by Ronie Kendig
He looked up, feeling a tickle of something along his shoulder. He batted at it, and his fingers came away slick. Must’ve blown his eardrums. Bent in half, he worked to regain his balance. His orientation.
Peering up through a knotted brow, head throbbing, he saw Captain Watters. Mouth wide open, arm waving. He’s shouting. But only a warbling noise, like something out of a Charlie Brown movie, reached Brian. How did this keep happening to them?
As his wits returned, he saw something in the sky. Behind the captain.
The chopper! “It’s coming back,” he shouted. He raced toward the old Humvee. Flung open the rear. Grabbed a rocket-launcher tube. The captain was there, retrieving the rocket. Brian knelt, his knees stinging from the cold water.
Water?
Snow. Snow melted from the fire. He shook his head, ignoring the blazes behind them, and took aim. The captain loaded the rocket, slapped his shoulder, and Brian focused on shooting down that hunk of metal that tried to wipe them out.
“Come to Papa,” he muttered, leaning his cheek against the tube. Targeting.
“Hawk,” came a warning from Falcon, as if the team daddy thought he’d miss. Or miss the opportunity.
But he wasn’t going to rush. He’d do this right and take down this terrorist.
“Hawwwwk,” Falcon whined.
“Easy,” the captain said. “Take your time. Nail him.”
And in three…
Hawk cleared his mind.
Two.
His finger rested in the trigger well. His eyes focused clearly on the reticle.
And he eased back the trigger.
Fire streaked out of the tube with a high-pitched whistle. Tore into the sky. Antiaircraft fire barrage tried to dispel the rocket. But too late.
The rocket tore a hole in the hull of the chopper—right where the copilot sat. A fireball erupted. Whirp-whir of the dying rotors put the bird in a spin.
A blast of smoke poofed over the bird. Dark and fleeing, an ejected seat shot into the sky.
“Pilot!” Brian shouted.
“Load up!” The captain ran to the front of the Humvee, which had taken on some charming new dents from the explosion, but the old beast worked fine.
Titanis, Falcon, and Brian climbed in. Doors still swinging shut, the Humvee pealed away from the no-longer-safe safe house.
“See him?” the captain asked.
Brian crawled up into the gun turret and searched the sky for the telltale parachute that would safely deliver the pilot to terra firma. “Cloud cover’s too thick,” he called.
“Nocs,” Titanis said as something thumped against Brian’s thigh.
He grabbed the binoculars the Aussie handed off and scanned the sky. Nothing. Nothing but blurry white snow and— “There.” He lowered the nocs. “Due east, east…northeast.”
The Humvee veered that way.
Brian scanned the terrain below as they rose over a bridge. He was able to get a good line of sight on where that pilot was being deposited. Thank goodness they still had daylight. But not much.
“Near the Pul-e Kheshti Mosque. He’s going down south of the mosque.”
“The market,” Captain Watters said. “Is that where he’s headed?”
“Can’t tell,” Brian muttered, watching as the parachute glided down, tossed often by the strong winds of the storm blowing in. “Weather’s not making this a perfect guess.”
“There’s enough of us. We can find him,” the captain said. “Sal, get on the horn with Burnett. See if they can get us some sat backup on this.”
“Roger.” Falcon lifted his secure sat phone from his tac pants.
“Titanis, make radio contact with Eagle. Tell him to get high near the mosque. We need high eyes.”
“On it.”
“Keep your eye on that terrorist, Hawk.”
“Hooah.” Brian braced himself as they spun around hairpin turns, raced roundabouts, and took hard rights. All the while he kept the nocs on that pilot. “Still heading to the mosque—wait. No. He adjusted course.”
Interesting. All this time and he hadn’t navigated. Had the pilot been knocked out when he ejected?
Within minutes, they were on Nadir Pashton Road and headed toward the mosque.
“Hawk, Titanis, Falcon—on foot. Find the pilot,” Captain Watters said. “I’ll patrol the roads and keep moving.”
“Left, turn left,” Hawk shouted as he watched the pilot disappear among a tangle of buildings. “Market!”
The captain turned into an alley and slowed.
Brian deployed. Boots on ground, weapon cradled in his arms, he jogged toward the market. Behind him, he heard the thump of more boots.
“All right, Eagle has eyes on the pilot. Went down by the bird market.”
Bird market. Right. Only in Afghanistan. Brian headed that way, angling southwest of his current position. But even as he moved, he knew—knew—the pilot would head to the market. “Cap’, if this guy makes it to the market, we’ll never find him.”
“Then don’t let him make it there,” the captain said. “I’ll head there in the Humvee.”
Even as he toed up toward the main street of the market, Brian raised his weapon. Slowed his breathing. Slowed his racing mind. Being out here, in tac gear, wouldn’t be embraced openly. But at this point, he didn’t care. They’d get this guy and get out.
Sliding from the crowded street into the smothering market, Brian lifted his chin. Stay calm. A lot of people. A lot of things could go wrong. A lot of ambushes could happen here.
His mind warred with the variety of vendors. From the hanging animal carcasses on one side to the narrow stall packed with shalwar kameez. A dozen paces down—kites. Fruits.
People. So many people.
“How the heck are we supposed to find this guy?”
“Flight suit will probably give him away? That, and he’ll probably run when he sees us,” Titanis said, his humor flat in light of the mission.
Despite the cold weather, snow, and pending storm, the people were out in force. Probably stocking up. Something buzzed at the back of his mind. Brian slowed to a stop, scanned through his sights, and paused on an old vender with an opaque eye. The guy’s single brown eye shifted to something behind Brian.
Nerves sparking, Brian pivoted, weapon trained.
White flapped as if waving at him. Taunting. Brian hurried forward, grabbed the nylon material wadded in a corner. It hadn’t been cut but released. “Got the chute. Pilot’s here.” Lifting the thick nylon material, Brian walked over to the half-blind vendor. Held out the material. “You take,” he said, then said in Pashto, “Where did he go?”
It was a phrase they’d used before in other manhunts.
“I see no man,” the vendor said in broken English to match his broken, yellow teeth.
Brian tossed it at him. Scanned the open area…and then… What? He walked to a dried-fruit vendor and toed a slick spot. Blood. Into his coms he said, “Pilot’s injured.”
CHAPTER 28
Kabul Market, Afghanistan
23 February—1615 Hours
Follow the blood!”
Great. Now I’m a bloodhound. “Copy,” Brian said as he searched for the next stain.
I prefer sheepdog.
The scattered trail led him down the main market path.
“Raptor, group up around Hawk’s location,” Captain Watters said. “Pilot is nearby and injured. Let’s close the trap.”
Brian navigated the congested market. Finding blood would be challenging with the heavy foot traffic and variety of vendors.
“Just passed slaughtered lambs,” Falcon said. “Tell me again how we know the blood Hawk found is human?”
“It was next to the chute.” Brian searched the packed, cracked path, his eyes bouncing faster than a Ping-Pong ball. His gaze struck a shalwar-kameez vendor stall.
Why were the people just standing around, watching him? And not just watching, but…anticipating him. His gaze traveled the clothe
s that packed the wall of the stall. In particular, he noticed one thing. Closing in, he edged around a couple of men who refused to move. Brian eyed a hanger with a missing floral tunic and hijab. The wide-leg pants…He leaned in closer. Tilted his head. A smear across the hanger and a corner of the pants.
Brian turned out of the stall and moved to the middle, turning a slow circle. “I think our pilot’s dressed as a woman.”
“Come again?” the captain asked.
“White silk tunic with purple flowers. Same hijab.” He smirked. “Probably still has his flight suit and tac boots on.”
What a picture that made! He moved along the path, noting the difference of those who stood, staring openly at him. Defying him. He used their nonverbal cues as his clue to the pilot’s path.
“Guys, Kabul police coming your way,” Eagle said.
“Copy. Storm’s kickin’ up some wind. Let’s get this guy found fast,” the captain said. “Report.”
Brian eyeballed a mother and daughter who looked at him, guilt scrawled all over their faces, then ducked quickly. “Still tracking.” Two yards past them, blood—a big smear. He hurried onward. “Located more blood.”
“Coming up on a parallel path,” Titanis said.
“Copy,” Brian said as he came to a juncture. He scanned the location, the path, the stands. The people. He turned a circle. Crap.
He pivoted. Backtracked a half-dozen paces. Then continued past the cross point seven or eight feet. Had he lost the pilot?
“Hawk, we need to find this guy.”
“Roger.” Which would be fine if there weren’t fifteen thousand people in this market right now. Brian tugged his thermals from his pack and scanned. Nothing. He grunted. Turned.
A blur of a face smeared across his mind.
Brian froze, his mind assembling the information. His heart thundered, telling him it was impossible. His mind was playing tricks on him. But that hijab was white and purple. That was our guy.
He pivoted. “Got him.” Rushed forward, cheek against his weapon. Toward the spot he’d seen the person disappear. When he reached the apex, he paused. Wanted to curse. A long dark alley led out of the market. A half-dozen doors on either side. At the end, a fence with a hole across the street.
But no target.
“I lost him,” Hawk muttered. “Alley off the market.”
“Converge on Hawk,” Captain Watters ordered.
After a round of “rogers” rang out, Brian let his shoulders slump. He could go in there, try to find this piece of dirt. But he could also end up slaughtered.
White popped out of an alcove.
“Stop!” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the walls. “Stop right there!”
And, of course, the target ran.
Brian sprinted down the narrow alley, weapon in his arms.
The pilot slipped through the fence. Shimmied around a broken board in a fence.
Brian was right on his tail. “Stop!” For an injured target, the guy moved pretty fast. And…odd.
Around a corner. Into a compound. The gate closed even as he raced up to it. But that didn’t stop Brian. He flung his weapon on its strap over his shoulder. Launched at the wall. Threw himself upward. Caught the lip of the upper section. Felt a snag but pulled harder. Scrabbling, he toed the wall and hauled himself on top of it. He spotted the target limping toward a three-story structure. Believing he was safe.
Brian landed with a soft thud. Took a knee and whipped his weapon around in front, aiming. He moved along the perimeter, his back to the wall, M4 at the ready. With each step, he prayed he hadn’t lost the team.
An eruption of lights and shrieks exploded just outside the compound. Brian stilled, clinging to the shadows. Listening behind him, over the wall, to the chaos unfolding there but never taking his eyes off the door his target had gone into.
“Cap’—you there?” Brian whispered.
Nothing. No response.
Brian frowned. “Captain? Falcon?” He checked his mic and nearly cursed at the severed coms cord. What now?
Acquire the target. No way he was walking away from this.
Brian slid along the shadows. As he approached the door, he heard voices. Somebody lived here? The place looked abandoned or deserted. No lights. No toys or things left at the door. He scooted into the alcove of the door.
Whispers came from the other side.
Brian took a step back. Lifted his tac boot and slammed it, heel first, through the wood door. It gave easily, weakened from years of disuse.
Weapon up, he clicked on his shoulder lamp. Saw the white material fluttering away from him. “Stop!” But stopping would be too easy, wouldn’t it?
Brian lunged after the guy. Two large strides caught him up with the pilot. He rammed into the guy. Drove him into the wall. A yelp.
Brian moved with purpose. Grabbed the guy’s shoulder. Jerked him around and drew back his fist, ready to drive it right into—
Green eyes!
Brian froze, fist poised. Heart ricocheting. “Fekiria?”
A subtle whoosh from the side was the only warning he had before his world went black and he heard a strangled scream.
Kabul Market, Afghanistan
23 February—1700 Hours
“What did you do?” Fekiria dropped to her knees, hovering over Sergeant Brian. Blood flowed from the side of his head. She pressed a finger to his thick neck, checking for a pulse. It was steady and strong.
“He injured you!”
“No, that is not true.” It was a very difficult, confusing story. His team shot down the helicopter, but if Adeeb’s men hadn’t taken her… “Get something for his head. We need to get him out of there, into the room with the fire.”
“How do we move him?”
Fekiria considered him. Broad shoulders. Thick chest—the vest made him look bigger! “I…I have no idea. But we can’t leave him here.” Only then did she see his communications device. Fekiria unplugged it and removed it. “Here. Throw it in the fire.”
She positioned herself behind him, and after some finagling she managed to remove his large rucksack. Then she did her best to lift his shoulders and slip her hands beneath them…then under his arms. But she was too small. She couldn’t encircle his chest.
He groaned.
Fekiria eased him down and swung around to his left side, looking down on him. “Sergeant Brian?”
“You know him?”
She shot a look to Mitra but then focused on the American soldier. “Sergeant Brian.” She touched the side of his face. Felt a spark in the pit of her stomach.
Another groan.
Fekiria withdrew her hand and rested it on his shoulder. “Sergeant Brian, can you hear me?”
Ash and dirt covered his face, and now blood mingled with it.
His eyes fluttered. With a long, loud groan, he came to. “Holy…” He pulled himself off the floor and swung a hand out for balance. Then held his head, eyes squeezed tight.
Fekiria caught his arm, as much to stop him from accidentally hitting her as to help.
“What happened?” he said with a grunt.
“Sorry.” Mitra hovered above them, arms wrapped tightly around her small waist. “I thought you…she said you were…”
“Mistaken identity.” Fekiria dabbed the edge of the silk hijab against his bleeding temple. “I thought you were a soldier trying to kill me.”
His gray-green eyes fixed on her. “You…you were the pilot?” A storm worse than the one swinging down from the mountains moved in across his handsome face. “You bombed my team. Tried to kill us!”
“No.” Fekiria’s heart climbed into her throat. She could not let him believe that. “No, that’s not what happened.”
“Bullspit!” Anger churned in his eyes. “I was there! The explosion threw me through a wall. My team—” He looked at the door. Back to her. “My team. How long have I been out?” Faster than she thought possible, he was on his feet. Moving toward the door. “How long was I ou
t?”
“No!” She threw herself between him and the exit. “You can’t go out there!”
Fury lit through his expression. His brow knotted. With flared nostrils and colored determination, he clamped his hands on her shoulders. Lifted. Turned and planted her.
“Please, no. They’llkillyou!” Her words tumbled out on top of each other as he stepped into the snowy afternoon. Desperate to protect Mitra, the girls, and even him, she lunged forward—
Sergeant Brian collided with her, throwing her back against the wall. Hands on either side of her head, he grunted hard.
The door slammed shut. Apparently he’d kicked it.
His eyes bored into hers. “I just got shot at!”
Fekiria stared at him, stunned. He terrified her with the ferocity of a mountain lion, and yet, she knew enough of him to know he wouldn’t hurt her. Would he? “Come inside.”
“Answers. Now,” he growled, his forehead almost touching hers. “Who’s out there? How’d you know—?”
“In there. All the answers you want.” Why was it hard to breathe? Why did she just stand here, compelled under his power not to fight the way she’d done with every other man? “Please.”
He hesitated, a shift in his expression so slight but so significant. And somehow, his hesitation hurt more than anything her father had said to her in a lifetime.
“Please,” Fekiria repeated, the ache raw that he did not believe her. Trust her. “I promise.”
A flicker of a frown creased his brow, but he relented. Sergeant Brian pushed back. Stumbled. She hurried to him and put a hand on his back and one on his bicep that dwarfed her hand span to steady him. When she leaned in to help him again, he pulled away. Held out his palm. A definite “I’m fine” response.
He moved into the room, sluggish, heel of his hand pressed to his temple.
The girls huddled on the bunk made some noise.
Sergeant Brian snapped alive. Went for the handgun holstered at his thigh.
“Children,” Fekiria said as she stepped in front of him, touching his tac vest as she steadied him. “Just children.”
He took in the cluster of girls, his jaw muscle popping as he made his way to the rickety table and lowered himself into one of the chairs. “Get them away from the exterior walls. If a stray bullet makes it past the plaster…” The rest didn’t need to be said. He lifted a large phone from his leg pocket. Punched in numbers.
