Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (30 page)

O
ut of the car, slow and easy,” Dean shouted over the engine noise and wind. His heart hadn’t slowed since the car entered, even though he felt confident they had it contained. He hoped Sal and the others saw this on the feed and were on their way.

“Hands up or I shoot,” came Hawk’s yell from the passenger side of the vehicle.

“Out,” Dean ordered.

The driver-side door creaked, the hinge no doubt stiff from the cold temps, and gently opened. Two hands appeared over the window frame. Then a heavily graying head.

Dean sucked in a breath and let it out. “General Burnett. Sir. You weren’t expected.”

“That was the point, Captain.” General Lance Burnett pulled his wool coat tight and clutched the lapels beneath his chin as he shot a look at the other soldier. “Am I enough reason not to kill me, Bledsoe?”

Holstering his weapon, Hawk gave a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

Burnett laughed. “Good. I like living.”

Thud!

Dean pivoted, his weapon still in his hand, instincts buzzing. Falcon, Titanis, Harrier, and Eagle burst out of the building, guns bared. “Stand down,” Dean said.

As the creak of another door drew everyone’s attention, Sal started forward. “General.”

Hawk reached for the door and drew it open fully as a tall, beautiful blond emerged, and from the rear came two more—Lieutenant Brie Hastings and a male officer, Lieutenant Smith.

A curse froze the chilly air.

Dean glanced at Sal, who had already turned and headed back inside. He stopped hard at the door, glanced at the blond then at the general. “I’m not doing this. No way.” And he went inside.

Dean looked to Burnett and the blond. Waited for an explanation, but the way the woman lowered her gaze somberly told him enough. He shifted and angled toward Burnett. “What’s going on?”

“A long story. Let’s get in out of the cold.” Burnett wagged his fingers at the woman.

Dean waited, watching as she joined the general, the other two officers trailing behind as the threesome followed the well-built general into the building. The blond had a thick satchel in hand. Wore Army dress blues.

Class A’s? Out here?

“Cap?” Hawk asked.

“Let’s find out.”

Lance shook the snow off his wool trench coat as they crossed the room. He’d already told Lieutenant Walker to let him do the talking, initially. And he was glad to see she understood his order. Bringing her in was a risk, but she had intelligence and could help.

“Sir, we didn’t have word that you were coming.”

“Exactly.” Lance turned to Watters as he and the rest of the team came in and shut out the cold. “With coms compromised, we felt it best.”

“My men and I could’ve shot you.”

“Could’ve.” Lance grinned. “But you didn’t. And good thing.” He motioned to Walker. “We might have some good news.”

Watters and the others exchanged nervous but hopeful glances.

Rubbing his hands tighter for warmth and effect, he said, “In fact, we have two pieces of good news.” The men looked a bit haggard. Better not give them too much excitement. “At least, we’re hoping you can verify that.” He motioned toward the lieutenant. “This is Cassandra Walker with the DIA’s National Military Intelligence Center.”

Lance didn’t miss that Salvatore Russo had abandoned propriety and shoved his nose into a computer.

The captain stepped forward. Offered his hand. “Dean Watters.” With a motion she could follow, he introduced the men. “The one on your right is Hawk. Next to him, the big guy is Titanis, for obvious reasons. Eagle is there with Falcon.”

Walker’s gaze hit then fled Russo’s. No small amount of frustration and tension balled up between Lance’s shoulders. He turned to Hastings and Smith. “Why don’t you two show them what you found.” With that, he took Walker by the arm and led her to the side. “You said this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s not.” But again, her wide eyes betrayed her as they bounced to Russo.

“I need you here, Cassie.” He made sure she heard him, left a pause for emphasis. “I need eyes on the data, on what they’re seeing so you can figure out—”

“I’m fine.” Her naturally soft voice hardened. But only a fraction. She knew she needed to offer an explanation or apology. “I just didn’t expect his reaction to be so…violent.”

“I warned you—”

“You did. And I’m a professional soldier. I’ll do my job.” She met Lance’s gaze with unwavering resolution, fiery determination in blue eyes that could melt the strongest soldier. Except Sal Russo. “To the mission, sir.”

Lance nodded, feeling the pressure in his chest ease a bit. “Good. Because I need your eyes, Cassie.”

“You have them, sir.”

“Don’t let his attitude mess with you. Put the past out of your head. You’re here on my orders, and he’ll deal with it like the Special Forces soldier he is.”

“Of course, sir.”

Lance wanted to say more, to reassure her—and himself—that this would work out. But they didn’t have the time. With a bob of his head toward the rest of the crew, he rejoined the others.

“Now, I can get something done,” Bledsoe announced as he dropped into a chair.

“The audio isn’t the best,” Hastings said.

“Doesn’t have to be.” Leaning toward the monitor, Bledsoe went to work.

“Now you see why I risked getting shot to bring you this?”

Watters gave a lopsided smile, but then he looked at Walker. “What’s in the satchel?”

She blinked as if she’d forgotten. “Files, footage, metadata from the situations Raptor has been involved in to date.”

“But most important…” Lance said as he held out a hand to her.

Opening the satchel, Walker darted a glance to the side—to Russo—as she dug into the leather portfolio. She lifted it out and held it out to him.

“Go on,” Lance prompted. She needed to bolster her confidence. Walker had a unique specialty. An uncanny one, really. She could read a situation unlike anyone he’d ever seen. But that wasn’t why she was here.

“This is Meng-Li Jin. He adopted the name Daniel Jin a few years ago.” Walker passed the photo off to Watters, who studied it then handed it to Straider.

“He looks pretty chuffed with himself,” Straider said, his thick accent seemingly thicker with the southern drawl Walker unloaded on the room.

“He is. Rich, powerful, bachelor.” Walker crossed her arms. “He’s part owner of Takkar Corp.”

“Hold up.” Bledsoe looked up from the picture, trying to hand it off to Russo. “Takkar?” He turned to Watters. “Isn’t that—?”

“Yes,” Lance interdicted in the conversation. This information had to be controlled. “Sajjan Takkar’s partner.”

“Hold the fluff up.” Bledsoe folded his arms over his thick chest. “Are you saying Takkar is targeting us now?”

“No, we’re not.”

Bledsoe shook his head. “Do we know which way is up yet?”

“What we know,” Lance slid his hands in his pockets, “is often not verifiable, but I have it on the best authority that Sajjan Takkar is not involved in any actions against us.”

“Okay, so why do we care?” Bledsoe asked.

“Because”—Walker lifted her chin, cast a nervous glance to Lance, who gave her an affirming nod—“I believe Meng-Li is your problem.”

“
Our
problem?” Watters cocked his head. “How?”

“To be more accurate,” Lieutenant Hastings said as she circled the room and stood between Lance and Straider, “he’s the entire U.S. military’s problem, and for any American.”

“What have we done to him?” Todd Archer asked.

“Decades ago, Daniel’s father went into business with Dilraj Takkar, Sajjan’s father. They had a start-up poised to take off. Then Operation Desert Storm happened. The American government promised all kinds of monetary and military backup if the people would rebel.”

“Yeah, we’ve heard this story before,” Archer said. “Didn’t end well.”

“No, it didn’t.” Lance hated what happened more than anyone in this room because he’d been part of the command structure during ODS.

“In fact, it ended in tragedy for Meng-Li Gang.” Lieutenant Walker went on. “After the Americans pulled out, he was brutally murdered, as were many Iraqi locals who participated in the uprising. Their voices were smothered. Their lives snuffed out. Daniel and his mother lived with one relative after another, until he was old enough to take over his father’s position.”

“Hold up—how long ago was that?”

“Twelve years.”

“So, Takkar let him just waltz back in?” Bledsoe asked.

“It was better than that,” Lance said, the bitter taste of irony on his tongue. “Sajjan—whose own father died five years ago—invited Daniel Jin to take his father’s place. It was a demonstration of honor and respect.”

“So why aren’t we calling into question the man who’s been helping us?” Bledsoe scratched the side of his face. “Because that’s who Takkar is, right? The guy at the A Breed Apart gala? I’m not understanding why he’s not suspect in this. Is he friendly or—?”

“Or.”
Lance let the nonqualifier stand. “Our situation here is Meng-Li—Daniel Jin.”

“If he’s in bed with Takkar, shouldn’t we—?”

“Bledsoe. Listen up, all of you.” Lance tried to stow his own frustration. “Takkar will not be discussed. Clear?”

They didn’t like it. Neither did he. But they couldn’t lose focus, and he couldn’t answer questions about Sajjan Takkar. Not here. Not now. Not ever. The fact that he couldn’t discuss the foreign operative should be enough to silence the team. They would read between the lines.

“So, why do we need Walker?” Bledsoe’s tone wasn’t belligerent. “Just curious.”

“Because I’m fluent in Mandarin, and”—her very expressive eyes drifted to Russo, who, by the tilt of his head and the set of his jaw, was listening—“I interned with Takkar Corp.–Shanghai for a year.”

Sliding his hands in his pockets, Lance leaned on the table. “Walker worked as the assistant to Meng-Li’s admin. She has some knowledge on his inner workings. She was the one who came forward with the leads on this case.”

Metal scraping against metal announced Russo’s move. He stood, fingers resting on the table. “That alone is enough to question everything she says. I vote she leaves.”

“Fortunately for me and this mission,” Lance said, “this is not a democracy. You have no vote here. If you don’t like it, suck it up. She’s staying. Get your focus back on the target—find Meng-Li’s claws in our system and chop them off!”

H
is pearl lay on the satin sheets, her beauty rivaling the opulence of the room, the incongruent beauty of the pearl. He set the symbolic pearl ring on her pillow and stood back, appraising the two. So similar. She had been an irritant, but he recognized that with refinement, with endurance, she would become a gem.

Showered, dressed, he left the room. Sailed through the penthouse and met his assistant, who inclined his head as he gave an upper-torso bow. How he missed the days of kneeling bows. As his people had long done before their emperors. Respect in physical form.

In the elevator, he turned and, before the doors slid closed, saw Kiew emerge from his bedroom. Long black hair tumbled over her ivory shoulder as she stood wrapped in the sheet, the pearl between her fingers as she watched him. Questions danced in her eyes, but he would not answer them. Not with words, not with a smile. Give her too much encouragement and her weakness would return. She would stop trying.

Several hours in the air aboard his private jet gave Daniel time to meditate. Empty his body of the stress toxins and clear his mind so when he arrived he could move forward confidently. He noticed an obvious decline in his stress levels as the Lear descended into Kabul International Airport.

Singular focus must be maintained to guarantee the success of his mission. Coat buttoned, he hustled down the steps of the jet and into the waiting black SUV, where he loosened the coat. The driver pulled away as soon as Daniel slumped into the rich, ebony leather seats. Congestion through Kabul city caused numerous delays, but they were to be expected—and avoided. The driver detoured time and again onto freer streets, affording Daniel even more contentment when they pulled up in front of the large, multistoried building precisely on time. Never early. Never late.