Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  A goofy laugh competed for volume with the MRAP’s engine, but Brennan’s smile couldn’t be missed.

  Something the guy had said poked at Brian’s awareness. Gaze raking the terrain, he searched for snipers. For heads popping up on the patio rooftops with shoulder-mounted RPG tubes. “Hey, what did you mean about the last time?”

  “What?” Brennan was all confusion again.

  “You said you figured that out last time.” Brian wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to this, but being ignorant got people killed. And he so wasn’t dying during babysitting duty. “What last time?”

  “Oh.” Brennan swallowed. “Four days ago. They tried to make the supply run but got ambushed.”

  “They?”

  He nodded. “How do you think I ended up as team leader? My sergeant was killed in the blast.”

  “Son of a biscuit,” Brian whispered. So that’s why they wanted him on this mission. They didn’t need one Special Forces operator. They needed a whole team.

  But that wouldn’t happen with SOCOM pulling teams to safety.

  He adjusted his helmet and his position in the vehicle. “All right, listen up,” he said into his coms that went into every headset. “Every driver—listen up. We are not stopping. I do not care what is in the road—cows, chicken, children—we do not stop. Am I absolutely clear?”

  “Clear,” Brennan said, his voice squeaking.

  “Blue clear.”

  “Red clear.”

  “Clear on Green.”

  Nerves drumming over the daunting predicament, Brian ground his teeth as he eyed the windows, blanket-covered doors, and the alleys that seemed to play host to demons. “How long’s this been going on?”

  Brennan swerved around a pothole large enough to swallow a small car.

  “Months.” Davis leaned forward. “The closer we get to turning over things to the ANA, the more blue-on-green attacks and the greater the hostility. Especially here in the south.”

  Brian nodded. He knew that. Knew the Taliban had retaken southern Afghanistan. But they weren’t technically in southern Afghanistan.

  As the buildings loomed on either side, Brian shifted into warrior mode. His gaze traced the rooftops and windows. The corners. Shadows. “You’re doing great,” he said to Brennan. “Remember, no stopping.”

  “Right.”

  More than halfway through the small village. But his adrenaline surged. Reminded him of the mission that took half of Candyman’s leg.

  Ghost town. Deserted. “Notice anything…?”

  “No people,” Davis said.

  Instincts blazing, he anticipated it.

  The car that leapt into the intersection.

  Brennan slamming on the brakes.

  “No! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”

  But Brennan’s brain had shut down. Survival instincts controlled him.

  A man stepped from a shop, a long tube on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 13

  Forty Klicks Outside Bagram, Afghanistan

  16 January—1618 Hours

  Brian lunged over the foot-wide instrumentation and yanked the wheel hard right.

  BooOOOoom!

  Brian braced against the concussion, which pitched the MRAP to the right. Tossed it into a building. The impact thudded through Brian’s neck and brain. Dropping back down, the vehicle rocked. Cement and plaster dribbled onto the hood of the vehicle. The front end created a triangle-like impression. They were stuck.

  “Back up! Back up!” Brian shouted.

  But Brennan was dumbstruck.

  Brian slapped his arm. “Move!”

  Finally, Brennan responded. Rammed it into Reverse. Gunned it. The MRAP cleared the structure. Brennan threw it into gear and barreled down the alley. They jounced and bumped, the hull ripping chunks of plaster off the buildings.

  “Red, Blue, Green, report!” Brian glanced over his shoulder to Davis. “Get us a route out of here.”

  The enemy wouldn’t stop. In fact, because Brian had managed to extract and save the team, the terrorists would race them to the next intersection and try to take them out.

  “Blue is here—took some fire, but we’re good.”

  “Green here. All clear.”

  Who hadn’t reported? “Red, report!”

  “Here. We’re…They’re…”

  Brian pounded the door at the sound of the simpering voice.

  “Left, go left,” Davis shouted.

  Brennan flung the MRAP around the corner.

  But they still hadn’t heard from the last vehicle in the convoy. “Red, what is your status?”

  “Sir, we’ve taken a direct hit.”

  “Can you move?”

  “Uh…yes. Yes, we’re clear. Moving again.”

  Relief whooshed through Brian’s chest. “Good. Keep going. Take a left at the shop with the blue awning.”

  “Copy that, sir. We see the tail of Green.”

  “Good. Green, keep them in your sight.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan

  16 January—1640 Hours

  General Lance Burnett stormed down the hall to his office. “Tell me this isn’t happening.” He flung a paper back to Captain Watters. “You seeing this?”

  “Seeing,” Watters said, “but not believing, sir.”

  “You and me both.” He threw open the door to his temporary quarters. In the middle of the sitting area, he stopped. Considered the lamps. The floral arrangement. The fruit. The pictures.

  “I’m thinking the same thing, sir.”

  Lance turned and walked back out then locked the door. Teeth grinding, he made his way to the Cup of Joe For A Joe portable building. The barista took their orders for vanilla lattes, then Lance and Watters sat in a corner.

  “I haven’t been this ticked in years.” Lance reached for the bottle of glycerin tablets in his coat pocket. “How in Sam Hill did they find out the 1st Sustainment would be there?”

  “Either they’ve managed to bug our command centers or we’ve got another mole.”

  “Or both.” Lance tossed the pills in his mouth and slurped his latte. Then cursed when the liquid singed his tongue.

  Every mission. Every protocol. Every directive. Every thing.

  With an arm on the table, Watters angled his shoulder as if to protect not just his flank but their dialogue. “Sir, they got in, didn’t they?”

  “Official word is no.”

  Watters grunted.

  “No, I’m serious. We can’t find a way in or a hack trail.” Lance heaved a breath and roughed a hand over his semi-balding scalp. “We’re just operating as if nothing’s secure. Mother of God, help us.”

  Glancing at the thick paper cup, Watters snorted. “I think you’d be better off talking to her Son right now.”

  “Don’t give me your tongue right now. In my mood, I’m liable to cut it out.”

  Watters gave an amused nod.

  Lance could barely swallow around the thought lodged in his brain. He’d looked the other way when Raptor went dark and into enemy territory. What if they didn’t make it back?

  “If I’m reading your face right, General,” Watters said then took a slow sip of his drink. “Don’t worry about them. They’re checking in every hour. Falcon knows the danger. They all do. We already walked into one ambush. Won’t do that again if we can help it.”

  “Forget the dang ambush. If this piece of crap knows everything we’re doing—then he knows Raptor’s location.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  The captain’s confidence unseated Lance. “Get cocky and you’ll never see the bullet that hits your gray matter.”

  The man smiled. Actually smiled. “This isn’t cockiness. It’s cautious confidence. We have a level of vigilance most do not have because we have been in the sights of this lunatic already. We were almost put six feet under because of this guy, so my men know what’s out there. That every situation, every person, can be a trap. They know
they’re being hunted. We have protocols in place that nobody else knows.”

  “Watters, so help me God—do not trust that. What do you think we were operating under when you went out to that ghost village?”

  “Understood, sir.” Unflappable courage was what made Dean Watters one of the best operators out there. He had a long career ahead of him. Assuming he could outlast their hunter. “But that protocol was directly from SOCOM. We—”

  “No.” Lance stabbed a hand up between them. “I don’t want to know any more. I trust you. Just…recognize what we’re up against.”

  “A ghost.”

  Two Hours Outside Kandahar, Afghanistan

  16 January—1700 Hours

  I will die tonight.

  Her brother had locked Fekiria in an upper room. One with carpet.

  Carpet. So…there would be no messy killing. She might live after all.

  Poison? Was that how he’d do it—force her to drink her own death? To cleanse the family name. Redeem their honor. Or simply to punish her for not doing what they wanted her to do? She wasn’t sure, and right now it was really hard to think. Rubbing her temples, she closed her eyes. Her family was a good one. They had connections, notoriety, and her madar worked hard to make sure they were fed, clothed, and felt loved.

  But Baba ruled. What he said even overruled whatever Madar said or wanted.

  A glance at the clock explained her headache. Dehydrated and stressed, she struggled to think beyond the building pressure. Four hours, she’d been locked here. “Why must you torment me and make me wait, Adeeb?”

  Maybe it was good he hadn’t come. Death would be on his heels.

  She stomped to her feet and immediately regretted the action at the eruption of pain and lightheadedness that pushed her back onto the thick, soft mattress.

  Ludicrous! That a woman’s desire to work, to be validated as useful beyond a bedmate for a man and a vessel to bear his children, was considered evil. Wicked. Western.

  Western or not, there was more to her than beauty.

  Perhaps Zahrah had something right.

  Rubbing her temple, she gave a soft snort. Her cousin had a lot of things right, though Fekiria probably would never admit that to Zahrah’s face. But the one thing that had always irritated her was Zahrah’s proselytizing. She believed in Isa as the Messiah. Not a messiah as Muslims believed.

  Yet for all her zeal, all her passion about Isa, Zahrah had accepted Fekiria without reservation. Yes, she’d shared openly about her Christian beliefs—perhaps too openly, for Fekiria’s taste. Then again, she had been just as insistent that her cousin never speak of the Christian Bible. She didn’t want to die, after all. Still, Zahrah had embraced her as a sister. Loved her. Mitra had done the same.

  She shows more love than my own brothers.

  Why was that?

  Did Sergeant Brian believe the same way? Were all Americans Christians? A silly thought, of course. There were Muslims in America who were doing all they could as Mohammed—peace be upon him—had instructed. They were not killing as her people did here. Adeeb had said it was because their faith, their love of Allah, was not as pure.

  Fekiria ambled across the thick Persian rug to the windows. Rich gold drapes with an intricate brocade pattern and silk trim framed the double doors to the balcony. She nudged aside the sheer panel and peered at the darkening sky. By nightfall, it’d be an endless canopy of black sprinkled with twinkling lights. Something in her craved that freedom again, to be up there, with mile upon mile of openness… She loved flying. Loved being among the stars and heavens. Closer to Allah.

  But was that all she was meant to do—fly? Be a blight on her family’s name? What was so wrong with having dreams and goals? With being free?

  Flickering movement on the lawn drew her attention to where she’d landed the helicopter earlier. But even as she caught a glimpse of the rotors, they vanished.

  What was this? A trick?

  She squinted, demanded her eyes focus. What were the men doing? Cupping her hands on the glass, she peered through it to avoid the glare. Why were the men messing with her chopper? Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to let them mess something up. It was her name, her career, her certification that would be stripped away if they damaged it.

  She flipped the latch and swung open the door. Moving onto the upper balcony, wrapped in an icy blanket of cold air, she stared out to where men hoisted six poles and secured a camouflage netting, effectively concealing the helicopter. Not just from the air but from her. If there truly was a threat from attack, it made sense to cover it. Shield it from view.

  So…why were the guards not leaving now that they’d put up the cover? Voices carried through the bitter cold, tugging at Fekiria’s hijab, but she ignored it. It was her duty to protect her helicopter. Her entire career! Her freedom.

  “What are you doing?” She gripped the stone balustrade and leaned over. “Leave that aircraft alone!”

  Several faces swung toward her. Shouts went up, and the dots that had faced her now bounced against the dark canvas. Two guards bolted toward the house. Boots thumped against the lower terrace as two others pointed and shouted.

  “Smart. Just draw Adeeb’s attention and sword.” She had never cowered before her brother. Even when he struck her. She in fact swung back. And he laughed. Shoved her backward, as if she were an ant, and walked away. Which infuriated her more.

  But getting hit and getting killed were two different things. And here, Adeeb had more than his bad temper to motivate him. Fekiria slipped inside and closed the door. Perhaps they would not know which room—foolish idea. Of course they knew. She was a prisoner here.

  Doors slamming and boots thudding—or was that her heart?—sounded in the hall. Coming closer…closer. Fekiria hurried back outside. Studied the balustrade. Could she escape? Climb down?

  This was no fairy tale. There was no Aladdin with a magic carpet to carry her off.

  Fekiria turned in time to find two fat guards rushing her. Dark faces hemmed in black hair and beards, they grabbed her arms. “Release me!” She swung her arms up and rammed down over theirs, breaking the hold. Another guard caught her as she twisted away.

  She reared. Punched him in the face.

  The guard stumbled back, hands covering his now-bloody nose.

  Lifted off her feet from behind, Fekiria screamed. Did as she was taught and let herself go limp. Slid from the man’s hold. She wrested free then jumped to her feet.

  “Stop!” She held her ground. “Listen to me!”

  The stunned guards did stop. For a second. Then the fatter one came toward her, the smell of liquor on him as thick as his body odor.

  “I want to see Adeeb.” Her demand went unheeded. She connected gazes with the guard from earlier, the one who’d helped her in the kitchen. “The man who told you to take me to the chopper—I want to speak to him!”

  The men laughed, then one said, “He is not someone who can be summoned by the whims of a harlot.”

  “I am no harlot, I am—”

  His hand flew hard and true against her face.

  Her head snapped back. Stinging pain radiated across her cheek.

  Two guards grabbed Fekiria, wrangling her off her feet. Lifted like a sack of vegetables, she snaked her body, trying to liberate herself. Thoughts of death—and worse—coursed through her mind. She knew what men had done to her cousin. To many women. Surely Adeeb would not let that happen to her.

  Then again, he hadn’t come to her. Did he not recognize her? How could he not? Perhaps he’d disowned her, and for that reason, he refused to acknowledge Fekiria.

  They dragged her into the house, cursing her. Threatening violence. But she gave them some of her own violence. She focused on fighting. Not on being a weak girl. She had self-defense skills. Captain Ripley and Captain Rashidi, a female American officer from Saudi, had taught them well. Fekiria would use it. Make them proud. Use the tactics she’d seen Sergeant Brian use against the other soldier. Anything
to keep herself from being harmed. Or killed.

  Her efforts paid off.

  Her foot slipped free. She swung it upward, nailing the shorter guard in the head. He tumbled backward and hit his head against a table. The other started for his friend then realized his mistake when Fekiria used it to gain her balance. With a hard elbow jab to his nose—followed by a loud crack!—she freed herself from the fat one.

  Standing, she turned ready for the fight and found the butt of a weapon flying at her.

  Pain exploded through her temple. Her world vanished.

  CHAPTER 14

  Forty Klicks Outside Bagram, Afghanistan

  16 January—1640 Hours

  Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

  “Go, go, go!” Brian pounded the side of the door again.

  Brennan punched the pedal, but gunning it in an MRAP was different than Granddad’s ‘65 Mustang. “We’re too close.”

  Brian bit back the retort as the massive mine-resistant vehicle lurched forward. But not anywhere near fast enough. What Brian wouldn’t do for Raptor, for his boys who had the instincts of wolves and reflexes like cobras. Guys who knew what to do without anyone having to shout at them once, let alone a half-dozen times. Frustration cinched around his throat.

  We are dead meat.

  Another man on the roof joined the RPG launcher. Two? Two trying to kill them? The newcomer waved at the man with the launcher then motioned for him to put it down.

  “What the…?”

  When he didn’t immediately comply, the second man rushed forward and yanked down the tube. The dude complied.

  What the fluff?

  Brian glanced over his shoulder, searching for a clear view to confirm what he’d seen. Because he wasn’t trusting his eyes. This wasn’t right. Brennan swerved to stay on the road. Brian double-checked the mirror, disbelieving as the two villagers stood there on the roof. Just stood there. Like this was a parade.

  Why were they calling off the attack? They had time and distance on their side. Manpower. Brian’s MRAP was first in the convoy. Even if they couldn’t hit Brian’s, they had the opportunity to take out the last one.