Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (16 page)

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump
.

Inhaling a breath, he eased his weapon down and slipped back.

The panel slid open and the hulk of an Aussie SAS soldier folded himself through. “Door’s a little big,” Titanis said with a grin. “Think you could find a smaller one?”

“Then we couldn’t fit your ego through,” Knight said with a chuckle, the camaraderie he’d established with the team on the mission six months ago still evident.

“What’s this,” Titanis said in his deep, gruff Oz accent. “Little Bird has found a sense of humor?”

Harrier looked up, his face a mask of sincerity. “Who was humoring?”

“Raptor Actual made contact. Said our target is within five klicks of this location.”

Titanis tossed his eighty-pound ruck into a corner as if lobbing a tennis ball. “Good. We can start scouting.”

“What’s this target going to look like?”

“After we’re done, he’ll look dead,” Titanis said.

“Easier to barbecue that way,” Knight added. “But before we grill ’em, how do we find them?”

Jokes about killing annoyed Sal. And their sarcasm grated along his raw nerves. “This is going to take time. We’re Green Berets. It’s what we do—recon, develop relationships.”

“In other words, we’ll be here awhile.” Knight set out a collapsible bowl for MWD Ddrake and filled it with water.

“Unless you know how to find this son of a gun faster. Unless you’re holding back on intel that could solve this for everyone so we can go home to our families.”

Titanis’s gaze hit Sal, alerting him to his tone and his aggravation.

“Long and short of it is—Zmaray wants us hiding behind our bunkers back at Mazar-e. We’re going to let the Lion think we’re doing that, all while we’re sniffing right up under his big schnozz.”

“Then cram a grenade up it and send him back to his maker,” Harrier said.

Sal resisted the urge to bark at the guy about his bloodlust. Truth was, Sal was tired. Tired of the killing. Tired of people dying. Tired of
his
people dying.

Two Hours Outside Kandahar, Afghanistan

15 January—1030 Hours

Fekiria stayed in the cockpit. The flight out to the private estate was smooth. Even with the winter winds, there’d been no accumulation of ice. The skids touched down without a hitch, and the men were hustling into the sprawling home without a backward glance.

Including Adeeb.

Fekiria let a long breath out between her lips as she watched him disappear into the house.
What
was he doing here? With these men? Connected to the ANA? Since when had Adeeb been in the Army? Her stomach clenched as the realization hit her—if he was ANA and connected to those high enough up, he could find out…everything.

Captain Ripley had noted her real name in her file. That would get digitized, no doubt, and then it would be far too simple for him to discover her secret.

She closed her eyes, images of being dragged into the street and being stabbed. Shot. Whatever means they wanted to use to kill her. In the name of the family honor, of course.

In the name of idiocy!
Anger flared through her.

“November Romeo Three One Two, what is your status?”

Relaxing against the seat, Fekiria breathed a little easier at the sound of Captain Ripley’s voice. She keyed her mic. “This is November Romeo. Arrived on time and delivered VIPs.”

“Roger that, November Romeo. Well done.”

She smiled. Those two words were a balm to her soul. “Thank you.” She bit her tongue. The instructors made it clear that the coms weren’t for informal chatter. “Expected departure is at 1500.”

“Roger that.”

Fekiria signed off and sat in the cockpit. She’d have to walk the chopper again, but doing so risked her brother seeing her. What if he was near that large window overlooking the beautiful terrace?

A security guard approached from the house.

Fekiria busied herself, running through her after-flight checklist. Making notes. Feigning distraction.

A soft thump against the Plexiglas window startled her.

The security guard waved her outside.

She held up her clipboard, since shouting would only draw more attention, and she wasn’t sure he could hear her anyway. Certain he’d go away after a few minutes of being ignored, she kept her head down. But when she looked up again, she knew it was no good.

Outside, she continued ignoring him, focused on her board.

“You must come inside,” he said, his tone a bit…off.

“I must do my after-flight walk of the chopper.”

“No good. It is too dangerous. If someone targets the chopper…”

Fekiria stared at him. Then at the house. She refused to look into the sky. What on earth would someone be targeting and why?

Like anyone needed a legitimate excuse here. If one faction was angry with another, then they blew up the house. Burned down businesses. Slaughtered families.

“Come,” the guard insisted. “Inside.”

“I—”

“You can stay in the back kitchen with the staff.”

She swallowed her objection. That should be safe enough. She’d keep to herself. Remain hidden. Finally, she gave a slight nod and followed the guard around the side of the house and along a rear garden path. He banked down a flight of stairs to a small door.

Something in her stomach curdled. Standing at the top made the door appear smaller than it was. That psychological impact left her feeling threatened.

“Come,” the guard said.

Being in the ANA, she had basic self-defense training. But could she unarm and subdue this man? What if there were more on the other side of that door?

He must have understood her fear because he nudged open the door and motioned inward. “Look.”

Tilting her head, she peered in. Red tiles spilled inward. She barely saw the corner of a counter, the side lined with shelves of baskets of what looked like roots and vegetables.

Fekiria released her hesitancy and trailed him inside. The cooling room spread to her left for at least twenty or thirty feet. Straight on only ten feet. The guard crossed the tile and climbed a flight of four whitewashed steps that creaked beneath Fekiria’s feet. Almost as soon as her foot hit the slate floor, a blanket of warmth cocooned her shoulders and neck.

The large stove and oven provided the heat that warded off the winter chill.

A large woman, bent over a pot on the stove, slid a glance in Fekiria’s direction. Sprigs of unruly gray and black hair coiled out from beneath the tan hijab. Sweat mottled the woman’s complexion. “Sit,” the cook ordered then turned to a teen girl. “Get her some naan and water.”

Fekiria held up a hand. “Thank you, but I am—”

The cook shouted to someone else to check the bread in the massive stone oven that reminded Fekiria of ovens of old that were hewn in the walls of the home from rock.

Unwilling to argue with the cook and draw more attention to herself, Fekiria tucked herself into the corner table and did everything she could to be invisible. Within a few minutes, bread and cup were planted before her by a young girl, who hurried down into the cooling room then returned a minute later with a basket of chickpeas.

Quietly sipping the drink, Fekiria ignored the naan. It was too sweet and heavy for her stomach—especially knowing she sat beneath the same roof with Adeeb. Of all the people…why must it be him? As fierce and traditional as their father, Adeeb had no reservations about honor killings. Or putting a woman in her place.

This woman he’d put six feet under without hesitating.

The hard wood chair dug into her bones as the hours passed. Growing fidgety two and a half hours later, she stood and debated about whether she should say something to the cook, who was now well into making pastries and baklava—Oh, mercy! Fekiria’s sweet tooth ached for the parchment pastry—but then decided the cook would not care if she was here or not.

She caught the young girl who’d served the bread. “Excuse me, I must speak with one of the guards.”

The girl, eyes larger that pomegranates, shook her head.

“I must. My boss will be angry. We were supposed to leave thirty minutes ago.”

“I will get the guard. Leave the girl alone,” said an older man who appeared in the kitchen. He then shuffled out.

Waiting, she tried to keep to the shadows. What if he brought Adeeb instead of a guard? Maybe she should just go to the chopper—

“What is it?” the guard demanded, a scowl darkening his beady eyes.

“I am an ANA soldier, who was on orders to fly the gentlemen out there, but we were supposed to be back at the base by now. I could get in very serious trouble.”

His scowl grew. “What do you want me to do, stupid woman?”

“I must either radio in that we—”

“No! You cannot go out there.”

Fekiria drew back at the venom in his words. “I must. If I do not report in, the Army will come looking for their aircraft and me.”

“Let them look.”

“You cannot stop me from going out there.”

He snapped his weapon at her in a not-so-subtle challenge. “They said no one out there. That means you, too.”

Anger pushed her boldness to the front, beyond her fear of reprisal. “Then go tell them I must radio in, or I’m going out there.”

“And I will kill you.”

“Then you will have to explain to your masters why they have no pilot to get them back to the base.”

He snapped his mouth closed.

Aha. She had him. Triumph sent her thundering heart into an irregular beat. Trembling coursed through her hands, but she refused to show weakness to this man who found power only in threatening a woman.

He made to strike her, and she stepped back. Embarrassed, he hurried from the kitchen amid the laughter of the cook and the girl. Fekiria stumbled back, but her legs went rubbery. She steadied herself at the table, giving herself time to regain her courage.

Stomping feet preceded the guard who stalked into the kitchen, his face all rage. Behind him strode a man in a suit.

Fekiria drew herself up, silently thanking Allah that it was not Adeeb.

“What is the problem?” the suited man demanded.

“My name is Lieutenant Rhmani, and my orders were to deliver four men to this estate three hours ago, and to return two hours later.”

“They are not finished.” He dared her to argue, and the smug grin of the guard behind him only frustrated Fekiria.

“I understand,” she said. “I only ask that I may go to my aircraft and radio.”

“That would be unwise.”

The threat in his words could not be clearer, but she would use the “stupid woman” belief to her advantage. “What would be unwise, sir, is if I do not report in.”

“You dare counter my words?”

“What is happening here?” a voice demanded from the kitchen entrance.

Fekiria’s stomach vaulted into her throat. She stood, frozen, as she met Adeeb’s fierce gaze. Her heart felt as if it exploded with each beat.

“What is the matter?” Adeeb barked, looking from the others then to her. Recognition flickered through his face.

“Ad—”

“I asked what is happening here,” Adeeb shouted at the men.

“Sir, this woman insists on radioing to the U.S. base.”

“I must,” Fekiria said. Why had he not named her? Shouted at her? Hit her?

“You are the pilot.” His voice betrayed nothing but irritation.

Confusion circled her brain like vultures over a dead, rotting carcass. Why had he not acknowledged her? His question felt as one he’d ask a stranger.
Perhaps that is what I am to him now
. Besides, she still wore the flight suit, so refuting it would be foolish. “I am. If I do not report in, then not only will more ANA soldiers come, but the American military will come looking for their property.”

His gaze raked her soul. But he said nothing. It felt like minutes, but it had been only seconds. “You will radio in and let them know we will not be leaving tonight.”

Fekiria started. “Not—what?”

“You will return tomorrow morning.”

“The flight orders said we would return an hour ago!”

Voice and expression impassive, he said, “Plans change.” Understanding spread across his face. “Escort her out there and back.” His gaze never left her face. “Then lock her up in a room. Make sure she does not leave again.”

The guard and the suited man escorted her out to the helicopter. With her headset on, she radioed the base. “November Romeo to Sierra Alpha Bravo Two.”

“Sierra Alpha Bravo here. What is your status, November Romeo?”

“Delayed,” she said, exasperated and yet relieved to hear Captain Ripley’s voice again. Had he been sitting there at the controls the whole time? Why did it have to be him? “The VIPs have had a change of plans, sir.”

“Come again?”

“They have said we will not be leaving until tomorrow morning.”

“Negative, November Romeo. You are ordered to RTB immediately.”

“They will not allow me to leave.”

“November Romeo, is this a threat level red?”

Threat level red meant hostile. Meant Captain Ripley and who knew how many other American soldiers would come rushing—assaulting—to her aid. What would happen to Adeeb then? She stared out at the guard, who happily kept his weapon trained on her.