Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (37 page)

But the little six-year-old shook her head violently. Shoved herself back against the wall, rigid with fright.

Sheevah started toward the girl, who just kicked and screamed.

He’d seen this before. It wasn’t unusual for a child to react so violently to a situation like this. “She’s in shock. Tell her to go easy on her.”

Fekiria translated, but the little one still wasn’t having it.

Brian stepped over to the two, touched the older girl on the shoulder, and nudged her toward the little one sitting on the cot, waiting. He slid his weapon around behind him, out of her sight. Anything to reduce the threat-stress levels she was experiencing right now.

Reaching into a side pocket of his ruck, he squatted before the little one. Winked at her. Drew out a candy bar. He’d learned from his former teammate, Tony “Candyman” VanAllen, to always have a bar or two ready to win local favor. And right now they needed her favor because if he had to haul her out kicking and screaming, they might as well have a homing beacon on them.

He held it in his hand but didn’t extend it. She had to come to him.
And quick
.

“Aadela,” came the soft whisper of Fekiria’s voice in his ear.

He nodded but said nothing.

Aadela. Bright-eyed, short-cropped black hair. Hands and knees held close to her chest, she watched him. Warily. As if gauging whether she could trust him. The seconds felt like hours, with the threat of another hit any moment, as he waited for her to decide he would be safe.

“Tell her I need a friend,” Brian said to the side, to Fekiria who hovered behind.

The words came sweetly in Pashto.

Aadela looked to Fekiria then back to Brian.

He turned his hand so his palm faced up, exposing the chocolate bar. An offer. But not an extension.

Aadela shook her head.

Okay, maybe he needed to take the forceful route.

She pointed to his shoulder. Brian glanced at his shoulder lamp. Unhooked it and held it in front of him. Aadela scooted forward. Took it.

Brian lifted her into his arms and rose at the same time. “Go now!”

Kabul Market, Afghanistan

23 February—1815 Hours

“What do we know about his location?”

Grim-faced and exhausted, Sal scratched his beard as they sat under a bridge in the Humvee, avoiding detection. Avoiding exposure. “It’s hot. I don’t know what lit that area up, but there’s no way we’d get in without being seen.” He turned to the small radio he held and grinned. “Bumped into a cop.”

And apparently bummed the guy’s radio. “What’re you hearing?”

“Craziness. They’re talking so fast, it’s hard to catch—” He craned his neck, listening. Shook his head. Though none of them were fluent in Dari or Pashto, they all had a passing knowledge, able to pick up bits and pieces. Sal had the best grip on the language though. “They’re looking for a woman. I can’t tell what reason they’re giving.”

“So, what? They’ve hit the wrong house?”

Sal lifted a shoulder then went back to listening.

“Can we get them out though?” Talking out loud helped Dean think through the situation, but it also gave the opportunity for one of the others to offer up a solution.

“Unlikely,” Sal said. “They’ve got police, and I’ve heard some ANA chatter.”

“That’s a lot of activity for Hawk,” Titanis put in.

“So, what? Hawk’s in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Dean wasn’t buying it.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sal said with a grunt-laugh.

“But not this time.” It felt different. Too quick. “They were on that house before we even got there.” Like it was planned.

“Guys,” Sal said, his voice strained. “This…this isn’t military chatter. Or police. It’s…” His dark brown eyes hit Dean’s. “This sounds”—he tilted his head, thinking or listening—“this sounds like normal Taliban chatter.”

“You’re telling me the Taliban are after him?”

“Or after that woman. Didn’t Hawk say he had two women with him?”

Dean nodded. “And the pilot. He’s got nearly a dozen innocents on his hands.”

Radio in hand, Sal shifted in his seat, the Humvee rocking beneath them. “If we could get back to the base, we could coordinate—”

“It’s more than an hour north,” Dean said.

“There are kids there—Hawk has children,” Eagle said, his tone conveying his frustration. “This goes global if kids die. We’ll be put on a spit and roasted.”

It was true. Kill as many adults as you wanted, but kill a kid and you ended up on the front page of the news, labeled a murderer. Kids.
How did that happen?
He didn’t get the whole story from Hawk and knew he couldn’t over the coms. Though their phones were secure, they were all too aware that nothing was “secure” anymore.

“Look, I’m willing to face whatever risk to go in there and help him,” Eagle offered, his words thick with concern. “This whole just-sitting-here-talking isn’t working.”

“But going in could put them in more danger than not going in,” Titanis countered.

“So, we just leave them?” Eagle’s voice pitched. “In this storm— it’s about to dump a truckload of snow, and the wind coming with it could chew through granite. Hawk has limited weapons and supplies. Children and women depending on him, and we just walk away?”

“Easy,” Dean warned. “No decision has been made. We’re talking.”

“We need to quit
talking
and get moving.”

Eagle was right. They couldn’t leave Hawk with women and children who were being targeted. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“Command won’t like that,” Sal said.

“They rarely do.” Dean pointed to the wheel. “Get us over there.”

23 February—1825 Hours

Crouched in a darkened alley, Fekiria held Wajmah close as they rested against the damp, cold wall. They’d escaped through a hidden door at the back that led into this narrow enclosure. Wind and snow snaked through the tight space, threatening. Chilling. Mitra slumped beside them, her daughter in her arms. Trailing them, Sheevah and Jamilah hugged each other. Hawk crouch-ran a few paces past them with a monkey-like Aadela clasped around him.

Slowly, he lowered Aadela, motioned for her to stay, then raised his weapon. Head back against the wall. Bracing himself. Preparing himself. With a finger, he nudged aside a board. Peered through. Then to the other side.

He turned his head, and his gaze struck Fekiria’s. With a nod, he motioned them forward. A buzzing seemed to rend the air, though the wind howled and in the distance sirens still screamed their presence.

Sergeant Brian grabbed at his leg pocket, digging out his sat phone. He had no pale blue light to give away his location. He pressed the phone to his ear. His words were tight, controlled, low.

Fekiria moved closer, careful not to be noisy. Cautious that she did not upset Wajmah, who shivered in her arms.

Sergeant Brian looked at her as he listened. “Roger. Good.” He nodded. “Okay. Ten mikes.” He put the phone away and waved at the others. “We have a rendezvous.”

Relief spiraled through her. Wait—had he said ten mikes? Was that minutes? That meant… “Where?”

“Two klicks northeast.”

“Two kilometers?” She tried to keep her voice as controlled as his. “They are children!”

“If they want to live, they move.” He handed her his gun. “You know how to use that, right?”

She nodded, mute.

“We go three at a time.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Cross the street. Take shelter in the next alley up. Bound and cover. No straight lines. You know the drill, right?”

Fekiria’s heart pounded. She looked through the wood slot to the spot he’d mentioned. To get there, they’d be out in the open for a solid minute or two. Plenty of time to get gunned down. She would be responsible for making sure the girls were covered. “Are you sure?”

His expression seemed to soften. “You’ll do fine. Just keep moving. Do not stop. No matter what.”

“You trust me?”

“Yes,” he said then smirked. “But if you don’t keep moving, they shoot you.”

“Right.”

“I’ll cover you and bring up the rear.”

“So you have nothing to lose by sending me first.”
He’s American. Of course he doesn’t care about us
.

Surprise and hurt crowded his expression. He frowned. Then scowled. “You think I’m trying to get you killed?”

Fekiria stared up at him. He stood at least a foot taller. Shoulders broad. Neck thick. He seemed to dwarf her. A measure of guilt coursed through her, but she would not take back the words. She had been betrayed by too many men.

“Baby, if I wanted to kill you, I’d walk the other way. I can hide and never be seen for months. With seven of you, I’m a sitting duck.” He leaned into her. “There are easier ways to kill someone. Now, you done holding us up?”

He might as well have smacked her. In truth, his words had. And it hurt. A lot more than she thought they would. “Sheevah,” Fekiria said, not breaking his eye contact.

The fourteen-year-old came to her side.

“Take Wajmah.” Fekiria turned away from Sergeant Brian. Away from his accusation. But she deserved it. The man infuriated her! “Let’s go.” She nodded to the opening.

Wide eyed, Sheevah sucked in a breath. Shook her head.

“Across the street, to the alley,” Fekiria said. “I’ll be right behind you. Do not stop. Run, and run hard.”

Shouts and shooting far away startled everyone, gasps and yelps echoing through the dark alley. “See?” Fekiria said. “They are not near us. We must hurry.” And with that, she turned and angled herself through the wood slats Sergeant Brian held open.

She scanned the ever-darkening neighborhood. The wind and snow tugged at her collar and hijab as she waited for Sheevah to emerge with Wajmah. A second later the two burst through and took off running.

Running behind them, her back to the pair, scanning and aiming at the same time, Fekiria could only hope they made it. It felt surreal to be on the ground in her own country fleeing for her life. Down past two walled homes and another compound, then they banked right. Slammed up against the plaster wall of the final compound.

Panting hard, she worked to steady her nerves. They’d made it. No one had shot at them. No danger presented itself. Maybe they would be okay. She reached over and squeezed Sheevah’s hand. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

“Where are you going?” the teen asked.

“I must cover for Mitra now.” Fekiria inched along the wall to the corner. There, she knelt and waved at Sergeant Brian. The distance was not a great one but enough that she could not tell if he was still there.

What was taking them so long? Her pulse hiccupped. What if he
had
left? Abandoned them? Her stomach squirmed at the thought. Even as she was pushing onto her feet, a shape emerged. Then another.

They ran toward her.

Her fears allayed, she resumed her watch, ready to protect Mitra, her daughter, and Jamilah as they hurried toward her. But the thought plagued her: Had Sergeant Brian left?

Why would he?

Because he’s American
.

But he had helped. He would not do that…would he?

Crack!

Fekiria blinked. Jolted.
What was that!?
In that second, the wind seemed to stop. The earth and its elements yielded to the violence of the moment. Because she saw more than she wanted in that single blink of her eye. Jamilah pitched backward, right into Mitra, who fell. Little Dassah tumbled from her mother’s arms. Jamilah’s shriek filled the dark alley.