by Ronie Kendig
Where were they going?
“So, my angel—speak! Why are you down here?”
“I’m a pilot.”
Mitra jerked her head toward her then moved in front of her. “A pilot?” Disbelief seemed to widen her eyes. “How is this possible?”
“I never left the ANA.”
“But you told your father you had—I was there!”
“I told my father what he wanted to hear, what I needed him to believe so he would not torment or beat me,” Fekiria admitted, her heart heavy.
“He was always so hard on you.” They scurried across traffic and turned left. The path they took seemed intentional.
“Where are you taking me?”
Her friend smiled, her eyes bright with mischief.
Ah! There is the friend I loved. Fekiria could not help but laugh. “What trouble are you causing?”
Mitra giggled. “Trouble? Oh no, my friend—you are the one with trouble nipping at your heels. I am the one wisdom follows, remember?”
“I seem to remember his name was Wasim, not Wisdom.”
Another burst of laughter erupted from her friend, who turned a corner then slowed. Head down, Mitra seemed to be lost in thought as she leaned against a large double-hinged door to a building. “I remember Wasim.” The way she said it made the name and memory sound as if they were a thousand years old. Wistful, thoughtful, she rolled her shoulder and eased back against the dark wood. “He was so jealous when Jacob came and stole my heart.”
Jealousy had not claimed only Wasim’s heart. It had been difficult for Fekiria to watch her friend stolen away by a man who shared the religious beliefs of the Christians. A man who was Israeli. “Where is Jacob?”
Eyes glittering, Mitra leaned toward her. “I have a secret to share with you, my angel.”
Something about the way she said that worried Fekiria.
“Can I trust you still?”
“Of course.”
“But if I do—this must stay a secret.” Mitra’s eyes resonated with meaning.
“I would never betray you!”
“Even to the ANA?”
“Especially to them!” Heart thumping, Fekiria felt as if her character had been questioned or challenged.
Mitra’s face brightened, her oval eyes alive once more. She turned, produced a key from her pocket as she gave a cursory glance to the street they stood on. Deftly, she slid the key into the heavy door’s lock and pushed it open. “Please,” she said as she herded Fekiria inside.
She stood in a courtyard, simple but pretty. A bricked path led toward a center fountain that wasn’t running. The path wrapped around the fountain then broke, leading to three buildings. The first, a very small one that could house no more than a single family. The middle structure was large and had two levels. A balcony on the upper level also had a staircase that led to a rooftop terrace, no doubt. The third building looked more like a storehouse of some kind. Plain with two levels as well. Nothing elaborate, but well taken care of.
“This way.” Mitra hurried across the open space to the storehouse.
“What is this?” Fekiria tugged her jacket a little closer, feeling a skitter of danger that pulled her gaze to the alleys and shadows of this compound.
But Mitra said nothing as she let them into the two-level home with another key. Inside, where she expected to find some heat and perhaps a woman’s touch to the furnishings, Fekiria was let down.
Darkness and chills scampered down the lonely hall void of hangings or tapestries.
“This way,” Mitra said as she scurried into the shadows.
Fekiria gulped the dread crowding her. “What is this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, a whisper that chased her friend.
Her heart stuttered as silence dropped on her. Black darkness. “Mitra,” she hissed.
A flash of light at the other end startled her. There, she could see Mitra hold back a heavy curtain that served as a barrier. Light from the interior room splashed on her friend’s face, which was vibrant. “Come see.”
Ready to be rid of the chill and fears, Fekiria rushed toward her. “Where are we, Mitra? You’re scaring me.”
But Mitra only nodded into the room.
Fekiria turned and peered past the thick embroidered curtain. Divided into two parts, the room was not a room. With beds, carpets, pillows, bunks, and a table. “It’s a school.”
Northern Virginia
12 January—1005 Hours
“Sweet!” Brian set his bottled water on the shop table and stepped back, eyeing the sleek, tough lines of the white 1965 Mustang GT 350 with black racing stripes. “Thought you got rid of this years ago.”
Granddad waved at him. “Couldn’t do it. Kitty wasn’t happy with me, but I couldn’t give up the beauty I’d paid for in cash.” He opened the door and motioned Brian inside. “Go on. Start ’er up.”
In the driver’s seat, Brian ran a hand over the steering wheel. The dash—obviously old but in pristine condition. His hand landed on the gearshift. “I can’t believe this. It’s show quality.”
“Sure it is. Used to take it around.”
“I remember.”
“Had some pretty impressive offers, but”—he again waved—“can’t buy something whose price sticker is the heart.” He shuffled to the other side and climbed in. Green eyes sparkled with more mischief than Brian had seen from his grandfather in a long time. He held up the key with its pony icon chain.
Disbelief chugged through Brian’s veins. Nah. No way Granddad meant for him to take it for a spin.
“One last time?” Granddad finally said, shaking the key.
“Last time?”
Granddad didn’t answer, just shook the key.
“Seriously?” Brian tentatively reached for it.
“What, you don’t want to?”
Brian snatched it. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Granddad chuckled and tugged the door closed.
The throaty purr of the engine roared through the garage. Brian took a moment to familiarize himself with the instrumentation, eyed the rearview mirror and the view of the driveway.
“Remember—she’s a lady. Treat her like one.”
Now you’re talking my language. “Yes, sir.”
Brian eased out and pulled onto the road. They clung to the back roads, taking 15 north toward Point of Rocks, Maryland. The Mustang roared as he crossed the Potomac and took the first right past the MARC station and through the rolling fields of corn and grain.
As they headed back, the engine started rattling.
“There,” Granddad said, pointing to a park sign. “Pull in there. Let’s have a look at her.”
Brian guided the Mustang under a copse of scraggly, naked oaks. Though snow hadn’t made its mark yet this winter, the Potomac had icy beams stretching from the bank out a couple of feet.
“Pop the hood,” Granddad said as he climbed out.
Brian tugged the release lever then pushed open his door. As he did, his gaze hit the skyline. Gray. Forbidding. “Looks like that storm might hit early.”
“Always does. Especially when I take her out.” Granddad chuckled. Already bent over the engine, he adjusted this cap. Checked another. “Oil’s good. Needs a bit more water, but nothing serious.” He scratched the balding patch at the crown of his head.
Flakes drifted down. Hunched into his jacket against the cold, Brian looked up again. Snowing. Broken-down car. Was he cursed?
“I’ll give Terrance a call.”
“Great.” Terrance Crawley had never forgiven Brian for ditching his granddaughter in college. “He won’t give you that frequent flyer discount when he sees me.”
“Reckon not.” Granddad returned to the car and shut the door. “But I never did like that girl. She was too loose.”
Shamefully, that was exactly why Brian had dated her. And also why he’d ditched her—when he found out she’d slept with his best friend the first week he’d been at Basic.
Brian
watched the windows fog up as they waited for their tow-truck rescue. A thump against his leg startled him.
“Spill your guts, son.”
He glanced at his grandfather, feeling an all-too-familiar twist in his gut. Tightening his jaw, he pushed his gaze back to the windows.
“You haven’t been the same since we picked you up at the airport fifteen days ago.”
Leg bouncing, Brian groped in the void that held his massive failure for the right place to start. How to tell your World War II–hero grandfather that you were on the cusp of being thrown out of the Army?
“I won’t yank your chain.” Dead-serious eyes embedded in a wizened face, lined with years of military and intelligence work, pierced him. “I know.”
Brian snapped his gaze toward his granddad. “You know?”
“He was worried about you.”
Pride ricocheting off the betrayal, Brian shifted. “Who?” Who had the gall to go behind his back and rat him out? The dude would pay.
“Let’s not worry about that. Let’s get the cards on the table,” Granddad said as he swiped a hand over a pretend flat surface. “What’s happened?”
Ticked that he’d been sold out, Brian had a hard time working past that to admit the truth. “I’m facing disciplinary action.” Man, that hurt. The failure, the defeat, the hopelessness came crashing down.
“Why?”
“Fighting.”
Granddad chuckled. “Got that heated Bledsoe temper, eh?”
“Look,” Brian said, his pulse hammering, “I just want you to know that I’m not like Dad. This wasn’t my fault—well, not directly.”
“Did you directly punch someone?”
Brian gave a soft snort. “I meant that I didn’t start it.”
“But you also didn’t stop it.”
“Oh, I stopped it.” Brian didn’t feel better for saying it. In fact, he felt worse.
“I meant, you didn’t stop it before it went too far.”
“I…” Brian clamped his jaw tight.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”
“No, it’s not okay.” He met his grandfather’s gaze. “You’re my hero. You’re the one I want to make proud. And this—this is screwed up.” Just spit it out. “I made a promise to someone…”
“A promise connected to what happened. And you can’t break that.”
“No, sir.”
“But I’m not connected to this.” His grandfather seemed to consider him and the situation. “Seems to me you need to let off some steam, so what’s it going to hurt to tell me?”
“Considering someone sold me out to you, I can’t trust that this won’t get back.”
“So, you think I’ll rat you out now?”
Brian looked down. “I think you’ll look out for my best interest, even if you think it might tick me off.”
Another hearty laugh. A hand clapped on the back of Brian’s neck. “You are a Bledsoe, through and through.” Granddad tugged Brian toward him. “Son, I said I knew. But I didn’t say what I knew.”
Hesitant and cautious, Brian met his granddad’s steely gaze. “Son of a—you faked me.”
“I gave you what you needed to talk.” Swiping his hand around the interior of the fogged-up Mustang, Granddad smiled. “This conversation stays here.” He tapped the spot over his heart. “And here.”
Man, he needed to get this off his chest—bad. To spill his guts. Defend himself. So, he did just that. Talked. Ranted.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
Brian twitched. “A friend…someone was hitting on her, getting out of line. I put him back in line.” Then grunted. “Now, I’m about to go down in a blaze of glory, just like Dad.”
“No.” Vehemence thickened Granddad’s response. “What you are doing, that’s defending someone. Keeping a promise. What he did…” Face pale, he shook his head. Red brightened eyes that seemed ready to cry. He swallowed then coughed. “Brian, you do have to get hold of that combustion that is inherent in our veins, but you were operating out of integrity.”
“That time, but”—now Brian swallowed—“but it’s in me, Granddad. That demon ready to devour anything to get what it wants. For Dad, it was money, power. For me, it’s…” He wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted.
“Validation.”
A raw ache spread through Brian’s chest. “Yeah,” he said, slow and painfully. He studied his grandfather’s face. How did Granddad always get him?
“You’re not the only one trying to get out from under someone else’s legacy.”
“But your dad was a great war hero. He was pivotal—”
Granddad held up an age-spotted hand. “See what I mean? Everyone knew what my daddy did. And he never let us forget it. I felt like I never measured up. Had to prove to everyone that I was my own person, that I wasn’t like him.” He chuckled. “But I wanted nothing more than to be just like him.”
Brian could relate. He wanted to be just like his granddad. A hero. Someone others looked up to. “I don’t know how to be that man.”
“It’d be easier if there was some magical potion we could drink or some formula we could complete. Go here. Do this. Get that.”
With a snort and nod, Brian muttered, “Hooah.”
“You’ve messed up—fighting gets you a quick kick in the backside out of the military, but you also seem to have some strong men behind you.”
“Again, how do you know that?”
“Because you’re still in.”
Brian gave yet another snort. Point taken. The captain hadn’t kicked him out. Hadn’t handed him his butt on a silver platter. “I don’t know how to be what I want to be.”
“Son, just be. God created you as you. Not as me. Or your great-grandfather. Or your father. He created you with all your idiosyncrasies and that fire in your belly for a reason.”
“I’d sure like to know what that is.”
“It’s so that when you’re old, you can sit and freeze your assets off on a January night in a broken-down Mustang to encourage someone—maybe even your own grandson—someday.”
Laughing, Brian said, “I’ll never be as old as you.”
Granddad popped him on the head.
CHAPTER 10
Bagram AFB, Afghanistan
12 January—0815 Hours
Leaving the team again meant he couldn’t control the situation.
Dean snorted. Hadn’t he learned about his severe lack of control when it came to Zahrah? But he had to do what he could within reason to guarantee the safety of Raptor. Being the officer on the team meant more liaising than fieldwork, but it annoyed him not to be completely active with them right now. Cold, brittle wind tugged at the collar of his jacket as he stood at the barrel he’d retrofitted to hold a crackling fire.
Leaving also meant Sal would be in charge. He trusted his friend completely, but something was simmering at the back of Falcon’s life that seemed to bleed into his soldiering.
But Sal could handle it. He’d have to.
A mere two hundred yards and a road separated him from the staging area. Dean watched, itching to be there. To coordinate. To make sure Raptor had what they needed and—
“Little late to be roasting marshmallows,” General Burnett said as he joined Dean, standing on the other side of the steel barrel, huddled beneath his long wool winter jacket.
“Always did like s’mores,” Dean said with a smile. His gaze flicked past the general’s ear, watching as Eagle hustled toward the waiting vehicle. In hand, he had his sniper rifle. The eighty-five-pound rucksack didn’t slow the old guy down a second.
Burnett eyed him. “How you holdin’ up?”
“Fine, sir.” He needed to reassure the general. Give him something to distract his mind from following any bread-crumb trail Dean might inadvertently leave that would lead to the team’s under-the-radar mission. “Having Zahrah to talk to helps.”
Laugh lines crinkled in the older man’s eyes. “I bet it does. How is she?”
“As good as can be expected.” Over Burnett’s shoulder, Dean registered—but didn’t let his gaze linger on—the hulking form of Titanis ambling toward the warehouse and disappearing inside. “Still has nightmares, but she promises they’re fading.”
“And you?”
“I’ll never forget.” What happened to her, how she’d been used against him, to force his hand, to force hers against her own country.
“Will you forgive?”
Dean let one side of his mouth lift in a sardonic smile. “We’ll have to see when we catch up with this guy.”
Burnett chuckled. “I guess we will.” His smile faded, and for several long seconds he held Dean hostage with a penetrating gaze that probed the sudden gaping silence in their conversation.
If Dean looked away, Burnett would know something was up. But if he continued the silent standoff— “Everything okay, sir?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Captain?”
“Tell you what, sir?”
“Start with Bledsoe.”
Relief, sweet and swift, surged through Dean’s veins. Thank God the general hadn’t caught on to the black ops mission. “He’s home but will be on the next flight out at 1500”—he did the mental calculation— “tomorrow, I believe.”
“And when he gets here?”
Feigning contemplation of Hawk’s fate, Dean lowered his gaze. Then glanced up, his heart jackhammering as the general moved to Dean’s right instead of opposite him. With the general’s quick reflexes and skill, he’d spot the team.
“Hawk will have extra duties. He’s going to feel the pain of what he’s done. I need him to understand—maybe for the first time—the honor it is to be on this team. To be a Special Forces soldier.”
“Extra duties?”
Dean unzipped his jacket and angled away from the fire, forcing Burnett to turn his back on the team assembling at the warehouse. “A month of patrol. Colonel Whitson has a team heading south. They need skilled escorts.”
“Patrol.”
Dean nodded again, cringing this time as a red glow of lights brightened the evening sky.
He hadn’t seen Harrier join the team, but Sal wouldn’t pull out without the full working team.
