Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (19 page)

This was no fairy tale. There was no Aladdin with a magic carpet to carry her off.

Fekiria turned in time to find two fat guards rushing her. Dark faces hemmed in black hair and beards, they grabbed her arms. “Release me!” She swung her arms up and rammed down over theirs, breaking the hold. Another guard caught her as she twisted away.

She reared. Punched him in the face.

The guard stumbled back, hands covering his now-bloody nose.

Lifted off her feet from behind, Fekiria screamed. Did as she was taught and let herself go limp. Slid from the man’s hold. She wrested free then jumped to her feet.

“Stop!” She held her ground. “Listen to me!”

The stunned guards did stop. For a second. Then the fatter one came toward her, the smell of liquor on him as thick as his body odor.

“I want to see Adeeb.” Her demand went unheeded. She connected gazes with the guard from earlier, the one who’d helped her in the kitchen. “The man who told you to take me to the chopper—I want to speak to him!”

The men laughed, then one said, “He is not someone who can be summoned by the whims of a harlot.”

“I am no harlot, I am—”

His hand flew hard and true against her face.

Her head snapped back. Stinging pain radiated across her cheek.

Two guards grabbed Fekiria, wrangling her off her feet. Lifted like a sack of vegetables, she snaked her body, trying to liberate herself. Thoughts of death—and worse—coursed through her mind. She knew what men had done to her cousin. To many women. Surely Adeeb would not let that happen to her.

Then again, he hadn’t come to her. Did he not recognize her? How could he not? Perhaps he’d disowned her, and for that reason, he refused to acknowledge Fekiria.

They dragged her into the house, cursing her. Threatening violence. But she gave them some of her own violence. She focused on fighting. Not on being a weak girl. She had self-defense skills. Captain Ripley and Captain Rashidi, a female American officer from Saudi, had taught them well. Fekiria would use it. Make them proud. Use the tactics she’d seen Sergeant Brian use against the other soldier. Anything to keep herself from being harmed. Or killed.

Her efforts paid off.

Her foot slipped free. She swung it upward, nailing the shorter guard in the head. He tumbled backward and hit his head against a table. The other started for his friend then realized his mistake when Fekiria used it to gain her balance. With a hard elbow jab to his nose—followed by a loud
crack!
—she freed herself from the fat one.

Standing, she turned ready for the fight and found the butt of a weapon flying at her.

Pain exploded through her temple. Her world vanished.

O
bjects in mirror are closer than they appear
.

“Go, go, go!” Brian pounded the side of the door again.

Brennan punched the pedal, but gunning it in an MRAP was different than Granddad’s ‘65 Mustang. “We’re too close.”

Brian bit back the retort as the massive mine-resistant vehicle lurched forward. But not anywhere near fast enough. What Brian wouldn’t do for Raptor, for his boys who had the instincts of wolves and reflexes like cobras. Guys who knew what to do without anyone having to shout at them once, let alone a half-dozen times. Frustration cinched around his throat.

We are dead meat
.

Another man on the roof joined the RPG launcher. Two? Two trying to kill them? The newcomer waved at the man with the launcher then motioned for him to put it down.

“What the…?”

When he didn’t immediately comply, the second man rushed forward and yanked down the tube. The dude complied.

What the fluff?

Brian glanced over his shoulder, searching for a clear view to confirm what he’d seen. Because he wasn’t trusting his eyes. This wasn’t right. Brennan swerved to stay on the road. Brian double-checked the mirror, disbelieving as the two villagers stood there on the roof. Just stood there. Like this was a parade.

Why were they calling off the attack? They had time and distance on their side. Manpower. Brian’s MRAP was first in the convoy. Even if they couldn’t hit Brian’s, they had the opportunity to take out the last one.

Whoops and hollers went up as the convoy gained speed, racing away from the ambush. The newbs were ecstatic to survive their first ambush and come out with all parts intact.

But… Brian couldn’t take his gaze off the sideview mirror. Didn’t make sense. Why’d they stop?
They had us
.

Out of ammo?

Then why would the villager aim at them? Why would the other guy try to stop him?

Okay, so it was loaded.

“Don’t look so mad that we made it,” Brennan said, his voice squeaky and tired with a trace of laughter—relief. “Give us more credit.”

Brian eyed the guy. The sweat on his brow and upper lip. In forty-degree weather? Even geared up he shouldn’t be sweating like that. “We’re alive. But we’re not there yet. Let’s break out the bubbly after we get there.”

In fact, they had two more villages they’d encounter before hitting the city where they’d have to navigate busy streets to get to the orphanage. That didn’t bother Brian. Ironic that he felt less threatened in a city with thousands more people than in a remote village with a few dozen. But he knew the ropes. Knew the Taliban soaked up remote locations so they could evade authorities and attention. And it was so much easier to lay a trap for soldiers traveling through and far from help.

“You okay?” Davis asked, her voice just over his left shoulder.

“No.”
Right, make them panic, genius
. “Yeah. We’ll be fine.”

Brennan white-knuckled the steering wheel and burrowed into the drive.

“Just…” Brian didn’t have anything solid. Just a gut instinct that this wasn’t right.

But that same instinct had gotten him into the Green Berets.

“Just stay alert.” The next twenty minutes felt like a wound-up jack-in-the-box. Any second, any turn, an explosion, another guy with an RPG, and then they’d be either dead or wishing they were dead.

“You got a girl back home, Hawk?”

Irritation scraped down Brian’s spine at the question.
That
was the guy’s idea of small talk? “Got a lot of them.” Wasn’t true. He
had
dated a lot. But bored easily.

Brennan’s laugh was caustic. “Should’ve known.”

This time, Brian glanced at him. But bit down on being baited into a conversation like this. His personal affairs
—nice choice of words
—were his
personal
affairs. He didn’t even talk about that stuff with Raptor. Somehow, dating made him feel…wide open for trouble. What it did to Captain Watters—the guy had gone all nutso over Double Z and then ended up a POW, tortured and left for dead outside a base.

“You can’t tell me some girl hasn’t caught your eye,” Davis said, her voice way too soft and silky.

Didn’t chicks know what that did to a guy?

And why in this freezing, dusty world did Fekiria Haidary’s face blast into his mind just then? He’d been too quick with a promise, knocked senseless by a pair of ultra-green eyes and those full lips.

Aw crap
. She was in his head. He didn’t need that. Besides, she had that butter-bar, slicked-up officer who seemed to negate her “No American Soldiers” mantra.

“What’s her name?”

Brian skidded a glance to his left shoulder, where he found Davis’s knowing smile and pretty blue eyes. “Sam. First name, Uncle.”

Laughing again, Brennan shifted in the seat. “Give it up, Davis. Guys like Hawk don’t date girls. They’re married to the Army. They’re machines.”

The words burned like acid in Brian’s veins. Dialogue like this ended in bad places, ones that usually forced him to set records straight. But he was going to keep it together because there was something bigger than his pride, than his ego, than demanding the respect he’d earned, happening here.

“Nah, guys like Hawk have girls flocking to him,” someone called from the back. “He’s a freakin’ Green Beret. Right, Davis—you got the hots for our own personal hero?”

Brian snapped his gaze to the back of the MRAP where the half-dozen other grunts sat. The way the grunt had spoken reeked of disrespect, jealousy, and way too much attitude. He nailed the source of the words with a heated glare. “She’s your battle buddy. Treat her with respect. She may be the one who has to save your sorry carcass.”

Twenty minutes of tension and laughter over Brian’s unwillingness to engage in the middle school conversation about girlfriends had to be endured before they reached the next village.

“Speed up.” Brian keyed his mic and ordered the other vehicles to do the same.

“We’re only stopping if we’re dead or at our destination,” he spoke over the coms.

The situation drenched the interior of the MRAP with anxiety. Palpable, palm-sweating anxiety. Next to him, Brennan radioed in an update of their location and progress. Barreling along, Brian gauged the time and distance to the final destination. Another hour. Maybe ninety minutes if they hit some messed-up traffic in the city. Or a snafu here.

Wind swirled dirt over the road like a demon dancing in the sand.

Demon. Why’d he have to go there?

“How long are you out here with us?” Brennan asked.

“Till the job’s done.” Brian’s gaze tracked over the buildings. “Eyes out. Watch for unfriendlies.”

Another gust of wind whipped dirt across their path twenty yards ahead. The wind was strong. Much stronger than—

Every muscle in Brian tightened. He saw it. Saw the trap. “Hard right!”

Brennan complied. Curses and yelps erupted from the back.

“What’d you see?” Brennan demanded.

“Convoy, road trap!” Brian shouted into his coms. “Veer right.”

“Too late!” someone from the back shouted. “Red ate it.”

Forty Klicks Outside Bagram, Afghanistan

16 January—1700 Hours

Checking his sideview, Brian glanced at the mirror again. Sure enough, the third vehicle had caught the edge of the trap. The front wheel hung down at least four feet, the vehicle tipped at nearly a forty-five-degree angle, its underbelly exposed.

“Go back! Go back!”

Brennan turned the MRAP around. Gunned it back to the other vehicle.

“We’ll need to get them to safety, protect the vehicle.”

“Davis,” Brennan said, “radio in for a recovery vehicle.”

“Roger that.”

“Eyes out,” Brian said.

Brennan put the gear in N
EUTRAL
then pulled the yellow button. A loud pop and hiss signaled the setting of the air brake.

“Be ready.” Securing the chin strap of his brain bowl, Brian eyed Brennan. “They trapped us here. That means they’re not done. Get your people to safety. I’ll cover, but I need three on me.”

Davis—no surprise there—volunteered first then SmartMouth and Parker.

“Everyone else with Brennan. Get the team in Red to safety.” Brian rolled out of the vehicle. He dropped to the ground, his weapon up as he traced the three one-story structures right that formed a south wall to the incident.

Behind him, he heard the scritch of tactical pants and the crunch of boots following him. With two fingers, he pointed to the buildings. “Eyes out. Davis, twelve o’clock. Parker, monitor our nine.” He glanced at the other guy’s name strip, figuring he’d probably set off the grunt calling him SmartMouth. “Redding, stay here. I’ll take our six. You see anything, let us know.”

The three spread out, a loose perimeter around the capsized MRAP. Brian slid up to where Brennan and his soldiers were already ushering the team from the vehicle.

On a knee at the side of the second MRAP, Brian focused on the two-story plaster building directly opposite. Especially on the drab sheet that hung in a long window. It riffled on the wind.

But there’s no wind.

If he were with Raptor, he’d radio in the possible threat. But this team wouldn’t understand. Frustration mounted.

“How we doing, Brennan?” Brian asked through his coms.

“Two left inside—one unconscious, and the other broke a leg.”