by Ronie Kendig
“Don’t you think if someone comes in they’ll figure out we don’t sleep in the same bed?”
“No. I’ll store my duds in the dresser in the master room. Bed will be made with hospital corners and no creases.”
She crossed her arms. “You can do that?”
“Every day.”
Amusement rippled through her tawny features, but she said nothing as she slipped into the bathroom. After suitcases were delivered, they settled in. First order of business—Eamon set up miniature cameras and microphones throughout the flat, tested each one, then set them to record through his laptop. As dusk fell in on the space and he flicked on the kitchen light, Brie worked alongside with her system, setting them to receive the same data and keeping in contact with her superiors.
They had a good system that flowed naturally. Eamon made contact with his command sergeant major, updating on his progress and purpose, now that they’d relocated the mission to the tower itself. For now, he left out that he was alone with the beautiful lieutenant.
“I hope you don’t expect me to cook.” Brie stood on the vinyl floor, arms crossed. She had these brightly colored pajama bottoms and a tank top on, her brown hair down. Comfortable and less military.
“Why? Are you a disaster in the kitchen?”
“My forte is soup.”
Eamon shrugged and nodded.
“From a can.”
He chuckled. “Good if we’re going to survive the zombie apocalypse.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I am.” He laughed. “But no worries. I’m actually a decent cook.”
“You?” Brie came to the table and folded herself back into the chair, propping her leg on the edge of the vinyl cushion. “Seriously?”
Eamon worked to set up the temporary network. “I lived on my own and hated fast food, so I learned.” He lifted a shoulder casually. “And in one of my phases of rebellion—”
“One? You had more than one?”
He gave her a glare. “I went to culinary school just to anger my father.”
“Seriously? You know how to cook? Besides putting shrimp on the barbie?”
“My oath, I do.” He smiled at her, amused that she found that interesting. “And apparently, I cook better than you.”
Brie sat back with her hands up in surrender. “I gladly accept defeat.” She waved him to the kitchen. “I want dinner in an hour.”
He laughed as the system streamed data. “We need ingredients to do that.”
“Is that how that works?” She sounded saucy as she hunched around her laptop.
“You seem a bit chuffed. Think you won one over on me?”
“I don’t have to make dinner, do I?” Her eyes twinkled in triumph as she adjusted her computer in front of her. “No slaving housewife for this girl.”
No… housewife. Was she saying she didn’t ever want to get married? A strong, independent woman in the American Army. An officer. What family did she have? Was that what shaped her feelings about not being a housewife? It’d make sense the attractive lieutenant wanted a career more than she wanted a family.
He slapped his laptop closed, a little harder than he meant to. The thought of her not wanting to get married irked him. Which was stupid. He hadn’t even invited her out yet. Marriage was on the other side of a long road, laden with minefield-quality traps—family, religious views, politics, history, money…
“You okay?”
“Sure.” He looked at her. “Cameras are up and working.”
“You went quiet,” Brie said softly. “Did I upset you or something?”
“Takes a lot more than the fact you can’t cook to offend me.” He pushed from the table and stalked to the fridge. Opened it and saw shelves and the lone light glaring back. “Probably should hit a store or market before it gets dark.”
“Let me grab a jacket, and I’ll come with you.”
Eamon donned his own coat, not because it was cold but because he wanted to conceal his weapon, and waited for her. “You’re paying, right?” By “you” he meant the Americans. Since they were footing the bill for this condo-recon, that meant they paid for food, too.
Brie sauntered from the bedroom. “Don’t you know the guy is supposed to pay for the date?”
“We’re married, remember. Your money is mine. And my money is mine.”
Brie struck his arm. “Hey.”
He opened the door. Though they kept up a light banter as they headed out of the towers, it’d taken them three mikes fifty to make it to the open plaza that anchored the two high-rises. They hung a right out of Tower Two and climbed back into their car. No sense in walking and exposing themselves to more threats. A few blocks down, they found a small market. Eamon spotted a street-side vendor with cherries. He parked and climbed out.
Brie made her way around the different stands, eyeing the vegetables.
Eamon made his way to the vendor and bought a pound of cherries. From another, he bought yellow onions. Across the street, he found a butcher shop and managed to procure a pound of chopped lamb.
“Do we even have utensils?” Brie asked with a laugh.
“Probably not,” Eamon said after paying. “We need a store to get some things.”
They started toward a shop he’d seen a block away. Though Brie seemed very relaxed, he couldn’t let down his guard. They might have a low-key mission, but danger was always present. And her life was in his hands.
Brie darted to a stand. “Pomegranates!” She lifted one and held it to her nose and inhaled deeply.
Glancing around, Eamon couldn’t help but notice the way the locals were watching. Without trying to be obvious. It made his nerves buzz. He closed the gap between them.
“Here. Smell.” Brie held it up.
Eamon craned his neck away. “Can’t stand those things.”
“What?” Brie’s eyes went wide. “No.” She nudged it closer. “Smell that! How can you not like pomegranates?”
Because my mate was killed in a pomegranate grove.
Unrelenting, Brie reached toward him. She tripped over his feet. Fell against him. Eamon wrapped an arm around her to make sure she didn’t fall. “I’m buying pomegranates. I’ll make you something.”
His mind buzzed again—but not because of the locals watching. Because Brie was still in his arms. She straightened but didn’t step out of his hold. She stayed. Against him. Warm. Curvaceous. Lighthearted.
He let his arm slide down around her waist. “You’re not the full quid if you think I’m letting you in my kitchen.”
She gasped in mock shock and looked up at him, exposing flushed cheeks. Hesitating and unmoving, she searched his face. But then looked away quickly—as if embarrassed—and paid for the fruit. Still, she stayed way closer than was appropriate. Triumph glistened in her eyes as she presented her purchase. “Who says it’s your kitchen? And why can’t I be in it?”
“You’ll burn it down.”
CHAPTER 7
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
26 March—1945 Hours
Sal sprinted across the base, aiming for the alley he’d seen the spook vanish down. Son of a gun if he wasn’t again chasing a target across the base. This was getting old. Determination shoved him forward.
“Stop him,” Hawk shouted from behind.
No kidding, Sherlock.
“Command, this… is… Riordan, we have… spy…”
Sal barreled into the night-darkened shadows. Saw the spook ahead, aiming for the heavily trafficked HQ and USO buildings. If the guy made it into HQ, they’d never find him.
Throwing himself forward, Sal rounded a corner.
Rammed straight into someone.
A woman screamed.
Pain jarred through Sal’s head as cement rushed up at him. He landed with a thud.
A gargled cry came beneath him.
He heard the unmistakable crack of skull on cement. The person he’d collided with had hit their head. Sal rolled to the side, disoriented.<
br />
Raptor team and the SEALs caught up. Glanced at him.
Pointing toward the alley, he said, “Go! Go!”
On a knee, he glanced at the woman. And froze.
Peeling herself off the sidewalk as she wiped at a dark stain on her blouse, Cassie groaned. Blood trickled down her temple. She reached for her head with another low moan. A foam cup rolled across the path.
“What were you doing?”
“Me? You were the one who—” Cassie tensed, hunching her shoulders as she grabbed her head. She swayed.
Guilt chugging through his veins, Sal caught her shoulders. “We had a lead on the spook.” Why had she been in his path? Why her? Why couldn’t it have been anyone else?
Tentative eyes came to his. “What? And now it’s my fault that you didn’t catch them. Right?” She blinked, wincing beneath a jab of pain it seemed.
Sal felt the anger rising. “You did knock me off the pursuit.”
“Right. And I did that because I have nothing better to do than make your life miserable.” She bent and snatched the foam cup from the ground. When she stood and took a step, her legs buckled.
Sal caught her again.
“Quite a knot,” Harrier’s voice boomed through the conversation as he returned. “Let me take a look.”
“Did you get him?”
Shaking his head, Harrier edged in, used his finger and thumb to open Cassie’s eyes wider. Asked her to track as he moved a finger back and forth in front of her. “Think you might have a concussion.”
“A concussion?” Sal objected. “We just ran into each other.”
“Her head hit the sidewalk.” At Sal’s skeptical look, Harrier shrugged. “Just telling you what I saw coming up the path.”
“I’m fine.” Cassie pushed Harrier’s hands away.
“You should get that looked at,” Harrier said.
“I said I’m fine.” She pursed her lips and turned her gaze deliberately to Sal. “Sorry I messed up your high-speed chase. I didn’t know getting coffee could be so dangerous.” Though she smiled, her face had gone a shade paler with a tinge of gray.
“I’ll walk you back,” Sal heard himself saying.
Cassie stilled at the same time he did, apparently just as surprised as he was that the words had come from him. He saw in the quick moment a spurt of hope. Then it crashed. “No.” She swallowed, touching the knot on her head. “I’m… I’ll be fine.”
She walked down the path, her gait a bit awkward.
“She shouldn’t be alone, sir,” Harrier mumbled. “She should be monitored to make sure she doesn’t pass out or slip into a coma.”
Sal wanted to curse. Wanted to rail and loudly object that Cassie wasn’t hurt that bad. But the tug on his conscience was too great. “Let me know how she does.”
“Excuse me for saying so, sir, but I’ve seen enough to know it should be you.”
Sal snapped toward Harrier, but the medic was already moving in the opposite direction. “Son of a fried biscuit…” Sal started in Cassie’s direction. He walked a little faster, his gut twisting as images of her collapsing and being rushed to the hospital clogged his mind.
But as he rounded the corner, he stopped short. The path lay empty. The parking lot, if you could call it that, was barren of cars. He scanned the buildings. Where had she gone?
He turned a circle. The Command building. Was she in there?
He remembered she’d spilled coffee. Maybe she was heading back there. He walked a little faster, stepped inside the building and checked her desk. Empty. A common theme.
Maybe her head had started hurting more. Maybe she went to rest.
Bad idea. If she was suddenly tired—surely Cassie knew not to lie down. A spurt of panic darted through his chest. He jogged toward her tent and stepped inside. It took a second for his eyes to adjust.
A flash of white yanked his gaze to the far right.
In that instant, he realized what his eyes had seen. He flung himself around with a curse. She was changing her shirt. He swallowed hard, seeing the curve of her back. Remembering the softness of her skin…
He pushed away from her and the memories.
“Sal.”
Go. Don’t stay.
But he couldn’t move. Anchored by memories of what they’d had. What they’d shared.
Cassie was there, in front of him, tugging her hair out from under the collar of a clean shirt. The knot had already shaded to an angry red. Fingers reached to brush the blond strands from the drying blood.
Only when her lips parted did Sal realize it was his hand reaching for her face. He clenched his fingers into a fist. Froze. “Sorry.” His voice was hoarse. Dry. What are you doing?
“Sorry,” he repeated. “I wanted to make sure…” He hated himself for being weak. For standing here caring when Vida was six feet underground. “If you feel sleepy, go to the hospital.” His words came out gruffer than he’d intended. But they had resolution. And he had no remorse for that. He took a step away.
“Sal, when will you stop hating me?”
“When Vida comes back to life.”
“But even you said you didn’t really love her.”
The words were a blow to the back of his head. To his conscience. “But I committed to her. Promised her.” He nailed her with a look that shot hot daggers. “And you sent her to her death.”
“I made a mistake.”
He snorted. “Is that what you call it? She’s dead!”
“Yes, it’s something I will live with for the rest of my life,” she said, her voice eerily quiet. “I messed up because I was so crazy in love with you—
“Don’t put this on me!” Fury leapt through his chest. He backed away from her.
Cassie hung her head. Shook it. “I’m not, Sal.” Her soft eyes came to his. “I’d do anything to undo what happened, what came out of my actions. But I can’t. And I’ve made peace with God over it.”
“God.” Sal snorted again. “Never thought you were religious.”
She tilted her head, blond hair slipping over her face. “I wasn’t—and I’m not still. But in a very dark time in my life, He was there for me.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. He’s never been there for me.”
“Maybe you shut Him out, just like you do with everyone else you get mad at.”
“This is stupid,” Sal spat out. “I just wanted to make sure you were alive.”
Her smile was soft. “Thank you. I am.”
She was like a tidal pool, sucking in everything around it. He wasn’t going down, not this time. Sal stalked out of the tent.
Kabul, Afghanistan
27 March—1320 Hours
Pain throbbed across her temple and down the back of her neck despite the three ibuprofen she’d taken climbing out of the car. Cassie crossed the open street in front of the thirteen-story building, the tallest in Kabul. A giant among the crumbling plaster sentries of the wounded city.
She stepped into the lobby of Takkar One, the larger of the two towers owned by Takkar Corp., breathing in a long, deep breath of chemically cooled air. A treat in this part of the world. The upper levels overhung the lobby, suspended surreally. Incredible architecture! Smiling, she made her way to Nina’s, the first-floor restaurant where she’d agreed to meet Kiew. Wearing her uniform would be a screaming homing beacon for those wanting to harm Americans, so it was decided she’d wear slacks and a blouse.
Brushing her hair forward, she accidentally grazed the knot Sal had given her—a concussion with it. She’d had one before and knew the markers. But she hadn’t wanted the fuss. Didn’t want to incite Sal. A dart of pain responded to her touch.
“May I help you?” an attendant at a podium asked. Dressed in a smart little navy suit with a silk scarf draped around her face, the attendant smiled.
“I have a reservation with—”
“Miss Tang?”
Cassie started. “Yes.”
“She’s waiting for you.”
�
��Oh.” A weird feeling slithered through Cassie, but she shoved aside her misgivings. Today would be a fun day. A time of remembering and laughing. Long ago, they decided she and Kiew were twins separated at birth.
“This way,” the woman said, as she sauntered around the podium and started for a secluded section of the restaurant.
Being a trained operative, Cassie did the perfunctory assessment of the setting. There were two visible exits—one at the front and one at the very back. Another entrance probably led to the kitchen or bathrooms and might provide another means of escape.
Suits littered the more secluded area, their condescension and arrogance as thick as steel-cut oatmeal. Doubt and discomfort slithered down her spine as she weaved through the white-draped tables with their amber glowing candles. A spiced scent rose on a tendril of smoke from each.
At the back, a cluster of well-placed ficus provided a natural barrier. Through the leaves, she caught sight of a brightly colored silk blouse. Kiew. Had to be.
“Miss Tang, your guest.”
Cassie rounded the last ficus, excitement thrumming through her in anticipation of seeing her friend for the first time in seven years. She threw her arms out when she saw the round, beautiful face. “Kiew!”
But the woman before her sat stiff and unmoving. “Cassandra. So good to see you again.”
Though she already laced an arm around Kiew’s neck for a hug, Cassie knew she’d made a mistake. Cassandra. Not Yong, the Chinese equivalent of a “bubbling.” But she swallowed her pride and tucked herself in the chair, noting the attendant still waiting. Kiew had always been reserved in front of strangers.
“A drink?” Kiew asked her, eyebrow arched.
“Water,” Cassie said. “Please.”
With an upturned nose, the attendant left.
Alone, Cassie grinned unabashedly. “This is awesome!”
Kiew still kept her hands in her lap, her composure rigid as steel. “It was good of you to meet me on such short notice.”
Now Cassie hesitated. Things were… off. Maybe the indifferent behavior was because of the years they’d spent apart. But still, Kiew had been much nicer on the phone. “Of course—can’t believe we’re both in Afghanistan at the same time! And for me to be sent up here for business while you’re here.”
