Wounded Falcon: Brotherhood Protectors World

by Jesse Jacobson

  He let out a breath, “Oh, boy. Months . . . years . . . hell, I’m not sure I’m fully over it yet. I’ve never had a serious relationship since.”

  “I’m sorry.” She put her hand on his thigh and allowed her fingers to glide up and down its length.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Andrews said.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Why did you do it? Why did you help me?”

  “I told you,” she replied.

  “No, I mean, why did you risk your life warning me?”

  “I smelled a rat,” Love said. “Rice and Kelsey are bastards. They do not deserve their positions. Men like them need to receive their comeuppance. I hate them. I hate them both. Their lust for control and power has no boundaries. The thought of slime like them remaining in power while they persecute a man like you made me sick to my stomach. Your life was in danger from the start. I didn’t know it at first, but I felt it. Later, I found it to be true. I could not stand by and do nothing.”

  “You could have taken it through channels.”

  “Taking an issue with Director Rice through channels would have meant doing an end around meant going to his boss, the Attorney General of the United States. Getting to him would have meant red tape and that would send up flags to Rice and Kelsey. You would not have lasted that long. I was not about to risk it another day.”

  “You are a brave, incredible woman,” he said.

  Love sat up and placed her hand behind Andrews’ neck, pulling him toward her. She kissed him squarely on the mouth. She placed her other arm around his neck as well and pulled herself into him. Andrews already had one arm around her shoulder. He placed his free hand on her waist and they deepened their kiss. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid inside easily.

  “Damn!” she whispered, “I knew you’d be a good kisser, but holy shit!”

  Andrews chuckled lowly, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  Love pulled her right arm free and used her hand to pull Andrews’ hand up to her breast. She moaned when he began to caress it. He continued to kiss her and stroke her. Love began to take deep breaths as her passion began to build.

  “What do you say we move this into the bedroom?” she asked.

  Andrews pulled away. He was still smiling but took both her hands into his, kissed them and moved them away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s too soon—too quick.”

  “I’m a grown woman, Andrews,” she said.

  “Who is under duress, vulnerable and drunk on her ass—a horrible combination for making decisions.”

  “I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Even if that was true, this situation we are in, it tends to pull people together, people that might not ordinarily be together.”

  Love sat up and used her fingers to pull her hair away from her face, “Is it me? Am I not your type?”

  “Julie . . . don’t . . .” he began.

  “No, I’d like to know,” she continued. “What is it? Am I too strong? Not strong enough? Too pretty? Not pretty enough?”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Julie. Look, when this thing is over, I’ll still be around. If you still feel the same way, we’ll talk.”

  Love sighed, “You’re thinking about Maggie right now, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged, “Maybe . . . a little.”

  Julie sighed in exasperation and stood, “Well, since I’ve been summarily rejected, I’m going to bed. We have a long day tomorrow, anyway.”

  “Hey, don’t be that way . . .” Andrews said.

  “No, it’s okay. It’s probably for the best. I get the master bedroom, by the way. You take the kiddie room.”

  Andrews nodded solemnly, “Fair enough.”

  Love said nothing further. She just stood and left.

  Andrews tidied up the mess in the kitchen and retired to the smaller of the two bedrooms. It had a full-sized bed, not a king, like the master, but it suited him fine. He stripped down to his boxers and lay down on the bed. He looked at the LED clock on the nightstand—it was eleven-thirty. He hadn’t consumed as much alcohol as Love, but he was feeling the effects of it and they were making him drowsy. In minutes he was fast asleep.

  * * *

  Love stood over Andrews beside his bed. She took a moment to take in the man’s wonderful physique in the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains.

  She poked him, “Andrews. Wake up.”

  Andrews jerked and sat up, “What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said.

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Two o’clock?” he repeated. “Love. Why are you here?”

  He looked up at her through foggy eyes. It was dark but the moonlight cast a glow on her. He saw she was wearing a bathrobe, tied together at the waist.

  “I can’t sleep,” she said. “I can’t get all this mess out of my head. I don’t think I’m as tough as I let on.”

  “It’s understandable,” Andrews said. “Do you want me to get up with you?”

  “No,” she said. “Is it okay if I lie in bed with you and sleep here?”

  Andrews sighed, “This bed is small.”

  “It’ll be okay,” she insisted. “Look. I’m sorry about earlier. You were right and I was wrong. I’ve just been lying in bed thinking about today and what we face. I don’t want to be alone. I promise I won’t ravage your body while you’re asleep.”

  He looked up at her and let out a breath. He then slid over to one side of the bed.

  “You need to know one thing before you stay,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m always warm. That’s why I don’t sleep under covers. It’s not negotiable.”

  “That’s okay,” she replied. “It’s warm enough in here.”

  “If you’re sure, then.” He patted the free space next to him. “Come on in.”

  She untied her robe. She was wearing only a sheer cotton top and panties. She slid onto the bed beside him. She grabbed his right arm and pulled it around her, snuggling as close to him as she could get. She wrapped her right arm across his chest and her right leg across his knees.

  “Comfy, are we?” Andrews asked.

  “Very much,” she replied. “Good night, Andrews.”

  “Good night, Love.”

  Chapter 19

  Julie Love was the first to wake. It was still early and the sun was just peeking over the horizon, filtering orange light through the sheer curtains. Andrews was still snuggled in next to her, his arm wrapped around her waist. It made her smile.

  She sat up and stretched.

  “Good morning,” a deep voice called out from the corner of the room.

  “Holy shit!” Love shrieked.

  It was Rainhorse. He was sitting in a rocking chair positioned in the far corner of the bedroom. Andrews woke at the sound of her yelling and bolted upright.

  “Rain? How the hell did you get in here?”

  Love grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her.

  “I have a key,” Rainhorse replied. “I told you I was staying here.”

  “Do you have any idea how creepy this is?” Love asked.

  “Some idea, yes,” he admitted.

  “Why don’t you knock?” Love demanded to know.

  Rainhorse shrugged, “I was a paid assassin for twenty-years. Knocking is not something I do a lot.”

  “Maybe you should leave the room until we get dressed,” Andrews said.

  Rainhorse shrugged, “As you wish. Make it snappy, though. Time is wasting.”

  “I’ll be back,” Love interjected.

  She allowed the robe to fall, slipped out of the bed, and stood before Rainhorse in her panties and cotton top.

  “I’m going to the bathroom to get dressed,” she said. “When I come out, you damn well better have coffee brewing.”r />
  Andrews and Rainhorse both watched Love leave the room.

  “Damn, Jim, when I told you two to watch out for each other, I did not mean . . .”

  “It’s not what you think,” Andrews interrupted.

  Rainhorse studied his face, shrugged and stood, “Uh huh. Whatever. I am going into the kitchen to make coffee. I certainly do not want her up in my grill if I fail at her first command.”

  Andrews sighed, “I hear you there, brother.”

  “Get dressed, come with me,” the large Cheyenne said. “There is someone here I want you to meet.”

  When Julie Love emerged from the bedroom, three men stood up to greet her, Rainhorse, Andrews and someone she’d never seen—a man, blonde hair, blue eyes, around thirty years old.

  “Agent Love,” said Rainhorse. “I would like you to meet Axel Svenson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the younger blonde man said. “Everyone calls me ‘Swede.’”

  Love extended her hand, “Pleased to meet you, Swede.”

  “Swede is with the Brotherhood Protectors,” Rainhorse said. “I called him yesterday for help. He just arrived. When he is not kicking ass and taking names, he’s a big-time computer expert.”

  “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Love asked.

  “In a minute,” Rainhorse said. “First, I want to get Swede all set up. In the third bedroom there is an office with a desk and a computer.”

  Swede patted his case, “Brought my own, and I will not need an internet service. Internet leaves a trail. My computer comes with encrypted satellite uplink.”

  “I should have guessed,” Rainhorse replied. “Do you need anything else from me?”

  “Just a cup of coffee and a little quiet,” Swede replied. “You gave me what I needed last night.”

  “We can arrange coffee,” Andrews confirmed.

  “Thank you for what you are doing,” Rainhorse said to Swede.

  “Anything for a brother,” Swede replied.

  “I’ll pour the coffee,” Andrews offered, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  “Good enough,” Swede replied. “I’ll get started. Please to meet you, ma’am.”

  “You too,” Love replied, not knowing what to make of the situation.

  Swede smiled and left, disappearing into the third bedroom, a makeshift office, converted from a bedroom by the original owner. Andrews followed Swede into the bedroom, delivered the coffee and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Well, that was odd,” Love said.

  “Everything about this morning has been odd, so far,” Andrews agreed. “I put the coffee pot, some cups and condiments on the kitchen table. Rain, want to fill us in?”

  Rainhorse nodded. Andrews poured the big man a cup of coffee.

  “Sugar, as I recall,” Andrews said.

  “Yes.”

  Andrews tossed one cube of sugar into the cup. Rainhorse gave him an odd stare. Andrews added another lump.

  “Keep em’ coming,” the former assassin said. “I take four.”

  “Four? Really?”

  He lowered his head, as if embarrassed, “Actually, when no one is with me, I take five. But when I am in company, I do not want to make a bad impression.”

  “Whatever you say, big fella,” Andrews replied.

  Andrews gave him the extra lumps and slid the cup to Rainhorse. The big Cheyenne picked up a spoon and stirred. Love’s eyes were wide as she saw the enormity of the man’s hand, making the utensil look like a child’s toy spoon.

  “Wounded Falcon got you both into this situation,” he said. “Now, it’s going to get you out.”

  “We’re listening,” Love said. “What is Wounded Falcon?”

  Rainhorse took a sip of his coffee and sat the cup on the table, “Wounded Falcon is a man.”

  “A man named Jamal Davis?” Andrews asked.

  “You figured it out?” Rainhorse asked.

  “Just scratched the surface, Rain. Please continue.

  Rainhorse nodded.

  “Davis was involved in a joint operation between Homeland Security and the FBI. The mission was as risky as it gets and the stakes were high. It did not go as planned.”

  Love let out a breath, “I can tell, this is going to be good.”

  “The operation dates back many years ago to a time when Osama bin Laden was planning another attack on American soil after nine-one-one,” Rainhorse continued. “The plan was to allow bin Laden to believe his plan was in the clear during the planning and training stages of the attack and then to swoop in and essentially destroy al-Qaeda at its roots prior to the execution of the plan.”

  “You’re saying Homeland wasn’t going to go in until the last moment. That does sound dangerous,” Andrews suggested.

  “It was, but if it worked, the operation would have crippled al-Qaeda for good and bin Laden would have been caught or killed. Homeland Security and the FBI all had separate roles in the operation, all top-secret, of course. It was so secret, that the President of the United States disavowed any knowledge of it, past the occasional nod and wink.”

  “So, it was off the books and completely illegal,” Andrews said.

  “That is right. The FBI planted one of their agents into the al-Qaeda cell responsible for planning the attack.”

  “Davis?” asked Love.

  Rainhorse nodded,

  “It made sense to use Davis,” Andrews interjected. “His birth name was Jamal Haram. He was born in the United States. His Syrian father died when he was nine. He changed his surname to Davis when his mother remarried to a man named Carl Davis. None of that registered as relevant . . . until just now.”

  “All correct,” Rainhorse said. “I am impressed. How did you make that connection?”

  “I knew Jamal spoke Farsi and Pashto, too,” Andrews said. “I read it on his bio. He is Syrian by bloodline. He was also an experienced agent who knew how to handle himself. He would have been a natural choice.”

  “Jamal was an American patriot,” Rainhorse said. “His code name was, indeed, Falcon, a tribute to his service in the military with the Gold Falcons. His role infiltrating al-Qaeda was the most dangerous of all. He willingly went inside knowing that he might not survive.”

  “What happened?” Love asked.

  “Everything was going according to plan, until disaster struck,” Rainhorse continued. “One of bin Laden’s men recognized Jamal from a picture on an FBI website taken ten years earlier. Whoever was supposed to be doing their diligence forgot about that picture. It was never removed the way it should have been.”

  “So, the FBI fucked up,” Love noted.

  “In the worst possible way,” the Cheyenne acknowledged.

  “Jesus,” Andrews exclaimed. “Al-Qaeda captured Jamal Davis?”

  Rainhorse nodded, “After he was apprehended, his code name was changed to Wounded Falcon. Al-Qaeda contacted Homeland Security. They threatened to torture and force a confession from Jamal, claiming the FBI, and Homeland Security were allowing them to operate on American soil. They planned to force a confession of guilt, videotape it, then execute Jamal for the world to see.”

  “I suspect Director Rice was nervous about that,” Love said.

  “Rice was actually chief-of-staff at that time, but yes, you are right,” Rainhorse affirmed. “It was the FBI who left that picture up on their website for al-Qaeda to identify Jamal. The President was furious and threatened to lay the whole thing at Rice’s feet if he did not make it go away.”

  “What happened then?” Love asked.

  “Rice panicked,” Rainhorse said. “He desperately needed to make sure Falcon never made that confession, so he did the unspeakable.”

  “He ordered a hit on his own agent?” Love gasped.

  Rainhorse nodded.

  “Despicable!” exclaimed Andrews.

  “Yes,” said Rainhorse.

  “How did he even get that approved?” Love asked.

 
“He didn’t. He went rogue.” Rainhorse said. “He was desperate and he knew his superiors would think it was madness, so he went outside the chain of command and hired . . . Barnabas Quince. He called it Operation Wounded Falcon.”

  “Wait a minute,” Love said to Rainhorse. “Quince was your old boss, right? He’s the one you stopped from blowing up Seattle.”

  Rainhorse nodded again, “Rice and Quince knew each other from the military. Quince was more than happy to help Rice . . . for a price.”

  Love gasped again and her mouth gaped open, “Oh, my god. That’s where you came in, right?”

  Rainhorse shrugged.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Andrews. “It was you, Rainhorse? Rice hired Barnabas Quince to kill Wounded Falcon and Quince sent you to do the job.”

  Rainhorse sighed and nodded, “Right.”

  “That’s how you knew about Wounded Falcon,” Andrews continued. “You were supposed to kill him.”

  “But you didn’t,” said Love, “Wounded Falcon was murdered much more recently. What happened? Did you refuse to go in?”

  “No, I went in alright,” Rainhorse insisted, “but remember, I was a Special Forces Ranger long before I was an assassin. I was not about to kill an innocent patriot who was just following orders. Instead of killing Jamal Davis, I killed every member of al-Qaeda who was guarding him. I freed Wounded Falcon.”

  “How the hell did you manage that?” Love asked.

  Rainhorse raised his eyebrows, “I have some skills. You may have heard this already.”

  “So, that’s why there was no record of Jamal Davis’ rescue,” Andrews realized. “Rain was sent in to kill Davis but rescued him instead. The FBI and military were not involved in the operation and Rice damn sure wasn’t going to create a record.”

  “Amazing,” Love said.

  “How many men did you kill?” Andrews asked.

  “Hard to say,” Rainhorse recollected. “Six for sure. There were six more wounded. I did not stick around to see how many survived. Not many, I suspect.”

  “And al-Qaeda’s operation ended there?” Love asked.

  “It did. Al-Qaeda believed I was hired by the FBI to recover Wounded Falcon. They were far too embarrassed to admit that one man swooped in, killed or incapacitated a dozen of their men, and recovered Wounded Falcon. The FBI and Homeland Security was certainly not going to make the situation public.”