Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (43 page)

A thumbnail between her teeth, she eased into the narrow passage that switched back. She scooted along until she could see out. Threat of danger kept her from stepping into the open. But she couldn’t see anything. The way the snow fell in blankets felt as if she were facing an opaque wall.

She shimmied back into the cave, frustrated. Afraid. Rubbing her arms, she tried to ward off the chill seeping into her bones. Into her very soul.

“His binoculars.”

Fekiria turned to her friend. “I’m sorry?”

“Use the binoculars. He’s been gone…too long.” Eyelids drooping, Mitra looked toward Sergeant Brian’s ruck.

So it wasn’t just her. She hurried to his large camo pack and retrieved the binoculars. She returned to the opening and strained—even with the long-range vision—to see anything. After scanning the hills, the open area between this incline and the jutting mountain opposite, she searched for the spot where he’d killed the snow leopard. Where he’d saved her life.

Tightening up the contrast, Fekiria froze at what came into focus.

Two men. Attacking Sergeant Brian.

P
ain exploded across the back of Brian’s skull. His knees buckled. He shoved his hands out to break his fall and landed on all fours. Head dangling, he groaned, his only thought the women in the cave depending on him. Fekiria. She could die if he didn’t—

A boot came into view.

Brian swiped it. Caught the back of the slick heel and flipped the guy.

Thud!

Snow puffed up as the man hit the ground. Brian pounced. Slammed his fist into the face. Heard the crack. Felt the spurt of hot liquid. The attacker went still. Brian leapt up, reaching for his weapon…that wasn’t there.

Scrambling, he came to his feet, hunting for the other two. They’d come out of nowhere when he was knee deep in the leopard blood. He’d been there, shielded against the worst of the wind and snow, when he noticed them come over the rise. He snatched up his modified Glock, but he hadn’t been aware of the third Talib—right behind him.

Burning awareness rushed through him. He was badly outnumbered. Women were depending on him. And he didn’t have a prayer.

Actually—he did have that. Or could.
God, help me!

An invisible fist punched him. Knocked him backward. Brian grunted—he’d been shot. Though he could see, he couldn’t breathe. Felt like a rocket had slammed into his chest. The ballistic inserts of his tactical vest prevented penetration but didn’t prevent the impact. He blinked.
Breathe!
But there was no air. The edges of his vision started ghosting.

No! He couldn’t die. Fekiria. The women. He had to get them to safety. If he died and these Taliban found them…

Snow crunched to his left.

Another assailant coming closer.

Brian grabbed a tendril of air. Choked. Coughed. Coiled onto his side, his vision returning.

A boot dropped on his face.

Cringing against the pain that spirited down his neck and shoulders, Brian grabbed both ends of the ankle. Twisted. Upended the guy. Brian rolled to the side. Something hard and cold hit his hand. He knew that feeling! His frozen fingers coiled around the rifle. He glanced, identifying it as a Kalashnikov. Brian shoved to his feet, lifting the rifle. Then struggled to stand, bringing the weapon to bear.

Brian aimed it at the attacker. Fired.

Something wrapped round his neck.

Brian grabbed at it. Felt the rope. Focused on the attacker. Dropped his full weight down. Dragging the guy with him. The man fell forward. Brian drove his elbow into his face.

He stumbled back, freeing Brian.

Twisting around, Brian sighted the attacker.

Blood dribbling down his chin, the man sneered, the fight still burning in his heart as much as in Brian’s. This duel would be bloody and to the death.

So be it
. Brian dove into him. Tackled him. They rolled. And rolled. Brian tried to control the ending so he was atop the attacker. But the man whipped him around.

Pain erupted across the back of Brian’s head and neck. He pitched forward. Dropped onto his knees in the cold, biting snow. With a groan, he tried to shake off the spots in his vision. He reached for his Glock. The holster was empty. He’d given it to Fekiria. As the realization hit him, so did another—crunching snow. Coming closer.

Brian looked for a weapon. He saw nothing but a rock. A stock. Dead leopard. The thing was bloody and strewn across the snow five feet away. If he could get to it, he could swing the thing.

A shout in Pashto or Farsi froze him.

To his left, the man loomed over him. So this was it. Fight like a demon to protect the women only to end up in a puddle of leopard blood. Options. He needed options. But he didn’t have any. He’d already run through the mental checklist.

If he feigned surrender, could he gain the upper hand? Or at least the man’s Kalashnikov? Hands raising and mind racing, Brian slowly came to his feet.

The man aimed.

Brian tensed.

Crack!

He blinked, waiting for the searing pain. For death. In the split second it took him to realize he hadn’t been shot, the man tumbled forward.

Thud
.

Crumpled to the ground, the man’s body was limp. A dark stain spread out from his head.

Brain catching up with the scenario, Brian searched his surroundings. His heart jump-started when he saw a blur racing toward him. First instinct: fight! Grab the guy’s weapon.

Two seconds later, a small form plowed into him. His mind registered her—
Fekiria!
—only as he brought his hand up to punch her. Her arms flung around his waist. Snapped tight.

Okay. Okay, he could live with that. Better than a bullet or another fist. And this was twice now she’d thrown herself at him. He didn’t care. He held her tight. Grateful she’d been there. Grateful she’d had firearm training. Grateful that propriety and national boundaries vanished in the heat of battle. This girl he liked. This girl, he’d be willing to take home to Granddad.

She shoved him back. “Why did you come out here alone? It’s too dangerous! You could’ve been killed.” She shoved him backward again. “Then what would we do?”

She was worried about him. He couldn’t help but grin. This hot, kick-butt chick who hated American soldiers was worried about
this
American soldier. A smart-aleck comment danced to his lips, but he stopped it.

“I saw all the blood, saw you sprawled out—” Her words caught in her throat.

Brian’s excitement over her reaction crashed and burned in the pain shining in her eyes. She was scared. Really scared. He cupped her face. “I won’t leave you.” Staring into those green, frightened eyes did something screwy to his chest. Made it hard to breathe. “Not if I can live and move.”

She slapped his chest. “That’s the problem! They were going to cut you down.”

“They didn—”

“Don’t you know what country this is? How these men feel about—?”

“Hey—”

“Don’t be so stupid and get yourself killed, leaving us—”

Brian caught her mouth with his. Awareness and excitement whipped his good sense right out of him. Her lips were soft, though dry from the elements. Though cold at first, they quickly warmed as she responded. Returned the kiss.

Shouldn’t be doing this
. With body armor on, he couldn’t feel her curves against him, but he had enough imagination to fuel the kiss deeper. It was like an electric bolt right through him. She tasted sweet. And salty. Like…
tears
.

Brian broke off. Tears? Was she sweating? Or crying?

Fekiria dropped her gaze fast. Held on to his biceps without moving, her fingers digging into his arms. She stood there in the snow, the heat of their passion the only thing warming them now. And really, it shouldn’t be happening. There were a million reasons why.

They’d just been shot at. She was Muslim. He a Christian. She hated Americans. They couldn’t let stress and exhaustion whittle away their values and beliefs. Standing out in the open while attackers were out here—

Yeah
,
why don’t you just flip on the neon We’re right here sign?
Stupid as it gets. Didn’t he remember that talk he’d had with himself earlier? The one where he’d said chicks like her didn’t change?

Finally, she released him and pushed away. Stomped away, head still down.

“Fekiria.” Brian stood there, cursing himself and his foolishness. “Wait. We need to stick together.”
Right. Kiss the tar out of her and expect her to just act like a soldier again?
He’d never taken dating seriously before. He’d never thought twice about kissing a girl.

Until now.

His entire universe had shifted. It was insane, and he couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t want to hurt her. And if there was something Brian Bledsoe excelled at—it was hurting people he cared about. He stood there, feeling as if God had placed a glass rose in his hand.

His big, clumsy hands that were more often in fists than open and welcoming.

But would God put a Muslim girl in his path?

That doesn’t even make sense
.

“Hey, stay close.”

Fekiria stopped, hating herself. Hating him. Hating the world. She wanted to cry—no, she
was
crying! She batted the tears. The way he’d kissed her…she’d never felt like that before. The explosion of heat in her breast. The urgent but gentle way he held her, the way his lips caressed hers.

“Give me ten minutes,” Sergeant Brian said. “I’m almost done with the pelt.”

Huddled against the cold, she kept her back to him. “Why did you have to skin it?”

“Aadela needs more protection against the cold. If she goes hypothermic, we’ll lose her.”

Fekiria snapped toward him. Stopped, her mind racing at the thought of the little one dying. But she couldn’t look at him, not without thinking about the kiss.

Turning away from him, she sat on a rock, looking out over the small plain. They couldn’t do that again. That’s why she hated herself—she
wanted
it again. Wanted the strength that poured out of him when he was close. Wanted the way he looked at her. Touched her. But she couldn’t give herself to anyone when she didn’t know who she was. He’s American. She was supposed to hate Americans. Had been raised to believe that way. To hate that way.

And God. Or Allah. Some said they were the same. Zahrah and Mitra disagreed. Most converted Muslims preached they were not the same. Though her mother was a good Muslim woman and she knew many, many good Muslims, Fekiria could not deny the tug she’d felt for years to find the truth. Yet instead of searching for the truth, she had run. From anyone and anything that had to do with religion.

Fekiria lowered her head and rubbed her temple.
I don’t know what I believe
. She never had. It had always been so twisted and convoluted. How many times had her people declared they were a religion of peace yet sent women and children with suicide vests to bomb in the name of jihad? Centuries ago, Christians had done the same with the Crusades. Many religions had waged war in the name of peace and their gods. It was one thing to fight for what you believed in. Another to force it on another unwillingly. She did not know which were real and which were fake. But she did know that the two most powerful examples of love she’d seen had come from Zahrah and Mitra—Christians.

Did that mean something?

From the corner of her eye, she watched Sergeant Brian. He stirred crazy things in her. Always had, which was why she’d rebuffed him from the beginning.

Her friend’s words from earlier echoed in her mind.
“He is a good man.”

And a good kisser. Heat spiked through her face again. Her mind replayed the way he’d taken charge, infused her with courage, which only made her angry, and then kissed her. Strong. Powerful. Hungry.

On her feet, she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead as if she could push the memory straight
out
of her head. She just wanted to get out of here. Get away from him. From this storm that was devouring her life. Her hope.

“Okay. They’re buried. Should be good for a while.” He was next to her now, and when she glanced behind him, she could barely make out the mounds built up against the incline. He held up the leopard skin. Thankfully, he’d scrubbed away the blood. “It’s wet, but maybe we can light a small fire to dry it out.”