Talon: Combat Tracking Team (A Breed Apart) (3 page)

T
o live a lie is to remain alive
.

Military documents recorded his name as Dane Markoski. That he’s the son of an American missionary and Russian father—Vasily and Eliana Markoski. That he joined the military at eighteen, immediately upon high school graduation. That he soared through the ranks and his distinguished career, replete with badges of valor and courage under fire that revealed his natural ability and ambition toward becoming a career Army officer. A man’s man. A hero.

None of it true.

Barefoot, wearing only gray sweatpants, Cardinal—his handle, his only form of tangible identity for the last ten years—gripped the rope he’d anchored into to the steel support of his second-story loft bedroom and pulled himself off the ground. Hand over hand, he climbed, legs spider-posed and held out to maximize the workout to his abs and thighs.

When he reached the top, he gripped the ledge-like floor and performed twenty pull-ups. The reps burning, they taught him discipline. Reminded him that he was weak, that opportunity existed with every breath to become better—or weaker. The Gentle Art of Submission—Jiu-Jitsu—helped him harness the poison that threatened his life every day: anger.

Cardinal lowered himself and took the rope. Angling back, he moved hand over hand, backward along the hemp that traced the length of his condo, his body parallel to the floor. Breathing hard, arms and abs on fire, he continued the workout he’d started hours earlier.

A fit body equaled a fit mind, the masters had always said.

So had his father. And it was the one thing the general had said that Cardinal heeded…willingly.

Behind him the bank of cantilevering windows sat open, allowing a balmy breeze from the Potomac that did nothing to cool or calm him. The news delivered last night served to be the harbinger of death. The final straw that would break the camel’s back—his.

Unless Cardinal found a way to turn this around.

He must. Everything—
everything
—depended on it. Hours training his body and mind to focus and he had nothing. Straightened on the ground, he pressed his palms together and drew in a measuring breath, then slowly blew it out through puffed cheeks.

There, where the sun hit the window, stood a ghost of himself. More apropos than one would expect. What was left of him? Still had the black hair and blue eyes, but what lay beneath those eyes…who was it? Was
he
good enough to justify the listing of the commendation medals on his records? At thirty-three, he’d hoped to have more of a legacy than secrecy and anonymity.

Breath evening out, he stared. Willed that person in the glass to find the solution. Solve this disaster. He had a new enemy: time. Beyond the balcony, across the road and stretch of greenery, he spotted a woman jogging with her dog.

A tone flicked through the condo.

Cardinal pulled himself straight and plodded out of the gym, between the sofa and armchairs, to the Spartan kitchen, where he plucked his cell phone from the granite. He registered the number and hesitated. Then pressed the phone to his ear as he watched the woman make her way down the sidewalk. “Yes?”

“Code in.”

Cardinal punched a button and the windows slid shut. “Cairo-One-Four-Two-Nine-Nine.”

“What do you have?”

They were already breathing down his neck? “It’s been six hours.”

“I didn’t ask what time it was.” A long pause strangled the line. “You don’t have a single thing, do you?”

“What do you have?”

“This is not good. The longer we sit on our—”

He would not be made into the weakling here. “Do you have something useful to say, or is this just a social call?”

Wait…
dog
. His gaze snapped to the sidewalk, now occupied by a young mother pushing a stroller.

“I am
socially
telling you time is running out. If
he
finds out—”

“The only way he would find out is if I am betrayed. And the only people who can betray me are on this phone call. Since we both know the consequences for betrayal, I’ll take it he doesn’t know.” Cardinal folded up his anger and tucked it under a cloak of civility.

“No need to get all James Bond on me, Cardinal.”

“Bond is British and highly overrated.” What…what did that file say? His mind rifled through the documents he’d studied and landed on one phrase:
military working dog
. “I have an idea.”

“I knew you had it in you.” The man’s voice boomed with amusement. “What do you need?”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Have a team ready.”

Cleaned up and garbed in standard military issue, Cardinal drove down South Washington Boulevard to the geometric five-acre, fivering structure that was a nightmare to navigate for the uninitiated. He pulled up to the guard hut, showed his ID, and signed in.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Markoski. He’s expecting you.”

Cardinal drove through and parked. Inside, he made his way to the second floor. A door opened. General Lance Burnett emerged. “General.”

“You’re ten minutes late,” Burnett said, without looking up from the file in hand. He continued down the drab gray hall, and Cardinal fell into step with him. “We got a lead.”

Cardinal’s heart skipped a beat, but he waited for the general to continue.

“There was activity on his account, but he must’ve smelled us snooping because the activity ended before we could get a lock.”

“What type of activity?”

“Accessing bank accounts, e-mail, etcetera.”

“Isn’t that obvious? He knows better than that. I trained him.”

“Apparently not well enough.” Burnett slapped the file closed and smacked it against his leg as he flipped the handle on a door and leaned against it.

“Where?”

“Didn’t you just hear we couldn’t get a lock?”

“Yes.”

The general grinned. “Republic of Djibouti.”

Cardinal slowed as they entered a conference room where six men in Naval uniforms waited with another team of six—analysts and experts. “Djibouti…” He hadn’t seen that coming. “What’s he doing there?”

“Hanged if I know.”

“It’s over 90 percent Islamic.” A really bad place to hide when you were obviously white and American. Cardinal nodded to the sailors and took a seat near the head of the table.

The general dropped the file in front of him, roughed a hand over his face, and sighed. “Okay, let’s get on with this. Markoski, these men have been briefed on what’s happened. Tell us your brilliant idea.”

“Watch your stance!”

Exhilaration swept through Aspen Courtland as she responded to her trainer’s shout and realigned her feet, shoulder-width apart. She threw a jab and followed through with a right. Sweat dripped into her eye, stinging. Today…the anniversary…

Mario, her opponent, threw a hard right then tried a left jab.

Block!
The thud against her gloves carried through her upper body. She flipped her mind into the ring again as the impact from his strike rattled down her arm.

Aspen countered and angled to the side. The move could frustrate him by preventing a return hit.

It’d been eight months since the news. But it hurt as if it’d happened today.

Breathing through her nose, jaw relaxed, she engaged a series of redundant punches, all numbing her mind. She couldn’t let them get away with this. They had to…do something.

An uppercut.

Shielding, Aspen blocked Mario. Hands and shoulder forward. What if…what if she went in after him? The thought fueled her boxing. In quick succession she fired off several strikes. Going in there—yeah, real smart. Right into the heart of the Middle East, where Americans were served up with every meal.

A jab. A cross. Angling away.

Mario swung at her.

She blocked. So, she couldn’t go alone. She’d need a team.

Again—right. Real smart. How would she get a team into the Middle East to track an invisible trail? She slammed a hard right. Connected with Mario’s jaw.

“Nice—face!”

Too late. The counterpunch nailed her cheek. She stumbled backward, stunned.

“Take a break, Mario.”

Aspen straightened and turned. “No, I’m good.” Batting her gloves together, she drew in a ragged breath, hating the look on Amadore’s face as he bent through the ropes and entered the ring. “I’m serious.” Another tap of her gloves. “Let’s do this.”

“No, let’s not.”

Irritation squirreled through her intestines. “Why? I’m—”

“Fighting with fury.” Gentle brown eyes held hers. “Not with focus.”

He was right. She knew he was. But she had something to work off, and boxing provided the perfect outlet. “I’m good.” Glancing around him, she found Mario still in the ring. “Ready?”

“No.” Amadore pointed to Mario. “You do this, you never come in my club again. You hear me?”

Mario grinned and held up both gloves in surrender as he backed away then slipped through the ropes.

As her breathing evened out, she tamped down the anger that spiked. “I’m okay, Amadore.”

“No.” He cupped the back of her head and tugged her close. “What is wrong with my angel today? You are like a big storm off the coast when you come through that door. What gives?”

Aspen swallowed. Peeked into his eyes…and caved. He’d been a part of her life since she was a baby—her mother’s father. “It’s his birthday.” She stuffed her gloves against each other. “He would’ve been twenty-eight.”

The peppering of silver along the sides of his face only made the barrel-chested, former pro boxer look more handsome and distinguished. Even now as the repercussion of her words hit him. “Ah yes. I remember.”

Her gaze skirted the boxing ring and fell on the Lab curled up under a bench in the corner, his soulful eyes watching her. “Presumed dead.” Her nostrils flared and her eyes stung. “Eight months,” she said through ground teeth. “He was only missing Eight months and they declared him dead.” She fought the trembling in her lower lip. “I thought for sure, he would…that we would…find him.”

“Oh my girl.” His other arm came up as if to hug her, but Aspen ducked from his touch.

“No worries.” Sucking up the dregs of her crumbling composure, she flashed him a thin-lipped smile. “They might have written him off. But I haven’t. I’ll deal with it.”

“I am not sure your way of dealing with things is the right way.”

She folded herself through the ropes. On the floor, she looked back up at him and shrugged. “Whatever works, right?”

“Aspen, wait.” He was with her in a second. Nudging her to the side, he urged her toward a bench. “Sit.”

With a huff, she plopped onto the wood. Using her teeth, she ripped the band and tugged off the gloves as he sat next to her.

“I worry about you.”

She frowned.

“No. I see that look in your eye, and I know—this thing? It will end bad.”

“It already ended.” At least according to the U.S. Marine Corps. Unwinding the wraps from her hands, she tried to shove back the squall of emotion. “Ya know, what I can’t figure out…” Her chest rose and fell as the words from the letters and e-mails from the military filled her mind. “Why…
why
would they declare him dead when there’s no body, no proof he died?”

Sorrow pinched the middle-aged Italian’s hard features.

“A little blood.” She breathed heavily through her nose. “A dog tag with no evidence of a fight or scratches, and a dog with minor injuries.” Her gaze automatically slid to the Lab, who pulled himself out from under the bench and lumbered her way, head down. She smoothed a hand over his head as he sat between her feet. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I understand, my angel, but…”

“There’s no more ‘but,’ Amadore. Uncle Sam sealed the note.” She climbed to her feet, the weight of the letter she’d opened today pushing against her.

He touched her arm. “Be careful.”

She scowled.

“This thing you are planning, I see it in your eyes,” he said as he rose and stood over her. “Be careful. Your father would kill me if I let something happen to you. Know what I mean?”

Her heart skipped a beat. How did he know? She opened her mouth to deny it, to deny she would go after Austin.

His laugh cut her off. “No, Angel. I know you better than you know yourself. There is a plan in that beautiful head of yours.” The smile remained in place. “Which is why I stopped your session with Mario. That head wasn’t in the ring. It was at home, still mourning his birthday.”

Aspen tucked her chin. “He’s all I’ve got left,
Nonno
.” She drew up her shoulders. “I’m not going to let the Marines relegate my brother to the grave without a fight.”