Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (10 page)

“Guess y’all taught us well.”

“How your word means nothing when a president wants to shift attention or when he needs reelection. And maybe next time—”

“Babe, there won’t be another time.” Brian gritted his teeth. “Because this—you and me—isn’t happening again. When you walk out that door, I’ll forget you exist. You’ll never hear from me again, especially not another promise. Just go back to your soldier boy and forget this happened. Or wait. Are you going to stab him in the back, too?”

Her face reddened. She shot daggers out of those green eyes. Fekiria whipped around and hurried down the hall.

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

Palm on the sergeant’s desk, ballpoint pen in hand, Dean hesitated over the login book as his gaze followed the black-and-white images on the security monitor. The woman rushed out of view, and from the feed, and he could tell Hawk was saying something as she left. What was that about?

Dean slipped to the side door and pressed his shoulder against the wall.

The woman scurried out the exit without a glance back.

But he didn’t need to see her face to know it was Fekiria Hadairy.
Couldn’t be
. What would she be doing here—and talking to Hawk? He knew her attitude toward Americans, so hanging out with them…And what would she want with an unruly one like Hawk? So maybe it wasn’t her. Wouldn’t make sense for her to be here.

“Specialist, everyone visiting signs in, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Back at the sign-in desk, Dean slid his pointer finger along the entry above his: Zahrah Zarrick. “Not even close,” he mumbled as his brain zinged through the meaning. Zahrah had a certain level of autonomy and clearance on this base because of her father.
And me
.

Fekiria did not. But why would she use Zahrah’s name? Did she use Z’s name at the front gate, too?

What are you up to, Fekiria?

Two nights ago at the apartment, she’d stepped into his conversation with Z—Dean cocked his head to the side, looking out the door—about the disciplinary action. She mentioned the bar. When he hadn’t. He thought she’d acted a little strange, but then again, Zahrah’s cousin usually did act strange. She didn’t like that her cousin was dating him, but she respected the relationship. As far as someone so strident in her views could, he supposed.

Dean stared at the camera that held the grainy image of Hawk. His mind sparred with the facts: Hawk. Fekiria. The fight. SEAL. Hawk’s silence over what happened. Fekiria knowing too much. Showing up here.

“You okay, Captain?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Dean tossed the pen aside and strode down the hall to Hawk’s cell. He rounded the corner, unsure what the game was with Brian, but the fights and outbursts had to stop.

Hawk lifted his booted feet to the mattress and was halfway down when his gaze slid into Dean’s. Eye still swollen, it now had a garish purple hue. Butterfly stitches on his right cheekbone and temple bore testament to the SEAL’s skilled punches. Hawk grunted. Swelling might be going down but his attitude wasn’t.

“On your feet.” He worked to say the words evenly. He might not have succeeded by the hesitancy that skidded through Hawk’s battered face.

Hawk pulled himself to his feet. “Can’t a guy get some rest?”

Sarcasm. Dean tightened the reins on his slipping anger. “Saw a woman here.”

Hawk grinned. “D’you get her number? For me—I know you’re tangled up with Double Z right now.”

Dean stared. Hard. Kept his mouth closed, knowing he’d unleash on the guy.

Hawk said nothing. He swallowed.

“Want to tell me something about the woman wearing a hijab who just left in a hurry?”

The guy didn’t need a dog—his eyes and body language barked his message. Ticked. And…something else, but Dean couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t care. Not this time. Brian Bledsoe wasn’t going to be forthcoming so he’d pay the price for that. Just like he’d pay for his out-of-control actions at the hookah bar.

So be it. Dean gave a lopsided nod. “Once the doctor clears you, you’ll return Stateside. A month, maybe two with your family might set your head right.”

“Stateside? We have a killer who’s hijacked our computers!”

“If or when you return, you’ll have extra duties.”

Hawk’s mouth tightened.

“KP.”

Hawk remained unmoved.

“And latrine duty.”

His jaw muscle jounced—once.

“From there, you’ll be assigned patrol. In Bagram.”

“Bag—” Hawk clamped his mouth shut.

“You’ll lose a stripe, but you’ll stay in. Depending on your attitude during that time, you might regain your position with SOCOM—”

“Regain?” Hawk’s brow knitted, darkening his intense eyes.

When he saw the punishment hit its mark, Dean stepped back. “Hope we see each other again. Good-bye, Sergeant Bledsoe.”

“Wait—
bye
?” Hawk’s arms spread. “Where—what about Raptor?”

“Raptor is not your concern, Sergeant.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

Rigid with anger and indignation, Dean slid closer to the bars that kept him from wringing Hawk’s neck. “Right now, you should be counting your lucky stars that I consider you a
friend
. That I know enough about you to know that this behavior, this idiocy, isn’t you. I am the only reason you’re still wearing a uniform right now.” His chest heaved with the effort to contain his anger. “Whatever storm is swelling inside you, Brian, calm it down. Or get out.”

Hawk stood as if a steel rod had slammed down his spine.

He was through here. Hawk understood the situation. Understood the ledge he stood on now. It’d be up to him to scramble to safety or jump off. There was nothing more Dean could do. So he backed up a step, gave a curt nod, then strode down the hall, the weight of justice served pushing down on him as if an entire courthouse had dropped on him.

“So, what?” The rattle of bars and Hawk’s shout chased Dean to the exit. “I’m off the team?”

T
he team lets me down. It’s like they’re making this easy for me.

They can’t really be
that
stupid can they? I’ll be disappointed if that’s the case. I like the chase. Like knowing I have a formidable opponent. Facing off against someone who’s below you… Well, where’s the fun in that?

Months of hunting them, backtracking to figure out where they were and where they were going finally paid off that night. And holy cow! If you could’ve seen the way Hawk put his fist through that other guy’s face, you would’ve paid me big-time for that. Why? Why could that not happen when I had a camera and a tub of popcorn?

Note to self: see if Salim has video footage
.

But Hawk’s temper did me a big favor. Gave me the opportunity I needed to plant a bug that I could remotely control and attach to one of them. I’m really beginning to think those guys are all brawn and no brains. I mean, it’s practically a public service, handing them over to Zmaray and his master.

A few brilliant keystrokes and now… “Ladies and gentlemen, we are back in business!” Which means my bank account is filling up, too. Or will be soon. And this time, they’re going to pay better. After all, I’m putting
this
—uh, that would be
all
of me—on the block.

I activate the homing beacon then hit a switch. The small vent in the roof cantilevers with a squawk and the small UAV launches out. “Huh. Probably should WD-40 that.” I shift my gaze to the screen.

As the UAV rises above me, I set it to lock on to the signal and power up its video feed. Almost instantly a live feed of the bird as it heads toward the base. Within a half hour, the bird is descending.

Comparing the map with its “migration” gives me a surprise. “So, not in the north anymore, are we guys?”

The Little B-1-r-d lands on a wire—not an electrical one. It’s programmed to detect those electrical fields and ignore them. As it soars over the barbed wire and sandbagged gate, I take manual control of his flight. The images aren’t the best, but they’re enough to help me guide the Little B1rd toward the SOCOM building. That’s easy to find, with the way the military tends to letter every building with signs. Sure makes it easier for terrorists to find their way around, I suppose.

Little B1rd lands on the eaves.

And I activate my Fly fly. Okay, I can’t help but laugh. It’s a
fly
fly.

“Hehe. Okay, no wonder you’re single, Boris,” I mutter as I aim the tiny fly toward the vent. He spirals down and into the building.

Voilà!

Being with the guys again is like coming home for Christmas.

Hm, interesting. Seems we’re missing some muscle on the team. Our handy-dandy captain is missing. So is the mouthy guy—Hawk.

“Okay, let’s head out.” The Italian Stallion is in charge? What…why would they do that?

“Wait, wait, wait,” I object. “If you head out I can’t spy on you. C’mon. Be sports, will ya?”

But they’re out the door. Rebellious little thugs.

That’s okay. I’m a fly on the wall. A fly on…the…wall…Buzzing above Eagle’s head, I am momentarily blinded when one of the guys shoves open the door. But the lens quickly adjusts and we’re heading out.

I’m giggling by now. It’s so great. Technology totally rawks. These doofuses have no idea I’m following them. I mean—hello? I am
right
there. Can see the dandruff on Eagle’s head. “Oh, look! He’s thinning already.” Cackling, I almost miss him swinging his baseball hat up. He nearly catches my Fly fly.

I whiz the fly out of striking zone but stick with the guys. They head to the motor pool. But hold up. Where’s Captain
Uptight
Pants? And my favorite guy? Why aren’t they with the team?

Really, I shouldn’t be laughing, but being a literal fly on their wall—or in this case, on their Humvee as they head off into the sunset—can it get any sweeter?

Actually, yes it can. The pot can
always
be sweetened. With cash.

Running through my programs, I make the call. Make it impossible for them to trace it back to yours truly.

The line connects. I hold my breath, waiting for someone to speak. Seconds tick by. “Hello?” I finally say, nerves jangled. “Zmaray?”

“No,” a female voice answers. “You will deal with me now.”

She sounds pretty. And mean. So not going there. “Not happening. Zmaray was my contact. I don’t know you.” I reach for the kill switch. “That means I can’t trust you.”

“You cannot trust the person who deposited 13.2 million dollars in your unnumbered account,
Boris
?”

Okay. Pretty, mean, and entirely too smart for her own good.

For my good
.

“You’ve coded in,” she says. “Does that mean you have good news for me?”

“Where is Zmaray?” Yeah, not answering any other questions till I know if they’ve offed the guy. Because if they offed him, then my neck is already feeling the sting of their blade.

“He is right here. But things have escalated, would you not agree? The Americans killed our Afghan contact. They came entirely too close to uncovering our agent.”

Agent? “Do you mean your guy on the base?”

Silence crackled through the line, deafening. Terrifying.

They know too much
.

“You are wasting my time, Boris. Do you have information?”

I look to the screen. To the dusting of snow covering the terrain as the Green Berets make their way—I check the compass—south. “I do.” Gotta let them know I have value. “But I want to know Zmaray is alive.”

“Sorry, that is above your pay grade.”

I’ll let her snotty attitude slide. Because I
am
getting paid.

W
earing her hijab and flight suit, Fekiria made her way to the training rooms. First day of advanced training and one step closer to advanced certification. Surrounded by other pilots, soldiers, airmen, and sailors, she almost felt crowded. Yet an insane amount of loneliness tugged at her soul.

She’d walked out of the apartment six days ago while Zahrah was at the school working with the children. Though Fekiria left a note explaining that she was okay, she had not been entirely honest in her description of her destination and reasons.