Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2)

by Ronie Kendig

  Brian looked for a weapon. He saw nothing but a rock. A stock. Dead leopard. The thing was bloody and strewn across the snow five feet away. If he could get to it, he could swing the thing.

  A shout in Pashto or Farsi froze him.

  To his left, the man loomed over him. So this was it. Fight like a demon to protect the women only to end up in a puddle of leopard blood. Options. He needed options. But he didn’t have any. He’d already run through the mental checklist.

  If he feigned surrender, could he gain the upper hand? Or at least the man’s Kalashnikov? Hands raising and mind racing, Brian slowly came to his feet.

  The man aimed.

  Brian tensed.

  Crack!

  He blinked, waiting for the searing pain. For death. In the split second it took him to realize he hadn’t been shot, the man tumbled forward.

  Thud.

  Crumpled to the ground, the man’s body was limp. A dark stain spread out from his head.

  Brain catching up with the scenario, Brian searched his surroundings. His heart jump-started when he saw a blur racing toward him. First instinct: fight! Grab the guy’s weapon.

  Two seconds later, a small form plowed into him. His mind registered her—Fekiria!—only as he brought his hand up to punch her. Her arms flung around his waist. Snapped tight.

  Okay. Okay, he could live with that. Better than a bullet or another fist. And this was twice now she’d thrown herself at him. He didn’t care. He held her tight. Grateful she’d been there. Grateful she’d had firearm training. Grateful that propriety and national boundaries vanished in the heat of battle. This girl he liked. This girl, he’d be willing to take home to Granddad.

  She shoved him back. “Why did you come out here alone? It’s too dangerous! You could’ve been killed.” She shoved him backward again. “Then what would we do?”

  She was worried about him. He couldn’t help but grin. This hot, kick-butt chick who hated American soldiers was worried about this American soldier. A smart-aleck comment danced to his lips, but he stopped it.

  “I saw all the blood, saw you sprawled out—” Her words caught in her throat.

  Brian’s excitement over her reaction crashed and burned in the pain shining in her eyes. She was scared. Really scared. He cupped her face. “I won’t leave you.” Staring into those green, frightened eyes did something screwy to his chest. Made it hard to breathe. “Not if I can live and move.”

  She slapped his chest. “That’s the problem! They were going to cut you down.”

  “They didn—”

  “Don’t you know what country this is? How these men feel about—?”

  “Hey—”

  “Don’t be so stupid and get yourself killed, leaving us—”

  Brian caught her mouth with his. Awareness and excitement whipped his good sense right out of him. Her lips were soft, though dry from the elements. Though cold at first, they quickly warmed as she responded. Returned the kiss.

  Shouldn’t be doing this. With body armor on, he couldn’t feel her curves against him, but he had enough imagination to fuel the kiss deeper. It was like an electric bolt right through him. She tasted sweet. And salty. Like…tears.

  Brian broke off. Tears? Was she sweating? Or crying?

  Fekiria dropped her gaze fast. Held on to his biceps without moving, her fingers digging into his arms. She stood there in the snow, the heat of their passion the only thing warming them now. And really, it shouldn’t be happening. There were a million reasons why.

  They’d just been shot at. She was Muslim. He a Christian. She hated Americans. They couldn’t let stress and exhaustion whittle away their values and beliefs. Standing out in the open while attackers were out here—

  Yeah, why don’t you just flip on the neon We’re right here sign? Stupid as it gets. Didn’t he remember that talk he’d had with himself earlier? The one where he’d said chicks like her didn’t change?

  Finally, she released him and pushed away. Stomped away, head still down.

  “Fekiria.” Brian stood there, cursing himself and his foolishness. “Wait. We need to stick together.” Right. Kiss the tar out of her and expect her to just act like a soldier again? He’d never taken dating seriously before. He’d never thought twice about kissing a girl.

  Until now.

  His entire universe had shifted. It was insane, and he couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t want to hurt her. And if there was something Brian Bledsoe excelled at—it was hurting people he cared about. He stood there, feeling as if God had placed a glass rose in his hand.

  His big, clumsy hands that were more often in fists than open and welcoming.

  But would God put a Muslim girl in his path?

  That doesn’t even make sense.

  “Hey, stay close.”

  Fekiria stopped, hating herself. Hating him. Hating the world. She wanted to cry—no, she was crying! She batted the tears. The way he’d kissed her…she’d never felt like that before. The explosion of heat in her breast. The urgent but gentle way he held her, the way his lips caressed hers.

  “Give me ten minutes,” Sergeant Brian said. “I’m almost done with the pelt.”

  Huddled against the cold, she kept her back to him. “Why did you have to skin it?”

  “Aadela needs more protection against the cold. If she goes hypothermic, we’ll lose her.”

  Fekiria snapped toward him. Stopped, her mind racing at the thought of the little one dying. But she couldn’t look at him, not without thinking about the kiss.

  Turning away from him, she sat on a rock, looking out over the small plain. They couldn’t do that again. That’s why she hated herself—she wanted it again. Wanted the strength that poured out of him when he was close. Wanted the way he looked at her. Touched her. But she couldn’t give herself to anyone when she didn’t know who she was. He’s American. She was supposed to hate Americans. Had been raised to believe that way. To hate that way.

  And God. Or Allah. Some said they were the same. Zahrah and Mitra disagreed. Most converted Muslims preached they were not the same. Though her mother was a good Muslim woman and she knew many, many good Muslims, Fekiria could not deny the tug she’d felt for years to find the truth. Yet instead of searching for the truth, she had run. From anyone and anything that had to do with religion.

  Fekiria lowered her head and rubbed her temple. I don’t know what I believe. She never had. It had always been so twisted and convoluted. How many times had her people declared they were a religion of peace yet sent women and children with suicide vests to bomb in the name of jihad? Centuries ago, Christians had done the same with the Crusades. Many religions had waged war in the name of peace and their gods. It was one thing to fight for what you believed in. Another to force it on another unwillingly. She did not know which were real and which were fake. But she did know that the two most powerful examples of love she’d seen had come from Zahrah and Mitra—Christians.

  Did that mean something?

  From the corner of her eye, she watched Sergeant Brian. He stirred crazy things in her. Always had, which was why she’d rebuffed him from the beginning.

  Her friend’s words from earlier echoed in her mind. “He is a good man.”

  And a good kisser. Heat spiked through her face again. Her mind replayed the way he’d taken charge, infused her with courage, which only made her angry, and then kissed her. Strong. Powerful. Hungry.

  On her feet, she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as if she could push the memory straight out of her head. She just wanted to get out of here. Get away from him. From this storm that was devouring her life. Her hope.

  “Okay. They’re buried. Should be good for a while.” He was next to her now, and when she glanced behind him, she could barely make out the mounds built up against the incline. He held up the leopard skin. Thankfully, he’d scrubbed away the blood. “It’s wet, but maybe we can light a small fire to dry it out.”

  “You don’t think they’ll see the
smoke?”

  His intense gaze roamed their surroundings and the sky. “Maybe.” He started walking, the pelt slung over his shoulder. “I’m just praying the wind and snow will blind them.”

  Praying? Did he really pray?

  As they climbed, he hesitated before they entered the cave. Then glanced at her. “What we did—”

  Fekiria glared at him then pushed past him into the cave. She would not talk about the mistake. She did not want to hear him apologize. Or say he shouldn’t have done that. Or even bring it up because she had no idea what she felt or thought about it. Except for liking it. A lot. Too much.

  “Wait,” he hissed, his voice low.

  Ignoring him, she made her way around the switchback. Ducked, though she didn’t need to, and slipped along the edges. She quickly scanned the darkened interior. At the back, curled against a pitch-black wall, Aadela and Sheevah slept soundly.

  Near them, Mitra opened her eyes and glanced up. Then frowned. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Fine.” She picked her way toward them. “Three men found Sergeant Brian, but we are okay.”

  He stepped into the cave and hovered in the corner, where he used something from his pack to start a small fire. Only then did she realize he had a bloody gash across his right cheek. Several other cuts and bruises peppered his face. Blood shadowed his jaw and mouth.

  “So, nothing else happened?” Mitra asked, her voice strange.

  Fekiria frowned. “What else would happen?”

  Mitra looked to be hiding a smile. “If you want to lie to your friend, you should wipe the blood from your mouth.” She laughed. “Or should I say, his blood from your lips?”

  Hauling in a breath, Fekiria turned away. Pushed herself to a corner and sat alone as she swiped furiously at her face. Looking at her hand, she found the red traces. Her gaze betrayed her and skidded into his, but she jerked away. Closed her eyes. Sagged.

  Sergeant Brian came over, sat next to her, and extended a small cloth. “I tried to warn you before you came inside.”

  She snatched the cloth and wiped away the evidence. “It was a mistake!” The cave’s echo snatched her hissed words and trailed them around the smoky area. She hated herself more for saying it. She’d never lied to him before. But she couldn’t do this. Couldn’t undo all the words she’d spoken. All the things she said she believed.

  “For a mistake, you were pretty passionate.”

  Tears swarmed her vision. She fought them. Fought as hard as she could. “Leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  Fekiria glowered.

  He angled one arm over his knee. “Things are complicated. But don’t give me that about a mistake, that you don’t like me. I see the way you look at me. The way you watch me when you don’t think I know.” He leaned closer, and her breath went shallow. “I know, because I feel the same way. I do the same thing. I can’t get enough of being around you. And it doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  She looked into his eyes. “No.” Everything in her trembled with the admission. “It does not.”

  He nodded. “Good. We agree.” He seemed to be memorizing her face. And she couldn’t help but think he might kiss her again. Instead he rose to his feet. “Get some rest. We pull out in a few hours.”

  CHAPTER 35

  24 February—0113 Hours

  Like peace, sleep evaded Fekiria. Cold and restless on the floor of the cave, she curled close to the others wishing for a small corner of the thermal blanket. But guilt pressed against her, reminding her that Sergeant Brian stood at the opening watching over and protecting them.

  Sergeant Brian. She’d kissed him, and she did not even know his full name. Honestly, she did not know much except he was a man of courage and honor. He had integrity and respected her as a person. She’d had admirers and offers of marriage, and men who saw a pretty girl and wanted to know her.

  Like Captain Ripley.

  An ache squeezed her chest. They’d killed him. Somehow that tragedy seemed like weeks ago. Yet it was only a few hours. How could that be? She felt like they’d endured a thousand troubles. She should be angrier. Grieve him more.

  But he never made her feel the way Sergeant Brian did. He talked to her like a friend. Like someone who was his equal. Captain Ripley did the same, but his closeness did not set off sparks in her stomach. Did not make her heart race.

  Even now, remembering the way Brian cupped her cheeks, told her firmly and forcefully that he wouldn’t leave her, swam as real and tangible as if his hands touched her now. Embarrassed as heat filled her again, Fekiria curled tighter, her nose against Sheevah’s back.

  Sleep dragged her into its icy embrace. Pale moonlight bathed the landscape in a chilling tone. Howling crested the wind and snaked toward her, reaching, pulling. The mournful timbre gripped her tight, like unbreakable threads cocooning her in its haunting song. Wind swirled and spiraled, taking corporeal form before her. A man. In all white. Robed in winter but radiant as summer. “Go to the house,” his words came as a strong whisper tickling her ears. Loud, yet not. Cool, but strangely warm.

  Something prickling cold seeped up from the ground, tugging at her attention. She did not want look away from the man. He could not be real, not formed of snow and whispering on the wind. Yet he stood there. “Who are you? Are you real?” she shouted over the storm raging around them. Though she raised her arm to shield her face against the storm, in the middle of that tempest, they stood oddly unaffected.

  Cold snapped around her ankles. Pulling. Hard. Fekiria shifted, tried to kick her feet, to rid herself of whatever it was, but it wouldn’t release. She glanced down, stunned to find the snow around her ankles was black. Ebony staining the pristine blanket. With a yelp, she tried to free herself. Instead of freedom, she watched in horror as the black crept up her legs. “Stop!” Her gaze hit the man, who stood placidly watching. “Do something!”

  “It is your own doing. Go to the house.”

  “I can’t go anywhere!” She gulped panicked breaths. Black slid up around her waist, creeping ever upward. Her breathing tightened. Chest constricted. “How do I stop it? Please stop it!”

  “Just say it.”

  Fekiria frantically looked between the blackness overtaking her body and the snow-white man. “Please! Help me!” The black reached her throat, the heaviness unbearable. She screamed.

  “Fekiria.”

  Darkness like night bled through her vision. I’m dying! “No!”

  A firm shake against her shoulder. “Hey!”

  Fekiria blinked, catching something in her hand. She jerked herself up, gripping tight to the lifeline. She saw in the semidarkness the hard lines of a handsome face. “Sergeant Brian,” she breathed. In relief, she pulled herself into a sitting position, a hand automatically going to her throat. She rubbed her neck, reassuring herself the blackness wasn’t real. “I—I was dreaming.”

  “Screaming is more like it.” On a knee, he leaned closer. “And really? After that kiss, you’re still calling me Sergeant Brian?”

  She met his eyes, disconcerted and unwilling to be goaded into verbally sparring. “The dream…” Swallowing hard didn’t shake the dread or near tangibility of the dream from her mind.

  He lowered himself to the ground, concern stamped on his face. “You okay?”

  “The dream,” she repeated. Silly to even try to explain the concoction of elements a brain puts together during a dream. She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just…”

  “Yesterday was enough to create some demons for dreams. A few angels, too.” A twinkle in his eye told her he was thinking of their kiss.

  Only then did she realize the darkness didn’t hang as oppressively. “It’s…lighter.”

  “Dawn, but the storm’s shielding most of it.” He thrust his jaw toward the others. “Let’s get them up. Time to set out.”

  “Already?” She glanced toward the opening. How long had she slept? Disoriented, she tried to shake the cobwebs from her mind. “Did you sleep?” />
  “I’m going to get the little one swaddled up with part of the pelt. Can you get the others moving?” Without answering her, he moved to the other side of the huddle and crouched beside Aadela. He didn’t wake the six-year-old but drew back the thermal blanket, lifted her leg, and to Fekiria’s surprise, slipped on a makeshift pelt-boot. How had he made that?

  As he shifted to place the other on, he met her gaze. Nodded for her to get the others moving.

  Yes. The others. “Sheevah, Mitra, wake up.”

  Her friend turned to her, eyes not even an ounce sleepy. A sly smile filled her face as she sat up. And Fekiria knew in that moment her friend had heard Sergeant Brian’s comment about the kiss. But she would not discuss it. Instead she turned her attention to waking Sheevah. “Time to go.”

  Sheevah whimpered as she rolled over, sleep clinging to her with an iron grip. “I’m so tired.”

  “We all are,” Fekiria said. “But the sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can reach town again.”

  “Quiet!” Brian hissed, hand over Aadela, holding her in place as he stared toward the opening. With stealth movements reminiscent of a panther, he pushed to a standing position and freed his weapon. Slid through the semidarkness toward the mouth of the cave, every step deliberate. Silent.

  Fekiria felt every move, every step against the thundering of her heart as she watched him. Anticipated the moment when he’d—

  He jerked back.

  So did Fekiria.

  Brian pivoted toward them, a new storm on his face. “Up,” he hissed. “Now. Go!”

  She knew enough and trusted him enough not to ask questions. If he said go, they did. On her feet, Fekiria grabbed the thermal blanket. Folded it in half then again as she hurried to Aadela, who was still groggy and not sure about the new warmth tied to her legs. “We have to go,” she said to the little one.

  “I’m hungry,” Aadela whimpered.

  “We will eat soon. But first, we must hurry. Can you do that?” She nudged the little one toward the front. “Go stand by Sergeant Brian.”