Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (33 page)

Quiet exploded through the so-called safety area. More like a death trap.

Sal lifted his head, listening, glancing over his shoulder. Dust and marble-sized chunks of cement littered his arm and shoulder. But it seemed the building had settled some.

“Sal, talk to me!” Dean shouted.

“Here… here.” He grunted and scooted back, eyeing Cassie’s blood- and dirt-stained face. “You okay?”

Her pained eyes met his and the fear seemed to melt away, but her fingers were wound around his drag strap, and she wasn’t letting go.

“Where are you?”

Sal glanced up, coughing around the dust-entombed area. “Private stairwell in the… north… northwest—”

“Northeast,” Titanis corrected.

“Northeast,” Sal repeated with a nod. “Secondary”—or was it tertiary?—“explosion took out lower levels.”

“Get out! Riordan said the whole thing is an inferno.”

Sal started. Hawk. He couldn’t leave Hawk there. His friend couldn’t be dead. Not at his hand. Not because of him.

“Sal!”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. Tried to dislodge the wad of truth stuck there.

“Get out. Now. That is an order!”

A crack splintered the wall straight down the middle.

“Go!” Sal fisted Cassie’s sleeve. Thrust her down the stairs. With Titanis on his tail, Sal threw himself after her, making sure Cassie kept moving. Rocks pummeled them. The ground shook.

One flight down. One to go.

He rounded the corner, sweeping an arm out to hook Cassie’s waist. He pulled her with him. Focused on the steps. Not on falling. A pressure against his back told him Titanis was doing the same. Pushing forward, staying close. They’d escape this.

Cassie jumped down the last set. Her boots twisted against a foothigh pile of rubble. She pitched forward, but Sal caught her again. Hauled her toward the door propped open by debris.

He dove forward, stumbling as he went.

Titanis caught his drag strap again, pulled him on.

They rushed into the predawn morning, air cool and coated with dust. “Keep moving,” Sal shouted as they sprinted into the blue haze.

Groooaaaannn!

Whoosh! Boom! Whoosh!

Superheated air punched them into the ground.

CHAPTER 29

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
5 April—0715 Hours

O
nboard the helo back to Kandahar, Sal dumped ibuprofen down his throat and let Harrier wrap gauze around the cut in his arm. What kind of messed-up person cuts up their arm right before a mission?

I killed him. I killed Brian
. The guy’s visage wouldn’t leave his mind. Sal was sure it’d never leave. Just like the sound of Vida’s laugh echoed in his head like a daily reminder—a taunt.

First Vida, now Hawk.

A slap against his shoulder startled Sal. He jerked and found Harrier waving him off the bird, which sat on the tarmac already. Robotically, Sal hopped out and stalked away from the rotor wash. They climbed into a vehicle to head to the Command center.

He had to get back there. Hawk had to be alive. And if he was, then he was lying there on that floor as the building came down.

How could he survive that?

Because Hawk was thickheaded and never gave up.

The Jeep lurched to a stop and doors flung open. Sal moved with the flow of traffic into the Command building.

“Hey, you need the hospital?”

Sal turned, his mind half engaged in the question. Eagle reached over and held up Sal’s arm streaked with blood. “No.” Sal tugged free. “I’m fine. We need to debrief.”

Get your head in the game, Russo
.

As he strode down the hall, gathering up the broken pieces of his psyche, he spotted Dean through a glass window. The Command room. Sick to his stomach, Sal didn’t let himself stop or slow or turn around, though he would’ve taken any or all of them right now. Anything not to face telling his friend and CO what happened.

He pushed through the door and dragged his unwilling gaze to Dean’s.

Hands on his tactical belt, Dean nodded and moved away from the man next to him. “Grab a chair and get comfortable. Coffee’s on the way.”

The gloom of the team was as palpable as thick goo. Sal tugged back a chair and lowered himself into it. Though pressure lifted from his knees and back, the one surrounding his heart didn’t ease.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, waiting. How exactly did one confess to killing a teammate? Sal slumped back in his chair, hand over his mouth. He stroked the beard, finding no comfort in the motion this time.

Dean shut the door. Locked it.

Interesting.

The captain moved to the boards and folded his arms over his chest. “Okay, I’ll give a rundown of what’s on the logs, what happened, then I’ll open it up. If anyone has ideas on what went wrong, what could’ve been done better, we’ll hear that then. Understood?”

A chorus of “hooahs” filled the room.

He had to come clean. Tell Dean about the cutting. About being responsible for failing the team and Hawk.

“First, the most obvious—we failed to meet the mission objective,” Dean said. “Kiew Tang evaded our capture.”

“Sir,” Harrier spoke up. “I… on two occasions, with the long-range microphone, heard Lieutenant Walker dialogue with the objective.”

Sal lifted his head, glanced from Harrier to a now white-faced Cassie.

“What kind of dialogue?” Dean asked.

Harrier hesitated, skating a glance in Cassie’s direction but not really making eye contact with her. “
Personal
, sir.”

Someone on the SEAL team cursed. “That explains it all.” Schmidt.

Sal pushed straight in his chair, hackles raising. “Explains what?”

“I saw her—she dove into you when you were holding Hawk, trying to pull him to safety.” Schmidt’s white-blond beard and curly-wiry hair made him look like a biker. “It’s her fault Hawk went down.”

“Now, hold up—”

“It didn’t make sense. Everyone knows how precarious things are in a situation like that. One wrong move—and well, I guess we know what happens now. A man dies.” He stabbed a finger at Cassie. “If she—”

“You need to back up,” Sal said, coming to his feet. “That wasn’t Cassie’s fault in no way.”

“Sal,” came Dean’s voice of reason and warning.

“Cassie?” Riordan snapped. “First name—that sounds personal. What, were you two hooking up or something? That’d make sense, why you’re defending her.”

“Hey!” Dean snapped. “Enough. Riordan.” He nodded from Riordan to the other SEAL. “Get him in line.” He pivoted to where Sal stood—now in front of Cassie.

His hazel eyes had darkened beneath that stern brow. “Sal?”

“She tried to help me. I was losing my grip.”
Now or never, chicken
. “I—”

Cassie pushed in front of him. “Schmidt is right,” she bit out.

Sal started. “Cassie.”

She turned to him, her cheeks bright. Her determination brighter. After sliding him a sympathetic smile, she faced the captain again. “What I did was stupid. But it wasn’t meant to harm anyone.”

“Doesn’t make Hawk any less dead.”

Sal lunged.

Cassie stepped into his path. Hands on his chest. “Stop. Don’t listen.”

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered around a tight voice.

“Stand down!” Dean shouted. “Walker, finish what you were saying.”

She angled around. “I saw Hawk slipping, and what I did was done out of instinct to try to stop him from falling. The floor gave way then. That broke Sal’s grip.” She tucked her head. “Hawk… fell.”

“Because of you!”

“Yeah? And what about you?” Sal couldn’t take it anymore—not Cassie taking the blame or this puke of a SEAL blaming her. “That’s a lot of smack you’re talking, but where were you when Hawk was dangling for his life?”

Challenge hung in Schmidt’s eyes, which eventually found the floor.

“Captain Watters,” Riordan said as he patted Schmidt’s shoulder. “I need to talk to you.”

Scratching the side of his face, Dean huffed. “Raptor, get cleaned up. Sal, Walker—get to the infirmary to check those wounds.”

Cassie emerged from the hospital with stitches on her cheek and a patched shoulder. The doctor warned her she’d have a few new aches in the morning, compliments of the bruise in her back—which would’ve been a bullet had it not been for her vest—but should have full range of motion in no time.

It was a lie to make her feel better. Once Penner and Phelps got wind of this, she’d be out of action. And she might just make that decision on her own. She’d wanted to get close to Sal, to make amends, and it seemed the divide between them just grew and grew.

She’d prayed he’d open up to her. That they could reconcile. She’d greedily accepted this assignment believing it was God’s answer to her prayer to provide a way for her to talk to Sal. And here she stood, with him trusting her less than ever. Hating her more.

She snorted. Hadn’t thought it possible.

She stepped into the morning and started across the rocky path. Her stomach growled, sending her in the direction of the chow hall for lunch.

“Hey,” a voice hissed behind her.

Cassie glanced back, surprised to see Sal. And despite the storm in his expression, her heart betrayed her with a wonky
ka-thump
. “Sal.”

He clutched her arm.

She winced.

And he immediately relented, his rich brown eyes flicking to her arm. “Sorry.” He let go. Stepped back. “What did you do that for?”

Cassie frowned. Looked at her arm.

“No,” Sal said, inching closer, his words barely audible. “In the debrief. You lied to them. Said it was your fault.”

Swallowing didn’t help dislodge the lump in her throat. “It’s true.”

“You and I both know that’s a lie.”

She wet her lips and glanced around them. She didn’t want to admit why she’d done that. “It’s a peace offering.”

This time, Sal frowned. Stared down at her with a mixture of confusion and—dare she believe it?—admiration. The why question lingered loud and proud in this soldier’s eyes.

“Even if you hadn’t lost your grip because of the blood, you would’ve eventually. There was no way you’d have hauled him up. Gravity, his injury, and the explosions were all against you.” She touched his bandaged arm. “Sal, you’re oozing agony. I see it in your everyday life as much as in the blood that slipped down your arm.”

“What do you know about what I feel? It’s been four years—”

Cassie shook her head, her eyes glossing. Then she nodded. “You’re right. It has been. But I stare into your eyes every day I’m home because Mila has your eyes. She’s a reminder of the man I fell in love with.”

Sal muttered something and spun away from her then dropped onto a picnic bench tucked in a corner. He steepled his fingers and bent over, huffing out heavy breaths. “It’s all so screwed up.”

Cassie went and sat beside him, their knees touching. “Sal, you probably don’t want to hear this, but you have to let go of Vida.”

His head came up.

She held out a hand. “Hear me out. Bitterness rots the soul. And it’s clawing its way out of you. Blame me if you want.” Again, her eyes glossed. “But let go. And Hawk—”

“I can’t believe you lied about that. I have to tell Dean.”

“No—”

“We have a code to live by, and I can’t let that lie stand.” His chest rose and fell unevenly. “I can’t let that go. It was my fault he died. Not yours.”

“You believe it’s your fault because of the guilt you feel for cutting.” When his gaze narrowed, Cassie rushed on. “Don’t lie to me or try to hide it. I know you’re doing it. And you haven’t told anyone, have you?”

Sal’s lips flattened.

“No, of course not, because they’d put you out.”

She didn’t want him cutting anymore, and if that meant extending him some grace and mercy he desperately needed, some that might cost her a little, she would go there. “I was there, Sal.” She leaned closer. “I threw myself across that floor. As soon as my stomach hit, I heard the crack.”

His gaze swung to hers. Desperation resonating from him to be freed of the noose he’d hung around his own neck.

She touched his cheek. Smoothed her fingers over his beard. “Please, let it go. Your soul can’t take any more of that poison you’re feeding it. The self-condemnation.” She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You’re a good man, Sal. An amazing soldier. A loyal friend.”