughts countless times. It’s why there were round-the-clock guards. “Figured as much. Ticked we didn’t find Sadri Ali. Those Chinese are slippery thugs.” Dean’s gaze went to Zahrah, lying in the bed. So vulnerable. “If they come after her again …”

  “Official word on her injuries will be memory loss and limited loss of cognitive functions.”

  It took Dean a second to process the words. “In other words, when Nianzu reads the report, he’ll believe Zahrah useless now.”

  “That’s the plan anyway.” General Zarrick nodded as he appraised Dean. “You did real good out there, son. Thank you.”

  Surprise drew Dean up.

  “Thank you for bringing her back.” He sighed. “But with the way you’re sitting in here, pining over my girl, I guess you’re looking to steal her from me.”

  “No, sir.” Dean’s heart thumped against what he immediately knew was a lie. “Well … maybe.”

  “I won’t make it easy for you.” Though gruff, the words had a tease to them.

  “Wouldn’t expect you to, sir.”

  “Good.” He grinned. “Heading down for some java. Want some?”

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  Alone with his thoughts, Dean shifted his leg and felt something press against him. His hand stilled over the pocket, remembering the flower bed as he and the team loaded in the chopper. It was silly. Borderline stupid. He’d probably just throw it away.

  C’mon, Z. Don’t give up now, not when I realize how much I need you.

  She’d taken a bullet to her back. Almost severed her spinal cord. Docs weren’t sure how much neurological damage there would be. Dean didn’t care. He just wanted her to wake up, set those beautiful eyes on him, and give him that killer smile. Maybe another kiss.

  He glanced down. God, I know You didn’t bring her this far to die on me. Somehow—yeah, he knew that. What he was supposed to do with this, with the budding feelings that had upended his whole life plan …

  He wasn’t even really sure what love was, but he had feeling it was a lot like this mess in his head over Zahrah right now. Terrified he’d screw it up and hurt her. And yet more terrified not to have a chance with her. In his pocket, he wrapped his hand around … a promise. Closed his eyes. Just a chance.

  A sound drew his attention to her bed. She moved her foot and turned her head.

  Dean was on his feet and at her side in a heartbeat. “Zahrah?” She moved her foot!

  Beautiful brown eyes latched on to his face. She smiled. “Hey.” Groggy and a bit unfocused, but beautiful.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I got shot.”

  “That might be because you did.”

  “But we got him, right?”

  Dean faltered. “Kamran’s dead. Nianzu has vanished.”

  She closed her eyes in a pained way.

  “Hey.” Dean touched her head. “The important thing is you’re alive.”

  “Yes, that’s a very good thing,” she said. “You came for me.”

  He eased closer, leaning over the bed. “I told you I would—and I said I promised not to die. You, on the other hand, I forgot to extract that promise from. You cut it close.”

  A small smile then worry crowded into her gray-rimmed eyes. “Rashid?”

  “He’s fine—we thought he was shot, but he was thrown into a table corner or something. Big knot on his head, but fine, poor kid.”

  She lifted a hand and touched his face. “Dean …”

  He felt powerless beneath her touch, the soft whisper of her voice.

  “I still love you,” she said, her voice softer. More serious.

  Dean wished he could say it back. He wanted to—was a cad for not returning the sentiment. But that was some serious commitment. One that scared the tar out of him. Casted arm over her head on her pillow, Dean bent down. “You picked a very thickheaded guy to feel that way about.”

  She smiled. “Yeah.”

  He wrapped his hand around hers, eyes less than an inch from hers, and tucked the promise there as he bent down. “Get better so we can talk.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.

  “Ah, good morning, Miss Zarrick.” A dark-haired man entered the room. “I’m Doctor Prevost. How are you feeling?”

  Heart in her throat, Zahrah felt the delicate bloom on her hand, unable to look at it right now. Unable to bear the disappointment if it wasn’t what she thought it was. Dean still stood to her left, but he’d retreated
as the doctor spoke.

  “Sore. I’m very sore,” she finally managed to answer.

  Dr. Prevost lifted a plastic cup from the tray by her bed. “Here, sip some of this for me.”

  Grateful for the water, she wanted nothing more than for the doctor to leave the room. Dean to leave—she didn’t want to look at what he’d tucked into her hand as he leaned over, smelling every bit the hero she’d fallen for months ago.

  “I’d like to check your vitals and check your reflexes. Is that okay?”

  Dean hedged closer. “I’ll wait outside.” He stepped into the hall and stood against the wall, hands tucked up under his armpits. Two other soldiers joined him.

  “Can you move your toes, Miss Zarrick?”

  She did, wondering.

  “Your legs?”

  She shifted her legs out, unable to ease onto her back because of the bullet wound.

  “Good, good. With an injury, we want to be sure there isn’t damage to the spinal column or nerves.” He patted her shoulder. “In a few days, you should be okay lying on your back. Anything else hurt?”

  Zahrah shook her head and drew her hands closer to her face. “No.” When would he leave?

  “Any questions or concerns?”

  Just that you won’t ever leave. “Nothing, I’m good. Tired.” Would that work? Surreptitiously, she took a sniff between her fingers.

  “All right, then. I’ll leave you to rest.”

  Oh, thank goodness.

  “And that’s the most important thing right now—resting so your body can heal itself.”

  “Right.”

  “You’ve been through a lot, and that can really take its toll on the body and its ability to heal quickly and properly.”

  Zahrah groaned at his rambling—but coughed through it. “Sorry.” Dean and the two men walked away from her room, and her heart hitched.

  “Maybe more water?”

  “No,” she snipped. Then smiled. “Just rest.”

  “Very well,” Dr. Prevost said as he scribbled on her chart. “I’ll leave you to rest. If you need anything, just press the button.”

  “Thank you.” Zahrah pressed her fingers curled around the gift from Dean to her face, waiting as the doctor left. As the door shut, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of her own breath pluming back in her face. Without a scent. Her heart raced. Could it be …?