Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (12 page)

He headed toward the laundry-service area, sliding his thumb across his phone to the R
ECORD
tab as his boot struck the light of the laundry room. Before he entered, he barely heard the
thump-whir-thump
of a machine and anticipated company.

The room was lined down the middle with industrial-sized machines. Flanking them stood enormous tumbling dryers. A woman in a sleek black uniform and hijab stood at a table folding linens. She only afforded Eamon a perfunctory glance before returning to her task.

He backed out and headed toward the vending. There, he found a soda machine, the normal scrawl of Coke done in Arabic but unmistakable all the same. He deposited a crisp bill and bought one to give himself a reason for being down here. Beside that machine stood a snack dispenser.

Back in the hall, he returned to the juncture. He hadn’t seen or heard the man come out, but with the din down here, it’s possible he’d just missed it. But the doors were closed.

Angling his head to the side to see farther into the darkened corridor, Eamon felt a warning skid across his shoulders. Moving forward, he held the Coke low, gently shaking it, as he eased his hand back to his weapon.

Each step blackened the darkness until he couldn’t see. No light seeping beneath doors. He released his weapon and lifted his phone once more. He used the ambient light from the display, which exploded like a beacon in the darkness.

He aimed the beam away from him. Traced the first door marked M
AINTENANCE
and followed the wall down to the last door. Electrical, no doubt. He tested the handle but it didn’t budge. Not surprising. They wouldn’t want someone wandering in and rewiring something.

Backing up, he made his way back to the maintenance closet. The door gave way easily. He flipped on the light and grunted when his expectations were met. Cramped and smelly, the closet offered a place to clean a mop—one that dangled over the built-in basin and silver knobs. Three large garbage receptacles lined up against the far wall. Floor slick with grime, the greatest irony.

Eamon reached for the light switch.

A bloodcurdling scream seemed to climb out of the walls. He froze, listening. The scream… it sounded distant. Yet close.

What…?

He deposited the soda on a shelf then rushed into the corridor, lifting his weapon.

But the screaming seemed partially muted now. Eamon turned a circle, taking in the lights, the variation of brightness, the hum of the air-conditioning unit. Slowly, he returned to the maintenance closet.

The screaming had stopped.

Or maybe it wasn’t there at all. Maybe it was the shriek of a turbine or something. With all the machines and hum of electricity and groan of air units…

What if the electrical room wasn’t an electrical room?

If that was someone screaming… He had a job to do.

Eamon moved back into the darkness. Found the door. He rammed his heel into the handle. Pain jarred through his leg and hip. The door didn’t give. He repeated the move, this time harder. More deliberate.

The door flung open. Lights blinked and flickered along wall-to-wall electrical units. Eamon snapped up his weapon and aimed into the room, the lights giving adequate illumination for him to see the room had enough space for a man to stand, maybe squat, but nothing else. The walls couldn’t be seen for the electrical hubs.

Maybe he
had
been hearing things.

Shaking it off, Eamon made his way to the elevators. He punched the call button and waited, but his gaze kept climbing the walls and ceilings, searching. Probing for an indication that he
had
heard someone screaming. But why would they have anyone down here?

His gaze hit the door to the stairs. The man had come from there. Then went down the hall. And vanished.

Two long strides carried him to the door. He pulled his weapon and punched the door open. Gun low, he stepped into the stairwell and propped the door open with his boot. He scanned right, traced the wall around to the next, then came around.

A blur flashed at him.

Pain exploded across his temple. Snapped his head back. Hit the wall. His vision swam. Warmth slid down his jaw. His legs twisted and tangled as he went down. Eamon scrambled, fought to stay alert.

On all fours, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Splotches of blood appeared on the floor. Just beyond his right hand, his weapon had skidded and hit the wall. He dove for it. Even as he did, he heard the door clap shut.

CHAPTER 8

Kabul, Afghanistan
27 March—1420 Hours

L
ook, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“I doubt that,” the man said as he guided her through the rear of the restaurant.

“How do you know my name?” She eyed the cement stairwell and swallowed hard. If he wanted to kill her, nobody would hear her. They could dispose of her body out back and nobody would be the wiser.

But she was trained for this.

If she could just think through her panic. Remember that her every move was being monitored. Which meant someone would come to her rescue, right?

No, she was on her own. That was made perfectly clear before she set foot in the country.

“What do you want with me?”

He shoved open a door and thrust her through it.

Cassie swung around, ready for a fight.

“You have the package?” He held out his hand.

She froze. Package? Her thudding heart caught up with her racing mind. This was her contact? But he’d been with— “The rain stays on the plain.”

He rolled his eyes. “Only in the movies.”

That wasn’t the right response. At least not completely. “Which one?”

“Do you have it or not?”

Fifteen Klicks North of Kandahar, Afghanistan
28 March—1635 Hours

Sal pressed his gut to the hard, rocky terrain and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. SATINT had spotted their spook heading out of the base and racing across Kandahar City to this remote village at the bottom of what appeared to be a dried-up streambed. Raptor peered down from the rim. He flipped to thermals and scanned the buildings. Set in a horseshoe formation, they effectively provided an advantage to those inside—only one point of infil and exfil. Pockmarks peppered the plaster structures, giving credence to the suspicion that this wasn’t just a quiet, remote village, but one that harbored terrorists. And now, spooks.

A half-dozen heat signatures lurked behind the southernmost wall, which was also the back side of the largest building, presumably a two-story residence. One signature bent over something, laboring. Cooking? Two others were small—children. Another sat near the one laboring. And two were huddled in a corner. Six possible hostiles in all.

“Blue two,” Sal said, indicating the position of the two in the corner, and passed the nocs to Hawk. “What do you think?”

Propped on his elbows, Riordan looked down at the scene. “One could be our guy.”

Rocks crunched and popped as someone settled beside Sal. Dragging himself up to the ledge, Hawk returned from recon of the surrounding area. “’Terp said a shepherd saw the spook head in there about three hours ago. Hasn’t come out.”

Their interpreter was a man who had Afghan parents but had been born in the States and joined up at eighteen. They trusted his word. Trusted that the target was in there. Hiding. Among skirts and children.

“I want this piece of dirt,” Sal said. “Can’t let him hurt the woman or children.”

“He’ll probably take them hostage,” Hawk muttered.

“It’s a risk,” Riordan conceded.

But that spook had killed the Afghan shooter for a reason. Maybe the spook had taken out Burnett. The way he moved in and out of American installations bothered Sal. A lot. He had too much information to let him walk away.

“We don’t have a choice,” Riordan said. “He has answers we need.”

“Reading my thoughts, squid.” Sal smirked. “Be careful—I might think you’re smart.”

“You know how to think?” Riordan threw the caustic humor right back at Sal.

Sal smiled. “Okay, let’s move in. Bring your team in from the north. We’ll hit south.” East and west were blocked by eight-foot walls. “Eagle will stay high and provide cover fire and take the guy out if he manages to slip past us.”

Raptor swept down the side of the hill, buzzed with adrenaline. Knight and Ddrake went ahead, searching for IEDs or mines as they descended. With Hawk, Harrier, and Candyman behind him, Sal took a knee at the bottom where a ravine separated them from the road to the village. “Eagle, sitrep?”

“Clear,” Eagle’s voice rattled through the coms. “No movement inside.”

With two fingers, he sent Candyman and Harrier forward. Sal hustled along the wall, using it for cover. Hawk brought up the rear. This was what he loved. Working with his team. Taking action. Delivering justice.

Hustling forward, M4 at the ready, Sal stacked up behind the others. Candyman moved inside the compound, scurrying to the right and pieing out as he moved to keep eyes on all forty-five degrees visible. Harrier went left and pied toward Candyman.

“Clear,” Harrier subvocalized.

Sal rushed into the area, gliding past his men with ease and confidence. He went to a knee at the corner of the primary residence. Across the compound, beyond a rusting truck, Riordan and his team were sidling up to a dilapidated Toyota.

Sal waited for the pat on his shoulder that would signal his team’s readiness. When it came, he keyed his mic. “In position.” He’d have preferred to do this in the dark, with the lower risk of visibility, but they couldn’t take the chance that the spook would get wind of their knowledge of his location and vanish.

Riordan and his men moved like a steady stream of shadows through the compound. “Eagle, report.”

“Still clear.”

A strange comfort came in the fact that if the situation demanded it, Eagle could shoot through a wall to take out a target. But they needed this guy alive. At least long enough to get the information they needed.

Even as he watched them, Sal was thankful for the addition of more skilled warriors working the same mission. But he wasn’t sure how far he trusted Riordan. The guy… he seemed to know something he wasn’t telling them. Or maybe he was the problem. Could Riordan be behind the attacks?

What if Riordan killed the prisoner?

Jarred by the thought, Sal almost missed the “in position” signal from the SEALs. He held up three fingers. Three… two… go!

Candyman shifted around. Stepped back and rammed his heel into the crumbling wood barrier. It splintered with a loud
crack
!

Sal rushed inside. “On your knees, on your knees!” He aimed at a woman huddled over two small children. Not cooking. Not working. Just… huddling. Sal kept moving, hustling toward the middle where they’d seen the two men in the corner.

On the other end of the residence, he heard Riordan shouting similar orders. They would work their way toward each other. Sal continued on, knowing Harrier or Hawk would tend to the woman and children.

Candyman was at his right, sweeping back and forth.

“Clear,” Sal called as he moved through the room. The next area should be exciting. With a nod to Candyman, they breeched the next entrance.

Two large forms shifted to the far right.

Sal’s heart jammed. He snapped his weapon toward them. Sucked in a breath—and then whipped his weapon down. Riordan.

“Where are they?” Riordan roared, pivoting and glancing back in the direction they’d inserted. “He’s not there. My men cleared it.”

“Same here.” Frustration roiled through Sal. “Eagle, what do you have?”

“Nothing. No thermals. No visual.”

Riordan cursed.

“Knight,” Sal shouted, stomping back the way he’d come. “Bring in Ddrake. Find this sorry piece of crap!”

“On it,” Knight’s deep voice carried through the house. “Ddrake, seek seek seek!”

Sal caught sight of the German shepherd trotting around the room, his nose hauling in scents greedily. A staccato pant indicated he was processing scents at the very back of his nostrils and throat, tasting them.

Ddrake’s nose dug into the dirt. He traced back and forth.