by Ronie Kendig
“Our experts have gone over it—”
“Why are you still talking?” Brian knew he was out of line now. “Sorry—but your experts haven’t had their butts handed to them. They don’t have a vested interest in finding this warped puppy and shutting him down the way I do, the way the men in this room do.”
“He’s right,” Burnett said. “Let’s see what he can do with it.”
Relief jettisoned the futility Brian experienced sitting in this room, staring at the same figures, numbers, locations over and over. Within minutes, she’d forwarded the file. Slipping on the headphones, he braced himself.
Nothing made him feel disembodied more than hearing himself all but beg for STK authority. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the shots exploded against his eardrums. Cruel images paraded across his mind’s eye. Davis. Parker.
He saw her fall. Again.
Again.
Again.
Simultaneously, her saw her smile. Heard her laughter. Her soft but firm voice. Heard her fall again. Saw her fall. Saw her blood-spattered face and gear.
“Hawk?”
As if he’d been immersed in a vat of thick goo, he extracted himself but felt the past, the defeat clinging to him, hot, sticky, and heavy.
“Hawk?”
He opened his eyes. When did I close them? “I’m good.” He sniffed. “I’m good.” Maybe if he repeated it, they’d believe him. Compartmentalization was the only way he’d survive this. He had to shut down the Brian who took a liking to a smart, aggressive soldier. Put her in a box on a shelf at the back of his mind.
Shift over a few aisles to the “locate and destroy” section. Find something useful. Find it, locate this guy, and stop him. “Permanently,” he muttered as he went to work. Broke down the noises, the frequencies. Layers of noise. Honed in on the incoming commands. The muezzins. Cars. Anything distinct.
Hours became cloaked in stealth. Though the plunging temperatures permeated the building, Brian felt the fire of a possible lead simmering within. He’d figure this out. Somehow. For Davis.
He replayed the recording, over and over. “Whoa.” He slid the progress bar a fraction. Released it. “Muezzin,” Brian said to himself, listening. “It’s close.” Whoever made the call for him to stand down sat in a location close to a mosque or tower.
No. The projected voice wasn’t dulled the way a voice amplified over a great distance was. No echo. It was there. “In fact, it was very close.” But something else was there…something—the static crackled. A quick, sudden interruption. Something loud. Something…strong. “A bomb. Or an explosion.”
His gaze rose as he processed the information, stunned to find the team huddled around the tables watching him. Right. “Wherever this is—there’s a mosque close by. And an explosion happened while they hijacked the coms.”
“Bombs aren’t exactly uncommon here,” Walker said.
Falcon straightened. “But in a city where there’s a mosque putting out a call to prayer—that should be easier to track down.”
“Get on it!” Burnett ordered.
Already ahead of the general, Brian was cross-checking and running possibilities. An expectant hush, filled with research and tapping fingers on keyboards, fell over the structure.
How long had Burnett sat on this? That explosion had been two weeks ago! As Brian’s anger crested, his brain registered the address on his computer. His pulse hiccupped. “You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered. Double-checked the coordinates: 34°32’06“N 69°0’11”E.
Made sure that’s what he’d keyed in.
Yep.
“Holy crap.” He snatched a stack of papers, the ones that had the ping-ponging IP. Adrenaline shot into the back of his throat. He sucked in a hard breath as his head snapped up. “Kabul—was there an explosion or ambush there?” Brian glanced at the cities with a mosque that had a report of an explosion nearby.
Hastings looked up from a computer she stood over. “Kabul Polytechnic had an explosion in their science lab exactly two weeks ago.” She straightened, hands on her small waist. “There’s a mosque within a block of the university.”
Brian was on his feet. “Hooah! Getting out of this stink hole.”
BORIS
They’re in Kabul.” I feel like a middle school tattletale as I report in. But this chick is one person I’m not willing to mess with.
“Address.”
Biting my tongue, I resist the urge to make her say please. Instead I rattle off the location and hope this staves off her desire to turn me into dog chow. Even as I finish the information, I get a tweetle on my personal monitor. Another monetary donation to the Save Boris Foundation. Cha-ching!
The line is dead before I can bother her anymore. And really, it’s just better that way. Because with them out of my hair, I can get back to work on my exit strategy. One more payment and I’m outta here.
It’s hard not to curse myself. This wasn’t exactly rocket science, this gig. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out I’m working with some seriously messed-up people. Normally, taking advantage of someone so eager to do wrong to another person is easy. And lucrative. Even before they come off the adrenaline high of their victory, I’m half a country away. This time, I’ll be on the other side of the world. As far from their slimy, deathlike grip as possible.
Seriously. These people are a major wake-up call. I’m getting careless. No way should they have been able to find me.
But to be clear—they haven’t really found me.
Not the real me.
They found the newest me.
But not the born-from-my-mother me.
And they won’t. He doesn’t exist anymore. Can’t exist. If he exists, I die. And I mean me. Flesh-and-blood me.
Now that I’ve got some money and milked them for what they’re worth, maybe it’s time for some payback. Just…need to figure out how. On my tiny Fly-fly screen, I watch the team. They’re in this new place. Big improvement on the last place, which was deeply hidden—well, not from me, of course—but a rat-infested, falling-apart ghetto.
This…at least the windows actually have glass. There are curtains. Thick rugs run the length of the room and cushions provide these hardened soldiers a place to lay their heads. Real shower and bathroom. A working kitchen. None of that makeshift crud for them here.
Say it with me now, “Aww.”
Gag!
Let’s keep it real—they’re as good as dead.
But what if they’re not?
The rebellious thought is thick and sweet on my tongue. “Now, wouldn’t that be the ultimate payback? The Rich and Famous want these men dead.”
Eyeballing the monitor, I watch as they lean over a table and some maps. Geared up, tough-looking, the men are ready to brave the oncoming storm. That would, of course, be quite literal since a total whiteout is predicted for the area in the next twenty-four to thirty hours.
“What if the prey goes to ground? What if they don’t die?”
Assassin Chick will be on my butt again, but I’m good with that. I can handle her. At least—I can lie really convincingly. How would they know who helped them? I’ve helped them once before. Idiots didn’t even know.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not taking sides. Unless it’s my side.
Yeah, I need to let this annoying assassin chick know that they don’t rule the world. But this will have to be done in a way they can’t figure out it was me.
They asked for the location.
Which means they plan to hit the team.
What’s the fastest way to hit them?
Dispatch a local team.
Right. Sending toy soldiers against professional mercenaries. Men trained to detect trouble.
So I’m guessing they’d send something a bit more high-powered. Something less able to be detected or escaped from.
A bomb?
Hm, maybe. But a little overkill.
Unless it’s an aircraft with a strategic hit.
“Ohhh.”
To do that, they’d have to launch from somewhere close. Because with this storm, they don’t have long-range time. As my fingers hit the keys, I’m suddenly hearing Commander Data from Star Trek singing that song—the one about “tiny little life forms.”
CHAPTER 25
In Flight over Kabul, Afghanistan
21 February—1530 Hours
Ease off the stick.”
Fekiria obeyed, though her instincts warred with the decision. “It feels…wrong.” Chastising herself for such a weak response, she searched for a more technical term.
“Remember,” Captain Ripley said, sitting in as her wingman, “weather affects the birds, even the steel, multimillion-dollar ones.”
His words were instructional. She knew that. But it was hard not to feel patronized. She did not have the experience or number of hours he had, but she knew when her aircraft felt…wrong. Bah! Why could she not figure out what was wrong?
That was it—nothing was wrong. Just…off.
With a quick glance at her navigation controls—wait! She snapped her attention back to…What? What had she seen?
I am going crazy!
“Okay, let’s RTB.”
Frustration choked her. She sighed. “Roger that. RTB.” After notifying the flight tower, she aimed them back in that direction. Wind buffeted the aircraft, but she managed the controls just fine.
“Whoa, Rhmani. We’re heading south, southeast.”
“Negative,” Fekiria spoke to Captain Ripley, staring at the indicators, her navigation control, and maps. She scanned the skyline, mostly hidden by the swirling storm that had overtaken most of Northern Kabul. “I am—” Fekiria snapped her mouth closed. Felt a cold rush down her spine. The readouts—what on earth? Her mind raced.
“Correct our course, Lieutenant,” Captain Ripley said, his voice calm, void of alarm.
But that alarm spiraled through her. She had not entered this course. How—Why? What is happening? She brought the aircraft around and headed back north toward Kandahar Airfield.
Her heart thudded still as she set down the bird, uncertain what had happened. After their postflight walk-around, Fekiria still felt shaken. And she did not want to talk to Captain Ripley about it. Hopefully he would just think it was a rookie mistake.
But it wasn’t! I am a skilled pilot.
“Hey,” Captain Ripley called as he came toward her. “Are you okay?”
With a furtive nod she tried to wave off his concern.
“Your voice sounded strained.”
“I—” She could not lie. “I do not know what happened. Things just…” Could she trust him? Would he believe her?
“Obey or he dies!”
The threat silenced her. “Yes, I guess I’m too tired.” She started toward the hangar, ready to put it all behind her.
“Weather really mucks up the navigation. All the same, you did a great job out there.”
“You are very kind—and a bad liar.”
Captain Ripley laughed. “Guilty as charged.” He opened the door for her and waited as she entered. “Are you headed out to see the girls tonight?”
“No, I will go tomorrow. Stay the weekend with them, help as I can.”
“I enjoyed last weekend.”
“Mitra was very grateful. She has told me several times how much they appreciate the extra supplies you gathered.”
“We’ve got a truck with supplies coming in tomorrow morning. A friend up at Mazar-e sent down some kids’ clothes and shoes for them,” he said as they entered the narrow corridor that, at the end, split off to the locker rooms. “I’m hoping they can use some of it.”
“You asked them to send the clothes?” Surprise wiggled through her.
He held her gaze for several long seconds. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, his fingers caught hers. “They needed them. Besides, our troops aren’t here just for combat and scenery.” His smile widened. “We want to see the people taken care of and treated well. Besides, I think Aadela might be my new girlfriend.”
“She is quite taken with you.”
Captain Ripley inched closer. “She doesn’t have anything on you though.”
He was so different. Not at all like Sergeant Brian. Arrogant. Angry. Attractive. Captain Ripley was attractive. But not in the same way. Or more correctly, his appearance did not affect her the way Sergeant Brian’s did.
“I should go.” And yet, she didn’t move. She let herself stay there. Gave herself permission to see what would happen next.
The softness in his gaze remained as he slowly craned his head forward.
He’s going to kiss me.
Her stomach knotted, his cologne, crisp and strong, tickling her nose.
“It seems you have forgotten you are a Muslim, first and foremost.”
The note—it was a threat against Captain Ripley.
Which meant she must protect him. Protect them both. She took a step back. “I’m sorry.” And she was. Curiosity had her by the throat. She wanted to know—would a kiss change everything between them?
It would. It absolutely would.
Because they would kill him.
Fekiria knew in that moment that her brother was somehow connected to the note. To the threat. All her life, he had been as adamant as Baba about her obeying their customs. Restrictions. As the eldest son and because of the power Baba allowed, Adeeb acted as an authority figure to her and her siblings.
“See you in class Monday morning,” Captain Ripley said, disappointment thick in his words.
“Good-bye.” Fekiria headed toward the locker room. Bathed in darkness, the room had a chill to it. A shudder rippled through her as she reached for the light switch. The lights flickered on the fluorescents popping to the left.
Cold steel pressed against her temple. “Time for forgiveness.”
MITCH
Mitch removed his ruck from the overhead bin and shuffled down the aisle of the plane with the rest of the passengers. He made his way out of Dulles International and headed to his truck. Nothing like being home. Driving his own truck. But even if he was out of the combat zone, they couldn’t take the fight out of him—not even driving down the highway, assessing situations. Instead of seeing a shrub on the side of the road, he saw a potential hiding spot for an ambush. A soda can tumbling down a sidewalk triggered IED memories. He’d gotten used to the hypervigilance and learned to manage it. Forty minutes later, he pulled onto his street and noticed the white Toyota Avalon parked in front of his townhome.
Sienna.
His heart did this crazy jig, comprised of excitement and apprehension. He liked her a lot more than he probably should. And in ways that left him troubled and yet anxious to hear her voice and see her smile. But her dad… Had Will tainted Sienna’s view of him?
Only one way to find out.
Mitch grabbed his ruck from the seat, climbed out of the truck, and headed up the steps. He let himself into the house. The warm, sweet scent of tomato and—he lifted his chin to inhale the spices…sausage?—hit his nostrils. Laughter reverberated from upstairs—Ella was giggling over something.
Smiling, Mitch dropped his gear and headed toward the kitchen…which sat empty. But on the counter was a baking sheet with steaming french bread. A bowl of salad. The oven light was on, giving away the apple pie baking. His taste buds squirted across his tongue. On a cooling rack, he spied the culprit of the spices and tanginess he’d detected when he first came in—lasagna. His mouth watered.
Lasagna. Salad. French bread.
He turned and stopped short.
Wearing a pale blue blouse and jeans, Sienna leaned against the pantry smiling. Her hair hung loose and curled around her long neck. “Trying to steal some before dinner?” She looked amazing, like…home.
Mitch hauled his brain back into line and held up his hands. “No, ma’am.”
Her expression sobered as she stepped toward him. “It’s good to have you back, but I’m sorry…sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
&n
bsp; This close, he could smell her perfume. “It’s not your fault.”
She tucked her chin, worrying the edges of a pot holder she’d picked up. “I feel like it is. I think, ‘if only I’d shown them more of the father you are,’ or if I’d—”
Mitch touched his finger to her lips. The visceral reaction to that startled him. He felt his gut clench. Noticed her eyes widen. All in a split second. “It’s not your fault, Sie.” He brushed the hair from the sides of her face, telling himself he was crossing a line but unable to stop.
Sienna shifted, just marginally, but enough for him to notice the hitch in her breathing.
“Daddy!” Ella’s sweet voice burst into the moment.
Mitch turned and caught his six-year-old daughter in a bear hug, forcing himself to act like nothing happened. “How’s my angel-bear?”
“Hungry!” she said.
“Me, too. When are we eating?” Noah trudged into the kitchen with a gaming device clutched between both hands.
“In fifteen minutes.” Sienna handed a stack of plates to Noah. “Set the table, please?”
“I’m going to shower up real quick. I feel like the sandman.” It took him less than ten minutes to shower, change into some clean duds—which he’d put a little more effort in choosing than normal—and appeared as the food was set out.
Dinner went quickly—too quickly. He wanted these minutes, what felt like “last minutes” with his kids. Not that he thought he’d lose. What judge in their right mind would take away kids from a soldier? There were legal measures in place to protect soldiers from stuff like this.
After their meals, Mitch herded Noah and Ella into baths and then into bed. It felt good, right, to be with them. Aches wormed through him that the Leitners could rip this all from his hands. The thought weighted him, depressed him.
Thankfully, Ella was oblivious to the storm hanging over them. She wrapped her small arms around his neck and hugged him, planting a noisy kiss on his cheek. She snuggled in with her Tweety toy and said good night. Heart aching, he made his way to Noah’s room.
