Talon

by Ronie Kendig

  But Cardinal saw the disquiet clouding Aspen’s face. Saw the confusion that still clung to her. “Give her room,” he said, feeling a surge of protectiveness. “Let her get her bearings.” He touched her arm. “You okay?”

  She swallowed and gave him a quick nod. “Surprised me, that’s all.”

  “I couldn’t warn you. When I spotted the signal, we were in the open. You did good.” Cardinal turned to the captain. “What’ve you got?”

  He waved a hand as he and five others headed to the rear and climbed a flight of stairs. “Burnett contacted and said things are still a go. But he said to be on our guard.”

  “About?” Cardinal hustled up the stairs pocked with bullet holes and peeling plaster. He rounded the rail, glancing down to the floor below. Hogan filled Aspen in on mundane things.

  “Your missionary, Courtland, and this.” Palms spread and arms stretched over the table that took up one side of a large open room, Watterboy stared up through his brow.

  A political map of the area bore Xs and a few circles. In his quick purview, Cardinal knew things were heating up. What worried him was the squiggly line separating Djibouti from Somalia. It’d been marked up with numbers and a series of hyphenated digits. Lat-long indicators.

  “What’s happening here?” He looked at Watterboy.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. There’s been a buildup of fighters in recent months. DIA intercepted a phone conversation…” Droning on about the intelligence reports, Watterboy planted his hands on his belt. “But right now, Burnett wants us out here.” He pressed his fingertip to a barren area about two klicks out.

  “What’s there?” Her voice had lost its quiver as Aspen came and stood beside him.

  “It’s a village. On familiar terms with your dear missionary friend.”

  “Why are we going there?” Aspen asked.

  “Because,” Watterboy said as he tugged out some photos from a manila envelope that sat beneath the map and spread them out, “UAV snapped these about two nights ago.”

  Leaning forward, Cardinal sorted through the photos from the unmanned aerial vehicle. Arranged them in an order that seemed to portray the layout of the village. A truck. Two men. A dozen villages. “Armed.” That wasn’t good. Not unusual in these parts where you negotiated a cup of goat’s milk with an AK-47 on your back.

  “DIA is working to ID the two men. The truck is driven by Somalis. We believe they’re the same pirates who hijacked a shipping barge last week.”

  Cardinal met Watterboy’s gaze. “And what was on that barge?”

  “Weapons. Hundreds of them.”

  “Why would anyone be shipping weapons?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.” Watterboy grinned, his hazel eyes gleaming. “Right after we destroy the weapons.”

  “How’s the honeymoon?” Candyman needed to be punched.

  Aspen shifted. “So, we’re headed to the village?”

  “Roger,” Watterboy said. “We’re going to rendezvous with a medical detachment from Lemonnier and go in under the ruse of a welfare visit. They’ll have a couple of nurses and doctors pass out goodies and deliver much-needed meds. Our contact there is Souleiman Hamadou, a Somali sultan—or at least he thinks he is. Most of the village sultans are overruled by the Djiboutian government, but out in the desert—”

  “Out of sight, out of mind?” Having spent a little time there before things went south, Cardinal held a haunting awareness of the poverty that gripped the land.

  “Pretty much.” Watterboy shifted around, grabbed two bags, and tossed them over the table. “Suit up. We bug out in fifteen.”

  ACUs and body armor waited in the kit bag. “Weapons?”

  Candyman shot another grin at him. “Right here.” He pointed to a long box.

  “Here, you can have some privacy in this room,” Timbrel said to Aspen, and they headed off.

  Waiting till he heard a door shut or their voices faded enough, he turned to Watterboy. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  The seasoned combat veteran betrayed nothing with his face or body language.

  Muscles tightening, Cardinal eased closer. “Let me be painfully clear with you gentlemen. Nobody cares more about this mission than me.”

  “Aspen might disagree.”

  “If she knew what I did, no, she wouldn’t.” Lips tight, he glared at them. “If I so much as get a whiff that you’re going to stiff me—”

  “This isn’t about stiffing you.” Watterboy tucked his helmet on. “And the clock is ticking. We pull out with or without you. This is a favor, briefing you. Take it or leave it.”

  Cardinal ripped off his shirt, stuffed it in the bag, and lifted out the brown T-shirt. Threading his arms through it, he vowed to make sure he never let his guard down from now on.

  A whistle carried through the battered room. “Those’re some scars.”

  Ignoring Candyman, Cardinal slipped on the ACU jacket and body-armor vest. He strapped himself up with the knee and elbow guards.

  “You do that like you know them.”

  Were they complete idiots? Or hadn’t they read his files? No…they were just needling him. They knew very well he spent months in Afghanistan with Courtland. He may not have been career, his stint in the line of combat—officially—might have been short, but he was no stranger to playing this role. And part of that role meant knowing how.

  Shirt tucked, he ran a hand through his hair and pivoted to ODA452, who were so tense, so alert to his every move, it was a wonder someone didn’t accidentally shoot him. “Weapons.”

  “For your leg holster.” Watterboy handed over a Glock. Then he passed an M4A1 and a mic/earpiece.

  Tucking the piece in, he heard Talon returning.

  Aspen came around the corner, adjusted her vest as she muttered something to Timbrel. The ring sparked on a beam of light.

  “Take off the ring,” Cardinal said. “You’ll be a hot target with that.”

  “And without it, you’ll be a hot target for every unsuspecting male.”

  Timbrel glared at Candyman.

  “Hey, I’m not unsuspecting.”

  Aspen tugged off the ring, slipped it into a pocket, and then her gaze lingered…on him. Traveled down his frame then back to his face. “You have weapons.”

  “So will you.”

  “Only a Glock,” she said as she turned to Watterboy. “I can’t handle anything bigger when I have Talon on lead, and I assume that’s part of why we’re going—so Talon can track. But you do know, he’s not trained for explosives or weapons.”

  “That’d be Beo.” Timbrel winked.

  “Understood. No worries. Burnett wants you on-site, you’re on-site.” She had found her courage. And her groove.

  And he liked it. “We should go.”

  At times, Dane stood like an impenetrable fortress. That was 98 percent of the time. The other 2 percent, she saw…something. Not quite vulnerability. The thought made her want to laugh. That man, vulnerable? Not in a million years. Scared? Of what? She had this feeling he could take care of himself—and anyone else who messed with him. And that whole thing when he’d intercepted the situation before Talon took a chunk out of Watters’s arm or throat—brilliant. It made her heart swell because he’d been attuned to her, to Talon. Few had ever gotten to that place. It’d taken her months to get there with Talon as his handler.

  “Let’s do it.” Watters pointed to two men. “Java, Pops, stay here with coms and maintain contact with base. Watch that feed from Aerial Two. We’ve got air support ready just in case.”

  Heart in her throat, Aspen realized this could be her first real op. And her last.

  She fell into step behind Timbrel, the captain, and Candyman as they scurried down the stairs. Rock and dust dribbled around them as they moved. Behind her, she heard Cardinal and the other two members of the team—Rocket and Scrip—bringing up the rear. They buttonhooked out of the stairwell and hurried to a rear room.

  Two bea
t-up Jeeps waited.

  The doors flung open. Aspen held out her arm and showed her palm to Talon. “Talon, hup! Hup!” He leapt into the back, then she guided him over the seat into the rear.

  “Hey.”

  The voice, so deep and masculine, drew her around. Cardinal stood close.

  “Listen,” he said, craning down, “don’t trust your eyes out there.”

  She frowned. “Don’t…what?”

  “Trust your instincts”—he nodded to the rear—“and that trained warrior. Understood?”

  Okay. Sure. That sounded good, but…“Why?”

  “Because eyes are deceiving.”

  “Let’s move!” Watters’s bark carried across the makeshift garage.

  They left through the rear of the building and jounced onto a side road that pushed through two buildings in a narrow alley. Just breathe. Things are fine. Even if she was sitting in a Jeep in Djibouti with a team of trained warriors and a man who was, legally, her husband.

  Dane leaned forward, a hand clutching the seat. “How many in this village?”

  “At least fifty, sixty skinnies,” Watterboy called over his shoulder. The open window made the keffiyeh around his neck flap like crazy.

  They talked up numbers and locals and warlords and terrorists.

  Aspen’s ears were going numb, and her back, thanks to the Kevlar vest, felt like a warming plate for hamburgers. With each jolt on the axles from the pothole-riddled roads, Aspen felt the heat rubbing her shoulder raw where the vest met flesh.

  With the heat at 105, she would have to closely monitor Talon. She glanced back to him and found him panting. Thankfully, Timbrel had known to bring water for Talon. The others seemed oblivious to the needs of the working dog. They wanted him to work yet didn’t know how to properly prep for the op. She dug a bottle of water out of the kit bag and reached over the seat. She uncapped it and drizzled some into his mouth. He smiled at her, his eyes nearly squeezed shut in thanks, then returned to panting.

  Easing back into the seat, she tossed the empty bottle in the bag and sat back. Dane was still talking, laughing. He had the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. She’d noticed that the first time they met. It’d made her like him, like his smile. It was that, somehow, that told her she didn’t have to fear him, even though there were times so unnerving she wanted to run away.

  He’d been all business this morning and, well, even last night, when she’d made a fool out of herself. He hadn’t exactly laughed at her, but it was close. “not interested.”

  Why?

  That was a stupid question. Aspen pushed her gaze out the window, watching the heartbreaking poverty as it slid by. And wasn’t that just the way the world worked? People were starving here, dying of diseases easily cured in America, and the world just slid right on by. She’d known there were places like this, but being here, seeing it, experiencing it firsthand…she really had no clue how bad things could be for a people.

  Was Austin out there somewhere? Walking among them? Did anyone know him? He’d stand out. Granted, there was a hefty French population, since this had been one of their territories, but Caucasians were still the minority here. As were Christians.

  Laughter drew her attention back.

  Dane slapped Candyman’s shoulder. Something akin to jealousy squirmed through her stomach. She wasn’t jealous of Candyman. That’d be crazy. But that he got Dane to laugh…a real laugh, a nice laugh, with his slightly chiseled jaw and that dark dusting of stubble…

  “But this man? Is fine. With a capital F.”

  Aspen tucked her chin as Brittain’s words slipped through the hot Djibouti sun and straight into her heart. Yeah, her friend had been right. He was fine, though the word Aspen would’ve chosen started with an h—hunky—or a g—gorgeous.

  “I’m not interested…” His words resounded like a gong against her pining.

  Aspen pushed straight in the seat and shoved off the silliness. The Jeep jounced as it turned onto a strip of dirt that had ruts instead of lane markers. Nausea swirled as she saw the conditions—homes built with corrugated boxes, lean-tos draped with fabric and wobbly steel. That had to be hot during the day. But it’d provide shelter at night.

  Beside her came a small whoosh, drawing her attention to the side.

  Blue eyes made her stomach squirm. A grim expression stole through his normally stoic face. “This is one experience that never fades, no matter how long you’re gone or how many times you see it.”

  Humanitarian, too? Aspen eyed him. With the headgear and camos, his features seemed amplified, stronger. And natural. “How long were you in the Army?”

  “Not long enough.” He winked. “And too long on the other hand.” The Jeep slowed and pulled to the side of the road.

  Aspen peered through the front windshield as another vehicle bounded ahead. Only when she saw the uniforms did she remember Watterboy had said they were going in as a welfare mission—and that vehicle must have the medical staff.

  A few more minutes delivered them into a village of four, maybe five huts, but dozens of people. Skin darkened by the sun and glistening with sweat, they were vibrant in their multicolored garb. Beyond the front bumper a cluster of Djiboutians stood with a handful of soldiers. “National Army?” But the vast majority of the soldiers were white.

  Dane leaned forward. Said something to Watters she couldn’t hear, then climbed out of the truck. “Stay,” he said in a sharp tone.

  “Bravo, Nightingale One this is Alpha One,” Watters spoke into his coms. “Contact with French Army. Unknown intentions. Hold position.” With that, Watters stepped into the heat. His body still protected by the armored door, he rested his hand on his leg-holstered Glock.

  Talon shifted up, his head appearing over the seat as he panted almost in her ear. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re French.” The snarl in Candyman’s words made her hesitate.

  “That’s bad…why?”

  “Don’t you find the fact they’re here when we show up a mighty big coincidence?” He huffed. “This stinks. Get ready to fight.”

  Nineteen

  If it smelled like a trap and looked like a trap…

  Fingers itching for the weapon holstered at his leg, Cardinal took in the scene. Though twenty or more villagers huddled in the background, it was the fear on their faces that warned him. Cardinal stood in front of the Jeep, praying he shielded Aspen from view. He wanted her presence made known when he deemed it safe. He scanned the foreign nationals.

  Next to the captain stood a man with no rank. Interesting.

  “Hello.” Watters said, as he came to the front. “Is there a problem here, Captain?” He seemed as tense as Cardinal felt. Scanning, checking, assessing—just like a good Special Forces soldier.

  “No problem,” came the slick-accented reply. “We are visiting the villages.”

  “Fancy that.” Watters brought his gaze to the captain. “So are we.”

  He waved to the secondary vehicle. Doors opened. Dirt crunched beneath boots. “Our doctors are here on a welfare check and visit.”

  “The generosity of the Americans is astounding.” The captain shifted to the man on his right. “as tu obtenu ce que tu voulais?”

  Mentally, Cardinal went on alert. Physically, he kept his posture detached, curious. Hand on his weapon, the other on his hip, he waited for the response from the one who stood a few inches shorter.

  Only a quick nod served as the man’s reply.

  “Il semble que tes craintes n’étaient pas fondées. Ils sont aussi aveugles qu’ils sont stupides. Très bien. Je vous laisse à votre mission de miséricorde, les américains.”

  Blind as we are stupid? And what unfounded fears are they hiding? But he had to play it cool. Play it off. With a quick look to Watters, who shrugged, Cardinal cocked his head. “Come again?” he asked.

  The captain held his gaze for a few seconds longer than was necessary. “Forgive me.”

  Cardinal would if the request had
been sincere.

  “I forget myself.” The captain didn’t lie well. “We were just leaving. Enjoy your day, and stay hydrated.” With that he waved to the men, who hustled toward a truck. The French soldiers climbed into the back.

  At least, he heard them doing that. But Cardinal honed in on the captain’s little minion, who ducked his head and looked into the Jeep.

  Adrenaline buzzed through Cardinal’s veins.

  Barking erupted. The Jeep rocked. Inside, he heard Aspen giving commands to Talon, who whimpered, turned a circle, barked once more, then obeyed the command, but tension rippled through the Lab’s coat.

  Aspen turned back to Cardinal, and their gazes locked. He went to the door and crouched. “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. That soldier looked in here, and Talon just came unglued.” She swallowed, her cheeks flushed by the heat. “What did they say? Talon must’ve smelled or noticed something—were they aggressive?”

  The rattle of a diesel clapped out conversation. Cardinal watched as the French made their hasty exit. Just like the French, though—quick to leave. “No, but that’s the problem.”

  “We clear?” Watters called.

  Looking over the top of the Jeep, Cardinal hesitated. The French wouldn’t have hung around if they had rigged something. Wouldn’t have let their faces be seen when an IED along the road would’ve taken out the Americans in a cleaner, hands-off situation. But something large and unsettling wafted on the hot winds. “Let’s get this done and get out of here.”

  “So, it’s safe?”

  “It’s never safe.” The French were talking about something, and the stiff-necked response of the minion bothered him. And the words the captain spoke—something was off. But they had a job to do, and they’d better get under way.

  He stalked to the rear of the Jeep and reached for the handle.

  “No!” Aspen leapt out of the vehicle. “Please, don’t open that. Talon might take it as an aggressive move.” She brushed a curl from her face. “Sorry. I just don’t want him to make strange or attack you.”