Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (33 page)

“I should go.” And yet, she didn’t move. She let herself stay there. Gave herself permission to see what would happen next.

The softness in his gaze remained as he slowly craned his head forward.

He’s going to kiss me
.

Her stomach knotted, his cologne, crisp and strong, tickling her nose.

“It seems you have forgotten you are a Muslim, first and foremost.”

The note—it was a threat against Captain Ripley.

Which meant she must protect him. Protect them both. She took a step back. “I’m sorry.” And she was. Curiosity had her by the throat. She wanted to know—would a kiss change everything between them?

It would. It absolutely would.

Because they would kill him.

Fekiria knew in that moment that her brother was somehow connected to the note. To the threat. All her life, he had been as adamant as Baba about her obeying their customs. Restrictions. As the eldest son and because of the power Baba allowed, Adeeb acted as an authority figure to her and her siblings.

“See you in class Monday morning,” Captain Ripley said, disappointment thick in his words.

“Good-bye.” Fekiria headed toward the locker room. Bathed in darkness, the room had a chill to it. A shudder rippled through her as she reached for the light switch. The lights flickered on the fluorescents popping to the left.

Cold steel pressed against her temple. “Time for forgiveness.”

M
itch removed his ruck from the overhead bin and shuffled down the aisle of the plane with the rest of the passengers. He made his way out of Dulles International and headed to his truck. Nothing like being home. Driving his own truck. But even if he was out of the combat zone, they couldn’t take the fight out of him—not even driving down the highway, assessing situations. Instead of seeing a shrub on the side of the road, he saw a potential hiding spot for an ambush. A soda can tumbling down a sidewalk triggered IED memories. He’d gotten used to the hypervigilance and learned to manage it. Forty minutes later, he pulled onto his street and noticed the white Toyota Avalon parked in front of his townhome.

Sienna.

His heart did this crazy jig, comprised of excitement and apprehension. He liked her a lot more than he probably should. And in ways that left him troubled and yet anxious to hear her voice and see her smile. But her dad… Had Will tainted Sienna’s view of him?

Only one way to find out.

Mitch grabbed his ruck from the seat, climbed out of the truck, and headed up the steps. He let himself into the house. The warm, sweet scent of tomato and—he lifted his chin to inhale the spices…sausage?—hit his nostrils. Laughter reverberated from upstairs—Ella was giggling over something.

Smiling, Mitch dropped his gear and headed toward the kitchen…which sat empty. But on the counter was a baking sheet with steaming french bread. A bowl of salad. The oven light was on, giving away the apple pie baking. His taste buds squirted across his tongue. On a cooling rack, he spied the culprit of the spices and tanginess he’d detected when he first came in—lasagna. His mouth watered.

Lasagna. Salad. French bread.

He turned and stopped short.

Wearing a pale blue blouse and jeans, Sienna leaned against the pantry smiling. Her hair hung loose and curled around her long neck. “Trying to steal some before dinner?” She looked amazing, like…
home
.

Mitch hauled his brain back into line and held up his hands. “No, ma’am.”

Her expression sobered as she stepped toward him. “It’s good to have you back, but I’m sorry…sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

This close, he could smell her perfume. “It’s not your fault.”

She tucked her chin, worrying the edges of a pot holder she’d picked up. “I feel like it is. I think, ‘if only I’d shown them more of the father you are,’ or if I’d—”

Mitch touched his finger to her lips. The visceral reaction to that startled him. He felt his gut clench. Noticed her eyes widen. All in a split second. “It’s not your fault, Sie.” He brushed the hair from the sides of her face, telling himself he was crossing a line but unable to stop.

Sienna shifted, just marginally, but enough for him to notice the hitch in her breathing.

“Daddy!” Ella’s sweet voice burst into the moment.

Mitch turned and caught his six-year-old daughter in a bear hug, forcing himself to act like nothing happened. “How’s my angel-bear?”

“Hungry!” she said.

“Me, too. When are we eating?” Noah trudged into the kitchen with a gaming device clutched between both hands.

“In fifteen minutes.” Sienna handed a stack of plates to Noah. “Set the table, please?”

“I’m going to shower up real quick. I feel like the sandman.” It took him less than ten minutes to shower, change into some clean duds—which he’d put a little more effort in choosing than normal—and appeared as the food was set out.

Dinner went quickly—too quickly. He wanted these minutes, what felt like “last minutes” with his kids. Not that he thought he’d lose. What judge in their right mind would take away kids from a soldier? There were legal measures in place to protect soldiers from stuff like this.

After their meals, Mitch herded Noah and Ella into baths and then into bed. It felt good, right, to be with them. Aches wormed through him that the Leitners could rip this all from his hands. The thought weighted him, depressed him.

Thankfully, Ella was oblivious to the storm hanging over them. She wrapped her small arms around his neck and hugged him, planting a noisy kiss on his cheek. She snuggled in with her Tweety toy and said good night. Heart aching, he made his way to Noah’s room.

On his bed, Noah had a book propped on his legs. The bed lamp cast a cool glow across the bed and his son.

“What are you reading?” Mitch asked as he lowered himself onto the mattress.

Noah slapped the book closed. “Why is Pawpaw trying to take us away?”

Mitch deflated. “How do you know about that?” He sighed. “Ya know what? It doesn’t matter. He can try, but it’s not going to happen. I’m your father, and I’ll fight for you with my dying breath.”

Noah looked up at him. “I know you will, but sometimes, life isn’t fair.”

Folding his son into his arms, Mitch wished an eight-year-old hadn’t learned that lesson so soon in life. “I know, son.” Losing his mom had taken a big toll on Noah. He kissed the top of his head. “Get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”

Noah hugged him tight. “Love you, Dad.”

Throat constricting, Mitch squeezed his son closer. “Love you, too, champ.” Again, he kissed his head. “Proud of you.” He might just cry. “Now, get some sleep.”

Eyes burning, Mitch turned off the light and headed into the hall. The possibility was real and cruel. He’d heard of it happening, heard of soldiers losing their kids in unreal scenarios, but he never imagined he’d have to fight this fight.

He made his way into the kitchen, where Sienna loaded the dishwasher. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Almost done.”

Mitch watched her place the last few pieces into the trays. “I appreciate the dinner and—all you’ve done for the kids.” He steadied his voice. “For me.”

Sienna lifted her head at that and met his gaze. “Of course. I love you guys.” She closed the dishwasher and then wiped down the counter.

“Sure wish we could clean up this mess as easily as you’re doing here.”

Folding the hand towel in half, then again, she set it on the counter. Smoothed it out. She seemed to be avoiding something.

“Sie?”

She shifted toward him, her hip resting against the cabinets. “I…You know I’d do anything for the kids, for you.”

His heart beat a little harder. “You’ve done a lot already. You’re like a mother to them, almost more than Ellery ever was. So yeah, I know you would.”

Sienna came nearer. “Mitch…”

With his gaze, he traced her oval face. Brown sparkling eyes. Pink lips. Auburn hair that hung just below her shoulder. He brushed her hair away from her face again. He just couldn’t seem to stop doing that.

When her fingers touched his abs, they tightened.

Mitch slipped his hand around the back of her neck and tugged her closer, telling himself he shouldn’t do this. Things were too messed up. The hearing… He eased off, resisting the temptation.

Sienna pushed up and kissed him.

Surprised, he stiffened.

Then dove into the passion. Slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her into his arms. She tasted of cinnamon and apples. Sweet. Mitch relaxed into and savored the kiss, savored her in his arms. Wished for more time in the days ahead to explore this. But fighting for his children might put a wedge between them.

B
ook bag slung over his shoulder, Brian sauntered down the main street that led through the university. In traditional Pashtun garb, he wore a fake beard and huddled beneath the warmth of a thick, heavy jacket. “This sucks,” he muttered into his coms as he continued, his shoes crunching on the buildup of snow.

“Quit whining,” the captain’s voice came through taunting.

Brian eyed the obscenely modern cafeteria. “At least they take their eating seriously.” The circular building stood in stark contrast to the decades-older structures—student housing, staff office, and the two primary educational buildings—which were in serious need of upgrade. In fact, one of the buildings had been updated, but it still bore the unique marks of the 1970s and ‘80s. Nothing yet that reeked of hightech and necesssary to wreak havoc on the U.S. military. But someone from here had somehow hijacked their systems. He’d find them. And destroy whatever they used to do it.

He headed up the pseudo-sidewalk to the first of the two educational buildings. “Entering now,” he said low and quiet.

“Copy that,” Captain Watters said. “We have you on visual.”

Thanks to Brian, they’d hijacked a helmet cam and hotwired it to transmit to a laptop.

“I’d feel better with Eagle looking over my shoulder.”

“Breathing down your neck,” came the sniper’s almost whisper.

“Creepy.” Brian stood a little straighter. Felt his ears burn and his hackles rise, but also felt more confident as he walked down the hall, trying doors. Most of the students were gone because of the storm. “Blue one clear.” He went to the left. Opened the door, peered in. Rows of tables and chairs. Not the high-end stuff you found in American classrooms, but simple, practical furniture. “Blue two clear.” To the right. “Blue three clear.” And so on. All the way down the hall.

“Getting bored,” Falcon yawned around his words.

“Join the club,” Brian mumbled. He pivoted and started back the route he’d come then banked left. “Crossing.”

“Reacquired,” Eagle said.

“Entering alpha now.”

Another half hour of room clearing and checking. He hit the stairs. “Entering lower level.”

“Copy that,” the captain responded. “Making good time. Keep it casual.”

“Roger.” Brian cleared the first two doors without a problem. As he went for the third, the hall ahead darkened. “Contact.”

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan

23 February—1540 Hours

“Go.” The man ordered her to a helicopter.

On the tarmac sat the Mi-17 she’d been training on. Armed. They wanted her to kill. Fekiria balled her fists. “No. I will not do this thing,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am loyal to my people, but there is no need to kill innocent people.”

“They are not innocent!”

“Lieutenant Rhmani?” Captain Ripley’s voice echoed through the building. “Everything okay?”

“Of course.” She tried to smile. “J–just showing
Hanzeer Bacha
around.”

The weapon thrust against her spine.

She swallowed the yelp. Calling her captor “son of a pig” was as bad as calling him any other of a dozen curses but without actually cursing.

“If you’re sure.” Captain Ripley eyed the man as he joined them.

“Captain Ripley,” someone called from the side—Colonel Mahmoud.

Fekiria’s hope leapt. Maybe if he saw…

“I must speak with you about the closures.” He waved the captain over. “Please. It is important.”