Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (12 page)

Nana placed a hand on Granddad’s arm. “Now, Jack—”

“I need to go over a few things with you,” Granddad said. “I’m not going to live forever, you know.”

Brian would rather walk into an IED-laden alley than his grandfather’s home. Filled with once-happy memories, the home was also a veritable shrine to the Bledsoe legacy. The very one he’d failed. But it wasn’t just the shrine-of-a-home. It was the man, the force behind it. The man sitting across the candlelit table had this terrifying ability of dismantling Brian’s defenses, flying in under the radar and digging out every secret.

R
ed is the color of the blood that flowed…”

Fekiria ran her finger over the beads threaded together in a bracelet. Glittering and beautiful, the piece made her spirits pop. She jerked toward the young woman tending the stand. “This bracelet—Who made it?”

Wide, almond-shaped eyes lowered. “I made that one.”

Disappointment flowed through Fekiria’s veins as she eyed the pieces on the cart. The threads in the scarves bore the same multicolored pattern.
Mitra
. It had to be. Especially the one with gold threads.

“
For the streets of gold we will one day walk down
,” Mitra had told the gathering of children.

Beautiful, sincere Mitra, who had loved Fekiria more wholly, less judgmentally than any other person she had ever met. More than any other
Christian
she had known. Their friendship had been fast and deep, growing up together. They’d been inseparable.

Until Mitra met and married Jacob, who tore her away from Mazar-e and Fekiria.

Soft and smooth, the scarf seemed so much like one Mitra had made her years ago. It didn’t bear these colors, but it was similar.
Where are you, Mitra?
Oh, to have a friend like that to confide in. To laugh with.

Laughter had been missing too long in her life.

“I see you still like bright colors.”

Sucking in a sudden breath, Fekiria spun. Met the bright brown eyes of her dearest friend and threw herself at her. “I knew it was you!”

Long, thin arms wrapped tightly around Fekiria as Mitra’s laughter filled the crowded market row. “You beautiful angel!” Mitra’s voice was light and sweet, as always. “What are you doing so far south?” She stepped back and lifted Fekiria’s hand, glancing down. “I thought perhaps you had finally married.”

Fekiria’s laugh turned caustic. “Not yet. Baba tried to marry me to a sixty-year-old man, but I refused.”

“Again.” Mitra folded her arms and arched an eyebrow.

With a shrug, Fekiria could only stare at her long-lost friend. In a demure blue hijab and modest clothing, she had not aged much at all in the years since she’d left. A few more lines around her eyes—probably from too much laughter—but no other signs of aging. “He was old.”

“You said that about all of them.”

Fekiria wrinkled her nose and lifted a scarf. “Haven’t given up on spreading the
God News
, huh?”

Mitra tugged the scarf out of her hands. “
Good
News.” She hung it back up on the rack then drew Fekiria out into the busy market. “And no, I will not give up. Ever.” Linking arms as they walked, Mitra gave a very long sigh. “It is so good to see you, angel.”

The endearment warmed Fekiria’s heart. “I miss that name.” Missed having someone who thought highly of her, someone who believed in her.

“So, tell me,” Mitra said, bumping shoulders with her. “How are you so far south, so far away from your father’s grasp?”

“You would not believe me.”

“Of course I would.” Mitra turned a corner, delivering them out of the jostling foot traffic and onto a street with a half-dozen or so cars. “I might tease you or roll my eyes, but I will believe you.”

Where were they going?

“So, my angel—speak! Why are you down here?”

“I’m a pilot.”

Mitra jerked her head toward her then moved in front of her. “A pilot?” Disbelief seemed to widen her eyes. “How is this possible?”

“I never left the ANA.”

“But you told your father you had—I was there!”

“I told my father what he wanted to hear, what I needed him to believe so he would not torment or beat me,” Fekiria admitted, her heart heavy.

“He was always so hard on you.” They scurried across traffic and turned left. The path they took seemed intentional.

“Where are you taking me?”

Her friend smiled, her eyes bright with mischief.

Ah! There is the friend I loved
. Fekiria could not help but laugh. “What trouble are you causing?”

Mitra giggled. “Trouble? Oh no, my friend—you are the one with trouble nipping at your heels. I am the one wisdom follows, remember?”

“I seem to remember his name was
Wasim
, not Wisdom.”

Another burst of laughter erupted from her friend, who turned a corner then slowed. Head down, Mitra seemed to be lost in thought as she leaned against a large double-hinged door to a building. “I remember Wasim.” The way she said it made the name and memory sound as if they were a thousand years old. Wistful, thoughtful, she rolled her shoulder and eased back against the dark wood. “He was so jealous when Jacob came and stole my heart.”

Jealousy had not claimed only Wasim’s heart. It had been difficult for Fekiria to watch her friend stolen away by a man who shared the religious beliefs of the Christians. A man who was Israeli. “Where is Jacob?”

Eyes glittering, Mitra leaned toward her. “I have a secret to share with you, my angel.”

Something about the way she said that worried Fekiria.

“Can I trust you still?”

“Of course.”

“But if I do—this must stay a secret.” Mitra’s eyes resonated with meaning.

“I would never betray you!”

“Even to the ANA?”

“
Especially
to them!” Heart thumping, Fekiria felt as if her character had been questioned or challenged.

Mitra’s face brightened, her oval eyes alive once more. She turned, produced a key from her pocket as she gave a cursory glance to the street they stood on. Deftly, she slid the key into the heavy door’s lock and pushed it open. “Please,” she said as she herded Fekiria inside.

She stood in a courtyard, simple but pretty. A bricked path led toward a center fountain that wasn’t running. The path wrapped around the fountain then broke, leading to three buildings. The first, a very small one that could house no more than a single family. The middle structure was large and had two levels. A balcony on the upper level also had a staircase that led to a rooftop terrace, no doubt. The third building looked more like a storehouse of some kind. Plain with two levels as well. Nothing elaborate, but well taken care of.

“This way.” Mitra hurried across the open space to the storehouse.

“What is this?” Fekiria tugged her jacket a little closer, feeling a skitter of danger that pulled her gaze to the alleys and shadows of this compound.

But Mitra said nothing as she let them into the two-level home with another key. Inside, where she expected to find some heat and perhaps a woman’s touch to the furnishings, Fekiria was let down.

Darkness and chills scampered down the lonely hall void of hangings or tapestries.

“This way,” Mitra said as she scurried into the shadows.

Fekiria gulped the dread crowding her. “What is this?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, a whisper that chased her friend.

Her heart stuttered as silence dropped on her. Black darkness. “
Mitra
,” she hissed.

A flash of light at the other end startled her. There, she could see Mitra hold back a heavy curtain that served as a barrier. Light from the interior room splashed on her friend’s face, which was vibrant. “Come see.”

Ready to be rid of the chill and fears, Fekiria rushed toward her. “Where are we, Mitra? You’re scaring me.”

But Mitra only nodded into the room.

Fekiria turned and peered past the thick embroidered curtain. Divided into two parts, the room was not a room. With beds, carpets, pillows, bunks, and a table. “It’s a school.”

Northern Virginia

12 January—1005 Hours

“Sweet!” Brian set his bottled water on the shop table and stepped back, eyeing the sleek, tough lines of the white 1965 Mustang GT 350 with black racing stripes. “Thought you got rid of this years ago.”

Granddad waved at him. “Couldn’t do it. Kitty wasn’t happy with me, but I couldn’t give up the beauty I’d paid for in cash.” He opened the door and motioned Brian inside. “Go on. Start ’er up.”

In the driver’s seat, Brian ran a hand over the steering wheel. The dash—obviously old but in pristine condition. His hand landed on the gearshift. “I can’t believe this. It’s show quality.”

“Sure it is. Used to take it around.”

“I remember.”

“Had some pretty impressive offers, but”—he again waved—“can’t buy something whose price sticker is the heart.” He shuffled to the other side and climbed in. Green eyes sparkled with more mischief than Brian had seen from his grandfather in a long time. He held up the key with its pony icon chain.

Disbelief chugged through Brian’s veins. Nah. No way Granddad meant for him to take it for a spin.

“One last time?” Granddad finally said, shaking the key.

“Last time?”

Granddad didn’t answer, just shook the key.

“Seriously?” Brian tentatively reached for it.

“What, you don’t want to?”

Brian snatched it. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Granddad chuckled and tugged the door closed.

The throaty purr of the engine roared through the garage. Brian took a moment to familiarize himself with the instrumentation, eyed the rearview mirror and the view of the driveway.

“Remember—she’s a lady. Treat her like one.”

Now you’re talking my language
. “Yes, sir.”

Brian eased out and pulled onto the road. They clung to the back roads, taking 15 north toward Point of Rocks, Maryland. The Mustang roared as he crossed the Potomac and took the first right past the MARC station and through the rolling fields of corn and grain.

As they headed back, the engine started rattling.

“There,” Granddad said, pointing to a park sign. “Pull in there. Let’s have a look at her.”

Brian guided the Mustang under a copse of scraggly, naked oaks. Though snow hadn’t made its mark yet this winter, the Potomac had icy beams stretching from the bank out a couple of feet.

“Pop the hood,” Granddad said as he climbed out.

Brian tugged the release lever then pushed open his door. As he did, his gaze hit the skyline. Gray. Forbidding. “Looks like that storm might hit early.”

“Always does. Especially when I take her out.” Granddad chuckled. Already bent over the engine, he adjusted this cap. Checked another. “Oil’s good. Needs a bit more water, but nothing serious.” He scratched the balding patch at the crown of his head.

Flakes drifted down. Hunched into his jacket against the cold, Brian looked up again. Snowing. Broken-down car. Was he cursed?

“I’ll give Terrance a call.”

“Great.” Terrance Crawley had never forgiven Brian for ditching his granddaughter in college. “He won’t give you that frequent flyer discount when he sees me.”

“Reckon not.” Granddad returned to the car and shut the door. “But I never did like that girl. She was too loose.”

Shamefully, that was exactly why Brian had dated her. And also why he’d ditched her—when he found out she’d slept with his best friend the first week he’d been at Basic.

Brian watched the windows fog up as they waited for their tow-truck rescue. A thump against his leg startled him.

“Spill your guts, son.”

He glanced at his grandfather, feeling an all-too-familiar twist in his gut. Tightening his jaw, he pushed his gaze back to the windows.

“You haven’t been the same since we picked you up at the airport fifteen days ago.”

Leg bouncing, Brian groped in the void that held his massive failure for the right place to start. How to tell your World War II–hero grandfather that you were on the cusp of being thrown out of the Army?

“I won’t yank your chain.” Dead-serious eyes embedded in a wizened face, lined with years of military and intelligence work, pierced him. “I know.”