Taking Fire (19 page)

35

Rami didn't know what to do. Amir had ordered him to hide in this closet and to kill anyone who came in. To kill Meir.

All around him, he heard gunfire. Explosions. Meir had curled up in a corner, his eyes closed, his hands over his ears. He was so scared.

So was Rami.

The guns kept firing, and voices shouted in Arabic. “Kill them! Kill the infidels!” Amir shouted.

But Rami knew this was not about Allah. This was about revenge and money.

“What's happening?” Meir asked him, his eyes wide and afraid.

And again, Rami thought of his little brother back home. Of his mother. And he thought of how he hoped someone would protect them if anything bad happened.

He drew a bracing breath, picked up the gun, and stared for a long time at Meir, thinking of the orders Amir had given him.

“It's going to be all right,” Rami said. “It's going to be all right.”

The door flew open and slammed against the wall.

Amir. “Give him to me.”

Rami faced Amir, standing between him and Meir, the rifle in his hands. “You will not hurt him,” Rami said, swallowing back a thick lump of fear.

Amir's eyes grew dark with rage. “You will give him to me. Now.”

Rami backed a step toward Meir. “I will kill for Allah. But not for you.”

Amir roared and leaped into the closet. He swung the butt end of his rifle at Rami's head, hitting him in the jaw.

Pain exploded through his face, and he tasted blood as he dropped the rifle, then fell to the floor.

Amir kicked him hard in the stomach. He doubled over in pain, then felt the mean edge of Amir's boot heel slam into the back of his head. Then he felt nothing at all.

*   *   *

Brown moved to the front of the building, and Bobby ran toward the back. The plan was to search every nook and cranny that they might have missed and meet in the middle.

Bobby jerked open a door to what looked like a closet. A flash of light stunned him, and something slammed into his chest plate. A bullet. He staggered backward and brought his rifle up, and the instant the laser hit the bad guy's face, he pulled the trigger.

Nothing. His rifle was jammed.

And then he saw Meir. Amir al-Attar had his hand clutched around his throat, holding the boy against him like a human shield.

And Bobby knew he would die before he'd let anything hurt his son.

He dropped the rifle and reached for his pistol. Another flash of light flared, and another bullet hit his body armor dead center in the sternum, knocking him over backward.

Pain knifed through his chest as the wind was knocked out of him. He gasped for air, groping for something to break his fall, and hit the edge of a desk with his FAST helmet on the way down.

The chin strap gave, the helmet flew off, and his head hit the floor with a
crack
.

Stars swam in a suddenly endless sky of black. Then even the stars burned out.

*   *   *

Talia heard the sounds of the battle as she crouched behind a large turbine that provided cover while she watched the doorway. Every flashbang explosion, every round of rifle fire, tore at her resolve to stay put.

Each somber report of a tango down gave her hope, and she itched to get into the Bunker to help them look for Meir.

But she'd given her word. She'd do her job and count on Taggart and the team to save her son.

“Taggart's down.” Brown's voice boomed over the mike. “Carlyle, get your ass up here.”

Oh, God. “H-how bad?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Not sure.” Brown grunted as if he was moving something heavy. “He's breathing. I don't see any blood.”

“What are you . . . what the
hell
?”

That was Taggart's voice! She expelled a huge breath of relief.

Brown said, “I think he must have gotten his bell rung. Now, stay down. Damn it, Boom, just stay the hell down! Carlyle's on the way. Let him check you out.”

“No time. Have to . . . have to get to Meir. Amir . . . has him.”

Meir was still in the hands of the terrorist! Her fingers tightened on her rifle. They should have found him by now. Each moment that passed drove her a little closer to panic. Where was he? Had they already killed him? The thought ripped at her heart.

No longer willing to stay out of the fight, she stood—then quickly ducked back down.

A shadowy figure appeared in the Bunker doorway, the smoke backlighting him in a ghostly haze.

One of the team? One of the terrorists?

She couldn't see. Couldn't tell.

She quickly lowered her NVGs so she could see better in the dark, and she immediately knew.

The man stepping out of the doorway wasn't wearing team fatigues. He wore a dishdasha. He was one of the terrorists.

Her breath caught when he turned his head directly her way.

Amir al-Attar.

In one hand, he gripped an AK-74U short-barreled rifle. In his other, he had a death grip around Meir's neck and shoulder.

He was alive!

Heart slamming, she drew a steadying breath, and her years of training took over. Knowing she was more accurate with a handgun than with a rifle, she calmly wiped her sweating palm on her pants leg and reached for the pistol.

With the precision and steadiness of an automaton, she cocked the hammer back.

Amir whirled around at the sound, bringing his rifle to bear, pointing it straight at her head.

She fired first.

Hit him through his open mouth. And couldn't stop firing—three more rounds into the center of his forehead.

He dropped like a stone, taking Meir down with him.

Then she sprinted across the floor and pried Meir out from under the body.

“Momma!” His arms flew around her neck.

She scooped him up and ran back behind the safety of the turbine. “Yes, it's Momma!” she cried, hugging his warm, precious body which he'd wrapped around hers like a monkey around a tree trunk.

“You came.”

“I promised, didn't I?” Crying tears of relief and joy, she hugged him harder. “I always k-keep my promise.” Although she didn't want to let him go, she pried him away from her so she could check him over. Finding no blood, she patted him down for injuries and cried a few more tears once she was sure he was unharmed.

“Rami kept me safe,” he said, and lunged back into her arms.

She buried her face in his neck. She was never letting him go. Never.

When she finally looked up, she saw Black and Jones flanking a trussed-up terrorist. Hakeem. They'd taken him alive. Then she saw Taggart standing right in front of her, his eyes full of joy, relief, and pain.

“Say it,” he whispered—and only then did she realize the gunfire had stopped. “Say it,” he repeated. “You earned the right.”

She smiled through her tears, then keyed her radio. “Tango down. Hostage secure.”

PART III

Redemption

“Love doesn't hurt. Expectations do.”

—Pushkaraj Shirke

36

One week later

“Nate was in a good mood today.”

Bobby, Coop, and Mike Brown were relaxing over beer and thick steaks sizzling on a grill in Coop and Rhonda's backyard.

“That's because his DOD briefing on the Oman op even put a smile on the head of the joint chief of staff's face,” Brown said.

“Well, hell yeah.” Coop flipped all three steaks. “We took out the Hamas cell responsible for the embassy bombing, gathered enough evidence at Ultramar to prove it was them, and got our hostage out without a scratch.
And
we provided enough intel on a terrorist money launderer to nail the bastard, plus, we took Hakeem al-Attar alive and he's talking his head off. We even brought the drone back. What's not to smile about?”

“And yet our friend here”—Brown looked pointedly at Bobby—“looks like he lost his dog. Did you lose your dog, Boom?”

Bobby tipped back his beer. He hadn't wanted to come tonight, but it was tradition. The three of them were the only living members of the One-Eyed Jacks team. Because they all knew how transient life could be, they'd long ago made a pact to gather after every op to celebrate the fact that they were still around.

“Never had a dog,” he said, realizing the moment the words were out how dour and
poor me
he sounded.

“Indigestion, then?” Coop glanced over his shoulder, a spatula in his hand.

He knew they weren't going to quit until they got what they wanted out of him. “Ask your damn questions, already.”

Brown glanced at Coop and, at his nod, let 'er rip. “How are things going with the boy?”

Now they were getting down to the nitty-gritty. “He's a sweet kid.”

“And?” Brown prodded.

Bobby leaned forward, legs spread, elbows on his knees, and rolled the cold beer bottle between his palms. “And . . . I don't know what to say to him. How to act around him.”

There. He'd admitted it. He was tongue-tied by a five-year-old.

“Because he's a kid? Or because he doesn't know you're his father?”

“Yeah.” Bobby rose and walked over to the edge of the pool. “That.”

It had been frustrating. And exhilarating. And his only choice in the matter was to follow Talia's lead.

“So when are you going to tell him?”

“I don't know. He's been through a lot. Talia wants to give him a little time to recover. Get past the abduction.” He tipped up his beer, looked back at his friends. “I guess I agree with her. Has to have been a pretty traumatic experience for him.”

“I get that,” Brown said, nodding thoughtfully.

“He's scheduled to see a child therapist tomorrow,” Bobby said. “We'll have a better idea after the session of how this has all affected him.”

“Sounds like it could have been a lot worse for him, if not for the kid who was watching out for him.”

“Rami? Yeah.” Bobby looked back at the pool, watched the automatic cleaner move slowly back and forth. “He really came through for Meir. We're lucky Amir didn't kill them both. And Rami's lucky to be back home with his mother. Has a couple broken ribs and a broken jaw, but he'll be okay.”

“What about Talia?” Brown asked, as Coop pronounced the steaks done, heaped them on a platter, and carried them into the house.

“What about her?” Bobby followed them inside. The table was already set, salads waiting, so he sat down.

“That's what we want to know.” Coop made room for the steaks on the table. “What's the story with you two?”

“Which one's rare?” Bobby asked instead of answering.

Coop pointed it out and waited for Brown to fill his plate, too.

“What I don't get,” Brown said, “is how you kept quiet about her all these years.”

“What, like I'm some cowboy who brags about the notches on his gun belt?” Bobby grumbled.

“You know that's not what I mean. It was pretty apparent that besides making a kid together, there were some seriously heavy vibes going on between you two.”

Bobby looked at his plate. “We had a thing in Kabul, all right? I thought it was more. She thought it was less.”

“Less how?”

He glared at Coop. “Less as in she was Mossad, and I was her mark, okay? Less as in I got played, and she got gone. End of story.”

Most men would have let it go at that point. Not his friends.

“Until you ran into each other in Oman and you found out you have a son.”

“Yeah,” Bobby gritted out. “Until then.”

Coop shot Brown a concerned scowl, then got up and opened the fridge. He plunked another beer down in front of Bobby. “How many of these is it going to take to get the whole story?” he asked.

Bobby twisted off the cap and took a deep, long swallow. “Keep 'em coming, and maybe we'll find out.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Bobby stood under a hot shower in Coop's guest bathroom, hungover and more than a little ashamed that he'd spilled his guts last night. He'd known going in that those two wouldn't leave him be until he purged it all.

Well, he'd purged more than his story. By the time he'd drunk the equivalent of a brewery, he'd lost most of the beer and all of his dinner. God, what a lightweight. He'd been in no shape to drive home, and even worse, he didn't remember half of what he'd said.

Maybe when his head quit pounding.

Five minutes later, he stumbled out of the bathroom and dressed, hoping to avoid the walk of shame and sneak out the front door unnoticed.

He made it as far as the foyer.

“Robert Taggart, you turn around and march right back in here to my kitchen.”

Rhonda. His shoulders sagged. He was in for it now. “Thanks for the bed. Gotta go.” He waved over his shoulder.

“Like hell.”

He heaved a deep breath and slowly turned around to face the music.

“For God's sake, I'm not going to beat you,” she said more gently. “I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. And if anyone can use some, it's you.”

Rhonda Burns Cooper was one of the most gorgeous women he'd ever met. Given that Coop had once made his living as a model, the two of them together looked like Ken and Barbie come to life. Only there was nothing plastic about either one of them. They were genuine and intelligent and had damn near as much integrity as the pope. He'd give his life for them, and he knew they'd do the same for him.

He just wished they didn't think they needed to look out for him. Especially where Meir and Talia were concerned.

When the coffee she placed under his nose actually smelled good, he thought maybe he might recover.

He huddled over the mug. “Don't suppose you've got anything for this headache?”

She opened and closed a cabinet door, then produced two tablets. “These should help.”

God, he hoped so.

“Coop told me about last night.”

Of course he did. “Where
is
the canary?”

She grinned. “Apparently, he didn't indulge as much as you did. He's out for a run.”

Bobby nodded, then regretted it when a bomb exploded in his head. When the pounding settled down, he found himself slowly looking around the Cooper domain. It was a great house, and Rhonda had made it into a home. Classy décor. Potted plants. Grass. Pool. Neighborhood block parties. If the neighbors knew, however, that two of the world's most elite covert operatives lived next door, they'd think twice about letting their dogs drop lawn bombs in their yard.

“So,” he said, suddenly curious, “did you ever see yourself here? Ward and June Cleaver? Planning on having a little Beaver of your own someday?”

“Never did.” Rhonda sat down across from him at the island with her own cup. “But I've got to tell you, I'm loving it.”

He grunted and sipped his coffee. Coop loved it, too. Bobby could see it in his eyes. In the proprietary way he “owned” that grill. In the way he talked about his damn lawn mower, like it was as precious as his car, for Pete's sake.

“What about you?” she asked.

He glanced up. “What about me?”

“Do you ever see yourself here?”

Ah. As in a Mr. to someone's Mrs. As in a father to his child.

There was no missing the subtext; she wanted to know about him and Talia.

“Nope. Never have.”

“And Meir . . . Talia? No chance they could change that?”

A week ago, he'd have flat-out said no. But Meir's existence meant he had to look at his lifestyle a little differently now. Talia? He mostly felt sadness and regret when he thought of her.

I loved you.

I still love you.

No. He couldn't let himself go there. If a dog licks a wound long enough, not only doesn't it heal, but it gets more painful. He still felt like that dog. He wanted to make things better between them, but so far, he couldn't make the festering wound of their past heal up. “It's . . . complicated,” he finally said.

“So I've heard.” She was quiet for a while, then cut straight to the chase. “Do you love her, Bobby?”

He propped his elbows on the granite and dropped his head into his hands. “I did. Once. Then, for almost six years, I hated her. Now I honestly don't know how to get past what she did to me.”

He lifted his head, looked up into Rhonda's sympathetic eyes. “She showed up in my life again a little more than a week ago. We survived a bombing together, rescued our child together—a child I didn't even know existed—and . . . hell, I don't know what to feel.”

“Hatred?”

“No.” He let go of a weary sigh. “I don't hate her anymore. But I don't seem to be able to forgive her, either.”

“And if you somehow could? What then?”

“I don't know,” he admitted honestly. “And
if
is a really big word right now.”

The back door swung open then, and a very sweaty and winded Coop stepped inside, walked directly to the fridge, and downed about a quart of cold water straight from the pitcher.

He wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt. Then, seeing Bobby slumped over at the counter, he laughed. “Wanna beer, buddy?”

“Want me to trim that peach fuzz growing back on your bald head with your new lawn mower?”

Coop feigned a blow to his heart. “Low, bro. Threatening me with my own lawn equipment.”

“I've gotta go.” Bobby eased off the bar stool. If he stayed around any longer, Coop would gear up for a replay of last night.

“Stick around. We can cool off in the pool.”

“I might end up drowning you. And while your lovely wife looks good in everything, black isn't her best color.”

“Come on, sweetie.” Rhonda walked around beside him and linked her arm in his. “I'll walk you to the door.”

“Chicken,” Coop taunted.

“Don't mind him,” Rhonda said when they reached the foyer. “It's his way of saying he cares about you.”

Bobby gave her a weak grin. “I'd still like to drown him.”

“Some days, so would I.” She leaned in and hugged him. “In the meantime, if you ever want to talk, I'm here—with or without the beer.”

“I can see you out there,” Coop shouted from the kitchen. “Unhand my woman!”

“Can I give you one piece of advice?” Rhonda said, ignoring her husband's theatrical shout.

He grinned. “And if I say no?”

“Wouldn't matter. Look. Anger is a burdensome emotion to carry. It'll wear you down, heart and soul. If you have feelings for Talia, even if you can't get past the pain or the betrayal right now, leave yourself open to at least consider the circumstances responsible for what she did, okay?”

He let go of a deep breath. “I hear you.” And he had considered. He'd even set aside his feelings to help get Meir back. But now it was “real life.” Now he had the opportunity to think—really think—about the impact Talia's lies had had on his life. Especially her lie of omission.

He'd missed his son's first five years. His first smile. His first steps. His first words. Those were things he could never get back. And when he let himself run with it, the old, familiar, churning anger that had fueled him for so long gnawed on his resolve to let it go.

“Try to do more than hear me. Try to see and understand what she did, and why she did it, from her perspective.”

He glanced at Rhonda. “You sound like her advocate.”

“I hope I sound like your friend. Like someone who cares very much about you and doesn't want you going through the rest of your life carrying a load of regrets over things you could have changed. You didn't have the chance to make choices before. Now you do. I want to make sure you make the right ones.”