by Ronie Kendig
“I want this piece of dirt,” Sal said. “Can’t let him hurt the woman or children.”
“He’ll probably take them hostage,” Hawk muttered.
“It’s a risk,” Riordan conceded.
But that spook had killed the Afghan shooter for a reason. Maybe the spook had taken out Burnett. The way he moved in and out of American installations bothered Sal. A lot. He had too much information to let him walk away.
“We don’t have a choice,” Riordan said. “He has answers we need.”
“Reading my thoughts, squid.” Sal smirked. “Be careful—I might think you’re smart.”
“You know how to think?” Riordan threw the caustic humor right back at Sal.
Sal smiled. “Okay, let’s move in. Bring your team in from the north. We’ll hit south.” East and west were blocked by eight-foot walls. “Eagle will stay high and provide cover fire and take the guy out if he manages to slip past us.”
Raptor swept down the side of the hill, buzzed with adrenaline. Knight and Ddrake went ahead, searching for IEDs or mines as they descended. With Hawk, Harrier, and Candyman behind him, Sal took a knee at the bottom where a ravine separated them from the road to the village. “Eagle, sitrep?”
“Clear,” Eagle’s voice rattled through the coms. “No movement inside.”
With two fingers, he sent Candyman and Harrier forward. Sal hustled along the wall, using it for cover. Hawk brought up the rear. This was what he loved. Working with his team. Taking action. Delivering justice.
Hustling forward, M4 at the ready, Sal stacked up behind the others. Candyman moved inside the compound, scurrying to the right and pieing out as he moved to keep eyes on all forty-five degrees visible. Harrier went left and pied toward Candyman.
“Clear,” Harrier subvocalized.
Sal rushed into the area, gliding past his men with ease and confidence. He went to a knee at the corner of the primary residence. Across the compound, beyond a rusting truck, Riordan and his team were sidling up to a dilapidated Toyota.
Sal waited for the pat on his shoulder that would signal his team’s readiness. When it came, he keyed his mic. “In position.” He’d have preferred to do this in the dark, with the lower risk of visibility, but they couldn’t take the chance that the spook would get wind of their knowledge of his location and vanish.
Riordan and his men moved like a steady stream of shadows through the compound. “Eagle, report.”
“Still clear.”
A strange comfort came in the fact that if the situation demanded it, Eagle could shoot through a wall to take out a target. But they needed this guy alive. At least long enough to get the information they needed.
Even as he watched them, Sal was thankful for the addition of more skilled warriors working the same mission. But he wasn’t sure how far he trusted Riordan. The guy… he seemed to know something he wasn’t telling them. Or maybe he was the problem. Could Riordan be behind the attacks?
What if Riordan killed the prisoner?
Jarred by the thought, Sal almost missed the “in position” signal from the SEALs. He held up three fingers. Three… two… go!
Candyman shifted around. Stepped back and rammed his heel into the crumbling wood barrier. It splintered with a loud crack!
Sal rushed inside. “On your knees, on your knees!” He aimed at a woman huddled over two small children. Not cooking. Not working. Just… huddling. Sal kept moving, hustling toward the middle where they’d seen the two men in the corner.
On the other end of the residence, he heard Riordan shouting similar orders. They would work their way toward each other. Sal continued on, knowing Harrier or Hawk would tend to the woman and children.
Candyman was at his right, sweeping back and forth.
“Clear,” Sal called as he moved through the room. The next area should be exciting. With a nod to Candyman, they breeched the next entrance.
Two large forms shifted to the far right.
Sal’s heart jammed. He snapped his weapon toward them. Sucked in a breath—and then whipped his weapon down. Riordan.
“Where are they?” Riordan roared, pivoting and glancing back in the direction they’d inserted. “He’s not there. My men cleared it.”
“Same here.” Frustration roiled through Sal. “Eagle, what do you have?”
“Nothing. No thermals. No visual.”
Riordan cursed.
“Knight,” Sal shouted, stomping back the way he’d come. “Bring in Ddrake. Find this sorry piece of crap!”
“On it,” Knight’s deep voice carried through the house. “Ddrake, seek seek seek!”
Sal caught sight of the German shepherd trotting around the room, his nose hauling in scents greedily. A staccato pant indicated he was processing scents at the very back of his nostrils and throat, tasting them.
Ddrake’s nose dug into the dirt. He traced back and forth.
“Falcon, he’s got something!”
He glanced at Riordan. “Tunnels.”
CHAPTER 9
Kabul, Afghanistan
28 March—1635 Hours
Her longtime friend was involved with Daniel Jin. Though it would’ve been a nice, creepy story to say the man who’d escorted her had beat her and forced her to promise not to mention who or what she’d seen, he simply escorted her out of the restaurant, demanded the package, then shut the door behind her.
She’d watched from another shop as Kiew and Daniel Jin marched to the elevator, accessing a restricted floor with a chained key. Then Cassie went to the hotel lobby on the second floor of Takkar Towers and checked in, per orders from on high. She really didn’t appreciate having to stay here. To be out in the open.
Away from Sal.
“I had thought you would be long gone.”
Cassie flinched at the soft voice, yanking her gaze from the mostly uneaten rice and lamb. “Kiew,” she breathed as she pushed upward.
“Stay.” Kiew slid into the seat beside her. “My assistant mentioned she saw you here. Sorry, I did not realize you were staying at the hotel.”
With a heavy sigh, Cassie shrugged. “I’ve been told to wait here for an answer, but as with any military proceedings, answers are slow in coming.” She glanced at her Timex. “And minutes are falling off the clock. I just hope they don’t write me up for returning to the base late.”
“It is so odd to think of you in the Army.”
She smiled. “Being raised by a single mom, I had to get creative with education and career choices. I went into the Army hoping for a nice, fat GI Bill after I got out.”
“But you’re still in.”
She gave another shrug. “I got to travel, they taught me skills I couldn’t have acquired out there, and…” A pair of rich brown eyes flashed across her memory banks. She didn’t want to admit she’d stayed in to be near Sal, though she’d PCSed far away from him.
“What was his name again?” Kiew’s almond eyes were wise to the unspoken words as she leaned forward and touched Cassie’s wrist. “He must have been quite handsome to distract you so much.”
“Quite.” He’d fit neatly into that “devastatingly handsome” category of her sister’s Harlequin novels. Salvatore Russo had been more handsome and charming than any man she’d met before. When he took an interest in her, she’d felt certain her wildest dreams had come true. And for six months, they did.
“What was that?”
Cassie blinked, looking at her beautiful friend. “What?”
“You’re sad now. What happened with this mystery man?”
It’d be easy to rehash this story. To mope over the loss, the way her life had shattered. But something stronger and more important struck Cassie—Kiew was awful chatty today. Yesterday she’d been tightly controlled and tight-lipped. Now she laughed and teased.
“What about you?” Cassie said, shifting the attention back to the woman who’d had everything back then. “What about that power player you left with yesterday?”
Kiew’s s
mile faded. “He is not important.”
Daniel Jin, partner of Takkar Corp., not important?
She squeezed Cassie’s hand. “Tell me more of your life.”
Cassie moved with the flow. “There is not much to say.”
“What happened with this man? Tell me.”
With a sigh, Cassie shook her head. “I fell madly in love with him—”
“And did he fall in love with you?”
That was the outranking question. “I… I think so.”
“But?”
“Things changed. I did something really stupid and…” She couldn’t voice the truth. Not to her sweet friend. Not to a friend who thought so highly of her. “He hasn’t forgiven me, and honestly, he has every right to hate me.”
“I cannot believe you would do anything so terrible,” Kiew said. “And you still love this man?”
“I never stopped.” Heaviness doused her again. She wanted to shift this conversation. “What about you? You are a corporate powerhouse, yourself. I can tell by the way they treat you here—and you have an assistant?”
Kiew inclined her head, exposing a red welt near her shoulder. “Some things… they take over your life, even when you do not want them to.”
Concern for her friend bloomed through Cassie. Her mind bounced to the last conversation they’d had. This had eerily similar earmarks to what her mom went through with Adam. “Kiew, what’s going on?”
Her friend frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve changed—a lot.”
Kiew laughed. But it was a nervous one. “You have, too.”
“Yes, but you seem… afraid.”
Kiew’s expression snapped back into that cold, unfeeling mask. “I should go.”
Catching her friend’s arm, Cassie smiled. “Please. Don’t.”
Composed and stony faced, Kiew lowered herself to her seat.
“I pushed too much, and I’m sorry.” Cassie removed her hand when Kiew cast a surreptitious glance around the restaurant to be sure they hadn’t drawn attention. “So,” she said, as she lifted her water. “You were a tech whiz when I knew you in Shanghai. Are you still?”
A blush rosied her friend’s cheeks. “Yes.”
“Graduated top of your class, right?” Cassie couldn’t stop her laugh when Kiew’s chin tucked even more. “I had no doubt.”
Even as she said the words, pieces of a puzzle fell into place, revealing a canvas of deception Cassie had not realized she’d been painted into. The colors were brightly spread with a masterful touch. Slick and perfect.
Too perfect.
She’d been used. Manipulated. Set up.
Fifteen Klicks North of Kandahar, Afghanistan
28 March—1700 Hours
Rock and dirt clawed his shirt and arms as Sal low-crawled through the tunnel. Dust plumed in his face with each breath, tickling his nostrils and aggravating his eyes. Even with his shoulder lamp on, he had limited visual range. The temperature was at least fifteen degrees cooler than aboveground. He dug his elbows into the rocky surface and hauled himself forward. The tunnel ahead was black. Indiscernible.
Sal dragged himself forward, squinting through the gritty, cool air. Another ten feet told him why it was so dark. “Son of a…” He spit, the sand grinding between his teeth and digging into his gums. Wiping the sweat from his face, he keyed his mic. “Another fifteen yards in. T-juncture. Nothing else.” The tunnel ended in a T with options going right and left. Again. He bit back a curse. This tunnel rat had escaped.
Static crackled through his coms. “Riordan here. Same thing.”
Every tunnel branched into two. It’d be impossible to figure out which way the spook had gone. Smart tunnel rat.
His shoulder lamp blinked out. With a grunt, Sal slapped it. Though it flickered, it didn’t stay on. “Lamp’s out,” Sal grumbled. He pulled himself forward into the T and angled to the right then shimmied backward so he wouldn’t have to crawl backward to the village. “Coming ba—”
A noise severed his words. Scraping… no, not scraping. That was too harsh. It was like… breathing. Labored, ragged breathing.
Sal stilled. I’m not alone. Awareness erupted through his chest with a blanket of hot dread. And yet his pulse raced at the thought of capturing this spook.
He closed his eyes, listening. Homing in on the sound. Somehow, it was getting farther away. But… ahead? He cocked his head slightly, listening. Slowing his own breathing and thoughts.
“Falcon, you there? We’re not receiving. You broke up,” Hawk’s voice squawked through his coms, the team monitoring his movement through a tracking device. He mentally silenced his teammate.
Scritch.
Ahead! It came from ahead.
Sal crammed his boot against the tunnel wall and launched himself forward. Punched his hand forward. The rocky ceiling slapped his helmeted head.
His fingers grazed something smooth. Hard. Rubber. Boots!
But just as fast, the boot vanished. The spook grunted, rock and dirt churning, revealing the spook’s attempt to get away.
Not on my watch.
Sal scrabbled forward, using every ounce of energy and every inch to catch this sand spider. He surged deeper into the left vein of the splintered tunnel. As he reached, something cracked against his hand. Pain shot through his finger.
The spook kicked, nailing Sal in the face. He glanced away but clawed at the leg. Caught purchase.
Both feet shot into Sal, nailing him in the nose—he’d swear lights erupted in the tunnel from the flash of white that shot through his skull. Warmth sped down his lip and nose and throat. He coughed but refused to relent. His fingers coiled around fabric.
“Contact with target,” Sal growled through his coms.
A scratchy riiip filled the air amid grunts and the dribbling rocks. In that split second he realized his fatal mistake—he was trapped and exposed to this spook. With no light to guide him, he had to rely on his hearing. And that hearing told him the spook had just pulled a weapon from a holster.
Then he saw it.
A tiny explosion that seemed massive in the confined space. Crack!
His head knocked to the side.
He’s shooting!
Sal backpedaled into the main tunnel. He caught the turn. Yanked—
Crack!
Fire lit down his calf as he dragged into the main shaft. As he did, another sound pushed him forward—a sound that froze Sal. Warned him this fight had taken a deadly turn. The unmistakable sound of a grenade against rock.
Panicked, Sal kicked—and felt the thump of the grenade against his boot. He willed himself to move with the speed and agility of a snake in a situation where he felt trapped like food in an MRE pouch.
Boom!
Sal dropped his head, covering his helmet with an arm.
Whoosh!
Heat rushed over him in a gust of debris and smoke. Knocked the breath from his lungs as it shoved him aside. Rocks and dirt collapsed. Punched him in the back. Sal drowned in thick darkness.
CHAPTER 10
Fifteen Klicks North of Kandahar, Afghanistan
28 March—1710 Hours
A muted boom rumbled the ground beneath his boots. Tony VanAllen glanced down then met Riordan’s shocked expression. They both spun toward the tunnel entrance where Hawk waited on both knees.
Hot and thick, a plume of dirt escaped.
Hawk threw himself away from the debris field, coughing as he came to his feet.
Tony pressed his finger to his throat mic. “Falcon, come in.”
Static answered.
“Get out of there—it’s unstable!” Riordan shouted to Hawk, who had lowered himself into the shaft.
Hawk scowled as he went to his knees in the shaft. “Forget you, squid. I’m not leaving—”
Thud. Crack!
Hawk threw himself over the lip of the opening as the floor around them dipped and collapsed. Curses and shock riddled the air. Tony stared in disbelief as a several
-foot depression spread out around them. “Out! Out out out!” He dove for the door, glad they had already cleared the woman and children out of the structure earlier so they could work.
As if on cue, the plaster wall cracked then slumped inward, as if weary from the load it carried.
“Back,” Tony shouted to the team and the locals, who’d come out to see what was happening. He waved his arms as he motioned them back.
“What about Falcon?” Hawk asked.
“Eagle, you have eyes on this?” Tony turned just as the ceiling tumbled inward.
“Holy crap!” Hawk stumbled backward as the dust seemed to reach for them. “What about Falcon?” He turned back to the carnage and his hands went to his helmet.
“Ddrake might be able to find him.”
“But he’s buried several feet belowground.” The veins at Hawk’s temples bulged. “How do we get him out?”
“Easy,” Tony said. “We’ll find him.”
“If he’s alive,” someone from the SEAL team muttered.
Hawk dove for the man.
Tony intercepted him, hauling him into a reverse bear hug. “Easy, Hawk. Easy. We’ll find him.” He looked to the mouthy SEAL. “Alive.”
“How?” Hawk demanded.
Emptiness. Darkness. Heaviness.
Sal hauled in a greedy breath—and got a mouth full of dust and dirt. He coughed, only then realizing he couldn’t move. Each breath hurt, heavy in the darkness. He blinked to clear his vision but there wasn’t anything there. Nothing to see. Only darkness.
Hands wrapped around his head, he tried to drag his finger toward the coms. But his forearm was pinned, a weight forbidding movement. He grunted—and that made him cough again. His ribs hurt. His lungs hurt.
“Falc—” His own name caught in his throat and threw him into another fit of coughing. His eyes watered, burning in the dusty, airless space.
Airless.
How much air did he have?
How long before this tunnel in the middle of the desert became his coffin?
Panic beat against his chest.
Calm down. Calm down. Elevated breathing meant he sucked in more air. Which meant he could run out if this place was completely blocked.
