by Ronie Kendig
“Could he have bought Candyman?”
Brie laughed. “Candyman can’t be bought. His own moniker speaks to his character—giving candy to children while on patrol. He’s a gorilla of a guy, but he’s got a soft heart. And after losing his leg to an attack”—she shook her head, brown hair swinging—“I can’t see him siding with anyone close to those responsible for terrorism here.”
“Then what’s he doing being Takkar’s heavy lifter?”
“Warning us? That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“I’d recommend pulling him off the team. Cancel his contract,” Eamon said.
“Sorry.” She lifted a bottle of water and took a sip. “That’s out of my hands. Besides, I think you’re just mad he got a leg up on you.”
“He slammed my face into the wall and nearly choked me to death.”
Brie’s eyes danced with laughter.
“What?”
“You’re going to tell me, with those biceps, you couldn’t have taken Candyman?” Her laugh turned nervous. “Anyway, I think you held back because you know and respect him.” Her gaze traced something on her laptop. A flash of confusion rippled through her eyebrows. She leaned in.
“What?”
Her face shifted into a full scowl. Her eyes darted over the information.
Eamon slid to the seat beside her. “What’d you find?”
She lifted her head and angled it toward him, but never met his gaze. “This… according to the feed, Meng-Li’s heading back to China. If he leaves, our ability to gather information leaves.”
“What about Kiew Tang?”
“She’s to follow a day later.”
“Didn’t Walker say she was a soft target?”
“Yes, but I’m not convinced.” She chewed her bottom lip. “She’s pretty cold and heartless for someone who’s supposed to be Cassie’s former BFF.”
“The same could be said of Candyman.”
“Ah, but see, I have an entire military career and experience to back up my belief. Candyman has a plan we don’t know about. Didn’t you say he warned you there were things you didn’t know?”
“I don’t see how that’s different from Tang.”
“Well, you need to see with my eyes.” She smiled at him, batting those eyelashes in a taunting fashion.
Did she have any idea how pretty she was? With her shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes, a nice complement to her tanned complexion. But her personality! It took an effort to push his mind to the topic and away from the way she sat there, amused and coy. “What does that mean?”
“I am an officer with the Defense Intelligence Agency. I’m trained to know the differences like this.” She threw him another saucy smile.
“And I’m not? An elite Australian commando with—”
“—two Victoria Crosses and”—she flashed wide, fake-innocent eyes at him—“has the queen given you your knighthood yet, Sir Puffsalot?”
Eamon arched his eyebrow. “You’re mocking me.”
“No.” She stifled her laugh, but it pushed out. “Yes, I am. I so am.”
“You mentioned your credentials. I thought I should mention mine. But you call me puff—what did you call me?”
“Seriously?” Her mouth hung open. “You went there—I showed you mine, so you showed me yours?”
Heat scaled his neck. Shock riddled him. “That is not what I meant.”
Now she looked mortified. Brie came to her feet. “Titanis, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way either. I—”
His phone buzzed. He tried to haul his brain out of the muck she’d submerged it in. He glanced at the caller ID and stilled. “Excuse me.” Phone in hand, he left and slipped into a darkened office. Closed the door. “This is Eamon.”
“Please hold for the prime minister,” came the distinctly Australian voice.
His eyes closed as the line went void of sound.
“Eamon!” boomed a firm, gravelly voice. “How are you?”
Annoyance pinched his muscles. “Fine.” He wouldn’t be rude. “Your trip going well?”
“Made a diversion. Come see me.”
“You know I can’t just leave the Army—”
“But I’m here.”
Eamon lifted his head. “Here? What do you mean—?”
“Afghanistan. I’m visiting the Aga Khan Foundation and Sajjan Takkar—brilliant fellow that one. Come see me. His penthouse. Ten a.m. tomorrow work for you?”
Bloody—
“Eamon, it’s been a while. Do this. For me.”
“Fine.” He let out a thick breath. “Okay, Dad.”
“Brilliant! Tomorrow then.”
The line went dead—and so did Eamon’s hope for anonymity. If his father was here, that meant Takkar knew Eamon was here. If that was true, then Candyman had ratted him out. All those combined told him they were seriously buggered.
CHAPTER 22
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
4 April—0750 Hours
Pain sluiced through his arm. Sal hissed and dropped the knife, cursing himself for pressing too hard. As he scrambled to stem the flow, he focused on the pain. The release of the pain. Like opening a dam and letting the water flow, cutting gave him relief.
Nobody would understand. It was backward to them. They’d string him up on charges. But finding out about Mila. Learning Cassie was lying to them again. The whole freakin’ world felt messed up beyond belief.
Fisting the handle of the knife, Sal laid the blade against his arm again, this time just below the crook of his elbow, and drew a line down the tattoo of the Special Forces emblem. He stopped, the sight of the blood-slickened blade glaring against the darkened pigment of the tattoo.
Arm cut, pain gone, he let out a breath. Swiped his thumb over the mark, though the blood rushed free.
It was wrong. Wrong to cut. Wrong to deal with problems like this. In the back of his head, nagging buzzed in his brain that he was breaking his oath as a Special Forces soldier.
Sal lifted the knife, coiling three fingers around the blade and pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
Cassie.
He wanted her back. Wished to God that things hadn’t gone the way they had four years ago. Wished…
He didn’t know what. He’d made a commitment to Vida. To marry her. To give her everything she wanted. They’d grown up in a rough neighborhood. He’d protected her since their junior high days in New York. Being her boyfriend was comfortable. Easy. She was beautiful and everyone liked her, including him.
He pushed the blade against his flesh, watching the skin surrender to the sting of the steel. Wincing, he drew another line down his arm—for Vida.
No. Not for her. For himself. For the grave he’d dug. Two graves, in fact. Hers. And… mine. He drew it farther down.
“Falcon!” Hawk’s voice bounced through the shower and latrines.
He flinched. The blade flicked into his arm. Sal hissed. Dropped the blade and clapped a hand over his arm. “Can’t a guy have some peace?” he called from the stall.
Hawk laughed. “Not in this country. Captain wants you on deck.”
Pressing toilet paper to his arm, he wrangled the other to see his watch. “We’ve got twenty mikes still.”
“Yeah?” He heard and saw Hawk’s dusty boots beneath the partial door. “Well, he said now.” Two raps on the wall. “Let’s go, soldier!”
“D’you forget I outrank you?”
“You out-stink me, too, and I didn’t think that was possible.” Hawk hooted then started walking. “See you there, Sewer Rat!”
Rolling his eyes—since he wasn’t actually using the restroom, he knew Hawk was just yanking his chain—Sal wiped away the blood from his arm, wishing it was as easy to wipe away the reasons he did this, then tugged the quick bandage cream from his pant pocket and applied it to the fresh marks. That’s when he noticed the cut he made when Hawk startled him had gone a little deeper. Probably could use stitches. But yeah—that’d go ove
r well. He’d have to watch it. He applied the cream and then covered it with tissue before tugging down his sleeve. He’d need to leave it covered for a while.
He exited, glanced around as he made his way to the sink. He scrubbed his hand and blade then stowed it. When he looked up, he didn’t like what he saw. Haggard. Dark circles under his eyes. Guess that’s what happens when life screws with you. Shame deepened like dark shadows in the night, hiding his sins and heartache.
Cleaned up, he gave himself a nod. Warrior on. That’s what was expected of him. That’s what he’d do.
When he made it to the JSOC building, he found Dean there waiting. Hawk sat in a chair at the table, looking over a handful of documents.
“Hey,” Dean said, turning to nod at him. “Sorry to haul you out of the john, but I wanted to go over things with you.”
Sal shrugged off the moments of guilty release and focused. “Sure.”
“Hastings and Titanis are back. They’ve given us some actionable intel, so we’re doing this.” Dean pulled in a breath then nodded. “I want you to lead the team. I’m going to be here, keeping an eye on some things.”
“Things sound a lot more specific than you’re saying.”
“That’s why you’re my first.” Dean nodded to the paper. “Takkar is out of town for the next couple of days so we might be able to pull this off if we hit first thing in the morning.”
“Fly out?”
“Negative. We’ll head out, avoid the highway—”
“Better chance of staying alive,” Sal agreed.
“Right.”
“We’ll get into position and hit before dawn.”
“And we’re going after the woman?”
“Kiew Tang,” Dean said with a nod.
Bobbing his head, Sal felt the tremors of something else here. “And why are you telling me this before the team?”
“Because the team will include Walker.” Dean’s hazel eyes pinged with meaning.
“You want me to keep an eye on her.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” Sal said.
“I have no idea if I can trust her, but she’s already tried to help Tang, so I wouldn’t put it past her to do it again.” Dean angled a shoulder in. “Sal, if she does that, she puts the lives of every man on our team in danger.”
“She won’t.” But even as he said it, Sal had his own doubts.
“Ehhh,” Dean said, his left eye narrowing. “I know you too well. You don’t fully believe that.”
“My reasons are personal, but I do not believe she’d compromise a vital mission like this.”
“I’m going to have to trust you because we don’t have any options. Phelps wants this done, which means the POTUS wants it done. So it’s going to get done. I just hope nothing happens that will make me regret this and take action.”
“You and me both.” Sal knew what it meant—Dean would neutralize Cassie if she interfered. He didn’t need a briefing on that. He knew how things would go down. It was his job to make sure Cassie stayed in line. Did as she was ordered. If she didn’t…
“You won’t be alone, Sal. Riordan’s going in with his men—they’re secondary, but you and I both know that Ramsey is hand-feeding Riordan orders. If they get a whiff of anything negative with Walker, I can guarantee you he’s been given orders to take her out of the equation.”
Kabul, Afghanistan
5 April—0350 Hours
Weighted with the tactical gear, vest, and helmet, Cassie waited in the darkness with Raptor team and the SEAL team. After an “all quiet” order, they waited in the bombed-out building that had more rubble than roof and waited for the signal to move closer. Less than a klick from Takkar Towers, they’d rushed along the empty streets and sneaked in through the garage level.
But for now, they sat. In silence.
She might not have been an operative long, but Cassie could read body language and their deafening silence. These men did not trust her. And maybe it stirred a mutual distrust in her. If they decided she did wrong on this mission, would they act against her? She’d been trained to expect that. And with the wary and annoyed glances, they seemed ready to pounce.
Sal squatted against the far wall, talking quietly, marking in the dirt and strategizing with Riordan and Hawk. This was where he thrived. Among his men, keyed to the mission. Resolute focus, gifted with strategy, Sal seemed born to be a warrior. And add in his Latino heritage and Italian blood—a volatile and beautiful mixture. Gorgeous didn’t come close to the right description for him. She’d fallen hard and fast for the gregarious Special Forces soldier when he served stateside before his second deployment.
How many times had he come over here since… Vida? Must’ve been a lot—he’d changed so much. Back then, he seemed untouched by war. Or rather, it had not taken as great a toll on him.
He reached toward the floor, brushing something aside then scratching in the dirt as Riordan and Hawk looked on, nodding and pointing. His bicep, etched with a tattoo of an inverted rifle, tugged against his black tactical shirt. She’d seen the tattoo shortly after arriving here. Was that for Vida? Or another fallen comrade? Either way, it tugged at her heart how much pain he’d gone through.
Only as she thought of it did she notice his sleeves were down now. Interesting, considering Sal’s pride in his buff build. The men beside him had theirs cuffed either right above or below their elbows.
Cutting. She really hoped she was wrong. He’d always been an intense person, despite his easy laugh and jokes. Even now, she saw the lingering moodiness. It seemed much more pronounced since Huachuca.
“How long have you known him?”
Cassie flinched and looked to the side, where Harrier sat propped against the wall, arms draped lazily over his knees. “What?”
“Falcon. How long have you known him?”
Averting her gaze would only fuel the fire. “About five years.” She turned her attention to the team medic. “How long have you been with Raptor?”
“Two years. I’m the fresh meat—well, that is, until Knight and Ddrake”—he nodded to the German shepherd, snoozing slumped against his handler in the corner—“joined. Took the newb heat off me.”
She couldn’t help the smile. “I bet that was nice.”
He laughed. “You have no idea. They can be brutal.”
“They?” Cassie tilted her head. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“The Captain, Hawk, and Falcon are more intense than me. I’ve only been deployed three times. They’ve been here a half-dozen times.”
“You think that’s why they’re intense?” She tried not to mock him. If she believed the war is what made Sal intense, he had no clue. “Sal’s been keyed up since the first day I met him. But he was funny, too. That’s what drew me in.”
“Funny?” He laughed again. “I can’t see that.”
“Yeah,” Cassie said softly. “Neither can I—not anymore.”
“Listen up,” Sal called as the nearly half-dozen warriors came alive from their relative quiet and slumber. “Eagle’s in position. Guard change happens in thirty. Gear up. We’re going in.”
Cassie hopped to her feet and hurried over to where Sal knelt double-checking and securing his gear. “Hey.” She went to her knees. “What’s the plan?”
Lifting an M4 from the floor, Sal shrugged. “Just stay close.”
“Stay close?” Cassie tried to keep the ridicule from her words and failed miserably. “I’m entering a building—”
“You’re part of a team making a dangerous insertion.” Sal went to his feet and so did Cassie. “You stay close and keep your head down. Your job is to verify Tang’s identity.”
“And not get in the way,” Hawk murmured as he walked past, slinging his weapon over his chest.
“Sal.” Cassie pursed her lips and stepped closer. “Do not do this—don’t treat me like some wannabe. I’m trained—”
“I’m treating you like a part of my team. The mission is
to get Tang. Get out. It’s not that hard.”
“And it’s not that easy either,” she hissed.
“Thirteenth floor insertion. Sweep the condo. Find the asset. If we make it that far, you verify the package. That’s all. Nothing complicated.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He lifted his helmet and secured the straps beneath his chin. “Doing what?”
“Treating me like—”
“You’re a spy?” His eyebrow arched and those rich brown eyes nailed her with her own deception. “Yeah, I have no idea why I’d do that.” He lifted his hand, making a group-up motion to the others.
“Sal.” Cassie caught his arm as he tried to move away and noticed him flinch.
His expressive eyes hit her hand. Then her eyes. His silent warning to let go.
“Please—I’m just doing my job. And I want to be sure Kiew isn’t hurt.”
With a snort, he cuffed her wrist and freed himself. “And I’m doing mine.” He inclined his head toward the team huddling at the door. “Which is leading this mission. Now, you’re ready or you’re not. Either way, we’re going in.” He pivoted and strode through the darkness toward the others. “Let’s rodeo.”
Shanghai, China
With a snifter of vodka in hand, Jin tugged on the belt of his silk robe and made his way to his office down in the secure facility beneath his penthouse where his mother clung to the frail threads of life. He should remain at her side, suspecting these were her final hours, but the strange thing about life was that it waited for no one.
He accessed his private office, draped in obsidian lacquer and stainless steel. The cool air and atmosphere soothed the roiling acid in his veins. At his desk, he set down the crystal glass, pressed a button, and ran a hand through his hair. Steady whirring preceded a five-by-eight screen sliding from the ceiling in front of the painting hanging over the credenza. As he eased back in the chair without a squeak or groan, Jin reached for his liquor.
White glared angrily across the room as the screen sprang to life.
