Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (4 page)

Five Klicks Outside Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan

17 December—1135 Hours

“Hawk!”

Something struck his shoulder. Brian blinked. Adrenaline shot through him, recalling the explosion. Must’ve knocked him out. He scrambled up and to cover. Captain Watters and Falcon were whispering…wait. No—not whispering. Shouting!

Brian stuck a finger in his ear to unplug it and felt a warm stickiness. “Great.” One glance at his bloodied finger told him his eardrum might’ve ruptured. As his mind reconnected the dots that left him on the ground, he looked to the crumbling village. It now stood less one building.

In the warbling vacuum that was his hearing, he heard
“Move!”
loud and clear. He propelled himself toward their vehicle. As he ran, he saw Titanis and Harrier moving swiftly and precisely, weapons trained on possible fire traps. A slap to his shoulder made him jerk.

The massive Aussie didn’t seem fazed as he stood, weapon up and scanning.

Folding himself into the vehicle, Brian shook his head in the eerie, vacuous silence that had engulfed him. Shook it harde r. He didn’t need to hear to know they had to clear out. Now.

In their MRAP, he noticed the emptiness of sound even more. He grabbed the rag from his neck and wiped the blood. Falcon leapt behind the wheel, and they tore away from the village.

In the relative safety of the vehicle, Brian gave himself a mental pat down for injuries. Checked the team. A line of blood traced the side of Falcon’s face. The captain didn’t need the cut across his nose and cheek to look ticked—he did that fine on his own.

After that near-death experience, it wasn’t surprising Falcon kept vigilant, driving only in the middle of the road and sometimes off-road to ensure they didn’t attract the fatal effects of an improvised-explosive device. Nothing could guarantee their safety, but the more precautions taken, the more chances of surviving increased.

They hit a rut in the road. The vehicle dipped to the left then rammed against a rock as it returned to even ground. The jolt freed Brian’s ear with a painful
pop!
He hunched his shoulders against the pain but gritted through it.

“…of nowhere. I want to talk with Echo’s team leader.” The captain held his coms mic, head craned to the side as he listened. “Negative, sir.”

Only then did Brian realize his coms piece must’ve broken. He couldn’t hear anything through it. He removed it and grunted at the split casing and blood around it. Swiping the side of his face confirmed he was bleeding in more places than one.

“Sir.” Captain Watters bit out the term of respect, his jaw muscle popping. He slid a glance to Falcon, who shook his head.

“What’s going on?” Brian leaned forward in his seat. “My coms broke.”

“Nothing.” The captain rammed his elbow against the window. “Ramsey’s blocking me from talking with Echo Company’s team leader.”

“What the—
why
?” That didn’t make any sense. The team needed to rout whoever had made that call. If it was someone within Echo, they had to find that out before more trouble hatched.

“DIA and CID are checking into it. For now, we have a mission.”

“What mission?” Falcon objected. “We have been sent on more drug and weapons cache raids in the last three months than all combined missions. What are they trying to keep us from?”

“The truth,” Brian snapped.

“No,” the captain said, looking over his shoulder at Brian. “I think this is about them having no idea what’s happening. They’re scared, so they’re trying to keep tight control on assets.”

Okay, now that was an interesting scenario. And for Brian, one that finally made sense. “So, you think—”

“We need to talk to Burnett.”

Brian found himself nodding along with the captain as they returned to the sub-base command center. The main door opened as the team climbed out. A group of soldiers emerged, hovering. Waiting.

Brian’s fists balled as he saw the familiar faces. SEALs. The same ones who’d been a pain in their butts.

Captain Watters slowed as he removed his helmet.

“Captain.” At five-ten, the guy stood a few inches shorter than Raptor’s team leader, but there was no difference in power wielded.

“Commander Riordan.” Watters drew up and planted his hand on his tactical belt. “What can I do for you?”

Riordan, jaw tight and gaze fierce, shot a glance to Brian and the others. Then he lowered his gaze, as if second-guessing his purpose here. He let out a breath then lifted his head. “The team and I are heading to Aazam’s tonight.”

Hookah bar? Was the dude serious? “We’re in the middle of a freakin’ war.” Though Brian would like to have some downtime, he never had gotten into the hookah thing.

The captain held up his hand to Brian without looking at him. To Riordan, he said, “I hope you gentlemen have a good time.”

“If you change your mind, we’ll be there—2100.”

Hand on the door, Captain Watters hesitated. Met the commander’s eyes. Then gave a quick nod as he tugged the door open. Falcon stepped through, and Brian moved around the SEALs to enter when one of the frogmen stepped into his path.

Brian’s shoulder collided with the guy.

Old instincts flared. He snapped a hand up.

Watters’s hand on Brian’s chest slowed the fire. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Heart hammering, Brian aimed himself into the building. Fists balled, teeth clenched, he dialed down the punch of adrenaline that demanded he make that SEAL eat his bullying.

As sunlight was snapped out by the closing door, a vise clamped onto Brian’s shoulder. “Work on that, Hawk.” Watters patted him then stepped ahead.

Disappointment chugged through Brian. No matter how hard he
did
try, those impulses erupted on their own. Just when he thought they were under his control, some punk SEAL stepped into his face. But why did it always have to happen in front of Captain Watters, the one soldier he wanted to prove himself to?

And why was the captain’s approval so important?

“General Burnett, this is Dean Watters…”

Incident chunked, Brian zeroed in on the team hunkered in the corner by the captain’s desk. “Put it on speaker,” Brian said.

“Sir?” Captain Watters frowned. And man, when that guy looked ticked, people ran.

Brian’s bid to hear the conversation vanished. This didn’t sound good, so maybe he didn’t want to hear after all.

Leaning forward, the captain cradled his forehead with his fingertips. “Sir, I respectfully—” Silence clapped through the room. “Yessir…understood, sir…no, sir.” He shook his head. Staring at the phone, he slowly lowered it to the cradle.

“So?” Falcon asked, his thick arms folded over his chest.

“We lay low.”

“Till when?” Falcon’s question—and the look in his brown eyes—read more like a challenge than a question.

The captain pushed out of his chair. He looked each of them in the eye. “Let’s shower up and grab some grub.”

Brian choked back a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?” He held out his hands. “Just pretend someone out there didn’t just try to kill us.”

Captain Watters snapped him a glare.

Right. Anger…
Brian drew back. Tempered the storm in his gut. “Fine.” The commander knew something. And he wasn’t telling them. Which…Was there a reason, or was he being Burnett’s puppet again?

Brian left the building and showered. Tended the cuts and scrapes, grateful there didn’t appear to be any permanent damage to his eardrum. He grabbed a bowl of Mongolian beef and rice from one of the restaurants and headed back to his desk at the sub-base. The captain may not have the know-how to do some light
investigating
via their Internet, but Brian did.

He logged in and worked his way through the protocol series, digging deeper and deeper. With each mouthful of food, with each hour and layer of security, his tension rose.
If I get caught…

Once into the base’s main server, he gained access. It’d take a few hours to find what he needed, but the journey had to start somewhere. He’d need the names of Echo Company to verify their locations at the time of the incident and cross-check that with video surveillance. Troll radio-chatter transcripts.

“Hawk.”

Something in the chatter transcripts tugged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t figure out what. “Yeah.” He glanced over his shoulder and froze. Oh crap.

C
aptain Watters strode toward him, his brow knotted.

Brian slumped back against his chair.

“What are you doing?”

“Research.”

Towering over him, the captain frowned. “What kind of research?”

“The kind that protects us out there when someone’s trying to blow us up.”

Lips flat, the captain stared him down. He breathed in. Out. “Even after I told you to leave it.”

“You didn’t, actually.” Not that he was being facetious or smart-alecky. “You told us to shower. Grab some food. I did”—he dropped the Styrofoam carton in the trash—“then I did my job. Communications.”

“You knew full well what I meant, what was implied. You sorry…” The captain drew in a ragged breath and let it out slowly. “You’d better pray you didn’t just bury us. Or so help me—” He pivoted and started for the door. “Let’s go.”

Brian rose to his feet. Glanced at the clock. Do what—2000 hours already? “Where?”

“Move!”

Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan

17 December—1935 Hours

Moonlight streamed through the curtain and beamed onto her bed. Fekiria lay staring up at the sky, her flight-wing pin between her hands. The stars. If she closed her eyes, she was there. Among them. Among the stars and not down here. Not with the trouble and ridicule and disapproval. Their ancient customs and patriarchal fury.

She lifted the pin into the light and smiled.
I did it!

Advanced training. If she wanted to fly something bigger and faster…she’d have to head south to Kandahar Airfield. Away from her family. Away from everything she knew. It wouldn’t be as if she’d go alone. As part of the ANA, she would be on the base among other soldiers. It wouldn’t be improper.

But it still wouldn’t be acceptable. Not to Baba. Nothing she did was acceptable to him.

And why was it improper for a woman to live alone?

She could do more than most men. Had outscored and outflown nearly every one of her fellow pilot candidates. Now she had the capability to drop bombs on men like those who had killed the children. Nearly killed her cousin.

But if she went…she could never come back. Baba and Madar would not understand. Zahrah would never talk to her again because much of what she believed about Fekiria right now was based on lies.

Her phone buzzed. She lifted it from the small table beside her bed and glanced at the text. A smile riffled through her. Sandor Ripley. She opened it and found his message. B
ORING HERE WITHOUT YOU
. Her flight advisor had encouraged her. Probably more than he should have. She was not so blind that she missed his attraction to her. But he was American.

Yes. An American who taught you how to fly
.

To fulfill a dream. One Baba said could not happen. Perhaps she was a hypocrite. Captain Ripley was not the only American soldier who had been nice to her. There had been plenty, in truth. But there had been one…one she could not especially stand. The friend of Zahrah’s Captain Dean. The one who had come to little Ara’s funeral. Who had kept her busy so she could not interrupt Zahrah’s conversation. She did not trust Americans. And he made it worse.

They’d called him Sergeant Brian. Gray-green eyes. Light hair. Too much attitude. He had openly flirted with her.

Captain Ripley had shown her respect. Admiration.

Fekiria pulled herself from the bed. Still dressed, she lifted the hijab she’d worn earlier. No. The pale pink one. She lifted it from a drawer then quietly slipped out of her room. Darkness shrouded the apartment. A crack of light sneaked beneath Zahrah’s bedroom door and slid across the vinyl floor to Fekiria. She hurried to the front door and let herself out. As she scampered down the stairs, she heard a door above open.