Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (36 page)

Her phone stopped ringing, and the caller ID showed no name. Her computer dinged, indicating an e-mail had arrived. Her hand froze over the mouse as she stared at the sender: Gnat Weik.

A tremor started in her fingers and wormed up her arm, across her chest, and squirmed into her heart. Anticipation hung rank—that name. It surged from her past like a heady concoction. She clicked on it, half afraid the message might vanish. It opened.

Cassie stared, dumbfounded at the acerbic note. Kiew had never been so hateful. Pointed, yes. Confrontational, almost always. But not mean. Not like this.

But something at the back of her mind, something buried beneath years of hardship and heartache, something tender and fun kindled against the crush of pain.

“Wait.” Cassie hit S
ELECT
+
All
over the e-mail body. Disappointment chugged to a painful stop in her veins. She hit the F
ONT
C
OLOR
button. Chose black.

A single line appeared between the two paragraphs she’d read.

CHAPTER 32

Afghan Village 7 April—1115 Hours

W
ith seventy pounds of gear, a tactical vest, and helmet, Sal hated that the heat of the desert invaded like a quick-reaction force, ensuring soldiers and civilians alike yielded to its might.

He ignored the sweat tickling its path down his back and temples as he climbed out of the MRAP. Coming here, guns blazing, was an attempt at normalcy. A routine patrol to insure the safety of Afghans. They’d work this village like any other and tell the locals, especially the woman and her family, that this was a search for terrorists, for Taliban.

“You realize,” he said to the captain, whose gaze and muzzle aimed away from the vehicle, “we have less than ten minutes once we clear out before she’s on the phone with him—assuming intel is accurate.”

“It’s accurate,” Riordan muttered as he came around the side. “That’s why we play nice and easy. Don’t tip our hand. The question is,” he said, squinting at Sal, “are your language skills enough to converse with the boy in a natural manner?”

Million-dollar question of the day. Though Sal had a moderate working grasp of Farsi—five years in the desert made that possible—he wasn’t fluent. All operators were given piecemeal language school. But Sal pushed that, determined to know whether the ISAF and ANA operators were plotting his demise right under his nose. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Eagle, sitrep,” Dean asked as he walked a slow circle, assessing threats and possible problem areas.

“Quiet, normal,” Eagle responded from his position a half klick away, perched atop a hill that gave him prime oversight. “No visible or suspected threat.”

Which meant nobody knew they were coming. That wasn’t unusual but Sal had expected a kid to go tearing out of the village to report to some Taliban or worse—Ramsey—that American soldiers were in the village. Again, wouldn’t be the first time. Nor the last.

“Knight.” Dean indicated with a nod to the handler-and-dog team, who’d clear buildings first. Search for explosives or hidden, trigger-happy Taliban.

Riordan’s SEALs announced the joint-team’s presence and called all the villagers into the open. An annoying but routine method of rounding everyone up so the teams could search homes without threat of injury. It wasn’t fair. But then, the Taliban weren’t about fairness. They were about body count. Coalition body count, but they didn’t care if they took innocents with them.

With the muzzle of his M4 pointed down and the stock propped against his shoulder, Sal kept his finger close to the trigger as he paced Knight and Ddrake. The sleek German shepherd stalked from one structure to another, sucking in scents better than one of those expensive vacuums.

Roughly thirty locals gathered in the middle of the cluster of homes. Most were your average Afghans, looking to make a living, to survive in a country hostile to anything thriving. Clothes dusty and torn, the men bore evidence of hard labor in the brutal terrain. Weathered faces etched with wrinkles and determination were a hallmark of the people. Americans with their five-buck drinks and impatience when a fast-food line took more than five minutes could learn a lot from these hardworking villagers.

Of course, assuming they were hardworking villagers and not a group of backwater villagers populating the next Taliban rally. That was the thing of it—Taliban were young, old, weathered, soft-skinned. Couldn’t tell them apart—until you looked into their eyes. Hatred. Pure, unadulterated hatred poured out like a fire hydrant. Almost tangible. Sal had yet to meet one that he didn’t hear a bell clanging in his head.

As he patrolled, Sal searched the crowds for their targets.

“Anyone got eyes on Al-Bayati?”

“Negative,” came a steady chorus of responses from the team.

Still unable to locate the woman and children, Sal kept moving. Casually made his way toward the hut from the video, not wanting to draw too much attention. Maybe the woman had been tipped off somehow. But if Ramsey was the mole, and they’d avoided telling him where they were going, then how—?

“… warned them. They won’t be taken alive.”

Sal slowed, angling away from the two men standing at the back of the crowd talking excitedly in Farsi. As much as possible, Sal made himself appear bored and unable to understand them as he stood off to the side but within hearing.

“It is wrong,” one man hissed. “Killing the children—for him?” He spat then whispered something Sal couldn’t decipher.

Kill the children?

Heat rushed down Sal’s spine. Pushed him away from the two men. “Captain, I think we have a problem.” He moved to a structure and eased inside, out of earshot of the men.

“Go ahead,” Dean said.

From his position, Sal could keep an eye on the men but also see the captain, who was looking for him.

“Just overheard two men talking about killing the children. Anyone got eyes on the kids we saw?”

Just then, Riordan shouted for all the children to move to the side.

“Negative on the boy and girl with the woman,” Eagle reported from his bird’s-eye view.

After a few more of the same, Sal moved back into the open. He noticed the strained expressions. Noticed a woman glance over her shoulder, a hand to her mouth. Another woman did the same.

A teen girl silently wept in her mother’s arms. Sal had thought she was afraid of the search. Now he worried she knew what was happening.

“Sir, I think we need to find those kids.” The urgency carried through his voice despite his efforts to contain it. He pivoted toward the grape huts. “Knight, what’s your location?”

Ddrake trotted out of a building, Knight trailing.

Sal headed toward them.

A man broke from the group as Sal moved toward the rear where Knight entered one of the nicer homes. Sal eyeballed the man—and nearly tripped. “Captain”—even as he said it, the man broke into a run—“jackrabbit!”

Sal sprinted after him. Straight into a house. Ddrake barked and snapped. Sal rushed into the house, skidded to a stop, sweeping right and left.

A flash of light vanished behind a curtain.

Weapon to his cheek, Sal hurried forward. Reached for the curtain, anticipating getting riddled with holes. Heart in his throat, he jerked it back.

An open field met him.

He hiked his leg up, weapon out, eyes out, never breaking stride. Scanning, he searched for the man. A copse of almond trees to his right. He glanced away—but a tan movement jerked him back. Sal scurried forward, weapon and heart rate up. “Captain, we have movement on my location, south of the village.”

“Titanis and Harrier en route,” Captain said.

Sal jogged forward, listening. Expecting to be gunned down at any second. Thudding behind him warned of Titanis and Harrier pulling up the rear.

“What’ve you got?” Harrier asked.

“Runner, went into the trees,” Sal said as he ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and felt immediate relief from the sun’s barrage.

A scream knifed the tension.

Sal stopped. Not because someone screamed. But—

“That was a kid.”

Pushing himself forward, Sal felt his heart pounding against the possibilities. He sidled up to a stone wall and hooked a leg over, scanning and searching. His boot had no sooner hit the ground then he saw a blur.

He snapped to the left.

A man stood there.
Holy
—not just a man. The same teen they’d had in lockup back at Kandahar Airfield. The one who Sal helped to escape. And the teen had guts. He stood there waving.

A moan rose through the rustling canopy of leaves. Branches scratched out a mournful note. The wind kicked up and sounded like a howl.

“Hurry!” the teen yelled.

“Stop!” Sal shouted in Farsi to the guy.

But he pivoted and vanished over a rise.

Son of—
“Here!”
he called to Titanis and Harrier who grouped up on his location. The three of them made their way toward the crest of a small hill.

“I don’t like this,” Harrier said. “That moaning…”

Sal just moved. Quickly. Methodically. Expecting trouble. Knowing they were about to get it. He hunched as they reached the top. A thicket shielded his view. He angled to the right and—froze.

A woman sat on the ground in a red-and-white tunic, cradling a small boy in her arms, weeping silently. Just beyond her and between two almond trees, the kid knelt, waved Sal over frantically. That’s when it registered—blood. Blood everywhere.

A glint of steel in the woman’s hand had him diving hard at her. He barreled into her shoulder, grabbing for her wrist. They went backward hard. She screamed out, but Sal pinned her, holding her arm out so she couldn’t stab him or turn the blade on herself.

Outweighing her, he flipped her over, leaning down so her face pressed against the rocky terrain, as he wrangled the blood-slickened blade from her grip. When it came free, she cried out.

Riordan was there as Sal secured the woman’s hands to be sure she didn’t do any more harm to anyone.

“God, help us.” Harrier’s whisper drew Sal’s attention. He knelt over a small girl. A girl, no more than three or four, lay on the ground, her stomach a mash of blood and chopped tunic. Face pale and hair matted to her forehead with sweat, she lay there, crying out in agony. The teen hovered back a little, his white face telling of the shock he suffered.

The woman pushed against Sal’s hand.

He turned his full attention on her. Saw agony twisting her features. Man, she’s young. Definitely not Ramsey’s age. She seemed just a little older than Sal. And she had an eighteen-year-old son?

Sal’s stomach knotted. He looked to Titanis. “Take her to the captain. Keep her secure. She’s suicidal.”

Drawn by some unseen force, he went to the girl. Dropped to her side. Brushed back the mat of black hair and sweat on her forehead. Her cries quieted as she met his gaze, her lower lip wiggling. Exhaustion seemed to crowd her body and demand surrender.

“Hi,” he said, palming a hand over her head and sweeping the hair from her eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”

A tear slipped down her olive-colored cheek as wide, chestnut eyes went to the teen.
God…
He choked on a raw realization—this girl was the same age as Mila.

“We need a medevac!” Sal shouted to the SEALs.

Riordan nodded. “Already en route.”

Sal turned to the youth. “What happened?”

“She killed them,” the teen mumbled, his tone devoid of emotion.

Harrier’s grim expression told Sal how bad this was. He worked feverishly to pack the wound. “IV,” he said to Sal as his lips went thin with the restraint of anger and frustration.

Sal grabbed the bag and drew out the wide-bore needle and tubing. He slid the needle into her arm, his periphery stuck on the pulses of blood from her abdomen that seeped around the bandaging. “IV’s in.” He turned his attention to the weeping wound and pressed a hand against it.

Harrier saw the same spot and grunted as he added trauma foam to stop the bleeding by packing it in. The
thwump-thwump
of rotors grew closer.

“PJs incoming,” someone shouted.

Sal pushed his gaze to the teen. “What happened?”

The eighteen-year-old only shook his head, eyes locked on to the blood.

“Why’d she do this?”

“Gentle but firm pressure,” Harrier ordered as he pressed the top of Sal’s hands back over the sticky, warm wounds.

Swallowing, Sal stayed focused on the teen. “Talk to me! What happened? Why’d she do this?”

Titanis joined them, nudging Sal’s shoulder. “Go. Talk to him.”

Sal glanced back at the little one’s face. Eyes now closed, she seemed at peace. He froze. Waited for the shallow breath that barely pushed her bloodied chest upward. She could be Mila. Small, brown-skinned…