Whole Pieces (6 page)

11

Power had shifted. No longer did it rest in his hands, namely in the form of Constant's watch. Watching through the scope of his M4 as the kid scrambled back to his home left Hawk with a profound sense of affirmation. Which left him confused. Shouldn't he feel like a failure? His plan hadn't worked. The fact that the boy scrabbled toward the safety of his home right now was proof positive.

But peace existed now where none had before. Only anger. So much that it had consumed him. All too well, he recalled yelling at Ash . . . seeing the pain as his words gouged through her heart. He'd just wanted her to move on. Hated that all she was—her sweetness, her beauty, her stubbornness, even—reminded him of what would've been had the team not died, had he not lost his hand . . . and his soul.

“You should marry her and have children. A son, like me!”

A son . . . now that would've been something. But it was too late.

Hold up. His thoughts sped around the time travel thing. When the seven hours were up, would he land back in that hospital? Would he relive the next thirty years?

Irony at its best, since he'd hoped to skip those years with all their pain and heartache. But what had Thomas said? A gift of time? Yeah . . . that was just it. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around Ashley's picture.

Darkness overpowered his ability to see Abda once he slipped between two buildings, descending deeper into the village. Hawk lost sight of his small frame with just a yard or two separating the boy from his family.

C'mon,
he mentally nudged Abda as he traced the reticle over the shadows and buildings. He'd have to get back to the team, to cover.
God, keep Abda safe—and his mouth closed.
It felt like a selfish prayer, but then . . . weren't a lot of prayers? All Hawk knew was that he wanted his team to survive this daunting night. He scurried back to the team and dropped into the hole.

Yes, power had shifted—straight out of his hands and into those of a seven-year-old boy. Could he convince Stratham to move out? Relocate? A lot had gone wrong. Maybe he could use that as a bargaining tool. “Things are crazy,” Hawk mumbled.

“No kidding,” Mack said.

A second later, Jensen and Jacobie returned, hustling into the trench.

“What's the word?” Stratham asked as he angled his body around to look at the two men.

“Unknown,” Jensen said. “We saw forms moving, but we couldn't make them out.”

“Count?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen fighters. Not convinced they pose a threat to us. Their movements seemed intentional. They weren't on a killing spree.”

“Tell him.”

“Shut it.”

Stratham eased up, but not enough to put his head in the line of fire should they be seen. “What? What's going on?”

“Nothing,” Jensen said as he speared Jacobie with a fierce look.

“Bull.” Stratham pointed to Jacobie. “Talk.”

“I saw something. I can't be sure because it was dark, and by the time I swung to search for it, the glint was gone.”

“Glint?”

Jacobie nodded. “Yes, sir. A glint—like from a pair of binoculars.”

Stratham looked to Hawk, then back to Jacobie. “Binoculars?”

With a backhanded swat, Jensen grunted. “See? I told him to keep it to himself.”

“No,” Hawk said. “What if there's another team out there?”

“That's some leap, Hawk.” Stratham's words held chiding, but the man's expression spoke louder. He thought it plausible too. “But . . . it could happen. And if that's the case, we need to be careful, not kill each other in friendly fire. If they don't know we're here . . .”

“What do we do?” Mack asked as the others listened but kept watch, took note of the surroundings and details.

This was it. The chance to change things. To get the team out of here before the mission went south and took six lives with it.
Thank you, God.
Abda would be safe, the team would live, and Hawk could die in peace—and maybe, in one piece. With all his parts attached.

Man, the idea of seeing these guys, their ugly mugs, in a year, five—for the rest of his life—jolted him with elation.

He seized the chance to steer this. “We move,” Hawk said. “Take up a better position that enables us to see north and south.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Stratham snapped. “That would put us in the floor of the valley. We'd get trampled with any and all foot and vehicle traffic, not to mention putting us at an extreme disadvantage—”

“But we're at a disadvantage here.” Blood whooshed through Hawk's temples. “Already we've got reports of freedom fighters, and now maybe another spec ops team?”

“Our orders were to dig in, observe, and report.”

“Those orders didn't anticipate the appearance of that kid.”

Mack nodded. “Hawk is right. We need to do something.”

“No.” Stratham nearly growled that answer. “We have less than an hour before extraction. We stay. We get the job done, and we go home.” He looked around at the others. “Clear?”

“Look, man,” Hawk said as he shuffled over the tangle of legs and bodies to get to the master sergeant. “I'm not trying to defy you, but—”

“Then don't.” Stratham's breathing came in quick, harsh increments. “I don't know what's up with you tonight—”

“Think about that, man. I've never given you grief. If I've got issues, maybe they need to be addressed.”

“Hawk, just hold it together. We've had a lot of stress and been under tremendous strain the last two weeks. Don't let it get to you.”

“Is that what you think this is about? Some stress or shell shock?”

“You've seen a lot.”

Hawk jabbed his hands to his helmet.

“As second in command, you need to have it together. The men are watching you, following.” He swung a halfhearted pat against Hawk's forearm. “Just one hour. Let's get through it.”

“That's what I'm trying to do, only I want to go home alive, not with a toe tag in a body bag.”

“Same here.” Stratham rolled back onto his stomach. “Let's get it done.”

* * *

Snap
!

Hand in midair above the gate latch, Abda froze. Warmth spilled down his back. Then a chill. So very cold . . . Had someone followed him? What if . . . what if the fighters he'd spotted before he met Hawk had seen him?

That would be bad. Very bad.

And scary.

He looked back. Shadows loomed along the edges of homes and corners. Light from the homes that stabbed the darkness. A shadow moved.

No! Not a shadow. A shape.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Someone was there. Out there, coming closer. The muzzle of an M16 nosed into the open. A fighter! A flicker startled him. The air smelled funny. Air stirred.

Wood spit at him.

He blinked.
They're shooting at me!

Depressing the latch, Abda shoved himself through the gate. He thrust it closed and bolted toward the house.

Shouts trailed him.

He pushed harder. Why did it feel like he couldn't get there? “Moor!” He gulped air. Choked. Cried, but it was strangled in his throat. “Pla—” His throat clogged. “Plaar, help!”

His feet wouldn't go fast. But his body did—sprawled headfirst.

Shouts erupted from where the Sand Spider's cars waited.

Light spilled into the night.

Something caught his arms. Hauled him up.

Abda yelped. “Close the door! Close the door!”

“What's wrong with him?”

“They're shooting!”

The heavy blanket covering the front window—Moor had put it up last week when fighters had threatened the family—danced and jerked.

Only at his
moor
's scream did Abda realize bullets were flying into the home.

Thud!

The door shut, and the guard holding him spun around, then thrust him into his
plaar
's arms. Only as he sailed through the air did Abda realize he'd lost his treasure box.

“Who's out there?”

“Fighters,” Abda said. “I saw them coming up the valley road.”

The Sand Spider and his men huddled and talked quietly.

“Are you okay?” Plaar asked, smoothing a hand over Abda's head.

Abda nodded, his heart hiccuping when his
plaar
saw the wires.

“What's this—?”

“Najjif, we need you.”

Frowning, his father released the wires and set him on the ground. “We'll talk later. Go to your
moor
.”

“The fighters—are you going to stop them?”

“Yes, of course,” the Sand Spider said as he motioned more men out the door.

But did the Sand Spider understand that danger had made it this far? “They were so close.”

“Don't worry, son,” Plaar said as he waved him off with a hand. “The colonel will take care of this.”

Taking a deep breath, Abda nodded. “Good.”

Hawk and his friends would be safe. And if the Sand Spider was looking for fighters . . .

Oh no!
What if they
found
Hawk?

“Abda,” his
moor
's whisper skated down the small hall that led to the back room and bathroom. Head covered, she motioned to him.

He checked to make sure Plaar and the—

The box! It lay against the far wall. Open. The prizes spilled out over the thick carpet his mother beat clean every week. No no no! Sneaking over there, he watched Plaar and the Sand Spider talking with two others guards. Keeping his feet quiet and his movements slow, Abda closed in on his treasure box. Quietly, so thankful to Allah he had not drawn their attention, he knelt. His stomach hurt. His heart raced. Palms slick, he lifted the box and finally tore his gaze from the others.

On his knees, he scooted to the side. Lifted the patch. Hunched to the side—checked the grown-ups—his fingers coiled around the piece. And he saw it. Close to the Sand Spider. The gold chain from one of Hawk's friends. The one with the cross.

That would be . . . very bad. Sinful bad. To be discovered with a cross of the prophet Jesus. A Christian symbol.

Drenched with heat and nerves, Abda eased toward the necklace.
Oh, please . . . please don't let him see me.
Hawk and his friends could not get caught.
Hawk is my friend. I can't let them find out about him.

Almost there . . .

If the Sand Spider found out about Hawk and hunted him down, it would be Abda's fault that Hawk would die.

Oh no no no.

He stretched his hand toward the piece.

“What's this?” Another hand edged into view.

Abda froze as he recognized the stripes on the sleeve. The colonel!

“A cross—what?” He whipped it toward Abda's
plaar
. “What is this, Najjif?”

“I-I-I have no idea!” Plaar jerked toward Abada. “Where did you get this?” His gaze hit the treasure box. “More of your junk?”

“Let me see that, boy,” the Sand Spider said.

No, he couldn't do that. It'd be bad. Very bad.

Abda darted away.

Hands captured him. Hauled him into the air. Though he held tight to his box, they yanked it out of his grasp. The soldier with the big nose and oily mustache handed it to the Sand Spider, whose mean eyes locked onto Abda.

“Where did you get this Christian necklace, boy?”

“I found it.” He did—it was on the floor just now, and he'd found it.

The colonel dug through the box. He stilled, then yanked out something. Held it up. “And this? Where did you get this?”

“I—”

“I suppose you just
found
this too?”

Abda nodded as he looked at the patch Hawk's boss had given him.

The colonel spit. “I should have you arrested.”

Plaar stepped in between them. “What? What is . . . ?”

The colonel turned to his first guard. “Alert everyone. Search the hills for American soldiers.”

12

He couldn't control what was about to happen to them. He couldn't control the team leader's decisions. But he could control one thing—himself. “Switch with me.” Hawk belly-crawled over the others and nudged in beside Stratham.

“Hawk, get back.”

“Move over, Sergeant,” he said with a soft laugh. “Or I'm going to park on top of you.”

“What is your problem?”

“You've got the better spot. Mack smells.”

“Heard that,” came the soft voice of McLellan.

Finally Stratham relented so Hawk could wedge in between him and Jensen. “Tell you what, Hawk.” He set up his weapon and returned to an eyes-out position. “You're heading to the padded office as soon as we get back. Let that shrink examine your head.”

Arm propped beneath his weapon, Hawk trained his scope on the place he remembered the Taliban coming from. Another thing he could control—first response. He'd take the heat for firing first if it meant his team lived. Shoot first, explain later. Or never.

Quiet draped the team and the ominous night. The sky, littered with stars, no longer held the veil of Death. Had Constant truly managed to ward off the specter? He burrowed in tighter, more determined to keep Death at bay for as long as he could.

Crazy night. He could only wonder what the others thought of him. He'd normally been the strong one, the quiet one, the one who said little but
did
a lot. Action. That was his mantra. But tonight, on the second go-round with this awful time, he'd talked like there was no tomorrow.

That couldn't be a truer phrase. For the men in this hole, that might be a very real scenario.

“Think the kid will talk?”

It didn't matter who asked the question on everyone's minds. The possibility existed. More than existed. “Be prepared for it,” Hawk whispered.

“Even if the kid didn't, those are very powerful people in there. And I don't think they got there by being stupid,” Jacobie said. “Pretty stupid, handing him pieces of us.”

Someone cursed. Another moaned.

“Quiet,” Stratham said. “Eyes out.”

“D'ja hear the boy tell Hawk to have a son like him?” Jensen snickered.

“Yeah, can anyone see Hawk with kids?”

A few chuckles.

“Hey,” Hawk said with a smile as he peered down the sights. “I do all right.”

“Think he was just trying to soften you up?”

“I'd expect no less. That's what I was doing to him.”

“Think he knew?”

Probably. Which is why the kid told his parents.

“Hey, Sarge?”

“Yeah.”

“I . . . uh,” Jacobie muttered. “Um, I think we might have a problem. The guys are going ape down there by the boy's house.”

Hawk swept his weapon toward the main street structure.

“Look alive,” Stratham ordered over the din of muttered comments and questions.

“They're heading into the hills.”

“Right at us.”

“Think the kid did this?”

“Who else?”

“Stupid kid.”

“Should've killed him.”

“Know better next time.”

Hawk felt those words rebound off his Interceptor vest. He'd thought and voiced those very words in the original strain. And he'd been given the opportunity for a do-over, which resulted in one thing: eating said words.

“Stay calm,” Stratham said. “We're dug in good. Don't fire unless you have to.”

Hawk grimaced. This would definitely come down to a “have to” night and a firefight. The men swarming the hills were on a hunt. And they had the scent of American blood as the only remedy for their blood thirst. “Call it in,” he thought aloud.

“Agreed,” Stratham said. “Jacobie—”

“On it.”

“Fifty yards,” Mack said.

Hawk realigned his sights. Coiled his finger around the trigger well. And for some really strange reason—he was in the middle of war for cryin' out loud—he thought of Ashley.
Marry her . . .
Shoulder tucked around the stock of the M4, Hawk toyed with the thought. He hadn't really thought along those lines before. They'd just been dating for a couple of years.

Why had she hung around? He was loud, arrogant, cocky . . .

Then for thirty-two years he was quiet, grumpy, and angry.

She still hadn't left. In all those years. She'd stuck it out. Told him he couldn't scare her away.

Really screwed that one up.

“Forty . . . they're coming right at us.” Warning coated Mack's words.

“Like maggots to dead meat.”

Do something; do something.
But he'd tried. To change the past. To sway Stratham to break orders. To con the boy into keeping quiet. Nothing—
nothing!
—had worked. Desperation clung to him like the heavy air that bore the portent of doom.

Oh, brother. Now waxing poetic?

“Quiet,” Stratham ordered.

Maybe you did the right thing. . . .

Was he seriously supposed to accept that? Accept the death of his team? His friends?

Alarm spiraled through him. He knew what was going to happen and hadn't been able to stop it. How was that possible? It was like he did one thing, messed up another.

You're playing in the garden of Time.

God, seriously . . . do something here. Don't let this happen. Not again. Please.

“Target sighted.”