Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (25 page)

“Because Jacob did not die to kill someone who would not believe as he did. He died for Someone who gave everything for him, in the hopes that those watching would know that his belief is resolute.”

“You and Zahrah—I never understood you.”

Mitra sighed. “I know. And it is okay. I still love you, angel.”

“And now, you are here teaching these girls. Do you not realize what will happen if the Taliban find out? They’ve been killing girls in the area, Mitra!”

“You are a pilot, yes?”

Fekiria drew back. “What does that matter?”

“I remember standing in the room when you told your father you left the ANA. But you didn’t. And now you are a pilot!” Mitra’s smile was infectious. “What bravery you have shown to do what you believed in!”

But I lied to do it!
And now she was running and hiding and lying more. Fekiria gave a low laugh. “I see what you are doing.”

“Even you believe in teaching the girls,” Mitra said then turned and gave the girls instructions. “As someone who has her freedom, surely you would not take away their chance just because of danger.”

Almost as if on cue, the half-dozen girls quietly returned, taking places at the table where Mitra had set out the books and papers.

“Girls.” Mitra placed her hands on the shoulders of a girl who looked about ten years old. The faded yellow hijab and blue tunic gave a striking contrast. “This is Miss Haidary. She is a pilot.”

Awe and gasps infected the young faces.

“You fly planes?” the oldest girl, who stood just a little shorter than Mitra’s five-six height, asked. A horrid scar marked a line down her jaw and neck.

Fekiria gave a stiff nod. “Sometimes. I prefer helicopters.”

Another cluster of
ohhs
and
ahhs
went around, followed quickly by a dozen questions. Her friend had been clever in ambushing her with this dialogue. With tempting the girls to unleash their questions on her.

“See where learning to read and do your math can take you?” Mitra pointed to the table with a winning smile. “Now, let’s work quietly.”

Defeat and frustration clung to Fekiria as the morning wore on, but she could not walk out of here, abandon her friend and these girls. She used her day off to clean and bake naan, which she had bought the ingredients for at the market. They had so little. Innocence stayed here. They did not deserve the scared little men with their big guns and mouths who tried to rob them of the right to learn and grow.

The greatest irony was the lie Fekiria had believed about her friend. Mitra was supposed to have the perfect life—a husband, child, and a future. Fekiria had so envied her when she left Mazar-e Sharif with a bright, prosperous future ahead of her.

Not…
this
. Poverty. Fear. Widowhood.

“Are you well?”

Fekiria looked at her friend. “How can you do this? Be alone, take care of these girls? Where… Why…?”

“I am not alone.”

Rolling her eyes would only upset her friend, but Fekiria couldn’t stand it. “You mean Isa.”

Mitra laughed. “Well, yes, but I meant Baktash and Belourine, the couple who live in the smaller house and help as they can.”

“Oh.” Corrected, Fekiria felt chastised. “You have help then?”

With a kiss on the cheek, Mitra gave her a hug. “You love me, so you are angry to see me in need.”

She understood? “Yes!”

“Then come help us.”

Fekiria’s heart dropped. She’d walked away from her part-time work at the school in Mazar-e because of what happened to Zahrah.

“I could use the help, and the girls—especially Sheevah—would love to have you around. It is not so bad after you have gotten used to it.”

“Sheevah?”

Mitra glanced toward the eldest girl, whose red-tipped ears were giving away the fact she’d been listening to the conversation. Her curiosity and admiration had been obvious when she asked questions earlier of Fekiria.

Expectation and danger came hand in hand here. What happened in Mazar-e, what she witnessed, and what her cousin endured could repeat itself.

“Do these girls not deserve a chance to learn?”

“Of course they do.” Hearing her own conviction seemed to give it more weight. These girls did deserve that chance, and so much more. Perhaps she could find a way to get them supplies so the girls weren’t on the verge of starvation or freezing to death. Fekiria straightened her shoulders. “How can I help?”

Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan

26 January—0815 Hours

Dean jogged across the compound, heading toward the showers when the staticky rendition of reveille echoed through the winter morning. He stopped in his tracks, turned toward the raising flag, and saluted. Things might be out-of-control crazy. A sadistic terrorist might be targeting the military. But there was Old Glory.

Inspiring. A symbol of courage. Of thousands of soldiers, sailors, airmen, Marines, Coasties who had served before him. Lives sacrificed. And the untold number who would serve after him under the banner of the Stars and Stripes.

When the song ended, Dean continued toward the showers.

“Captain Watters?”

Dean pivoted, surprised to find a major heading his way. “Yes?”

“Colonel Coffino sent me over with this.” The officer handed him a sealed envelope.

Apprehension weighted Dean’s muscles as he turned the envelope over. “What is this?” The addressee was one SFC Mitchell Black.

“Don’t know, sir. We tried to locate Sergeant Black—”

“He’s in the field.”

“Yes, sir. This is unusual, but could you be sure to deliver it to him?”

Why did this feel like he would be handing Mitch a death sentence? Then again, Dean would rather bad news—nobody sends good news like this—get delivered by a friend than a stranger. “Of course. Thank you.” He saluted the major, who headed back to the Jeep he’d abandoned.

He tucked the envelope with his things and resumed course for the showers. His secure sat phone rang. Maybe he should give up on the idea of a shower. “Watters.”

“We may have a problem.”

Dean almost laughed at General Burnett’s comment. “When do we not?”

“Meet me at Command in ten.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean grabbed a three-minute shower and changed then hustled over to the Command building. Gathered in the office were the general and his administrative officer, Lieutenant Brie Hastings.

“Got a call from Bledsoe,” Burnett said.

Dean hesitated. “Hawk?” Frowning, he looked between the two. He knew better than to ask if everything was okay. It rarely was when it came to Hawk. “What’s going on? I thought he was down in—”

“He is.” Burnett lifted his Dr Pepper and slurped. “Seems some strange things are happening.”

“Strange is the new normal.”

“He has a theory,” Burnett said.

The general’s sense of humor had vanished. That he didn’t laugh or acknowledge Dean’s comment unseated what little confidence Dean had left. “I’m listening.”

“He thinks this is personal.”

Dean snorted. “Everything is personal to Hawk if it involves him. It’s why his fists land in other people’s faces.”

“I think he might have something.”

Again, Dean was surprised. “Okay.”

“Communications between the base and Bledsoe were disrupted, and he was given an order to stand down—an order that cost the lives of two soldiers.”

Dean lowered himself to the empty chair. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You and me both, especially since the base didn’t send that message.” Burnett stabbed a finger at Hastings, who laid out a series of papers on the desk. “These are all the disrupted communications—or at least the ones we know about.”

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Dean looked at the incident summaries. Not full reports but one-page synopses. Included was the ambush in the ghost village. An incident by a river that nearly had them taking an icy swim.

“Notice anything?”

Yes. Dean saw the common thread. And the dread pushed his shoulders down. No…this couldn’t be…“There has to be an explanation.”

“There is.” Burnett’s chest puffed out, his eyes sparking with meaning.

And Dean knew the implied explanation. “It
is
personal. They’re going after Raptor.”

W
eakness had a smell. It was acrid and pungeant, dipping deep into the soul of a person. Few were able to rise above the inherent stench, to learn and grow. To become better. Worthy of those who must endure their failings. Most people were not willing to make the sacrifices. Willing to brave the pain of growing beyond their shortcomings. Most lingered in it, steeping like a bad tea or rotten fish. Their rank scent infiltrated those around them, diminishing them. Lessening them.

Hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks, Daniel waited. Watching as she stepped out of the car. Which would she be? The rotten fish stinking up his company, his name? Or was she as the tiny irritant of sand in the clam’s shell that became a beautiful pearl?

Pearls. He should buy her pearls. They would rival her complexion.

Kiew now stood before him, her skin as porcelain. Her lips glossed and as enticing as the bloom of a flower. The roses of her cheek so perfect.

Daniel brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. When she lowered her head and eyes, pleasure erupted through him.
Good
. “You are learning, my pearl.” She would not understand the endearment. The way she raised her eyes—yet never met his gaze as she should not since she was not yet equal to him—proved right. He kissed her, savoring her. She responded, as she had since their first introduction three years ago. Her curves pressed against him.

Good
.

She must want him.

Daniel stepped back, his hunger warring with the knowledge he must still teach her discipline. Even to the detriment of his own desires. But she would not refuse him, were he to taste of her virtue again. She never had. “What did you find out? Why are they silent?”

She swallowed, her gaze down. “They do not trust the communications, so they are not using them.”

Rubbing his jaw, Daniel turned away from her. That was not good, the Americans abandoning communications. It had been his direct link to crippling them. If they abandoned that, then his efforts would succeed but would not inflict the intense personal damage he sought.

“Our contact…” Kiew rarely left a sentence unfinished. Doing that indicated weakness. Uncertainty. He tolerated neither.

Hand on the hard lines of a crystal decanter, he waited for her to finish that thought. He did not want to have to punish her for the lapse. Or perhaps this hesitation was her way of protecting someone. She had a soft, kind heart. One that did not belong in someone who held the position she did. He’d told her that. Trained her to discard that shortcoming.

Her lingering resistance told him what he needed to know. “You protect him though he fails us, though he defies us.” In his periphery, he saw Kiew tuck her head. He must push her to know and do what she knew in her heart rather than surrender to her proclivity toward compassion. “Kill him.”

Now, her head came up.

The stench of the pearl singed his nostrils. “You would defend him?”

“No.” At least she had the common sense not to raise her voice, though she argued with him. “I believe we still need what he can do. Changing the operation, finding someone else suitable—”

“
Everyone
is replaceable.”

“Yes, but not everyone is invisible and able to stay that way to the Americans. If we bring in someone else, they could be the weak link to break our chain.”

She had thought it through. Daniel lifted his chin and considered the beautiful woman. Had he underestimated her? “Have you begun to squeeze him?”

Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly and she tilted her head. Almost smiled. “I have.”

He breathed in deep, pleased. “Good.” The perfume of her confidence distilled the room of the putrid scent.

F
or a week she had given her evenings to the girls’ home and school—with Captain Ripley’s approval. Fekiria had vowed no more lies. At least, ones she could avoid. He’d wanted to come. To volunteer as well, but she saw it for what it was: he wanted to push into her life.