Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (13 page)

Brian snapped his gaze toward his granddad. “You know?”

“He was worried about you.”

Pride ricocheting off the betrayal, Brian shifted. “Who?” Who had the gall to go behind his back and rat him out? The dude would pay.

“Let’s not worry about that. Let’s get the cards on the table,” Granddad said as he swiped a hand over a pretend flat surface. “What’s happened?”

Ticked that he’d been sold out, Brian had a hard time working past that to admit the truth. “I’m facing disciplinary action.” Man, that hurt. The failure, the defeat, the hopelessness came crashing down.

“Why?”

“Fighting.”

Granddad chuckled. “Got that heated Bledsoe temper, eh?”

“Look,” Brian said, his pulse hammering, “I just want you to know that I’m not like Dad. This wasn’t my fault—well, not directly.”

“Did you
directly
punch someone?”

Brian gave a soft snort. “I meant that I didn’t start it.”

“But you also didn’t stop it.”

“Oh, I stopped it.” Brian didn’t feel better for saying it. In fact, he felt worse.

“
I
meant, you didn’t stop it before it went too far.”

“I…” Brian clamped his jaw tight.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”

“No, it’s not okay.” He met his grandfather’s gaze. “You’re my hero. You’re the one I want to make proud. And this—this is screwed up.”
Just spit it out
. “I made a promise to someone…”

“A promise connected to what happened. And you can’t break that.”

“No, sir.”

“But I’m not connected to this.” His grandfather seemed to consider him and the situation. “Seems to me you need to let off some steam, so what’s it going to hurt to tell me?”

“Considering someone sold me out to you, I can’t trust that this won’t get back.”

“So, you think I’ll rat you out now?”

Brian looked down. “I think you’ll look out for my best interest, even if you think it might tick me off.”

Another hearty laugh. A hand clapped on the back of Brian’s neck. “You
are
a Bledsoe, through and through.” Granddad tugged Brian toward him. “Son, I said I knew. But I didn’t say
what
I knew.”

Hesitant and cautious, Brian met his granddad’s steely gaze. “Son of a—you faked me.”

“I gave you what you needed to talk.” Swiping his hand around the interior of the fogged-up Mustang, Granddad smiled. “This conversation stays here.” He tapped the spot over his heart. “And here.”

Man, he needed to get this off his chest—bad. To spill his guts. Defend himself. So, he did just that. Talked. Ranted.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

Brian twitched. “A friend…someone was hitting on her, getting out of line. I put him back in line.” Then grunted. “Now, I’m about to go down in a blaze of glory, just like Dad.”

“No.” Vehemence thickened Granddad’s response. “What you are doing, that’s defending someone. Keeping a promise. What he did…” Face pale, he shook his head. Red brightened eyes that seemed ready to cry. He swallowed then coughed. “Brian, you do have to get hold of that combustion that is inherent in our veins, but you were operating out of integrity.”

“That time, but”—now Brian swallowed—“but it’s in me, Granddad. That demon ready to devour anything to get what it wants. For Dad, it was money, power. For me, it’s…” He wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted.

“Validation.”

A raw ache spread through Brian’s chest. “Yeah,” he said, slow and painfully. He studied his grandfather’s face. How did Granddad always
get
him?

“You’re not the only one trying to get out from under someone else’s legacy.”

“But your dad was a great war hero. He was pivotal—”

Granddad held up an age-spotted hand. “See what I mean? Everyone knew what my daddy did. And he never let us forget it. I felt like I never measured up. Had to prove to everyone that I was my own person, that I wasn’t like him.” He chuckled. “But I wanted nothing more than to be
just
like him.”

Brian could relate. He wanted to be
just
like his granddad. A hero. Someone others looked up to. “I don’t know how to be that man.”

“It’d be easier if there was some magical potion we could drink or some formula we could complete. Go here. Do this. Get that.”

With a snort and nod, Brian muttered, “Hooah.”

“You’ve messed up—fighting gets you a quick kick in the backside out of the military, but you also seem to have some strong men behind you.”

“Again, how do you know that?”

“Because you’re still in.”

Brian gave yet another snort. Point taken. The captain hadn’t kicked him out. Hadn’t handed him his butt on a silver platter. “I don’t know how to be what I want to be.”

“Son, just
be
. God created you as
you
. Not as me. Or your great-grandfather. Or your father. He created you with all your idiosyncrasies and that fire in your belly for a reason.”

“I’d sure like to know what that is.”

“It’s so that when you’re old, you can sit and freeze your assets off on a January night in a broken-down Mustang to encourage someone—maybe even your own grandson—someday.”

Laughing, Brian said, “I’ll never be as old as you.”

Granddad popped him on the head.

L
eaving the team again meant he couldn’t control the situation.

Dean snorted. Hadn’t he learned about his severe lack of control when it came to Zahrah? But he had to do what he could within reason to guarantee the safety of Raptor. Being the officer on the team meant more liaising than fieldwork, but it annoyed him not to be completely active with them right now. Cold, brittle wind tugged at the collar of his jacket as he stood at the barrel he’d retrofitted to hold a crackling fire.

Leaving also meant Sal would be in charge. He trusted his friend completely, but something was simmering at the back of Falcon’s life that seemed to bleed into his soldiering.

But Sal could handle it. He’d have to.

A mere two hundred yards and a road separated him from the staging area. Dean watched, itching to be there. To coordinate. To make sure Raptor had what they needed and—

“Little late to be roasting marshmallows,” General Burnett said as he joined Dean, standing on the other side of the steel barrel, huddled beneath his long wool winter jacket.

“Always did like s’mores,” Dean said with a smile. His gaze flicked past the general’s ear, watching as Eagle hustled toward the waiting vehicle. In hand, he had his sniper rifle. The eighty-five-pound rucksack didn’t slow the old guy down a second.

Burnett eyed him. “How you holdin’ up?”

“Fine, sir.” He needed to reassure the general. Give him something to distract his mind from following any bread-crumb trail Dean might inadvertently leave that would lead to the team’s under-the-radar mission. “Having Zahrah to talk to helps.”

Laugh lines crinkled in the older man’s eyes. “I bet it does. How is she?”

“As good as can be expected.” Over Burnett’s shoulder, Dean registered—but didn’t let his gaze linger on—the hulking form of Titanis ambling toward the warehouse and disappearing inside. “Still has nightmares, but she promises they’re fading.”

“And you?”

“I’ll never forget.” What happened to her, how she’d been used against him, to force his hand, to force hers against her own country.

“Will you forgive?”

Dean let one side of his mouth lift in a sardonic smile. “We’ll have to see when we catch up with this guy.”

Burnett chuckled. “I guess we will.” His smile faded, and for several long seconds he held Dean hostage with a penetrating gaze that probed the sudden gaping silence in their conversation.

If Dean looked away, Burnett would know something was up. But if he continued the silent standoff— “Everything okay, sir?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Captain?”

“Tell you what, sir?”

“Start with Bledsoe.”

Relief, sweet and swift, surged through Dean’s veins. Thank God the general hadn’t caught on to the black ops mission. “He’s home but will be on the next flight out at 1500”—he did the mental calculation— “tomorrow, I believe.”

“And when he gets here?”

Feigning contemplation of Hawk’s fate, Dean lowered his gaze. Then glanced up, his heart jackhammering as the general moved to Dean’s right instead of opposite him. With the general’s quick reflexes and skill, he’d spot the team.

“Hawk will have extra duties. He’s going to feel the pain of what he’s done. I need him to understand—maybe for the first time—the honor it is to be on this team. To be a Special Forces soldier.”

“Extra duties?”

Dean unzipped his jacket and angled away from the fire, forcing Burnett to turn his back on the team assembling at the warehouse. “A month of patrol. Colonel Whitson has a team heading south. They need skilled escorts.”

“Patrol.”

Dean nodded again, cringing this time as a red glow of lights brightened the evening sky.

He hadn’t seen Harrier join the team, but Sal wouldn’t pull out without the full working team.

“Trying to teach him a lesson?”

“Keeping him so busy he doesn’t have the time or energy to fight.”

At the roar of the engine, Burnett glanced over his shoulder. A flicker of concern waggled through his brow, but then he turned back to Dean. Considered him. Then bobbed his head. “Just make sure his head’s in the game. Only thing that should be slamming into anyone are bullets into terrorists.” He shot Dean a stern look. “Am I clear, Captain?”

“As crystal, sir.”

Pursing his lips, Burnett looked down as he nodded. Slowly, his gaze followed the Humvee heading toward the rear gate. He watched as it disappeared around the corner.

If Burnett figured out what he and Sal had planned…

“ ‘When near, appear far.’ ”

He knows!
Dean’s pulse roared with the engine. “Sun Tzu…?” He hadn’t gotten to the rank he was by giving himself away at the first hint of trouble.

Burnett cocked his head to the side and peered up at Dean with a squinty gaze. “You’re one sneaky you-know-what, Captain Watters.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Good.” Clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder, Burnett laughed. “Knew I picked you for a reason.” He took a step back toward the living units. “See you at 0600.”

“Yessir.” As he watched the general saunter back to the officers’ quarters, Dean let out a heavy, slow breath.
Too close
.

Sun Tzu in
The Art of War
had said those very words, about using the enemy’s perception against them. Whoever their coms terrorist was, he no doubt believed SOCOM had pulled out 80 percent of their teams from the field. Only the elite, long-embedded teams would remain hidden in plain sight among the locals. Well, only the elite. And Raptor.

Godspeed, brothers
.

Kandahar, Afghanistan

14 January—0925 Hours

“I did not earn my flying credential so I could be a glorified taxi driver!” Indignation coursed through Fekiria, hot and virulent.

Colonel Mahmoud scowled. “You are an ANA soldier and will do as you are commanded.”

Fekiria opened her mouth to lob another rejection, heaped with insult, but Captain Ripley smiled and touched her arm. “Colonel, if you don’t mind, I need to speak with my flight candidate. Last-minute instructions.” He bunched his shoulders. “Won’t take but a minute.”

With a sharp nod, the colonel stared down Fekiria.

“Lieutenant?” Captain Ripley motioned her to the side, a clipboard in hand.

Moving her legs took every ounce of her will. As she turned, she hissed, “You will not change my mind,” to the captain.

“In this morning’s lecture…” he began, casting glances back. Apparently to put as much distance between them and the colonel before continuing. Near the door to an office, he angled his shoulder toward her. “I realize you are insulted by the assignment.”

“You and I both know the only reason I was chosen is because he wants to put me in my place—serving men.”

Captain Ripley’s eyes crinkled in a small smile. “Actually, the reason you were chosen is because I suggested you.”