Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  There it was. The ribbing he’d worked to avoid all his life. The taunting he’d seen his friends dish out to his father and brainiacs in school. “I’m just saying I know where to look and what to look for.” He wouldn’t hand them a get-out-of-jail-free card to harass him. “And that’s what you want me to do, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Falcon snapped. “But you’re not doing it.”

  Brian balled a fist. Did he just want him to produce it out of thin air? “If I had workable, usable information, I could get it done.”

  “Easy,” the captain said, his voice laden with warning for both Falcon and him.

  Brian met his steady gaze. Again, this was going to be all on him if things went wrong. Never mind the unrealistic pressure. Ungodly was more like it. Because what they were facing, the sick jerk taking too much pleasure out of taunting and ambushing them, had no trails. No hint of existence to be found other than he was screwing up their missions and endangering their lives.

  But the anger? It wasn’t worth it. Is any of it worth it? In his mind’s eye, he once again saw Davis collapse with a sick thud against the ground. Dead. Davis was dead. He could’ve stopped it. But instead, Terrorist Number One—TN1—forced him to stand down and watch the bloody tragedy.

  Brian shrugged. He pushed up out of his chair and stepping back, he swung his leg over the spine of the chair. “I’m going to get some air.” Right now, he wanted to breathe the air of another country. Maybe even another planet.

  He batted aside the thick tarp that served as the first barrier to his escape. He strode across the small room and flung open the steelwood door. Wind slapped his face as he stepped into its bitter embrace. Good. The cold felt good. A wake-up call, of sorts. Getting all hot and bothered in the safe house, they’d lost sight of how little they could control.

  Walking a few laps around the inner courtyard where they’d parked the vehicles left Brian drained and his skin tingling. Hands under his armpits, he crouched in a corner that shielded him from the driving wind. An eight-foot cement wall protected them from prying eyes. Shoulders hunched and head back against the freezing plaster, Brian let out a long, slow breath, which puffed around his face. Snow danced on the hazy light of a street lamp positioned outside the compound.

  He pushed his gaze upward. Instead of a sprinkling of stars and blinking lights from aircraft, he could only see a wall of clouds. What lay beyond the storm?

  It could be a theological question. God… You up there?

  Or a metaphorical question. Would he survive what was coming? If they didn’t find this TN1, would any of them survive?

  Did it matter?

  Brian wasn’t sure anymore. Why am I here?

  He once believed in this, in war.

  But that…that was about making a name for himself. And he’d done that. Became a Green Beret. A quiet professional. A soldier who didn’t have to tell anyone what he did because he was that confident in his abilities.

  But that hadn’t been good enough. For too long he’d had to make his point, his mark loud and clear. Fists and all, if necessary.

  Which was stupid. Being a tough mudder didn’t save Davis.

  The side door squeaked open. A shadowy, hazy form drifted into view. The tall build of the team commander warned Brian a lecture would accompany his arrival.

  “That was a first.”

  Here it comes.

  “Good call, walking away like that.” Captain Watters stood beside him, propped against the wall. “I thought I was going to have to peel you off him.”

  The words pricked Brian’s conscience. He didn’t know what to say.

  “What’s going on with you, Brian?”

  Jaw clamped, he watched the snow again. The frenetic, unruly path the flakes took under the violent fingers of the wind reminded him of his life. Crazy. Unpredictable. “Just…thinking.”

  The captain slid down and sat, forearms on his long legs. “I have that problem, too.”

  Brian smirked.

  “Watching someone under your command get hit is hard.” The captain nodded, his gaze out. “It’s hard when a friend goes down, but when you’re responsible for them—”

  “She wasn’t under my command.”

  “But she looked to you, right? And if I know you, I’d bet you felt responsible for every grunt and newb they sent out on that supply run. Right?”

  Brian gritted his teeth, trying to push away Davis’s face. The thump her body made when she fell. “She was a good soldier. She was ready, she followed orders. Had a good mind for strategy.” And TN1 blew it out of her skull. “I think she had the makings of an officer.”

  Taunting whispers of doubt carried on the wind as silence fell between them. The same accusatory, icy whispers that told him he should’ve followed his gut, not the order. That Davis and Parker would be alive. “I’d been working so hard to be good, to do what was expected of me, to”—he swallowed hard—“earn back your respect. And that son of a biscuit tied my hands and made me watch her die.”

  The burn started at the base of his throat, forcing another hard swallow. He hated this. Hated feeling weak. Hated giving anyone an opportunity to mock him. Put him down. Compare him to his father. “You know—my dad screwed up his life and, in doing so, screwed up my life and my mom’s. I’ve never forgiven him for that, and now I realize I bear the same shame as him.”

  “For what?”

  “Davis and Parker.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” The captain shifted, an arm slung over his knee. “Dude, that’s out of your control. You did everything you could’ve—”

  “No.” He cut his eyes to his captain. “I could’ve taken that shot.”

  With a breathy grunt, Dean shook his head. “Man, don’t do this to yourself. There was no way for you to know that call wasn’t legit.”

  When he’d signed off on the disciplinary action against Hawk, he had no idea the man that would come back would have this on his shoulders. This wasn’t the frame of mind the guy needed. Or one the team needed.

  “Are you with us?” Dean had to ask. Didn’t want to question one of his brothers, but there could be no doubts here.

  Hawk stared out at the snow. “Yeah…”

  “Can you say it maybe like you mean it?” With the snow and darkness, he wasn’t sure, but he chose to believe Hawk smirked. “Listen, I need to let you know”—Dean’s heart cinched—“you never lost my respect. I might’ve been disappointed in your choices, but I know you, man. Like I said back then, you’re a top-notch soldier. I wouldn’t have you on this team if I thought otherwise. I wouldn’t trust you with my back.”

  Hawk eyed him. “When they put my dad away, I had to fight every day for the respect I ended up with.”

  “That’s the difference here, Brian.” Dean waited to make sure he was looking him in the eye. That he really heard him, because Dean had a feeling this was vital for the fierce fighter not only to hear but believe. “You don’t have to fight for it here. You’ve got it.”

  Hawk looked down then away.

  “What’s happening here? What is the denial written all over your face?”

  “Nothing.”

  That nothing was a big something. “I need you to be straight with me. We have our lives on the line.”

  “It’s just…” Hawk ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Okay?” He came to his feet.

  “No.” Dean wasn’t going to accept that and stood to face him. “Something’s—”

  “Hold up!” Hawk craned his neck forward, looking over Dean’s shoulder.

  “Hey, don’t—”

  “Cap’. Look.” Hawk hurried forward to the old Hummer they’d driven back from the base. As Hawk moved, he freed his Glock, took aim, and fired—into the air.

  “What’re—?”

  Clank. Thunk. Tink.

  Dean looked to his right, stunned.

  Something crackled and popped—electrical!

  As if running for his life, Ha
wk raced toward the thing, picked it up, and messed with it. Though Dean had no idea what the communications expert was doing, he was doing it—fast.

  “What is it?” Anticipation and fear tightened frigid fingers around Dean’s throat.

  Hawk plucked something free. Shot a glare at him. “Someone knows where we are.”

  Axles popped loudly as tires crunched over the snow. Slivers of light attacked the wood gate that served as the only barrier between them and whatever vehicle approached. And there shouldn’t be anyone approaching at this hour. Even someone lost would have to take a lot of wrong turns to end up back here.

  As swiftly as Hawk pulled his sidearm, so had Dean. He sent Hawk to the left and he sprinted right just as the wood gate groaned open. They waited until the vehicle pulled in and stopped. On Dean’s signal they scurried forward, weapons aimed at the driver and the passenger. He could take out the front two. Hawk would have no problem nailing anyone in the back. They had it covered.

  Hands aching from the cold, Dean was warm from head to toe from the surge of adrenaline as he barreled down on the car. “Hands, hands!”

  From the other side, Hawk shouted, “Give me a reason not to kill you!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  16 February—1940 Hours

  Out of the car, slow and easy,” Dean shouted over the engine noise and wind. His heart hadn’t slowed since the car entered, even though he felt confident they had it contained. He hoped Sal and the others saw this on the feed and were on their way.

  “Hands up or I shoot,” came Hawk’s yell from the passenger side of the vehicle.

  “Out,” Dean ordered.

  The driver-side door creaked, the hinge no doubt stiff from the cold temps, and gently opened. Two hands appeared over the window frame. Then a heavily graying head.

  Dean sucked in a breath and let it out. “General Burnett. Sir. You weren’t expected.”

  “That was the point, Captain.” General Lance Burnett pulled his wool coat tight and clutched the lapels beneath his chin as he shot a look at the other soldier. “Am I enough reason not to kill me, Bledsoe?”

  Holstering his weapon, Hawk gave a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

  Burnett laughed. “Good. I like living.”

  Thud!

  Dean pivoted, his weapon still in his hand, instincts buzzing. Falcon, Titanis, Harrier, and Eagle burst out of the building, guns bared. “Stand down,” Dean said.

  As the creak of another door drew everyone’s attention, Sal started forward. “General.”

  Hawk reached for the door and drew it open fully as a tall, beautiful blond emerged, and from the rear came two more—Lieutenant Brie Hastings and a male officer, Lieutenant Smith.

  A curse froze the chilly air.

  Dean glanced at Sal, who had already turned and headed back inside. He stopped hard at the door, glanced at the blond then at the general. “I’m not doing this. No way.” And he went inside.

  Dean looked to Burnett and the blond. Waited for an explanation, but the way the woman lowered her gaze somberly told him enough. He shifted and angled toward Burnett. “What’s going on?”

  “A long story. Let’s get in out of the cold.” Burnett wagged his fingers at the woman.

  Dean waited, watching as she joined the general, the other two officers trailing behind as the threesome followed the well-built general into the building. The blond had a thick satchel in hand. Wore Army dress blues.

  Class A’s? Out here?

  “Cap?” Hawk asked.

  “Let’s find out.”

  Lance shook the snow off his wool trench coat as they crossed the room. He’d already told Lieutenant Walker to let him do the talking, initially. And he was glad to see she understood his order. Bringing her in was a risk, but she had intelligence and could help.

  “Sir, we didn’t have word that you were coming.”

  “Exactly.” Lance turned to Watters as he and the rest of the team came in and shut out the cold. “With coms compromised, we felt it best.”

  “My men and I could’ve shot you.”

  “Could’ve.” Lance grinned. “But you didn’t. And good thing.” He motioned to Walker. “We might have some good news.”

  Watters and the others exchanged nervous but hopeful glances.

  Rubbing his hands tighter for warmth and effect, he said, “In fact, we have two pieces of good news.” The men looked a bit haggard. Better not give them too much excitement. “At least, we’re hoping you can verify that.” He motioned toward the lieutenant. “This is Cassandra Walker with the DIA’s National Military Intelligence Center.”

  Lance didn’t miss that Salvatore Russo had abandoned propriety and shoved his nose into a computer.

  The captain stepped forward. Offered his hand. “Dean Watters.” With a motion she could follow, he introduced the men. “The one on your right is Hawk. Next to him, the big guy is Titanis, for obvious reasons. Eagle is there with Falcon.”

  Walker’s gaze hit then fled Russo’s. No small amount of frustration and tension balled up between Lance’s shoulders. He turned to Hastings and Smith. “Why don’t you two show them what you found.” With that, he took Walker by the arm and led her to the side. “You said this wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It’s not.” But again, her wide eyes betrayed her as they bounced to Russo.

  “I need you here, Cassie.” He made sure she heard him, left a pause for emphasis. “I need eyes on the data, on what they’re seeing so you can figure out—”

  “I’m fine.” Her naturally soft voice hardened. But only a fraction. She knew she needed to offer an explanation or apology. “I just didn’t expect his reaction to be so…violent.”

  “I warned you—”

  “You did. And I’m a professional soldier. I’ll do my job.” She met Lance’s gaze with unwavering resolution, fiery determination in blue eyes that could melt the strongest soldier. Except Sal Russo. “To the mission, sir.”

  Lance nodded, feeling the pressure in his chest ease a bit. “Good. Because I need your eyes, Cassie.”

  “You have them, sir.”

  “Don’t let his attitude mess with you. Put the past out of your head. You’re here on my orders, and he’ll deal with it like the Special Forces soldier he is.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Lance wanted to say more, to reassure her—and himself—that this would work out. But they didn’t have the time. With a bob of his head toward the rest of the crew, he rejoined the others.

  “Now, I can get something done,” Bledsoe announced as he dropped into a chair.

  “The audio isn’t the best,” Hastings said.

  “Doesn’t have to be.” Leaning toward the monitor, Bledsoe went to work.

  “Now you see why I risked getting shot to bring you this?”

  Watters gave a lopsided smile, but then he looked at Walker. “What’s in the satchel?”

  She blinked as if she’d forgotten. “Files, footage, metadata from the situations Raptor has been involved in to date.”

  “But most important…” Lance said as he held out a hand to her.

  Opening the satchel, Walker darted a glance to the side—to Russo—as she dug into the leather portfolio. She lifted it out and held it out to him.

  “Go on,” Lance prompted. She needed to bolster her confidence. Walker had a unique specialty. An uncanny one, really. She could read a situation unlike anyone he’d ever seen. But that wasn’t why she was here.

  “This is Meng-Li Jin. He adopted the name Daniel Jin a few years ago.” Walker passed the photo off to Watters, who studied it then handed it to Straider.

  “He looks pretty chuffed with himself,” Straider said, his thick accent seemingly thicker with the southern drawl Walker unloaded on the room.

  “He is. Rich, powerful, bachelor.” Walker crossed her arms. “He’s part owner of Takkar Corp.”

  “Hold up.” Bledsoe looked up from the picture, trying to hand it off to Rus
so. “Takkar?” He turned to Watters. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Yes,” Lance interdicted in the conversation. This information had to be controlled. “Sajjan Takkar’s partner.”

  “Hold the fluff up.” Bledsoe folded his arms over his thick chest. “Are you saying Takkar is targeting us now?”

  “No, we’re not.”

  Bledsoe shook his head. “Do we know which way is up yet?”

  “What we know,” Lance slid his hands in his pockets, “is often not verifiable, but I have it on the best authority that Sajjan Takkar is not involved in any actions against us.”

  “Okay, so why do we care?” Bledsoe asked.

  “Because”—Walker lifted her chin, cast a nervous glance to Lance, who gave her an affirming nod—“I believe Meng-Li is your problem.”

  “Our problem?” Watters cocked his head. “How?”

  “To be more accurate,” Lieutenant Hastings said as she circled the room and stood between Lance and Straider, “he’s the entire U.S. military’s problem, and for any American.”

  “What have we done to him?” Todd Archer asked.

  “Decades ago, Daniel’s father went into business with Dilraj Takkar, Sajjan’s father. They had a start-up poised to take off. Then Operation Desert Storm happened. The American government promised all kinds of monetary and military backup if the people would rebel.”

  “Yeah, we’ve heard this story before,” Archer said. “Didn’t end well.”

  “No, it didn’t.” Lance hated what happened more than anyone in this room because he’d been part of the command structure during ODS.

  “In fact, it ended in tragedy for Meng-Li Gang.” Lieutenant Walker went on. “After the Americans pulled out, he was brutally murdered, as were many Iraqi locals who participated in the uprising. Their voices were smothered. Their lives snuffed out. Daniel and his mother lived with one relative after another, until he was old enough to take over his father’s position.”

  “Hold up—how long ago was that?”

  “Twelve years.”