Whole Pieces (7 page)

13

Vision blurred by tears, Abda fought against his
moor
as she pulled him toward the back room, away from the fire in his
plaar
's eyes, away from the shouting and cursing Sand Spider. “Moor, please, don't let them go.”

“Abda, hush.”

“I can't let him hurt them. They are good. Hawk will die.” Eyes squeezed, he swiped at the hot tears coursing down his face. “He's my friend! Friends don't kill friends!”

Gripping his shoulders tight, his
moor
shook him. “Abda, quiet!”

“No!” He straightened and held his back as straight as the gate post. “The colonel is a bad man, and he's killing good men who want to help us—”

Eyes big and round, his
moor
gasped. “Abda!”

“It's true.”

“Listen to me.” Her eyebrows frowned the way they had when he'd been caught with the last piece of cake. “At once.” She shut the door.

He blinked, his vision still shadowed by the tears brimming. “Please . . .”

Her shoulders went down, and she slumped to the floor on her knees in front of him. “You saw them, the American soldiers?”

Abda dared not speak. Dared not get Hawk in trouble—well, more than what the Sand Spider would cause . . . that is, if he found them.

Even without telling her, she seemed to understand that he had seen them. “It will be our secret, Abda.” She nodded and sighed. “Shall I tell you one of my secrets?”

“You have secrets?” But she was just his
moor
. She took care of his baby sisters.

“Most are small,” she said, dragging off the scarf and smiling at him. But it wasn't a happy smile. This was a smile like the time she told him that her
plaar
had died. “But I have one big one.” She peeked up at him. “You keep good secrets, yes?”

“I try.” He felt so small, so bad for dropping the box. “If I had not lost my treasures, the Americans—”

A finger pressed over his lips. “Shh.” She smiled again; this time it was not sad. “My secret . . . I know there are soldiers in the valley.”

In the valley? But that's not where Hawk was.

“Listen.” She pushed to her feet, lifted Afsoon from the floor, and moved to the mattress, where she lifted the corner that rested against the wall. Picking something up, Moor slowly turned and held it out to him. “See?”

He stood slowly, feeling like the thing in her hand was very special. Very. “What is it?”

“The soldiers can hear with it.” She pressed a finger to her lips in a
shh
symbol, replaced it, then came back to him and knelt. She leaned in closer and pressed her lips to his ears. After a brief kiss, she said, “There are Navy SEALs in the valley, secretly listening to Plaar—who is helping them—and Colonel Tarazai.”

Abda drew in a quiet, quick breath. He looked into her brown eyes, so big and happy. “Really? Plaar is helping the Americans?”

Another
shh
sign; then she tousled his hair. “Your
plaar
will take care of things, yes?”

Abda nodded, then remembered. . . . “The valley. You said they're in the valley?”

“Yes, why?”

Stabbed with panic, he heard a strange noise explode out of his throat. “But my friend Hawk is not in the valley!” That meant he wouldn't have help. The SEALs were in the wrong place. They couldn't help Hawk and the others.

He lunged over the mattress and snatched at the device. “Help! You have to help Hawk. He's in the hills. He's American—like you.” More tears. He must be stronger. He smeared them away. “Help Hawk and the others. Please . . .” The tears came faster. “Don't let him die. Please—the fighters are going after them.”

* * *

The first Taliban fighter raised his head above the hill.

Hawk applied pressure to the trigger.

“Hold,” Stratham hissed, the word barely a whisper in the wind.

Was it possible these guys would overlook them? Not in this trench. They'd fall right into their laps. Literally.

Two more appeared. Armed. Weapons at the ready.

If he shot them there, their buddies would see them fall. Then it'd be on.

He willed the terrorists closer.

The air crackled with pent-up tension. Ready and anxious, the team said nothing. Didn't move. They waited.

For Death.

Crack!

Tat-a-tat!

Hawk jerked at the sound of an M4.

“Taking fire!” someone behind him called.

About to pull the trigger at the two in his sights, Hawk saw them drop to the ground. But not out of range. He eased back the trigger. The weapon vibrated in his hand as it spent a dozen rounds. So familiar. Like a seriously bad case of déjà vu. No mistakes had been made. Or were they simply different mistakes?

Hollowed out of time itself, the events unfolded. Hawk knew what was coming. He swept his reticle over the area, looking for more targets. Eerie didn't come close to describing this. Knowing he had no power to stop it.
God, have mercy on us!
Heart thrumming, he sent up several more frantic prayers.

A lone fighter rose up.

Hawk took aim, hating the familiarity. His split-second analysis replayed what was coming. The guy would tumble forward—
check
—then there'd be a short interval—
yep
—and then another fighter!

Augh!
If only he could change something. But the plays, the strategies were right. He'd done everything right.

The target tumbled forward.

Huh. Someone else nailed him.
Hawk didn't remember that happening. Then again, he was in a slightly different position. He scanned right—another.

The man slumped to the side.

Okay, that's new.

14

“Base, this is ODA 375. We are under attack and request immediate backup and extraction.”

The ominous call for help skipped over the bullets and spent casings that flew around them.

“Repeat, we are under attack and—”

Crack! Hiss!

A curse flicked into the air.

Hawk focused on the dark night, on the tiny bursts of gunpowder that gave away enemy positions. He dared not look away, or he might put himself and the others in danger. Hawk guessed someone had shot the comms pack.

“Yes!” Mack shouted. “We've got backup. SEALs to our eleven.”

In the far distance, sparks against a black void, were the miniature explosions that must be the SEALs he'd seen. Were they fully engaged too? Change had occurred, despite the fact that what he'd tried had failed.

“Didn't I tell you I saw something?” Jensen shouted above the din of his M4.

More fighters appeared on the hill, scrambling from one cover point to another. Hawk trailed one, waited till the terrorist broke out, then fired.

As he lined up another shot, he felt a tug against his shoulder. He flicked a glance in that direction but saw nothing, just . . . wait. He angled his shoulder forward. The moonlight snagged a wisp of smoke that coiled up from frayed material. Someone nearly hit him. A bullet had grazed the top of his vest. Couple of inches to the side and it would've sliced his carotid artery.

Adrenaline pumping, palms slick in his gloves, he honed every fiber of his fighting body to defeating this tragedy. Fire licked his arm. He hissed and shook his arm, feeling the warm trickle of blood sliding along his forearm.

“Augh!”
Strangled, a cry pierced the night. “I'm hit. I'm hit.”

“Get down,” Stratham said, all business with his weapon and the fighters pouring over the incline.

At least Mack hadn't mentioned his mom, wanting to see his kids, and getting home to enjoy a famous hometown burger. It meant things had changed enough for hope to ignite anew in Hawk's heart. Maybe he hadn't failed. Now, having come back and reliving this heartbreaking night again, he knew he'd not made a mistake. Not in the way mistakes went.

Dirt pelted his face. Hawk dropped his face against the dirt and felt his helmet vibrate.
Augh!
That bullet would've shattered his skull without the Kevlar dome.

“Hold,” Stratham said. “Help is coming!”

A warning buzzed at the back of Hawk's brain.

“Ain't like we got a choice,” Jacobie shouted back.

“I am not dying here.” Mack grunted as he threw a grenade. “I'm going home, gonna tell my mom I'm sorry for wrecking Dad's bike.”

Hawk's heart misfired. Drenched with dread, the air caught in his throat.

“Then going to spend time with my kids in the basement watching all those stupid cartoons and eating pizza.”

Oh Lord, please . . . no no no.

“And burgers—those fancy ones from Andy's Palace.”

Hearing hollowed, Hawk looked around. The familiarity was creepy.

Heaviness coated the sky, pulling his gaze up.

He hauled in a breath. Death hovered. Swooped. Dove.

God, stop it! Please!

To his left, a juicy
thwat
splatted against Hawk's conscience. Then a
thud
followed by gasping. Someone had eaten a bullet.

Hawk threw a glance over his shoulder, saw the body sprawled over the trench. Legs kicking himself backward. The master sergeant!

“Stratham!”

On his back, the guy held his neck and pushed out of the way. Hawk dove toward him. “Medic!” he shouted as he clamped a hand over the injury.

“No good,” Stratham said.

“Shut up.” Hawk grabbed the makeshift
keffiyeh
that now lay around Stratham's shoulders and neck and stuffed the material against the wound. “It's close, but I don't think it hit the carotid.”

Eyes wide and lips glistening with blood, Stratham grabbed the drag straps of Hawk's vest. “You knew. . . .”

Thoughts staggering, Hawk forced a smile. “Now you're delirious.”

“You
knew
.”

Someone dropped to his knees beside Hawk. “Got it.”

Yielding to the medic, Hawk shifted aside. “He going to make it?”

“Probably. Artery's not nicked. Gotta stop the bleeding.”

Stratham wagged a hand toward the fighting. “Stop 'em.”

Bolstered by the master sergeant's words, Hawk nodded and returned to his position. Fighters rushed over the rise. Hawk eased the trigger back. His weapon fired. Again and again and again.

Everything was repeating. In a second . . .
Merciful God, stop this massacre.

Keep your mind. Keep your mind.
He had to shut out what he knew. And just
do
.

They were down there, somewhere. The men who would launch the grenade. Kill the team. From his pack, he pulled out a grenade. Maybe he could stop this. Pin pulled, he drew back and launched his arm up. Released the spherical device. Sent it spiraling toward the enemy emplacements.

Fire exploded through his arm. Hawk jerked, feeling a gush of warmth. Holding his arm close, he glanced down and saw a chunk missing. He tugged off the bandanna from around his neck and, using his teeth, tied it off. Not tight like a tourniquet, but enough for him to function. Tugging the ends, he secured the knot. Light glinted off his watch.

The world swirled into a slow-motion nightmare. Hawk blinked and drew up his head. Time had fallen off the clock, as if it'd stepped off a cliff and was falling lightning-fast. It was time. Time for the incoming grenade, the one that would kill the first of his team.

Seconds ticked with each boom of his heart. Each
tat-tat
of machine-gun fire.

His pulse whooshed through his ears, deafening, terrifying.

Thoughts ramming through the warped second in time, Hawk felt clutched in the grip of Time, of Thomas Constant. Was Constant going to make him relive all this? Would he survive and wake up, as he had before, to Ashley crying over him in the hospital? Oh, he hoped so. He desperately hoped so. And Abda . . . what would become of the boy?

Wind squawked in his ears. The concussion of the weapon's fire thumped against his mind. He turned to the side, lifted his gaze to the sky.
It's time.

Hot and cold battled for control of his limbs. Adrenaline increased his pulse. The roar in his ears worse than before.

And here it came. What should take a second or two seemed to take an eternity.

Ten feet.

I want to see Ashley again.

Seven.

The men have a right to live.

Five.

No, he didn't want to just
see
Ashley.
I want to marry her.

Three.

I'm tired of being angry.

Two.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die. Right here. Right now.

One.

As if disembodied from his will, his arm snapped out. His hand coiled around the incoming grenade. He snatched it from its path. Leaned back. Flung it on a return path. Two thundering heartbeats later, an explosion rent the night.

Light shattered darkness.

Fire rained down.

Hawk stared. Had that really just happened? A strange noise bubbled up his throat. It came out sounding a lot like a giggle. But Green Berets didn't giggle.

I did it!

Another bubble. This time laughter. He jerked around. Saw the men. Still fighting. Some wounded. But alive.
They're alive!

“Yes!” He pivoted.

His legs tangled. Hawk flung out his arms, trying to catch his balance. “Whoa!” He wobbled. Stepped to the side. Landed crooked on someone's leg. He felt their muscle roll. His foot slipped. Momentum shoved him down.

Even slamming into the ground, his head thudding hard against it, Hawk wasn't shaken. His joy wasn't damaged. Staring up at the sky, he laughed. Thrust his fists in the air. “Yes!”

The massive adrenaline dump left his arms heavy and weak. He breathed deeply, wiping the warmth of tears from his cheek. He did it. He'd stopped the trigger that ended the lives of his men. His team. Those he called brothers.

He closed his eyes and blew out a long, steadying breath.
Okay, fight's still on. Let's get it on!

Hawk opened his eyes and lifted his shoulders. Then froze.

Time slowed, but not the way it had a minute ago. Just enough for him to look up, see the device sailing in a high arc and flying straight toward him.
God, no! Help! Not another one.

“Grenade!”

“Take cover!”

Planting his hands on either side, he lifted his hip. Then swung his foot. Swung hard. Connected with the grenade.

Steel jarred the bony part of the top of his foot. The sensation carried up his nerve, into his leg . . . knee . . . hip . . .

Click!

A thunderclap punched his eardrums. A sound he knew. Knew well from combat. The signal of a detonation.

Darkness ruptured by brilliance. Pure. White. Nothingness.