Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (8 page)

Focus on Ella
. But his gaze lingered awhile longer on Sienna. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her auburn hair hanging loose and free. In the years since Ellery’s death, her sister had stepped in and been a surrogate mother to Ella and Noah. She’d covered gaps when Mitch got deployed. Never complained. Always helped.

“Daddy?”

Mitch blinked. “Huh?” Had he been staring? “Did you fall asleep again?” Ella asked, exasperated.

“Well, it was a bedtime story, wasn’t it?”

“For me, silly,” Ella said with her adorable giggle. “Auntie Sie said it’s morning there. You gotta work, Daddy.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

“Okay, you two,” Sienna said. “Say night to your daddy then go climb in bed. We have an early morning. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ella’s face grew large in the camera then blurred as a noisy kissing noise reverberated through the feed. “Night, Daddy. I love you!”

Mitch’s throat constricted. “Love you, too, baby girl!”

“I’m not a baby. I’m six!”

“Yes, you are. Now, off to bed,” he said, fighting the tears. He wanted to be there with them. Hold her and smell that strawberry shampoo in her hair.

“Night, Dad,” Noah said, once again fist-bumping the camera.

Mitch returned it. “Proud of you, champ. Warrior on!”

“You, too. Night.”

Choked up, Mitch turned away, pinching the bridge of his nose.
God, just get me home to them. Don’t take me from them, too
.

“Hey.” Sienna’s silky soft voice eased out of the speaker. “They’re doing good. You’d be proud of them.”

“I
am
proud of them. Miss them like crazy. Sucks to be away from them.”

“I know. And they miss you, too.” She folded her arms on the table and bent forward. “Listen…”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah,” she said, bunching her shoulders. “Ella’s teacher said something to my mom about me taking care of them.”

He braced himself. “And they said something to you?”

“They did.”

“They weren’t happy.”

“No.”

“Why can’t they just accept that I can love my kids and still be a soldier?” He grunted. “Sorry to drag you into this.”

“Drag me into it? I’m their aunt. My sister and I might have had our differences, but those kids mean the world to me. I really gave my parents a piece of my mind at their accusations.”

It was a salve to the wound her parents inflicted. “Wait. What accusations?”

Sienna winced. “They called you an absentee father, said you’re injuring the children’s emotional state.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“I know—”

“It’s my job. I have to work. If I don’t work—”

“Mitch.” Sienna leaned in to the camera. “You don’t have to defend yourself with me. I calmed my parents down, told them to think about the kids. It worked.”

“It makes me crazy and mad.”

“Me, too.”

At her words, he held her gaze, torn between the fury of his in-laws’ meddling and Sienna’s caring. “Thank you.”

She nodded with a somber smile. “Hang in there, chief. We’ll be here when you get back.”

He liked that. Liked the way she dropped the
we
in that sentence instead of
they
. Mitch could only hope he was reading it right. “I look forward to seeing you, all of you.”

Sienna held his gaze for three long, stirring moments. “Me, too.” A slight smile. “Next time, Mitch.”

“Next time, Sienna.”

W
hat’d you find out?” General Lance Burnett closed his briefcase and punched the locks.

“He’s not talking,” Watters said as he folded his arms.

“What’re you going to do?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always, son.” Lance set the briefcase on the chair by the door and went for his lined jacket on the coatrack. “Bledsoe isn’t the first soldier to have problems like this. Your job is to root out what’s causing it and determine the appropriate disciplinary action. The law affords you room, choices—from extra duties to honorable discharge to other-than-honorable.”

Watters hunched his shoulders. “I just want to throttle him.”

“Of course you do. You picked him for a reason. You trust him with your life, but he’s got an Achilles’ heel. We all do, Watters.” Lance grinned at the young captain. “Speaking of—how’s Miss Zarrick?”

Watters’s gaze darted around, as if searching for an appropriate response.

Lance chuckled. “You don’t have to answer.” A rap on the door drew his attention to the half window in the door with the open blinds. Russo stood at the door. Lance waved him in.

“Sir,” Russo saluted.

“At ease. Got good news for you, Sergeant,” Lance said as he returned to his desk. He lifted a manila envelope and passed it over to the Italian-Latino. “Your promotion came through. Effective immediately.”

Russo straightened, his eyes widening. “Sir.”

“You’ll get your official recognition next week, but as of this moment, you’re a warrant officer.” Lance grinned at the guy who’d been a walking storm the last eight months. “How’s it feel,
Warrant Officer
Russo?”

Russo skated a glance to Watters then back to Lance. “An honor, sir.”

“You got that right. Raptor is one of the finest teams out there, and I’m dang proud of you guys.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Lance nodded. “Now, what is it you came in here for?”

“Two things—with Harrier heading Stateside for some time off with his kids, we’re a man down. I’d like a replacement—”

“We’re tight on personnel, but I’ll look into it.”

Russo nodded with tight lips. “I’d also like to ask about the attacks.”

With a long expel of breath through puffed cheeks, Lance again nodded. “I need you and Watters to give me some time. I’m working on a few things, but—”

“Sir,” Russo said. “No disrespect, but we were
ambushed
. No, worse—we were lured into that trap. Our communications are compromised. How can we—?”

“Stop right there.” Lance tempered his words, careful of the edge creeping into his tone. He held up a hand. “I hear you. Believe you me, I hear you. But just as I trust you to make calls out there, you need to trust the calls I make here. You may not understand what I’m doing or why, but I need that trust.”

Russo scowled. “Even if it means men die?”

Watters came to his feet. “Easy, Falcon.”

“No.” Russo’s expression went hard as granite. “I don’t think so. It’s one thing to ask us to do our job with accurate intel, but to ask us to grope around in hostile territory not knowing what intel is accurate—”

“I understand your concerns.”

Fire blazed through Russo’s dark eyes. “Do you? Because last I recall, you sat here in—”

“Falcon.” Watters stepped forward.

Heart thudding at the disrespectful tenor of Russo’s words, Lance stared. “You’d be wise to listen to your captain. And to trust me. I can’t tell you what I’m working on just yet, but you can be sure I won’t be sending you out on fool’s errands. Terrorists have taken enough of our boys.”

Lips tight, he glared at the newly minted WO1 for a few long seconds then threaded his hands through his coat sleeves. “I’d be real careful of the accusations you throw around in your anger and zeal to protect your men. Remember, Russo—they’re my men, too.”

Lance lifted his briefcase, reminding himself to breathe. “If you gentlemen will excuse me…”

Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan

19 December—1120 Hours

Dread coiled in the pit of Fekiria’s stomach as Captain Dean entered the apartment she shared—at least for one more day—with her cousin Zahrah. Had Sergeant Brian told him she was at the club? Had he seen her at the base? She tried to meet the tall captain’s gaze. When she did, he gave her an acknowledging nod and hello but swiftly turned his attention to Zahrah. And his expression changed. Radically. The terse intensity that oozed out of the elite soldier softened as a small smile tugged at his clean-shaven face.

And though Fekiria hated to admit it, he looked handsome in his dress uniform.

“What’s happening?” Concern filled Zahrah’s question as she led him to the tan sofa.

“I have to head out for a week or two.”

“Or two?” Zahrah’s disappointment couldn’t be hidden, but she weathered the news well, all the same.

Fekiria worked on layering the baklava, her cousin’s favorite treat, as the two talked and she listened in.

Zahrah had always been strong. Brave. Fearless. Hands in her lap, she put on that tough exterior. “I will pray for you.”

Captain Dean smiled. “Thank you.” When he reached over and took Zahrah’s hand, Fekiria ducked. Spread honey over the thin pastry and added another layer.

Even as Zahrah had lain in the hospital seven months ago with her hair butchered, Captain Dean had been there. Watched over her. Hovered. He wasn’t an emotional person, but having seen him on several occasions, Fekiria noted the tenderness with which he approached her cousin. Zahrah still bore telltale scars of her captivity but none more than the ragged one on her cheekbone that turned bright pink every time she saw Captain Dean.

Nobody had ever treated Fekiria that way. And probably never would. She had too much fire in her belly.

“What’s wrong?” Zahrah touched the side of his face. “You look upset.”

He nodded. “One of my guys was in a fight.”

Fekiria’s hands slowed, remembering the incident at the club. Remembering Sergeant Brian.

“Is he okay?” Zahrah asked.

“Yeah—busted rib.” He sighed heavily then shrugged. “Can’t figure him out. He’s facing disciplinary action but won’t tell me what happened.” Captain Dean rubbed his fingers over his knuckles, as if kneading dough.

“Is it that serious?”

Setting aside the first batch, Fekiria listened closely, her mouth dry. Sergeant Brian was getting in trouble? Because of her. But—he’d kept her secret.
Please have kept my secret
.

He nodded, his head dipping a little lower with the admission. “I don’t want to put him out, but…”

“Put him out?”

Zahrah’s head snapped up and her brown eyes met Fekiria’s—and only then did Fekiria realize she’d actually spoken the question.

“Forgive me,” Fekiria said, tucking her chin. She glanced at the baklava, but all she could see was Sergeant Brian’s face. The frightening swiftness of his anger. Especially once the other man punched him. But not nearly as fierce as the expression when the man had made inappropriate advances on her. “It’s not my concern.”

“So, he’s looking at an other-than-honorable discharge?”

Captain Dean steepled his fingers. “It’s an option.” He leaned back with a groan. “If he hadn’t gotten into a couple of scraps already, I’d overlook it, but this was at a local place the other night. The owner wants us to cover damages, and two people were hurt.”

As sticky and thick as the honey on her fingers, guilt spread over Fekiria’s shoulders. Sergeant Brian would lose his career in the Army?
Because of me?
Her conscience thudded against the guilt.

At the hookah bar, he had been kind and attentive—in a bold, flirtatious way. But that other man—a shudder rippled through Fekiria at the memory—he’d been creepy. Forceful. When the punches started, she let her selfish fear of being discovered overcome her and slipped out the side door before anyone saw her.

“Fekiria.” Zahrah sat up then looked back at the captain. “What night was this?”

“Two nights ago.”

Zahrah looked back at her. “You were out the other night, right? Did you see anything?”

“No. Of course not.” The lie stung. He’d defended her. Protected her.
And
kept his promise. “Mazar-e is not small. There are many bars.”

Captain Dean sat forward, his sharp eyes narrowed. “I never said it was at a bar.”

Panic stretched through her breast. She shrugged, her pulse racing. “That is where most of the American soldiers go, is it not?” Another shrug. “That is where I have seen them.” They were still watching her. She lifted her hands. “Sorry. Need to clean up.” She turned her back and held her hands under the hot water, frantic. What if they figured it out?

They could not. Her plans to go to Kandahar would be ruined.