by Ronie Kendig
“I want my Glock and the information.”
Thunder rumbled through the predawn hour.
Wait! That wasn’t thunder.
“Chopper,” Toque said. Three large strides carried him to the entrance.
Darci was at his side. She whipped open the flap.
“Good,” the professor announced. “They’re just on time.”
“Who? Who’s coming?” Darci hurried forward, fury coloring her vision red.
“I called the Army, told them we needed to—”
“Fool!” Toque shouted.
Darci gulped the adrenaline as she lifted Badria into her arms. “You’ve led them straight to us.”
“Of course I did,” the professor said with a chortle. “Wasn’t that the idea?”
“Not them, the enemy!”
White hair rimmed wide eyes. “What enemy?”
Toque leaned toward Darci and placed a hand on Badria’s black hair, severing the dance of firelight on her face. “Who is it, Jia?”
It wouldn’t matter in a few minutes. “Chinese.”
His eyes rounded. He spun toward the chopper.
As if in response, a stream of hellfire dotted the dark sky as if lighting the way for the missile streaking toward the helicopter that now hovered above their camp. But Darci knew—the dots were the missiles.
“Run!” The backwash of the rotors drowned her words.
Darci crushed the girl to herself and dove away from the chopper. Two routes presented themselves: through the main tents, down the path that led to the gorge where they’d collected water and showered. Or to the right, up the rigorous terrain and deeper into the unforgiving Hindu Kush.
High ground has the advantage.
She dove to the right. Sprinted between the base-camp tent and her own. A hand on her shoulder told her she wasn’t alone. No time to look back. To consider who was with her. Who was against her. Pain niggled at her, reminding her of the graze. She reached for another crag.
Night turned to day. Brilliant white. For an instant.
Darci tensed.
Booom!
An invisible hand shoved her face-first into the rock. White-hot pain flashed through her skull. Then blacker than black, night devoured her whole.
Fifteen
10 Klicks outside FOB Robertson
The village felt haunted. Emptied, yet he knew it wasn’t. Couldn’t be if Command had sent them here. Heath peered through the slats of the MRAP as it lumbered around a row of buildings. Arabic script ran down the walls on either side of doors. Some sported both English lettering and Arabic. Closed doors. Closed windows. Closed hearts. Heath had seen it time and again in Taliban strongholds. The only thing some wanted from Americans was death—of said Americans. Every now and then that distinct feeling wafted on the wind and brought with it a warning.
This was one of those times. His words from the night before about God having their backs echoed in his mind. He sure hoped he hadn’t lied.
“Looks like they knew we were coming,” Candyman called to Watters.
“Yep.” Watters shifted and glanced down.
Heath traced his line of sight. Pride swelled as he realized Watters was assessing Trinity for signs of concern or agitation. But his partner sat at his feet, snout resting on his knee. Until he put her into action on the ground, she wasn’t interested. He ruffled her head and shrugged at Watters.
Watters banged the hull. “Let’s get up close and personal.” The MRAP slowed to a stop.
Two sergeants at the back climbed out, one taking point on a knee, the other flanking him. “Clear.”
Heath and Aspen waited as the rest of the detachment filed out. Waiting and acting like a spectator. As he bent and stepped from the steel coffin, he realigned his mind. Civilian or military, he was in a hostile situation. Not being ready mentally could get his head blown off.
Trinity tugged on her lead, straining. She looked at him, wagged her tail as if to say, “Ready to play?” then sat down and stared at her objective.
Heath glanced at Watters, who was giving his team orders. “She’s got a hit.”
“You aren’t—aw heck, never mind.” Watters motioned to Candyman to take a team and scout north. Watters would sweep south, and they’d meet up in the middle again. With four guys behind him, he nodded to Heath. “Lead on.”
Heart pumping fast, Heath released Trinity. “Trinity, seek!”
With a small lunge, she barreled onward, nosing the ground. Her head turning right, then left as she continued. Exhilarated, Heath looked to his friends, only to see Hogan’s narrowed gaze behind Aspen. Something needled his conscience. But what? Trinity loved this. Heath might have a pounding headache, but Trinity was pounding the ground.
Jogging behind his canine partner, he felt the telltale thud in his skull. Too much. He’d done too much in too short a time. He knew it. But slowing down equaled defeat. And he wasn’t going there.
Trinity stopped, sniffed, then sat back on her haunches and looked at him. Then at the closed door.
Heath signaled to the team leader.
Watters and his team edged in, weapons up. “U.S. Special Forces,” he shouted to those inside. “Come out with your hands in the air.” He shouted the message again, this time in Pashto. Then Arabic.
Heath clipped the lead back on Trinity and took a firm grip.
The door eased open.
Trinity lunged. Barked.
Sucking in a breath, Heath grabbed a tighter hold on the lead and pulled her back. Which was about like trying to harness a tornado. “Trinity, out!”
An Afghan man screamed, then bent away, covering his head. Cowering.
The rest of Watters’s team rushed into the home. Shouts came from several directions. Down the dusty, hard-packed street, Heath saw the other team members clearing a store. Heath walked Trinity in a circle around the small crowd of Special Forces troops and the family of six or eight who stepped into the cool morning. A good hit, but that was enough. The weakness in his legs and arms told him so. The erratic heart rate told him so.
Then why couldn’t he just let it go?
With a fair distance between them and the others, Heath let Watters do what he did best and took a knee next to Trinity. He wrapped an arm around her thick chest, proud that even after thirteen months off the grid, she still had what it took. “Good girl.”
Trained on the others, Trinity was distracted just long enough to turn her head to him, swipe her tongue up his cheek, then refocus on the action unfolding. She missed it, the action, being useful, being part of a team.
He patted her side. “Me too, girl.” He sighed. Or did he?
In his periphery he saw Jibril, Aspen, and Hogan monitoring the progress of the SF team. It hit Heath then—I have a team, a new team.
Trinity’s ears flickered. Swiveling like satellites, they twisted to the rear. She looked over his shoulder. In a split second, she launched over Heath’s shoulder.
The lead ripped out of his fingers.
Heath spun—so did his head. He shook it off as he shoved to his feet, searching for Trinity. Scanning the structures, he tried to make sense of the almost monochromatic setting. Brown roads. Brown buildings. Wait—there. To the right. Third building. Trinity once again took up an aggressive stance, snarling and snapping.
“Trinity, heel!” He glanced to Watters. Should he shout for help? When he turned back to Trinity, his heart stuttered. She was gone!
“Trinity!” He took a step forward. Crap. He wasn’t cleared to engage hostiles. Then again, he wasn’t leaving Trinity to end up dead. She hadn’t left him—he wouldn’t leave her. Again, he double-checked his six.
The villager was arguing with Watters, his team helping with small children from the home.
Too busy.
Heath rushed after Trinity. This is real smart. You have no weapon. No backup. He didn’t care. He wasn’t losing Trinity. Not now. Not here. At least he had a vest and helmet. With each plant of his boots, Heath stee
led himself. His head felt like it was taking assault fire. Boom. Boom. Boom.
His vision blurred.
No!
He pushed it aside. It resisted. He shoved forward. Farther. “Tri …” Everything went black.
Panic snapped his eyes open. Heath glanced around. How long had he—? On the ground. I’m on the ground. On a knee. Heart and head still pounding. That was good then, right? Meant he’d only been out a few seconds. Right? Please, let it be right.
“You okay?” Hogan shouted as she ran past him. “I got her.”
“Yeah …” The answer proved weaker than his legs. Walking through pudding would’ve been easier. He trudged onward.
An Afghan male stepped out of the hut.
Armed. Aiming at Hogan.
A strangled yelp whipped out of her. She skidded, trying to stop, and landed on her rear.
Heath hauled in a breath as the guy shouted, “Allahu Akbar.”
Heath’s breath backed into his throat. A million thoughts pinged off his addled brain: Where was Trinity? Was the guy alone? Had he killed Trinity? I don’t have a weapon. I’m going to die. Hogan’s going to die.
As the telltale crack of an M4A1 split his thoughts, Heath watched the guy fall to his knees. A dark spot spread over the tan tunic he wore. He flopped into the dust.
“Yes, indeed.” Candyman laughed as he trotted toward Hogan. “God is great. But maybe not his god.” He grinned at Heath and knelt to check his pulse. “‘Cuz I’m thinking my god—whoever he is—just won.”
Behind them, a team snaked into the house. Trinity tore out a few seconds later. Heath gathered her into his arms, his biorhythms off the chart. Face buried in her fur, he clung to the wriggling mass of energy. “I thought you were a goner, girl.” Once he’d regained his head, he ran his hands along her amber coat for injuries. Clean. Weird.
Boots crunched as a sergeant approached. “He shut her in a room.”
“Why didn’t he shoot her?” At the thought, Heath ran his hands over her body again, wondering if he’d missed something.
The sergeant shrugged. “Hey, I’m not a psychologist. And he’s dead, so I can’t ask.”
Heath nodded. The question was dumb. One they wouldn’t be able to answer. But he could thank the Lord for watching out for both of them. As he got to his feet again, he had one thought: I don’t belong here….
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that since setting down at Bagram, but this time a deadly danger hung over the words. He’d nearly gotten himself, Trinity, and Hogan killed.
Hogan came up next to him, arms folded. “You enjoyed that.”
But he couldn’t let on to his fears, not in front of the others. “What? Seeing you fall on your butt?” Heath grinned as he fed Trinity a treat. Had to play it cool. “One hundred percent.”
“Ha. Ha.” She nudged his shoulder. “I meant being back in action. You got so happy-slappy, you nearly did a face-plant.”
“Nearly. But not quite.” The five-second blackout … what if it’d happened after he made it to the building? If the terrorist pointed the gun at his head instead of Hogan’s? A shudder rippled down his spine. The others would’ve had brain soup for chow.
Yeah, he needed to distance himself. Squinting, he brought his gaze back to Hogan and saw in her wheat-colored eyes, something … She knows.
Would she call it? Tell him—or worse, tell Jibril—that he was unfit for duty?
It’d happened once before with a colonel who felt Heath had become more a liability than an asset. He’d yanked Heath, tanked him, and sent him packing.
I’m not going back. Metaphorically or literally. But he had a responsibility. To Trinity. To the men and women around him.
Thunder streaked through the heavens.
Something went still in Heath. A knowing. A deep knowing. “That wasn’t thunder,” he muttered as he turned a circle—and stopped cold. In the mountains, a cloud plumed, thick, black, and angry.
Parwan Province, Afghanistan
Can’t breathe!
Someone had a hand on her throat. Darci jerked up—but saw nothing. She coughed. Again. No, not a hand. Smoke! The blanket of darkness smothered her. Her eyes watered. On all fours, Darci scrambled along the ground.
“Alice? Ba—” Another cough choked off the little girl’s name. Where was the girl? Darci had her in her arms when the explosion knocked her out.
Explosion. The geological survey team.
She squinted, trying to see past the pillar of smoke. No-go.
Okay. She had to find Badria and get to lower ground, out of the small fire eating through one of the dense green sections of the mountains. Darci ripped off a stretch of her shirt and tied it around her face. “Badria! Where are you?” she asked in the girl’s language.
Scooting along the route she’d taken, she searched for the small form, praying the little one hadn’t survived the slaughter of her family to end up dead.
Her fingers traipsed over the rocky edifice. Forcing herself to recall what she remembered of the shape, Darci crawled, afraid she’d plunge down a drop-off she hadn’t noticed before. Though determination held her fast, her priority had to be getting out of sight. If a gust of wind cleared the air, she’d be visible. Whoever had taken down the chopper would no doubt be looking for anyone escaping.
Darci dropped down a two-foot ledge—her ankle wobbled on the uneven surface. She shifted, then realized—a leg!
She traced the body. Too big for Badria. “Alice?”
A small groan. The legs moved. Arms. “Wha …?”
“Are you hurt? Is anything broken?”
Coughing, Alice shifted onto her side. “No … I don’t think so.” In the haze, Alice’s face appeared close. Her thick black hair tumbled free of the binding she’d had it in before the blast.
“Where’s Badria?”
With more coughing, Alice shook her head. “I don’t know. She was with you.”
An urgency gripped Darci she couldn’t shake. “We can’t leave her.” She wouldn’t leave the girl behind. “Help me find her—but stay low.”
Wide brown eyes watered and turned red. Not from crying but from the smoke and ash eating the sky and oxygen.
Rocks and sharp shards digging into their knees and palms, they searched the surrounding area. But to no avail. Darci’s heart pounded. She couldn’t leave the girl. Not the way—
She stilled. Not the way, what? Her psyche warred with her past. Not the way Ba left my brother.
Slumping back against the mountain that rose several feet over them, Darci tried to catch her breath. This wasn’t about her family. This was about a national—no, international crisis. If China was up to no-good here in Afghanistan, it could unseat everything.
Then, as if an invisible hand reached down, the cloud of smoke shifted to the east.
And before her, thirty or forty feet down, a hunk of twisted metal lay scattered over the remains of what used to be their camp. Small fires pocked the flat space. Gathered in a northwestern corner, about twenty shapes.
Darci pulled back. Too many fires still burned, stirring up ash and smoke, making it impossible to see who was down there. Who among their team had survived. She’d need to get closer if she had any chance—
“What’s going on?” Alice whispered from behind.
“They’ve rounded up survivors.” Darci scooched forward, her boots too loud for stealth. She slowed and made deliberate efforts to lift and place her foot with each step.
As she rounded a corner and hid behind a boulder, something in the southern corner, near a large piece of wreckage, caught her eye. A flash. Where was that coming from? She scoured the black, charred remains—
There. Again. Another flash.
She narrowed her eyes and leaned in. A shadow? No! A burst of relief shot through her. Not a shadow. It was Toque. Covered head to toe in ash and soot, he crouched next to the belly of the downed chopper. Had he rolled in the ash?
Another flash. A thought niggled at
her brain. Was he sending her messages?
Pay attention, Darci.
Patting herself down, she searched for something to let him know she was listening. Wait. No. If she did that, the attackers would see her. She looked down. Against her North Face jacket, her hand would stand out. She gave the move-out signal.
The glare of whatever he was using scorched her eyes. But she forced herself to read the message. It came through:
E-T H-E-L-P-D-O-N-T-L-O-O-K-B-A-C-K.
… et help. “Get!” Get help. Don’t look back.
She relayed her understanding, but … she didn’t understand. What did he mean, don’t look back?
As if in response to her question, Toque rose and stepped around the hulk.
No! You’re exposed!
Hands raised, he shouted at the enemy. Gunfire erupted.
“No!” Darci lunged forward but just as fast threw herself back down. Rocks exploded around her.
She’d drawn their attention. Her pulse thundered through her chest, reverberating off what she’d just seen. No. He couldn’t be dead. He might’ve been a spook, but if anyone had a chance to help the team, it would’ve been Toque.
Something tickled her back. Something small, spider—
Darci whirled.
A pair of beautiful brown eyes stared out from a small hole. Badria! The little girl pushed aside some rock and rubble. On her belly, she wiggled backward, waving Darci to follow. As the girl cleared the opening, Darci saw it—
A tunnel!
Sixteen
Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan
All the demons of war must have him on their hit list. He’d made an impact here, saved thousands of lives from burning in hell. And the immortal beasts wanted him gone. His grandfather, Woundedknee Burnett, would’ve told him it was the spirits. But his grandmother, who’d drawn the grouchy ol’ Cherokee from his reservation with her blue eyes and firm Christian faith, would’ve said he was right. The demons wanted to stop the Kingdom from advancing.
