by Ronie Kendig
She stiffened, seeing a stream roll down the general’s chest and pool at the hollow of his throat.
“C’mon,” Sal yelled.
Titanis seemed to obey, whipping the truck up to the hospital that was already abuzz. The early bombing victims would complicate this.
The doors burst open, Hawk leading two orderlies and a stretcher.
“Hawk, here!” The captain leapt from the truck, waving them over.
The medical team rushed toward them.
Sal shifted beside her, pushing to his feet but bending in half to keep their hands in place. “Can’t stop the bleeding.”
Two nurses climbed up, replacing Brie, who had hovered at the general’s head the whole time. They laid the stretcher out next to him.
“Roll him toward you,” the doctor said. “On three. One… two… roll!”
Sal, Cassie, and Brie rolled the general’s body to the side as the medical team slid the stretcher into place. They eased him back down and within seconds, they slid the general out of the truck bed.
Adrenaline racing through her veins, hands covered in blood, Cassie followed the medical team and Raptor into the hospital.
Captain Watters recapped the incident, the medical situation, and stalked the team back toward the prep bays, which were all full. Sal remained with his general and captain, though they hung back to stay out of the way so the medical team could work their magic.
Cassie held back, her hands trembling. Her heart feeling as if it pumped peanut butter. General Burnett…
“Please save him,” a voice whispered.
Read her thoughts. Her silent plea to God.
“He can’t die.”
This time, the words snapped Cassie out of her stupor. She looked to the side and found Brie Hastings, hands slightly less bloodied than her own, covering her mouth, mumbling.
“He’ll be okay.” Cassie didn’t know why she said it. Somehow, she knew the words weren’t true. General Burnett probably wouldn’t make it. He’d lost too much blood. An artery had been nicked. But Brie had been one of her few allies since arriving in Afghanistan a few weeks ago. And she hated to see anyone looking or sounding desperate or scared.
Brie met her gaze but said nothing. Instead she turned. Started for the door.
“Brie,” came a deep, quiet voice.
Titanis hurried after her, touching Cassie’s shoulder as he did. As if to comfort her. She had worked with the general, but she didn’t know him. Not the way these people did. But he was a good man. A good leader.
“Would you like to wash?” A nurse motioned toward a large bin-style sink.
Cassie glanced at her hands. Right. With a mute nod, she stumbled that way.
“Antiseptic soap here,” the nurse said, motioning to the wall-mounted bottle. “Towel there. Put it in the bin when you’re done.”
Another silent nod and Cassie was washing her hands. Scrubbing. Would he make it? She’d never been in a situation like that, having to stop a man’s death with her bare hands. If he died—
Sal will blame me.
Again.
Her eyes slid closed. The din of running water blended with the hum of shouted orders, curtains slinking across metal rods, and the ominous whoosh of medical personnel running back and forth.
“He’s flatlining.”
Cassie jolted at the voice beyond the wall. She flipped off the faucet and dried her hands, a strange venom pulsing though her veins, urging her to leave the building. Away from death. Away from blame. She didn’t want to be here if General Burnett died. Didn’t want to watch him die. Or hear him die. She just… couldn’t.
She discarded the towel in the receptacle and eased back into the main hall. A quick look revealed an arc of tactical shirts forming a protective barrier around the bay that held the general.
Sal stood with his back to her, his concern and loyalty evident in the ever-watchful guardian, maintaining watch over his fallen general. He shifted, shaking his head. Started to turn—and his gaze skidded in her direction.
Cassie pivoted away. She didn’t need his scathing rebuke. His hatred. Not this time. Not after tonight.
Kabul, Afghanistan
25 March—1830 Hours
Applying pressure to an individual could be fruitless. Unless one used the right kind of pressure. And right now, that’s what he had to find out about this impudent man. Sajjan Takkar stood removed but present. Active but inactive. A posture of power. He needed this man to know who was in charge. Since they’d dragged him here a few days ago, they’d managed to learn nothing that Sajjan’s own intelligence ring hadn’t already provided.
Waris laid out the kit of needles and serums.
“Y–you’re joking, right?” Sweat beaded the man’s brow. “You know all you have to do is throw money at me and I’ll squeal like a stuck pig.”
Sajjan unfolded his arms and walked toward the twenty-eight-year-old hacker. “Mm, yes. You would. And you have, but what would you say?”
“Whatever you want me to say.”
“Indeed.” That was the problem. “I do not want to hear what you think I want to hear.” He clipped his words to show irritation, though he wasn’t irritated yet. Determined, yes. Focused, even more so. “I want the truth.”
“What is truth? How do you define truth?” A smile quivered above the man’s lips. “Right? I mean. Let’s be real here. You want to know who hired me. Who paid me. But why—why would you want to know that? You’re not American. They don’t help you. I mean, who do they help, ya know?”
Sajjan walked a slow circle around the room. His phone chirruped and he tugged it from the pocket as Waris loaded a vial of gold liquid into the syringe. “Keep me informed.”
Once the door behind him hissed shut, he took the call. “Sabir, what can I do for you?”
“There has been an attack. A bold, brazen attack against the American base in Kandahar.”
Sajjan started for the private elevator. “You know this how?”
“Dozens of their wounded are here.”
At the NATO hospital.
“I am hearing whisperings that someone is paying the Taliban to be more open in their attacks.”
“I hear the same,” Sajjan said gravely.
“We must stop this.” Sabir’s voice was rushed, quiet. “All these years of hard work—even if you do not agree with American policy, this—this is not good for Afghanistan. For business.”
“I agree.” It was why he had worked so hard in the last decade to be an ally on many fronts, not to one government over another but for the good of Afghanistan. For the good of his mother’s people. “Let me know if you hear anything.”
“Will you deal with this?” The question was as pleading as it was demanding.
“You know me, Sabir.”
A shaky breath carried through the line. “Of course. Of course, I do. Thank you.” Sabir’s nervous anticipation and desperate hope to see the violence quiet down in the regions carried through the phone. After watching what happened with Iraq and ISIS, the threat against any freedom and free enterprise hung in the balance.
“Do not thank me. We must do this together.” Sajjan ended the call as he entered the elevator then slid his key into the slot and rode to the top floor. Stepping into his office, he heard terse conversation in the foyer of his penthouse apartment. In particular, he heard Nina’s voice. A primal instinct to protect her pushed him across the lush office to the door. He moved into the open area slowly to gain perspective before injecting himself.
Dressed in a silk kaftan and hijab, Nina stood as elegantly and poised as ever. It was a testament to her that she wore the scarf out of respect for the people of his country. He appreciated the gesture of his American wife who, having been influential in Hollywood after a stunning career, certainly did not have to spend her better years tucked away from the glamour and glitz on the other side of the world. Yet she insisted. And he was glad for it. She was a breath of fresh air with her strong views, confident m
anner, and beauty.
The man standing with her just beyond the entryway was Aamir al Wahidi, an imam hired by the community to not only lead them in prayer but provide counsel. While Sajjan never sought the imam’s advice, it had been given. Often.
Nina held her hands out, palms up. “I am so sorry, Mr.—”
Sajjan moved forward, not willing that his wife should have to make an excuse. Not on a night like this.
“Ah.” Nina’s eyes brightened as she met his gaze. Relief flickered through her brown irises as she inclined her head. “Here you are.”
Sajjan wrapped an arm around Nina’s waist and kissed her temple, making sure the imam understood this significant gesture that Nina may be his wife, but she was more than that as well—friend, confidant, business partner. “Forgive me for being late.” He shifted to the imam and inclined his head. “Salaam, Aamir.”
“Salaam.” Aamir inclined his covered head.
“Haleh shoma chetor hast?” Here, it would be an insult or slight to get right down to business as was so often done in American and other business circles. Which was why he’d asked how the imam was doing—to show courtesy and respect.
Aamir, dressed in the traditional khet partug, a tunic slightly tightened at the waist and loose pants with plenty of pleats, bowed again. It was the karakul hat that marked the man with some level of pride, marked his leadership within the community. But Sajjan would not fault him for it as he himself still wore the turban of the Sikh.
He motioned toward Sajjan’s office. “We should speak.”
Ignoring the slight at not asking after his family, Sajjan nodded to Nina, acknowledging her with a warm smile as she slipped down the hall to where her daughter no doubt waited with her husband and dog. Sajjan led the way into the office, flicking on the light as he entered. “Your disregard for my family speaks to the urgency, it would seem.”
“Please,” Aamir said, motioning behind Sajjan. “Close the door.”
He would ignore the man’s slight in telling him what to do in his own home. “It is an honor to have you in my home.” A subtle reminder to the man of his position here.
“There has been an attack,” Aamir said with a hiss. “Against the Americans.”
Interesting that he left out the location. “Where?”
“Kandahar.”
“Isn’t that under Bahram?”
“Bah!” Aamir spun and stalked toward a chair. “You and I both know Bahram is unfit to lead.”
“Do I?” Sajjan strolled to the window and stared down on the city.
“Do not play games with me, Sajjan.”
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, Sajjan turned. “Then do not play with me. You have ignored courtesy and impugned a friend.” He let a handful of breaths eek out in a calming measure before continuing. “What is your point today, friend?”
“The attack was not by our people.”
Sajjan said nothing because he wasn’t surprised by the words. There had been an undercurrent of tyranny in current events. And he’d recently confirmed the source of that influx of hatred and violence had been birthed or perpetuated from within the walls of this tower. Beneath his very nose.
And he would deal with it. Once he had what he needed.
“You suspect… whom?” Sajjan asked, arching an eyebrow as he played the innocent. “Who else but the Taliban would carry out such an attack that serves no purpose when the Americans are already withdrawing?”
Reason had never worked with those emboldened by religious fervor. Or a herd mentality. He had been as frustrated as he had been inspired by his mother’s people.
“I do not have an answer for this,” Aamir said, as if it was abhorrent that Sajjan would ask him.
“Then why are you here, Aamir? I am a busy man—”
“You have the power to influence people, to get to the bottom of this and stop it.”
“And why would I want that?”
Aamir lifted his chin only a degree. Enough for the arrogance and true purpose behind his visit to be revealed. “We must all work for a stronger Afghanistan.”
“Of course.” Sajjan waved a dismissive hand. “Is that not what I am doing here, building the first skyscraper in Kandahar? Bringing industry and money to the city that gave birth to the Taliban? What else would you have me do?”
Aamir leaned forward. “Talk to your sources. Find out who is behind this.”
“My sources?” Sajjan feigned ignorance. “Aamir, you give me too much credit. My sources are business and money—”
“I trust that you will do what is possible to help our country.” Aamir stood, straightening his khet. “Please, we must. For peace. As Allah wills it.”
“Of course.” As if that saying sanctioned whatever the individual said. Surely he did not expect Sajjan to believe this was for peace, for Allah.
Aamir swallowed. Gave a shaky smile then started for the door. “I knew I could count on you, Sajjan. You are faithful. Just as your father.”
A twinge of anger spat through Sajjan’s veins at the mention of his father, a tactic designed to play on his sympathies. He squelched the thought of slamming this impudent man through the walls. Instead he guaranteed the man’s removal from his home by following Aamir out. After their good-byes, he wandered back to the living area, his mind heavy with the implications of the imam’s words. His insistence of Sajjan’s help.
Across the marble floor, a flicker of movement stilled him.
Dressed in an Army tactical shirt and pants that hid his prosthesis, Nina’s son-in-law sat on the sofa, elbows propped on his knees, fingers threaded. Intelligence lurked behind those pale green eyes. Tony held his gaze for a second then looked down.
Ah. “You heard.”
Tony shrugged. “He’s not exactly quiet.”
With a sigh and bob of his head, Sajjan sat opposite the young man who’d entered his life like a storm and hadn’t let up. But today, right now—the taut lips. The intensity. “You’re angry.”
“Absolutely. That attack”—he pointed to the south with flared nostrils—“was against my brothers.” His lip curled as he thumped a hand on his chest. “And that man knows something about it.”
Sajjan rubbed his well-trimmed beard, thinking. “Yes, I believe he does.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Sajjan considered the young man. At least twenty years his junior but with no less fervor or willingness to play the intelligence game. “Me?” He gave a cockeyed nod, smiling at Tony VanAllen. “I’m going to recruit help.”
EAMON
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
25 March—1930 Hours
Rich. As sole heir of his father’s fortune, which had a net worth of over two billion dollars, Eamon Straider grew up lacking nothing. Except meaning.
Powerful. Primed and prepped to walk in the shoes of his father, who served as prime minister of Australia, commissioned by the governorgeneral.
War hero. With his own Australian SAS team, he’d earned two Victoria Crosses, which was why he’d tattooed one over his heart. He loved the joint special forces, working with foreign elite warriors like himself. And he had a special place for certain Americans, especially those with Raptor, but his loyalty would never waver from his homeland.
He’d attained every single goal he’d set for himself, save one: marriage. Being a warrior didn’t lend itself well to building a family and being a part of the family. But if his father could do it, perhaps Eamon could. Someday.
He strode toward the JSOC building carrying the heavy burden of bad news. Captain Watters had offered to deliver the news, but they both knew that Eamon had developed… something with Lieutenant Hastings. He should be the one to convey the tragic news.
Inside, he made his way toward the general’s office, noting the lone lamp light burning at the end of the hall. That would be her desk. He held straight and didn’t let himself falter.
A strange, strong odor stung the air. It s
melled like antiseptic. He glanced around. Was someone cleaning?
“Oh.”
Eamon pivoted toward the soft voice. His gut tightened, but this time for a different reason.
Lieutenant Brie Hastings stood there in uniform, the ACUs doing nothing to camouflage her figure. But it was her smile, those soft blue eyes, that had him paying more attention than he should. Especially now.
He finally noticed the red around her eyes. And the way she rubbed and folded her hands quickly. That was what he smelled. Antiseptic. But the stink of it was strong. How much had she used?
“I—I couldn’t get the blood off.” Her voice pitched as she went to her desk and dropped into her chair. “Did you… see him? Is he…?”
The way her voice cracked again, her eyes pleading with him, broke his resolve. He eased toward the chair at the corner of her desk. Sat on the edge. Looked at his boots. Couldn’t…
“He’s dead. Isn’t he?”
Swallowing, he met her gaze. Gave a curt nod. “The bullet nicked a main artery. Lodged in his heart. There… there wasn’t anything they could do.”
Her chin quivered as her eyes drifted away, filling with tears. “He’s gone.” A shudder pulled her straight. The grief and brokenness vanished in a strange wave of resolve as Brie pushed to her feet. “Excuse me. I have to contact Command.”
“Hey—”
“They need to know right away that he’s gone.”
“Brie,” Eamon said, taking long strides to catch up with her fast pace down the hall. “Brie, wait.” He caught her arm. Tugged her around.
“Please.” Her word squeaked into a whisper as her blue orbs flicked to his chest.
A wall of protective instincts rose up in him as awareness muddied the waters. Her athletic build still seemed dwarfed when they stood close. He touched her shoulder. “Brie, it’s okay to grieve.”
A tear broke free. Spilled down her tawny cheek. She shook it away. “No, it’s not.” She met his gaze, strength she’d mustered from somewhere deep filling her features.
Eamon angled in, concerned. “He—”
