Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (20 page)

“We have spectators,” he muttered, trying to hint that they had unwanted eyes on this situation.

“Can’t believe they get off on watching us,” someone replied.

“Perimeter team, report.” Peering through the scope, Brian eased his weapon to his right, scanning and assessing.

“Redding here. All clear.”

“This is Parker. Normal with a few stragglers and kids kicking around a ball in the alley.”

Just another day in the neighborhood while Mom and Pop kill some Americans
.

“Davis here.” Her voice sounded tight. “I—There’s two women in a shop.”

“Sounds like a mighty big ‘but’ coming, Davis.” Brian brought the scope back to the upper window. Nothing changed. He went higher, to the roof.

“They seem…preoccupied with something or someone. They’re huddled in a corner.”

“Stay on them,” Brian said as he returned to that window.

His heart jammed up into his throat as a long tube pushed the dingy sheet outward. Even as he took aim, he heard a shout through his coms.

“RPG! RPG! Take cover.”

His mind ricocheted over Davis’s words. Did she see the same one he was sighting? Or…He steadied his breathing. Aimed, approximating where the shoulder…chest…placed in connection to the shoulder-mounted RPG launcher. He fired twice.

The tube flipped up. Vanished behind the makeshift curtain.

Fire breathed down Brian’s neck a split second before a strong concussive fist punched him forward. The ground rushed up at him. Brian dropped his shoulder and rolled through it. He came up and perched on a knee, sighting through the chaos, through the burning hulk of the MRAP that now lay in its own personal grave dug by terrorists, to the far side where Da—

“Davis! Report.” Brian scooted back up to their MRAP for protective cover. In a hunch-run, he scurried up toward her position. “Davis!”

“I’m—I’m here. A little shell-shocked, but here.”

“Where’d that RPG come from?” Almost at Blue’s MRAP, Brian slowed, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.
Something’s not right
.

“The rooftop, sir. Above the two women.”

Brian nodded as he pressed his back against the steel hull and glanced back to the window where he’d shot whoever tried to hit them with another RPG. “All right, team, we have multiple targets. Eyes. Let’s get everyone—”

Tink! Thunk! Thunk-thunk!

As the sound of bullets pinging off the side of the vehicle, Brian dove to the side, rolling beneath the MRAP. “Taking fire! Taking fire!” Prostrate, Brian peered out at the wreckage of the other mine-resistant vehicle spewing black smoke and flames into the sky—well, as much as he could see. He scanned for hostiles, shutting down the fear. Homing in on the warrior within him. The one who made sure everyone came home. The one who did what it took. The one most people didn’t understand.

There, across from a small well-like structure, he barely saw two forms. One held a rifle, the other wrangled a launcher. “Eyes on target,” Brian spoke into his coms, his tone deathly even.

“Spartan platoon, you are ordered to stand down.”

Brian frowned.
What the…?
“Eyes on hostiles.”

“Sergeant Brennan, get your team to safety and get out of there.”

“Sir,” Brian said. “Sta—Sergeant Bledsoe here, sir. I have eyes on target and can neutralize the threat.”

“Negative, Bledsoe. Pack it up and RTB.”

Angry, Brian hesitated. “Sir—we are taking direct fire. Getting in the vehicles puts the team in direct danger, sir.”

“You’re not listening to me—get out of there!”

Ticked, Brian decided to ignore the booming voice ordering them back to base under a deadly situation. He pressed his cheek to the stock of his weapon and once again sighted the enemy.

“One more mess up, and you’re gone, Hawk.”

His palms went slick as Captain Watters’s words pierced his mind.

He swallowed. Tried to shake it off.

But he’d lose everything.

Biting back a curse, he balled his fists. Glanced down the sight just in time to see the enemy take aim at Davis and Parker, who were rushing to the MRAP.

“Nooo!” Brian shouted. “Davis, Parker—”

The drilling sound of automatic weapons drowned his voice. Davis and Parker went down, face-first, into the dirt.

Like a vacuum, Brian sucked back his grief. Gulped it down. Replaced it with fury. He resolved right then to kill the terrorists who had ambushed the supply convoy. Whether he had authorization or not. Fury ripping through his muscles, Brian lined up his sights.

Two Hours Outside Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

17 January—0710 Hours

Through a haze of blurry memories and vision, Fekiria woke. With a groan, she pushed herself off the mattress, the material warm and soft beneath her hand. Rolling her shoulders did nothing to dispel the ache in her neck. She rubbed the spot and squinted around the room. Sunlight peeked between curtains on the far window.

Disorientation faded as the surroundings settled into her mind.

She remembered the rifle butt flying at her. Instinctively, her fingers went to her temple. A prick of pain darted through her head, shoulders, and neck at the touch. She cringed and groaned.

A noise—a jangle that felt entirely too loud and annoying—pulled her gaze to the left. To the dark wood door that swung open.

Colonel Mahmoud stood just over the threshold. “How long will you keep us waiting?”

Fekiria shoved to her feet, yelping at the spike of pain that felt like a steel rod shoved through her skull. Heel of her hand to her forehead, she crossed the room. “Where…where are we going?”

“Where do you think we’re going?” Snarl in his voice, he pivoted and stalked out of the room.

Feebly, Fekiria followed him. Outside the room, two guards straightened at her presence. They fell into step with her as she made her way to the sweeping staircase and descended. With the loyal guard dogs on her heels.

Ahead of her, the front door swung open and light burst in.

Pain radiated through her corneas, stabbing the back of her eyeballs. Fekiria ducked but kept moving. Outside. To the chopper. Back to the base. Just had to get out of here. Get back to…what? Captain Ripley, the one man who wanted her but she did not want?

Why was she even alive? What purpose did she serve?

“Wait.”

The strong voice was unmistakable. Fekiria tensed, the move making the headache pound. Stiffly, she turned.

Adeeb strode toward her. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the guard dogs scurrying back to the shadows.
Who is my brother that they obey him so completely?
He stepped into her personal space. Glanced out the door. Indecision glimmered in his dark brown eyes. He pressed his lips together then met her gaze. “If you speak of anything you have seen here, I will have you killed.”

Disgust squirmed through her.

“It would take just one word from me to tell Baba what you are doing”—his gaze slid down her body, taking note of her flight suit— “for Baba to have you hunted down and killed like the worthless—”

“I may be worthless in your eyes, but I am an excellent pilot.” Fekiria lifted her chin ever so slightly—not enough to arouse his anger but enough to show him she did not fear him as he wanted her to. “I delivered your terrorists to your door—”

He grabbed her hair bundled beneath the hijab at the back of her neck then slammed her face into the door. A sweet but metallic taste filled her mouth. “Release me,” she hissed.

Again, he slammed her head against the door. “Do not think that because we have the same blood I would not hesitate to make an example of you.”

She yanked free, readjusting her hijab and catching the warmth sliding down her chin. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Go. Do not keep them waiting. They cannot be late.” With that, he thrust her out the door.

Fekiria stumbled, surprised and angered at her brother’s animosity. “And you say I am the dog.” She spat at his feet then stalked toward the helicopter, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth where he’d split her lip.

She walked the helicopter for her preflight check, disconcerted about what the men had been doing last night. But she found nothing out of place. In the cockpit, she tucked on her headset and adjusted the microphone.

“Let’s go. Why are you so slow?”

The words didn’t speed her up. They did make her go a little slower, however. After powering up the bird, she made radio contact with Kandahar. “November Romeo to Sierra Alpha Bravo Two.”

“This is Sierra Alpha Bravo,” came the voice that was distinctly
not
Captain Ripley. “What is your status, November Romeo?”

“Powering up to RTB.”

“Copy that,” came the reply, filled with relief and yet some apprehension. “What is your ETA?”

“Forty minutes.”

“Copy forty minutes. Safe flying, November Romeo. We’ll see you when you get here.”

“Copy. November Romeo out.”

W
hat have you found?” Dean strolled over to the bank of laptops and devices, glad to be back with his team. He sidestepped to avoid cables strewn across the floor and zigzagged into one of two power strips.

Sal straightened in his chair. “A whole lot of nothing.” He pointed to the map of the city—some parts redrawn by a Sharpie and others, a lot in fact, marked off with large
X
s—and shook his head. “We’ve ruled out a lot but haven’t gotten any closer.”

Dean lifted one of the chatter transcripts. “Ruling them out
is
closer.” He shuffled the papers, skimming as he searched for keywords.
Zmaray
. Lion. Though they’d had a massive confrontation with the guy who’d tried to take his victory out of Dean’s back, they hadn’t found the source.

The papers revealed exactly what Sal said—nothing. Dean flicked the pages onto the table and looked around. Bunks lined one wall. A curtained-off area probably concealed the bathroom or shower. They had to make do with whatever was left of the run-down shop.

“Where are the others? Titanis?”

“Titanis is out checking a hookah bar. Said he’s seen some regulars so he wanted to hang around, see what he could pick up.”

Dean nodded. “Good, good.”

“Harrier is Stateside for a while.” Sal stood and moved to a small cabinet. He extracted a bottled water. “Thought the general didn’t want to know where we are or what we’re doing.”

“He doesn’t.” Dean studied the map. “And things are picking up. Radio chatter is constant—and wrong. Got word that Hawk’s supply run in a southeastern province went south. He’s fine, but not everyone was.”

“Imagine he’ll be kicking and screaming to get back here.”

Dean rubbed the fuzz covering his jaw. “Yeah. Probably.”

“You letting him back in?”

“In?” Dean glanced at the team daddy. “He was never out. Just needed to get some things straight.”

“Like his head.”

“For one.” Dean smirked then noticed the way Sal was staring at him. Expression tight. “What’s wrong—you disagree with him coming back?”

“He’s a loose cannon.”

Dean folded his arms over his chest and lowered his chin, listening as the newly minted warrant officer spoke.

“He can’t obey orders. He gets mad at the drop of a hat.” Sal held out his hands in exasperation. “Don’t tell me you can’t see that.”

“I can.” Dean gave a nod then met the man’s steely gaze. “But if I had to yank and tank just based on things like that, this team wouldn’t exist.
I
wouldn’t be here—not after what happened with Zahrah.”

“That was different.”

“You didn’t think so seven months ago. In fact, you went to Burnett about me.”

Sal took a step back, his head lowering. “Just looking out for the team.”

“I want you to look out for yourself.”

Sal scowled. “This is a team, it’s not—”

“Whatever’s eating at you, Sal, fix it. If you need my help, I’m here.”

“Me?”
The guy’s thick, black eyebrows drew together. “You’re putting this on me?”

Dean held out his hands in a placating manner. “The only thing I’m putting anywhere is the truth. Something’s going on. It’s not affecting your decisions, but it’s affecting your relationships with the team. I won’t push as long as your performance remains at the high level it’s always been at. But Sal.” Dean sighed heavily. “I see it. They see it.”