Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3

by Ronie Kendig

  Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  25 March—1735 Hours

  Suffocating and fierce, a wave of heat roiled across her shoulders.

  Lieutenant Cassandra Walker cried out and pressed lower to the cement floor, living her childhood nightmares of dying in a fire. She coughed against the thick smoke clogging her lungs. Might as well have sandpaper in her eyes—the ash rubbed and burned, forcing her to blink rapidly. She tried to see. Futile against the blanket of smoke. The inferno seemed to have a demonic presence, pursuing her as she sought escape.

  Eyes closed, she let her fingers direct her as she probed the floor, which was still a bit cool. She crawled forward, listening not to the thundering panic of her own pulse but to the howl of the fire and the cackle of the flames. As if they mocked her. She’d rushed over here away from him. Away from the searing truth Sal had thrown at her. Right into this scalding nightmare.

  “Nothing needs to be said. You know what you did. So do I… I never want to hear anything from you again…”

  She pushed forward, but her fingers grazed the warmed surface of a filing cabinet. Scrambling around it, she kept moving. Had to get out. A few more paces and she hit a wall. Fear morphed into panic as a deep groaning vibrated against the floor.

  Cassie hesitated, listening. Daring to look up. Like some Hollywood CGI image, the roof glowed beneath the power of the flames. A center section bowed inward. Oh snap. Her stomach dropped as the ceiling seemed to grope for her.

  She threw herself to the side, struggling to remember the layout. Where the doors were. Where the exits had been located. C’mon—you got here because of your wits. Now, use them!

  Whoosh! The beam’s impact blasted hot air across her face. Fanned the flames, which rushed up the walls, surrounding her.

  She scrabbled backward.

  Thumped into something. She glanced down, but the thick black smoke proved an impenetrable barrier. Fingers tracking across the—hands! Someone’s hands. “Hey!” she shouted—inhaling a lungful of smoke. A coughing fit wracked her. She doubled over, leaning to the person’s chest. She shook them and shifted around. Something thumped against her hand. Instinctively, her fingers coiled around it. A water bottle!

  Grabbing it, she started untucking her shirt. Ripped a stretch off. Doused it with water and tied it around her face. It’d buy her a little time.

  She bent to the person again. “Hey,” she said, more carefully this time, nearly pressing her nose to theirs.

  Only then did she register the eyes. The brown eyes. The dead brown eyes.

  With a cry, she clambered backward. Lowered her face to the floor, fighting back a pitiful sob. God, I gave this to You back then. Will I never live it down? She’d hoped to talk to him, at least ask his forgiveness, but Sal wouldn’t talk to her. Now, she’d die with his anger following her into the grave?

  “Walker,” came a distant voice.

  She lifted her head. Where had that come from? “Here!”

  A form swam amid the smoke, on all fours.

  She didn’t care who it was. As long as it was someone. Someone alive.

  When the familiar face solidified, Cassie froze. “What are you doing?” It was ludicrous to look around. But she did. “You can’t be here.”

  He hooked her arm around his shoulder and held her wrist as he guided her to the right, away from the dead body.

  Exhaustion and smoke inhalation weighted her limbs. “If they see you—”

  “Don’t talk.”

  She let her head lob against his shoulder, surprised to find him wearing a fire-resistant jacket. Where had he gotten that from? Though it felt like an eternity, they finally navigated into a hall that had less smoke. When he lessened his hold, she stumbled.

  His grip tightened, hoisting her up. Twenty feet ahead, she could barely make out a door. Oh! And above—an exit sign. Her heart leapt. Almost there! Almost able to feel the cool breeze on her face. Filling her lungs. She shot him a look as he reanchored his arm around her waist. He nodded. Took a step.

  A steel joist crashed through the ceiling, delivering a greedy stream of fire.

  Pain spiked through Cassie’s temple. Blazed across her shoulder, followed by a trail of strange warmth. She felt herself falling backward. Thrust out a hand to steady herself, but only met hot air. She landed with a soft thud against him. He grunted but was already coming back up.

  On her feet, she followed his lead, clambering over the hot joist. An electrical wire hissed and popped at them like an angry copperhead.

  “Hurry!” he shouted.

  Cassie threw herself forward, terrified of being buried alive in this burning furnace. As she launched toward him, a prick of pain sliced up her leg. She ignored it and caught his hand. He hooked her closer and barreled into a door.

  Momentum carried her face-first into a sidewalk. She shoved her hands out to break her fall. Rocks and pebbles dug into her palms. She hauled in a deep breath. Air! Sweet air! Her lungs seized, still struggling with the smoke that had filled them. Another gagging-coughing fit pitched her to the ground.

  “Walker!” someone shouted from her left. Boots thudded toward her. “Oxygen! We need oxygen!” A hand came to her back. “We didn’t know you were in there.”

  Captain Watters.

  She clutched her chest, willing it to loosen its fist hold on her breathing as she looked up at him.

  He cupped her elbow. “Let’s get away from the building.”

  Cassie nodded and pushed to her feet. The world tilted and swayed.

  He lifted her and hurried her to a wall. With more care than she expected from Sal’s captain, he guided her to the ground as an airman rushed up behind him with an O2PAK.

  Watters went to a knee and extended the mask toward her. “Careful, you’re bleeding.”

  Cassie blinked, barely remembering the pain after the joist. She touched the throbbing spot above her right temple then to the stinging in her shoulder. Both sticky with her blood.

  “Where do you hurt?” the medic asked, opening his kit.

  “Just my head and shoulder.”

  “Who came out with you?” Watters looked around, his brow etched with concern.

  Surprise spiraled through Cassie as she followed his gaze, not entirely shocked that her rescuer had vanished. She shook her head. “A firefighter, I think,” she spoke around the mask. “He had on”—she waved her hand at her torso—“a protective jacket.” That much was true. But he wasn’t a firefighter. And nobody could know he’d been on this base.

  “You didn’t see him?”

  She shook her head again, though his knotted brow and scowl warned that he didn’t believe her. “Too much smoke.”

  The airman reached into his med kit. “Let me check that cut.”

  Grateful for the diversion, Cassie nodded. Angled toward him.

  “He has to be around here somewhere,” Captain Watters said.

  “Think he went back in?” another soldier asked—only then did she see Sergeant Brian “Hawk” Bledsoe join them.

  Cassie’s gaze struck the building. He hadn’t gone back inside, had he? That would be… idiotic. He’d die. But even as she looked at the burning building, she couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that he’d done just that. He’s not that stupid.

  With only one wall remaining upright, the CECOM building resembled a steel giant kneeling in defeat.

  “If he did,” Captain Watters said, “he’s not coming out.”

  As if to prove his point, the giant collapsed in on itself, surrendering with a hot breath of fury.

  “Taking fire!” someone shouted from across the parking lot. “We’re taking fire!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  25 March—1745 Hours

  Do you see the shooter?”

  Sal shifted, pressing his shoulder against the hull of a Jeep sitting in the parking lot of the burning CECOM building and scanned the distance. It wasn’t like Kandahar Airfield was small
and jammed up against the city. There was distance—the airport sat ten miles southeast of Kandahar City. The base was massive, hosting a couple hundred aircraft. Maintained by the U.S. Armed Forces and the ISAF, it also had a smaller, dedicated portion to the Afghan Armed Forces’ base and an even smaller portion for the Afghan Air Force.

  Whoever was firing on them had to be on the base—and was it his imagination or were those shots coming from the AAF’s location?

  “I got nothing,” he said.

  The man they’d caught lay dead in a pool of his own blood. CECOM was burning. American soldiers and Afghan allies were dying. This mess had to stop.

  He shot a look to Knight, who had taken cover behind a portable building. “We need to end this.”

  Knight nodded. “Ddrake and I will find them.” He turned to his intense German shepherd, who stood ready and willing to work. After his handler spoke a quiet command to him, Ddrake turned and started his methodical stalking of the scent. Weapon cradled in both hands but held down, Sal trailed the MWD team away from CECOM. Experience had sharpened his trust in the K9 units, in their ability to track down trouble and their fierce loyalty to protect their pack. It’s why he’d requested a team for Raptor.

  Dirt crunched beneath his boots as they skirted one building after another, Ddrake systematically making his way toward what had once been a thriving center of downtime—the Boardwalk. Most shops had closed down, a few rebellious, stubborn ones lingering as the troop count had been drastically scaled back.

  Ddrake trotted on, his breathing almost staccato as he hauled in air and processed the scents at the back of his throat, tasting as much as smelling what lingered in the air.

  They were sitting ducks out here, with most of the base personnel embroiled in the chaos at CECOM. Sal slowed, his gaze sweeping back and forth. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. What he wouldn’t do to have his M4A1 carbine with its modified trigger he’d done with an off-the-shelf kind and overhauled. That beat a handgun in a firefight any day and every day.

  He rolled his shoulders and swallowed, telling himself the enemy wasn’t as well trained. They were more frantic. More desperate. They made mistakes.

  Still. A carbine went a long way in making him feel more secure.

  “Falcon!” came a hissed voice.

  He pivoted, bringing his weapon up.

  Dean and Todd “Eagle” Archer jogged toward him, both carrying weapons and a vest. Dean tossed him the tac vest. Sal threaded his arms through it and secured the straps before accepting the assault rifle.

  “What’ve you got?” Dean asked Knight.

  “Nothing yet. But he’s tracking.” Knight kept moving, following his dog.

  Sal resumed his course, this time with Eagle and Dean in tow. That felt better. Right. Even though he had his issues with Dean. Friends could handle that though. And Dean was a bigger man than to let differences get in the way of doing the job or the mission.

  Sal wished he could be like that.

  At a juncture of two portable buildings, Ddrake suddenly backtracked. Lowered his snout and hauled in hard.

  Hawk and Titanis caught up with them as the German shepherd sorted the scents. Sal scanned their surroundings, thinking through what could be in the area. “Less than half a klick to the airfield.”

  “Even less to the Afghan Air Force base,” Titanis added.

  Sal focused on that area. After the president had announced the U.S. withdrawal and scaled back efforts, there’d been a lull in attacks then there seemed to be a vicious uptick in Blue-on-Green attacks. What infuriated him were the innocent civilians who wanted the protection against the Taliban but were caught in the middle and suffering because of the swell of violence.

  “He’s got something!”

  Sal swung around as the two bolted down the darkened alley between the buildings. Ddrake went right. Knight followed.

  “Stay with them!” Dean shouted.

  Known for his gift of speed, Sal sprinted behind them, his boots digging into the half-dirt, half-pebbled ground. He rounded the corner just as Ddrake sailed over a barricade. Even as he watched Knight throw himself at the wall, Sal slung his weapon over his shoulder. Knight cleared it, but not as easily as the dog.

  Sal jumped against the wall. His feet hit. He palmed the cement bricks and vaulted over. He landed with a thud and shifted to the side, going to a knee. Assessed. Knight and Ddrake were circling a small car.

  “Back! Get back!” Sal could just see that thing blowing sky-high and taking the MWD team with him.

  “Ddrake, heel!” Knight slapped his left thigh twice and the dog immediately circled back, turned, and sat against Knight’s leg, looking up at his handler happily. “I can see supplies, but it doesn’t look like a bomb.”

  Sal kept his weapon trained out, staring down the sight as the others grouped up.

  Dean dropped over the wall next, followed by Hawk and Eagle. Approaching cautiously, Dean eyed the interior of the car. Keyed his mic. “Command, this is Raptor Six Actual. We are just north of the blast well and found some chemicals. Let’s get Hazmat out here.”

  “Shooters?” Hawk asked.

  “Nothing yet. I can have him track.” Knight shrugged.

  “He can decipher between human and chemicals?”

  “Ddrake tracks chemicals, but whoever carried those”—he pointed to the car—“they’ll have that scent on them. Ddrake can find them.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  The words had no sooner left Sal’s mouth than a wall of growling, snarling teeth and fur flew into the air. With a beastly growl-snap, Ddrake bolted into a dark sliver of space between a shack and the perimeter fence.

  “He saw som—”

  A primal scream howled through the night.

  Running, Sal shouted to Dean and pointed. “South! South.” He and Knight rushed up to the opening maw of the shadowed space that had devoured Ddrake.

  Screams mingled with Ddrake’s growls—which sounded like they were issued against a mouthful of flesh.

  “Ddrake, out!”

  Ddrake gave one more shake of his neck before disengaging his teeth. After another low growl that sounded a lot like some night ghoul, he returned to his handler’s side.

  “On your knees,” Sal shouted, edging in with his SureFire blasting bright white at the guy.

  Blood spurted from the arm wounds inflicted by Ddrake. An AK-47 peeked out from beneath the portable unit. Sal nudged it out of reach with his boot.

  Dean shimmied in behind the guy. “Take him back to Command. We’ll interview him there.”

  They cuffed the man without incident and led him back toward the main base where lights had been cut and an ominous sense of dread hung over the place.

  The door to the JSOC building opened. General Lance Burnett stepped out with Brassie Cassie and Lieutenant Hastings.

  “Caught him near the explosives with a weapon.” Sal ignored Cassie. Or tried to. His rising anger told him he wasn’t winning the war this time.

  “Ddrake detected him as a threat,” Knight said. “He took him down.”

  “Get him cleaned up and we’ll—”

  Something splatted Sal’s face. He wiped at it as his gaze struck Burnett’s chest. Blood spurted from a wound. The general collapsed to his knees.

  Cassie yelped as she and Hastings reached for the general.

  Dean dove toward them. “Down! Down!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

  25 March—1800 Hours

  Sticky, warm blood squished between her fingers, forcing Cassie to press harder against the chest wound.

  “Knight, get him in a holding cell inside,” the captain ordered the MWD handler, who nodded, hooked the guy’s arm, and pushed him into the building.

  “Augh!” Sal said as he assessed the general. “There’s too much blood.”

  “Guess this is a bloody mess,” General Burnett mumbled and tried to laugh.

  “Yeah, leave it
to you.” Sal’s words held a hint of humor but his expression didn’t. “We have to get you to the hospital. Now.” He almost met Cassie’s gaze.

  “Titanis.” Dean removed his shirt and balled it. “Find a vehicle.”

  The big Aussie took off as Dean lifted Cassie’s hand for a second and stuffed the shirt under her fingers. “Hold that. Push.” His large hands dwarfed hers and pushed down. “Harder.”

  Cassie nodded, ignoring the squeamish protest of her stomach.

  “Sir.” Sal leaned down at the general, who stared up at the ceiling of stars. “Stay with us.”

  Brie Hastings crouched over him. “You’re too mean to die.”

  “Got that right,” he said around a cough.

  Panicked blue eyes met Cassie’s. “H–he—”

  Sal held two fingers to the general’s neck. “Pulse is thready.”

  “Always thought my heart would get me.” General Burnett’s mouth quirked in a half smile. He coughed again. “Son of… cowards. Couldn’t… face me.”

  Cassie shoved her focus to Sal, desperate for them to save the general before… before he died. The handler jogged back out. “I put in a call. CECOM tied up the ambulances. But triage is expecting him.” Rocks crunched and popped as a vehicle swung to a stop near them.

  “Lift him.” Sal hooked his arms beneath the general’s legs as the captain carefully lifted his head. “Keep his legs higher to slow blood flow.”

  With Knight and Titanis, the two men maneuvered the general to the back of the truck. Cassie stayed with them, nausea roiling as she kept the pressure on his wound.

  The captain and Sal situated the general as Cassie went down. Steel digging into her knees, she held both hands over the gunshot wound. But no matter how hard she pressed, the blood kept spilling out. “I can’t stop it,” she cried out, hearing the panic and not caring.

  “Go!” Sal shouted, clamping his hands over Cassie’s.

  “Moving him traumatized the wound,” Dean yelled over the wind and engine noise as they barreled toward the base hospital.

  Though it wasn’t a large distance, the trip took longer than Cassie wanted. He didn’t have an endless supply of blood. Even with Sal’s hands on hers, it seemed blood still seeped around the edges of the ever-widening circle.