Trinity: Military War Dog (17 page)

The last time she believed that, she’d almost died.

So did he.

This can’t be happening!

Chinese in Afghanistan—hiding and far away from the mines they were authorized to work. It didn’t make sense. What were they doing here?

Darci slowly rose to her feet, lifted the NVGs to her face to construct more data, knowing full well she’d have to give a complete report. Were all the men Chinese? Or just some?

She slid aside the panic and adrenaline and replaced it with the uncanny ability that had gotten her recruited into military intelligence: her ability to divide her fear from her reason and carry out the mission all the same. Some might call her coldhearted, or a colorful metaphor. To her, it was just intuition. Instinct. A gift for survival.

Yes, Chinese. All fifteen. They had weapons. But they also had crates in their tents—nicely fitted tents with rugs and pallets, cooking stoves. But nothing else. Like vehicles. How had they gotten here? Which route delivered them to this Afghan province? How had they not been seen and reported?

The clothes. They dressed like Taliban.

Move it or lose it, Darci
. Using every ounce of training, she shifted toward the hole she’d climbed through minutes ago. Sound took on a deafening level, as if each step shouted her presence. Halfway across, she lifted her booted foot over a crate and set it down. Then her other foot. Relaxed. Focused. Stealthy.

Rolled rugs cluttered the dirt floor. She used one to step around the others. A strange noise hissed from the carpet. She leapt aside, staring at the dark bundle. A sickening feeling tightened her stomach.

No, no time to sort it out. Just get back to the hills
.

Toeing her way to the entrance, gaze locked on the sliver of space that afforded her a view of the Chinese encampment, she kept moving. Wind ripped the thin material covering the window and jerked it back.

Darci froze, afraid the men might see her dark form shift in the night.

But with the wind came a scurrying sound. She stilled and let her eyes rove the interior. Something … something wasn’t right.

The rug she’d just stepped on, the hissing one—okay, that made her sound like a loon—it had shifted. That’s not how it had been a second ago.

Another sound. This time it almost seemed like a whimper. An old stove huddled against the far wall. A shelf dangled on the wall, a pile of pottery shards on the floor. Rugs. A low-slung bed frame without a mattress. A blanket draped over it. Whites of eyes peeking back at her.

Darci shoved herself back. Gasped.

The whimper rose.

Her gaze shot to the window. The laughter and insanity continued—stupid men thought they were impervious and invincible—so no one was the wiser to her presence. It was just her and whoever lay beneath the bed, which … too small a space to conceal an adult. That pushed her toward the frame.

Slowly … she stalked closer, her hand going to the small of her back. Darci went to a knee. Craned her neck to the side and peered under.

Tears slid from wide dark eyes, dusted by bangs and jet black hair. A small child peered back. Hand in her mouth, the girl seemed to be stifling her cries. Face screwed tight, she drew back.

“Hello,” Darci whispered in perfect Pashto. “Where is your daddy?”

With slobber-coated fingers, the girl pointed to the middle of the dwelling. Darci didn’t have to look to know the girl was pointing to the pile of rolled-up carpets. The very ones Darci had stepped on.

“Your mother, is she … here?”

The girl shook her head, freeing more tears. Dead, too, it seemed. How on earth had this little girl managed to hide? And from the Chinese men who’d slaughtered her people, who just happened to be in the wrong place—their own home!

Double snap. This complicated things. She couldn’t leave the child. But taking her into the mountains could get them both killed. Something about this little girl reminded her of the mission Darci almost didn’t survive. She’d expected to be abandoned, she’d been so near death. But she fought to stay alive. Fought to find a way out. And she did.

Just like this little angel. She’d stayed alive against impossible odds. No way would Darci abandon her now.
Time’s short
. “We must leave. Before the men see us.”

Another frantic shake of her head.

“They are bad, yes?” she continued in the tongue of the little girl, who readily agreed. “I have friends in the mountains who can help us. We will go to the Americans.”

A sniffle.

Darci held out her hand. “Please? Before they see us.”

The little one reached up and pushed back the blanket. She stood. Even in the darkness, Darci could see the blood that coated the girl’s clothes, making her ache. Had she witnessed her parents’ murders, hidden here? The girl couldn’t be more than three or four. Darci lifted the girl, who kicked free of the blanket that tangled around her feet. Her foot hit the frame.

Thud!

“Augh!”

She clamped a hand over the girl’s mouth. “Shh.”

“Check it out,” came the terse command, followed by thumping of booted feet.

Darci pinched her lips and hurried to the opening she’d come through. Adrenaline jolted through her veins, heating her. The child was heavy, which made Darci’s steps louder. But if the girl walked on her own, she’d slow them down. Darci scrambled to the safety of the low-lying wall. They were doomed.

God …

Why she’d even gone there, she didn’t know. God hadn’t helped her mom. Why would He help her? She believed in Him. She did. She just wasn’t sure—

Just move!

Holding the girl tight against her chest, she peered over the wall to the men clambering into the building. Rowdy and sloppy, they pushed and taunted each other, clearly not taking the noise as a serious threat.

Good. Eyes on the mountain, Darci plotted her path. Once she got far enough away, she’d unzip her jacket and tuck the slight frame of the child into its warmth. Wind tugged at her as she darted to what looked like an abandoned well. Crouched, she checked the men.

Still oblivious.

“Just a little farther,” she said to the girl, then scurried out into the open, aiming for a cluster of shrubs and brambles that lined a dry creek bed. Halfway there and still safe. Her panic began to subside. At least, the edge of that panic. She knew better than to let her guard down until she was at base.

Squatting, she set down the child and unzipped her jacket. She motioned the girl back into her arms, then instructed her to wrap her legs around Darci’s waist. Once in position, she tugged the jacket, tugging hard to make it zip.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Hold very tight. Do not let go.”

The moon reflected off the obsidian orbs peeking from below dark bangs. The tiny arms tightened around her. “Tighter.” The girl complied, but it still wasn’t nearly as much as Darci preferred.

When an explosion of laughter ripped through the valley, Darci seized the chance. She shoved up and launched toward the mountain. She plunged onward, feeling as if she had a fifty-pound rucksack strapped to her front. The ground before her rose enough to make the run harder. Her breath came in snatches.

With one arm she braced the girl’s bottom and pumped for speed with the other arm.

A shout rang out.

Crack!

Dirt burst up at her, peppering her face. Rifle fire!

            Twelve              

Camp Eggers, Kabul, Afghanistan

A
mazing. It hadn’t changed in the two years since he’d left. Barren, flat, tan—it’s the reason the country was named Afghanis
tan
. But then again, when he glanced down the heavily fortified and fenced road to the gorgeous Hindu Kush—formidable, daunting, stunning—nothing was barren about this place.

A gust of wind stirred up a sand demon that prowled the monochromatic scene dotted with splotches of green from occasional shrubs. Small trees reached toward the heavens with bent, gnarly hands, as if begging for water. Fear and awe wove a wicked tapestry through him as the quiet terrain erupted with ghoulish memories. Bombs. IEDs. The
tat-a-tat-tat
of M4s.

Heath jogged down the steps to the temporary bunk, Trinity’s lead in one hand and his duffel in the other. His performance last night came in a distant second, considering the attack. Between the adrenaline, the performance, and predawn rise this morning, exhaustion weighted his limbs. He was out of shape. Plain and simple.

A furry head nudged beneath his hand. Without taking his eyes off the phantom plain beneath the sun’s unrelenting oppression, Heath rubbed Trinity’s ears. Could she sense it, too? The ominous feeling he’d felt thick and rancid after that attack? Was she remembering that horrific day that left her with a small scar and him with one bigger?

A Humvee squawked to a stop just feet in front of Heath, pulling Trinity into work mode. “Easy, girl.”

Two men piled out of the vehicle. One strode toward him.

Heath held up a hand. “Approach slowly. She might not be government issue now, but she’s still got razor-sharp instincts and teeth.”

The specialist smiled beneath his helmet and sweat, compliments of the mountain of clothing, vests, and gear. “Daniels?”

Sack slung over his shoulder, Heath extended his hand.

“Specialist Randy Farley. I’m your tour guide back to Bagram.”

Specialist. The specialist who’d driven the MRAP was dead. Would this one end up that way, too? What about Jia? Where was she? Was she safe, out of reach of the Taliban or other extremists? Man, that near-kiss … was something … like near-stupidity.

Shake it off
.

“First stop—the training field.”

“No rest for the weary.” Heath glanced back at Hogan who trudged down the steps of the portable building they’d crashed in last night. She wore a frown the size of “who authorized you to disturb my beauty sleep?”

Stuffing a hat over her standard ponytail, she grunted. “Couldn’t we do this tour after lunch, or even better—never?”

“If you want to sleep, you should’ve stayed home.” That she’d manhandled her way into coming still bugged him. That she thought he needed babysitting downright angered him.

He had, after all, handled himself fine with that terrorist who had the rocket launcher.