by Ronie Kendig
Was she weak to want him back? Pathetic? Or was she strong because she saw the good in him and knew his heart, knew the man he really was, not the one beaten down by war, grief, and self-condemnation?
“Did you hear about Ramsey’s daughter?”
Cassie stilled. “Daughter?”
Sal exhaled long and loud. “He has a four-year-old daughter with some Arab woman.”
When he didn’t go on, Cassie shifted to look at him better.
“Ramsey convinced the woman that if soldiers came to ask questions, she should kill the children before soldiers could.”
Cassie sucked in a hard breath. “What?”
Sal lifted a hand and ran it over his head and down his neck. “That is some sick crap. It was awful. The girl was bleeding out. Dying. Because he wanted to save his own butt. How could he do that to a kid?”
Swallowing, Cassie forbade images from conjuring in her mind what that would look like, because she knew invariably Mila’s face would replace the little girl’s.
“Working with Harrier to save her life,” Sal whispered, his gaze vacant, lost in the memory. “All I could think of…” He shook his head. Tears welled up in his eyes. “All I could see…”
“Mila?”
He looked at her, haunted. “I kept thinking—she’d die and I’d never know her.” He craned his neck. “Does she like ice cream?”
Cassie lifted her head. “What?”
“Does Mila like ice cream?” He shrugged, his brow knotted. “I don’t even know that. I don’t know her.”
I will not cry. I will not cry. Cassie bit her lip and gulped the urge to defy her own commands.
Sal dropped back against the wall, thudding his skull twice against the cement. “I’ve screwed up so much. Been too angry for too long at too many people, including myself.” He shook his head. Met her gaze once more. “I want to change that.”
Darn tears were too powerful. Her vision blurred and Cassie ducked, pulling herself upright and turning her gaze out to the open. Away from him.
Sal was on the edge of the mattress. “Let me, Andra.”
She shook her head, not trusting herself to talk without a sob choking the word. “You know how long I’ve wanted you to say that?” Liquid drops of relief rushed down her face.
Calm down. He’s not asking to marry you. He just wants to know Mila.
Right.
Right, Mila. No, this was good. The way things should’ve been—well, mostly. He wanted to be a part of her life, and wasn’t that what Cassie had prayed for so hard?
Sal took her hand. “I—”
“Stop.” Cassie couldn’t believe she was doing this. But the thought of him being soft one minute and hard the next terrified her. “I can’t do this—I can’t have you tell me you want this and then you find some reason to be angry again.”
He let go and bent forward, arms on his knees. “I know.” He scratched the sides of his head. “You’re right. I’m tired of being angry. Tired of holding grudges.” Soulful brown orbs, the gold flecks glinting with grief and exhaustion, shifted to her. “I’m sorry, Andra. Really sorry.”
Stunned didn’t come close to expressing what she felt. Because along with it went elation. Shock. And even fear—what if he changed his mind, or realized once he got some distance between him and the Afghan-girl experience that he’d just been hyped or PTSDing. “What brought all this on, Tore? I’m glad to hear it, but I have to admit, it’s a little… I don’t know whether to trust it.”
Hurt rippled through the rugged lines of his face. “Seeing that little girl… it ripped apart something in me.” Intensity radiated off his taut muscles as he cocked his head to the side. “No.” He gritted his teeth and pursed his lips. “It ripped something loose—as if something had been stuck inside me.”
Salvatore Russo had never been one to wax poetic, so Cassie held her tongue and questions. Being this reflective charged the air around them and made her listen better than she had ever before. This was important. Very important.
His chocolate eyes searched hers, wrought with fervency and yet question. He looked lost, which stunned her silent because Sal had always been centered—and the center of her universe.
Suddenly he twitched. Glanced at her then away. “Sounds stupid, I bet.” He pushed to his feet and dusted his backside off. “I’d better talk with Dean about the plans for tomorrow.”
Kabul, Afghanistan
10 April—1615 Hours
Something had been knocked loose all right—his good sense.
Sal shrugged off the foolishness creeping along his shoulders as he and the team ran through scenarios and contingencies for the gala, for drawing Meng-Li Jin or Daniel Jin—whatever you wanted to call him—into their web. Painters tape on the cement floor provided a layout of the event setup for the team to rehearse lines of sight and strategy.
“Sal, wrong position,” Dean’s stern voice carried loudly through the basement.
Sal stopped. Glanced where he stood.
“Unless you like sitting in the punch bowl.”
Chuckles released some pent-up tension as Sal shifted to his left a foot. Might seem silly to some, but getting a feel for the layout would make the difference between a successful op and a total screwup.
“Group up,” Dean said, stepping toward the middle of the room.
Sal moved toward the team captain and bumped shoulders with someone. He glanced to the side. “Sorry.”
“No worries, mate,” Titanis said.
“Takkar wants everyone out of sight well in advance of the gala, so we’ll head topside. Sal, Titanis—anyone else who’ll be in view—shower up. Rest, check weapons and gear. Walk through the plan in your head until you can chant it in your sleep.” Intensity radiated off Dean as he considered the team. “This is our chance to not only capture Kiew Tang, but the mastermind. We can’t screw this up.”
“Think Takkar has something else up his sleeve?” Sal asked. “While I appreciate his help and cooperation, I’m finding it hard to believe he’s just letting us in on this.” Hands on his belt, Sal gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Last I knew, we were on his hit list for our attempt to take down Tang.”
Riordan, who stood a half-dozen inches shorter than Sal’s six-three, sauntered closer. “Agreed—something’s off.”
“Does Takkar have plans we don’t know about?” Dean bobbed his head firmly. “Absolutely. Do I know what they are? No. Will he deliberately act against us or put us in jeopardy?” He pursed his lips. “I don’t believe so.”
Schmidt grunted. “That sounds a lot like ‘probably’ in my book. Look, the guy’s given us no reason to trust him.”
“Gentlemen,” came the thick, stern voice of Sajjan Takkar as he entered the basement with his never-far-away strongman, Waris Singh, and three Asian men in suits. Also with them, Cassie. “If I might have some of your time. I’ve asked Miss Walker to join us because this information and her cooperation are integral.”
“To what?”
“The successful completion of this attack against you. The fund-raiser I have asked you all to attend will be the endgame, the point at which your thirst for justice and my desire to protect Afghanistan unite to take down a common enemy.”
“Meng-Li Jin,” Sal said, noting Cassie had made her way around to his side.
“Indeed.” Sajjan took a minute to meet the gaze of each operator in the room. “My sources say that Meng-Li will be here tonight to obtain a final high-level code.”
“To what?”
“While we have all been scrambling to stop the extensive breach of security, while your soldiers have stopped to lick their wounds and tend the injured, your government quickly shifted all security protocols and efforts to a new security program and software—Evangelion.”
“Are we supposed to know that?” Harrier asked. “I mean, Brian—Hawk would know it. But we’re not geeks.”
Cassie breathed a laugh, and Sal glanced down at her. She leaned closer and whispered, “
It’s the name of an anime—her favorite.”
“It is also a program designed and created by none other than Kiew Tang.” When muttering and cursing singed the air, Sajjan nodded. “It is exactly as they planned—attack, expose the underbelly of the American cyber network, and they’d get your government to dive headlong into their very hands. With the code he will obtain tonight, Meng-Li and his rogue organization will have unfettered access and control to American troop location and movement.”
Riordan frowned. “I’m sorry, but don’t they already have that? I mean—that’s why the brass pulled in our operators and teams. Right?”
“The breach of data was much more extensive than that,” one of the Asian men said, his words thickened by his accent and his eyes narrowed slits beneath his buzz cut. “It is one thing to ping a network and glean information, but with the implicit trust placed in Evangelion, the American government has, unwittingly, provided Meng-Li with that access. Troop movement, ships, contacts, covert operatives.”
Ah now it made sense. Sal gave a soft snort. “You have compromised Chinese assets. If he can get into that information, your double agents and your spies are exposed as well.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, his intention was one thing—to get the American government to shift security programs. In doing so, he exposed the covert operators of many countries,” the other said. “Mr. Guo and I are here, however, for one asset.”
“I’m sorry.” Dean stepped forward. “Who are you?”
“Yeah,” Riordan said. “And why do we care about your assets when we’re trying to save our own?”
“I am Mr. Song. We are with 61398.”
“Yeah?” Schmidt sniggered. “I’m with 90210.”
More snickers skated through the room.
“It’s the Chinese organization renowned as hackers. There’s no one in the world better.” Cassie angled her head to the side. Wet her lips before asking a question she probably knew the answer to already. “The operative you’re looking to protect? Is it Kiew Tang?”
Kabul, Afghanistan
10 April—1815 Hours
As the elevator climbed to the penthouse, Eamon adjusted the tie on the tux in the mirrored walls. There were benefits to being rich and powerful, or at least having a father with those “qualities.” He couldn’t help but wish Brie were here to guide him and talk him through the thoughts crowding his mind.
But she hadn’t been with him and Raptor when they’d been “rescued” by Takkar, so she was tucked away safely back at Kandahar Airfield. For that, he could be thankful. The vibes about tonight’s fund-raiser for the Aga Khan Foundation hung thick and rancid in the air.
Or maybe it was just his nerves.
Nerves about the fund-raiser.
Nerves about the cryptic message from his father to meet with him and Takkar. Would they try to sway his loyalties from Raptor the way Takkar had done with Candyman?
With a quiet tone signaling his arrival at the penthouse, the elevator settled. The doors glided back and Eamon entered a grand foyer with marble floors, gilded stands supporting vases and busts that looked as ancient and expensive as the ones lining his father’s mansion. The chilled air and austere-yet-museum-feel to the penthouse were cold and forbidding.
“Ah, Mr. Straider.” Dressed in a silk suit, Waris Singh approached him and inclined his turbaned head. “Welcome.”
Eamon nodded. “Thank you.”
“Your father—”
“Eamon, my boy!”
Boy. As if he didn’t dwarf his father by at least a head. As if he hadn’t even graduated uni yet. But Eamon kept it civil, as was expected and as he’d always done. “Dad.”
After passing through a tall doorway, Eamon stepped into a slightly sunken living area. The arrangement of the living space gave him a perfect line of sight on the seating area, the dining area, and even the bar.
“I was surprised you asked me to meet you here,” Eamon said softly as they moved to the bar where his father lifted a half-full snifter of bourbon.
“Indeed, I was surprised to find you not at the Kandahar Airfield but living in a condo with a woman.” Thick, disapproving eyebrows lifted. “Thought you knew better than—”
“You would assume the worst.”
Anger flashed through his father’s blue eyes. “I assumed you were actually doing your job to your country and being an honorable representative of the cross you bear so proudly on that big chest of yours.”
“I was and have.” Eamon would not be goaded, not this time. “Just because you fly in on your jet and find out I’m not where you think I should be doesn’t mean I’m doing something wrong. Special operations are clandestine—”
“I don’t need a lecture from you. In my position—”
“Yeah, it always is about your position, your reputation, isn’t it?” Eamon growled, his voice low. Hating himself for letting the words come out. Lowering himself.
Approaching steps silenced the verbal war.
Eamon turned and found Takkar and Candyman coming down a hall toward them. At one time he respected both men. Now he wasn’t sure about either one. Without a word to Takkar or Candyman, Eamon faced his father. “What did you want to talk with me about?”
“Actually, I asked your father to invite you,” Takkar said, head high, as he joined them.
“Why?”
“Because once Lance died, the list of people on that base whom I could trust all but disintegrated.”
“You know about Ramsey.”
“I know about Ramsey,” Takkar confirmed.
“I’m sorry. I’m still trying to ascertain the point of this meeting.” Eamon pulled his attention back to his father and Takkar. Strange bedmates, those. One ruled a country as political leader. The other seemed to rule the world as a deus ex machina.
“General Ramsey will be in attendance tonight.”
“That’s why you wanted Raptor here,” Eamon voiced his thoughts.
“Among other reasons,” Takkar said. “I wanted the team here because… First—will you tell me the real reason you were assigned to Raptor team, Mr. Straider?”
Eamon betrayed nothing. He knew he hadn’t. If Sajjan asked the question, then he probably had the answer.
Takkar slid a hand in his pocket and moved to the bar, where he lifted a decanter of gold liquid and a snifter. Candyman remained positioned between them. “Let me settle a debate going on in your mind right now. You wonder if it is a betrayal, what you have done. The men you’ve worked with for the past nine months count you as a brother. It would bother you if they viewed you as a traitor.” Ice tinked in the glass before Takkar poured the liquor. “Let me dispel those fears. Once they know why you’ve done this—they are warriors. They’ve done their own deceptive trade practice.” He sipped the drink. “Is that not right, Mr. VanAllen?”
Candyman’s green gaze had locked on to Eamon. “It is.”
“So, are you willing to divulge your true purpose?”
Eamon didn’t speak. Knew he couldn’t.
“Or have you been so long in the skin of that Special Forces team that you forgot what you were doing?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything.” Eamon remained calm.
“Then let me spell it out for you—tell me if I’m right.”
He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not without—
“You’re probably clinging to some misguided notion that speaking now would violate your own allegiance to the SAS. But I will reassure you—what is said here stays here.” Takkar smiled as he lowered his crystal glass. “You are in fact reconnoitering for your government. They believed there was a Chinese asset so deeply implanted in the American military hierarchy that they tapped one of their finest operators.”
There was only one place that information could’ve come from. The records had been sealed, the operation blacked out. Eamon slid a glowering look to his father.
“Well, since we are all out in the open with secrets,” Takkar said, then took a gulp of his d
rink. “Let me come clean with one of my own.” He motioned for Eamon to follow him.
Sajjan strode toward the rear of the penthouse and accessed a panel in the wall. A door receded from the wall and slid back, revealing a private room. He glanced back at him. “Please.”
Eamon checked his flanks and found his father and Candyman. A beeping noise pulsed out of the room followed by a hissing noise. With no little amount of hesitation, he stepped inside. A wall of white cabinets consumed his view. To the left a blue curtain shifted. Medical?
He frowned at Takkar who crossed the room and thrust back the thin divider.
Eamon pulled straight at a man seated in a tall, straight-backed chair. A wheelchair. The gray pallor wasn’t normal. But the features were easily recognizable. “Sir!”
CHAPTER 39
Kabul, Afghanistan
10 April—1830 Hours
Never before had so many die been cast or knocked around on such a vast game board. But with good men, honorable men, Sajjan remained convinced they could tear down this tower of evil power that had been erected on the bodies of innocents and patriots.
He folded his arms as Eamon Straider took a knee beside a worn, weathered general. A man he’d long counted among his closest friends. A hero to thousands.
“I think Sajjan just gets a kick out of parading me around in a hospital gown.”
“Lance, you’re wearing a two-hundred-dollar robe,” Sajjan said with a smile.
“I—I don’t understand,” Eamon said, then rose and pivoted to Tony. “This is why you—”
“This is why,” Tony said, vindication emanating from him. “I’ve been an intermediary since Sajjan brought him here.”
Eamon’s gaze roamed the general’s body. “But how—are you—?”
“Yes. Paralyzed from the neck down. When they tried to kill me, they hit the right vertebrae. I sit in this chair for a while then lay in the bed until my body recovers from the strain. One heckuva life, eh?”
“But you are alive.”
“Yeah, that’s about the only thing VanAllen keeps saying.”
