Talon: Combat Tracking Team (A Breed Apart) (47 page)

B
linded, Cardinal felt himself falling.

Or was that the world?

Spinning…everything… He swung a hand out. Hit something. His knee collided. Dirt…

White. Blinding white.

Ringing. Hollow hearing. A vacuum had swallowed him.

“Augh!” Though he knew air passed over his vocal chords, he heard nothing.

White succumbed to gray…

Holding his head, Cardinal waited out the disorientation. They’d been hit. Someone threw a flash-bang into the room. The overpressure of the concussion knocked out his vision. Sucked out his hearing.

Though he knew it’d only last three to five seconds, it felt like an eternity. No way to defend yourself. No way to fight back.

He didn’t even know who to fight.

Was this Austin’s doing? If it was, he’d kill that punk.

Shapes took form like pillowy giants. Cardinal felt the dirt beneath his hands and slowly straightened. Searching for bearings.

The door…where was it? He turned his head.

The room tilted. “Augh!” Warbling noises hammered.

Movement…the doorway! Light bled through it, piercing against his corneas, which were still traumatized from the concussive explosion.

Two or three shapes hurried out the door. Who?

“Cardinal!” Though it sounded like someone spoke his name under water, he knew it was someone close by.

He turned. Saw a large shape looming beside him. He shook his head—the room whipped around. He groped to steady himself. A hand caught his. His vision, still vibrating, brought the image into focus. “Watterboy.”

“You okay?” The man wiggled a finger in his ear.

“Yeah.” Coordination returned. Hearing, mostly. Vision clear.

“Everyone okay?” Watterboy asked, turning a circle.

As the affirmatives came in, Cardinal hesitated. “Nobody’s hurt?” That didn’t make any sense. He searched the team for injuries. Timbrel sat against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose. Candyman knelt beside her and offered a rag for her nosebleed. Rocket and Scrip were still shaking off the effects.

Wait. Cardinal jerked. Nearly fell. “Aspen.” She’d been right there with Timbrel. He whipped around. Ignoring the way the room canted to the left. “Aspen!”

His mind ricocheted back to what he saw.

He sprinted for the door.
“Aspen!”

A curse sailed through the air behind him. Boots pounded. He burst into the inner room. Two of the four men they’d caught were down. Cardinal threw himself at the rear cavernous area that served as a garage. How long? How long had it been? Ten, fifteen seconds?

He sprinted into the garage. Gaping open. Sunlight shatteringly bright. He flinched. Popping! He ducked then realized it wasn’t gunfire. Tires! He bolted out. Saw a black SUV stirring up dust.

Cardinal plunged through the bay. Bore down on the vehicle spitting rocks as he scrambled for traction on the dirt road. The rear end fishtailed. Caught purchase on the paved road. Squealed and tore off.

He pushed himself. Hard.

Couldn’t stop. That was Aspen in there. Someone had taken her. He’d kill them. Cut out their hearts and feed them to the dogs.

A high-pitched whistle shot through the day.

Trailing smoke careened past him. Hot. Wicked fast.

Grenade?

He spun. Candyman, kneeling at the corner of the building, an M203 propped against his shoulder, pulled the trigger again.

Boom!

Cardinal jerked around. A building rained down dirt and fire.

The vehicle swerved. Banked right.

Boom!
The building in front of Cardinal exploded.

Tires squalled. The shriek of death.

And they were gone.

Teeth grinding, Cardinal stared at the fires that mottled the poverty-stricken street. Breathing hard and struggling not to allow the demons of his past, of his ancestry, to awaken, he dug himself out of the chaos. Aspen was gone.

And he knew exactly who was responsible.

“Sorry, man. I wasn’t fast enough,” came the empty words of Candyman.

Cardinal pivoted around, stalked toward the man decked out in gear, patted his chest, deftly swiping his thumb over the flap. “Thanks. You tried.” And with one expert move, he extracted the Glock from Candyman’s chest holster.

“Hey! Stop!”

Confirming a round was in the chamber, Cardinal stormed back into the building.

    Thirty-Three    

T
railed by a security force and his two senior officers, General Lance Burnett strode into the command building of the temporary forward operating base covered in dust and heat. The wake he and the others left as they stormed ahead shone on the faces of those serving under the command of Admiral Kuhn. The hushed whispers haunted his steps.

Banking right, Lance caught sight of two armed sentries guarding the offices of the commanding officer. The two snapped to attention, fingertips pressed to their temples.

Burnett returned the salute. “At ease.” He slowed and hesitated, staring at the door handles. He shifted his gaze to the left. “How is he?”

“Quiet, sir.”

With a nod, Lance entered the office.

A gray steel desk anchored a spot in front of a window. Behind it, the chair swiveled around. Admiral Kuhn rose and saluted. “General Burnett.”

Lance gave a stiff response, lowered his hand, then huffed. “At ease.” He strolled to the window where cheap plastic blinds served as a flimsy barrier against the miserable Djibouti sun and its heat. He’d been baking since he stepped off the aircraft.

And he wasn’t the only thing baking. “For cryin’ out loud, Mack.”

He turned to him. “Well? What do you have to say?”

“Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?”

“Do you need one?”

Kuhn pointed to the doors, to Hastings, and the security team. “You brought yours.” He grunted then dropped back into his chair. “Ya know, I’m glad.”

Lance frowned.

“I’m glad it’s over.” He removed the stars from his uniform and thrust them on the table. “Hendricks put my nose to the fire, threatened me with punitive action if I didn’t look the other way, then he vanishes.”

“Vanishes?” Lance couldn’t digest the information fast enough. “Punitive—so, you’re willing to testify?”

“Absolutely. The man yanked my career out of my hands.”

“I think you did that, sir,” Hastings spoke up. “You are the one who acted.”

“Tell you what, Lieutenant,” Kuhn said, “when you’re out here baking your assets off and nobody gives a rip if you live or die except one man willing to make you dead—well, lines get a little fuzzy.”

Lance planted himself in the chair and mopped his sweaty brow. “You said Hendricks vanished?”

“Yeah. Nobody knows where he is. Haven’t seen in him…well, since your man showed up.”

“Cardinal.”

“That’s the one. Payne flew down here, and they rode off into the sunset together.” Kuhn shrugged. “The people here are oppressed enough. They don’t need American power mongers making it worse.”

“Yet you helped make it worse.” Lance pushed to his feet and motioned the security forces toward Kuhn. “While I clean up your mess, it’s your turn to ride off into the sunset.”

“Don’t even move.”

Shedding the Neil Crane persona and returning to his original identity, his birth identity, felt incredibly freeing. Head pounding like a bass drum still, Austin focused on the two men who held him at gunpoint. They had good reason. Anger vibrated through him.

“That’s my sister, you moron!”

“Yeah. Well, this is my M4.” The man with a dark blond beard hefted it a little higher, nearly blotting out the beard.

Austin growled. “If she dies—”

“Stop him! Somebody—stop him!”

Austin peered over the shoulders of the two men.

A storm swept in named Cardinal. Eerily calm. Striding straight
toward—Me!

One of the nearby men swore. Took a step back.

So did Austin—when he saw the weapon Cardinal held low.

Fury darkened the man’s face. Something inside Austin curled up and died. He’d never seen that expression on Cardinal. In the mirror—yeah, a lot. On others. But not on Cardinal, the guy calm as a tranquility pool.

“He’s got a gun!”

Boots thudded as two men raced up behind Cardinal.

Austin’s feet seemed to have turned to cement. He couldn’t move. Saw it coming. Saw the future in one heartbeat—Cardinal was going to stuff that Glock in Austin’s mouth and make him eat a bullet.