Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (4 page)

Cassie shoved her focus to Sal, desperate for them to save the general before… before he died. The handler jogged back out. “I put in a call. CECOM tied up the ambulances. But triage is expecting him.” Rocks crunched and popped as a vehicle swung to a stop near them.

“Lift him.” Sal hooked his arms beneath the general’s legs as the captain carefully lifted his head. “Keep his legs higher to slow blood flow.”

With Knight and Titanis, the two men maneuvered the general to the back of the truck. Cassie stayed with them, nausea roiling as she kept the pressure on his wound.

The captain and Sal situated the general as Cassie went down. Steel digging into her knees, she held both hands over the gunshot wound. But no matter how hard she pressed, the blood kept spilling out. “I can’t stop it,” she cried out, hearing the panic and not caring.

“Go!” Sal shouted, clamping his hands over Cassie’s.

“Moving him traumatized the wound,” Dean yelled over the wind and engine noise as they barreled toward the base hospital.

Though it wasn’t a large distance, the trip took longer than Cassie wanted. He didn’t have an endless supply of blood. Even with Sal’s hands on hers, it seemed blood still seeped around the edges of the ever-widening circle.

She stiffened, seeing a stream roll down the general’s chest and pool at the hollow of his throat.

“C’mon,” Sal yelled.

Titanis seemed to obey, whipping the truck up to the hospital that was already abuzz. The early bombing victims would complicate this.

The doors burst open, Hawk leading two orderlies and a stretcher.

“Hawk, here!” The captain leapt from the truck, waving them over.

The medical team rushed toward them.

Sal shifted beside her, pushing to his feet but bending in half to keep their hands in place. “Can’t stop the bleeding.”

Two nurses climbed up, replacing Brie, who had hovered at the general’s head the whole time. They laid the stretcher out next to him.

“Roll him toward you,” the doctor said. “On three. One… two… roll!”

Sal, Cassie, and Brie rolled the general’s body to the side as the medical team slid the stretcher into place. They eased him back down and within seconds, they slid the general out of the truck bed.

Adrenaline racing through her veins, hands covered in blood, Cassie followed the medical team and Raptor into the hospital.

Captain Watters recapped the incident, the medical situation, and stalked the team back toward the prep bays, which were all full. Sal remained with his general and captain, though they hung back to stay out of the way so the medical team could work their magic.

Cassie held back, her hands trembling. Her heart feeling as if it pumped peanut butter. General Burnett…

“Please save him,” a voice whispered.

Read her thoughts. Her silent plea to God.

“He can’t die.”

This time, the words snapped Cassie out of her stupor. She looked to the side and found Brie Hastings, hands slightly less bloodied than her own, covering her mouth, mumbling.

“He’ll be okay.” Cassie didn’t know why she said it. Somehow, she knew the words weren’t true. General Burnett probably wouldn’t make it. He’d lost too much blood. An artery had been nicked. But Brie had been one of her few allies since arriving in Afghanistan a few weeks ago. And she hated to see anyone looking or sounding desperate or scared.

Brie met her gaze but said nothing. Instead she turned. Started for the door.

“Brie,” came a deep, quiet voice.

Titanis hurried after her, touching Cassie’s shoulder as he did. As if to comfort her. She had worked with the general, but she didn’t know him. Not the way these people did. But he was a good man. A good leader.

“Would you like to wash?” A nurse motioned toward a large bin-style sink.

Cassie glanced at her hands. Right. With a mute nod, she stumbled that way.

“Antiseptic soap here,” the nurse said, motioning to the wall-mounted bottle. “Towel there. Put it in the bin when you’re done.”

Another silent nod and Cassie was washing her hands. Scrubbing. Would he make it? She’d never been in a situation like that, having to stop a man’s death with her bare hands. If he died—

Sal will blame me
.

Again
.

Her eyes slid closed. The din of running water blended with the hum of shouted orders, curtains slinking across metal rods, and the ominous
whoosh
of medical personnel running back and forth.

“He’s flatlining.”

Cassie jolted at the voice beyond the wall. She flipped off the faucet and dried her hands, a strange venom pulsing though her veins, urging her to leave the building. Away from death. Away from blame. She didn’t want to be here if General Burnett died. Didn’t want to watch him die. Or hear him die. She just… couldn’t.

She discarded the towel in the receptacle and eased back into the main hall. A quick look revealed an arc of tactical shirts forming a protective barrier around the bay that held the general.

Sal stood with his back to her, his concern and loyalty evident in the ever-watchful guardian, maintaining watch over his fallen general. He shifted, shaking his head. Started to turn—and his gaze skidded in her direction.

Cassie pivoted away. She didn’t need his scathing rebuke. His hatred. Not this time. Not after tonight.

Kabul, Afghanistan
25 March—1830 Hours

Applying pressure to an individual could be fruitless. Unless one used the right kind of pressure. And right now, that’s what he had to find out about this impudent man. Sajjan Takkar stood removed but present. Active but inactive. A posture of power. He needed this man to know who was in charge. Since they’d dragged him here a few days ago, they’d managed to learn nothing that Sajjan’s own intelligence ring hadn’t already provided.

Waris laid out the kit of needles and serums.

“Y–you’re joking, right?” Sweat beaded the man’s brow. “You know all you have to do is throw money at me and I’ll squeal like a stuck pig.”

Sajjan unfolded his arms and walked toward the twenty-eight-year-old hacker. “Mm, yes. You would. And you have, but what would you say?”

“Whatever you want me to say.”

“Indeed.” That was the problem. “I do not want to hear what you think I want to hear.” He clipped his words to show irritation, though he wasn’t irritated yet. Determined, yes. Focused, even more so. “I want the truth.”

“What is truth? How do you define truth?” A smile quivered above the man’s lips. “Right? I mean. Let’s be real here. You want to know who hired me. Who paid me. But why—why would you want to know that? You’re not American. They don’t help you. I mean, who do they help, ya know?”

Sajjan walked a slow circle around the room. His phone chirruped and he tugged it from the pocket as Waris loaded a vial of gold liquid into the syringe. “Keep me informed.”

Once the door behind him hissed shut, he took the call. “Sabir, what can I do for you?”

“There has been an attack. A bold, brazen attack against the American base in Kandahar.”

Sajjan started for the private elevator. “You know this how?”

“Dozens of their wounded are here.”

At the NATO hospital.

“I am hearing whisperings that someone is paying the Taliban to be more open in their attacks.”

“I hear the same,” Sajjan said gravely.

“We must stop this.” Sabir’s voice was rushed, quiet. “All these years of hard work—even if you do not agree with American policy, this—
this
is not good for Afghanistan. For business.”

“I agree.” It was why he had worked so hard in the last decade to be an ally on many fronts, not to one government over another but for the good of Afghanistan. For the good of his mother’s people. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Will you deal with this?” The question was as pleading as it was demanding.

“You know me, Sabir.”

A shaky breath carried through the line. “Of course. Of course, I do. Thank you.” Sabir’s nervous anticipation and desperate hope to see the violence quiet down in the regions carried through the phone. After watching what happened with Iraq and ISIS, the threat against any freedom and free enterprise hung in the balance.

“Do not thank me. We must do this together.” Sajjan ended the call as he entered the elevator then slid his key into the slot and rode to the top floor. Stepping into his office, he heard terse conversation in the foyer of his penthouse apartment. In particular, he heard Nina’s voice. A primal instinct to protect her pushed him across the lush office to the door. He moved into the open area slowly to gain perspective before injecting himself.

Dressed in a silk kaftan and hijab, Nina stood as elegantly and poised as ever. It was a testament to her that she wore the scarf out of respect for the people of his country. He appreciated the gesture of his American wife who, having been influential in Hollywood after a stunning career, certainly did not have to spend her better years tucked away from the glamour and glitz on the other side of the world. Yet she insisted. And he was glad for it. She was a breath of fresh air with her strong views, confident manner, and beauty.

The man standing with her just beyond the entryway was Aamir al Wahidi, an imam hired by the community to not only lead them in prayer but provide counsel. While Sajjan never sought the imam’s advice, it had been given. Often.

Nina held her hands out, palms up. “I am so sorry, Mr.—”

Sajjan moved forward, not willing that his wife should have to make an excuse. Not on a night like this.

“Ah.” Nina’s eyes brightened as she met his gaze. Relief flickered through her brown irises as she inclined her head. “Here you are.”

Sajjan wrapped an arm around Nina’s waist and kissed her temple, making sure the imam understood this significant gesture that Nina may be his wife, but she was more than that as well—friend, confidant, business partner. “Forgive me for being late.” He shifted to the imam and inclined his head. “
Salaam
, Aamir.”

“Salaam.” Aamir inclined his covered head.

“Haleh shoma chetor hast?”
Here, it would be an insult or slight to get right down to business as was so often done in American and other business circles. Which was why he’d asked how the imam was doing—to show courtesy and respect.

Aamir, dressed in the traditional
khet partug
, a tunic slightly tightened at the waist and loose pants with plenty of pleats, bowed again. It was the
karakul
hat that marked the man with some level of pride, marked his leadership within the community. But Sajjan would not fault him for it as he himself still wore the turban of the Sikh.

He motioned toward Sajjan’s office. “We should speak.”

Ignoring the slight at not asking after
his
family, Sajjan nodded to Nina, acknowledging her with a warm smile as she slipped down the hall to where her daughter no doubt waited with her husband and dog. Sajjan led the way into the office, flicking on the light as he entered. “Your disregard for my family speaks to the urgency, it would seem.”

“Please,” Aamir said, motioning behind Sajjan. “Close the door.”

He would ignore the man’s slight in telling him what to do in his own home. “It is an honor to have you in my home.” A subtle reminder to the man of his position here.

“There has been an attack,” Aamir said with a hiss. “Against the Americans.”

Interesting that he left out the location. “Where?”

“Kandahar.”

“Isn’t that under Bahram?”

“Bah!” Aamir spun and stalked toward a chair. “You and I both know Bahram is unfit to lead.”

“Do I?” Sajjan strolled to the window and stared down on the city.

“Do not play games with me, Sajjan.”

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, Sajjan turned. “Then do not play with me. You have ignored courtesy and impugned a friend.” He let a handful of breaths eek out in a calming measure before continuing. “What is your point today, friend?”

“The attack was not by our people.”

Sajjan said nothing because he wasn’t surprised by the words. There had been an undercurrent of tyranny in current events. And he’d recently confirmed the source of that influx of hatred and violence had been birthed or perpetuated from within the walls of this tower. Beneath his very nose.

And he would deal with it. Once he had what he needed.

“You suspect… whom?” Sajjan asked, arching an eyebrow as he played the innocent. “Who else but the Taliban would carry out such an attack that serves no purpose when the Americans are already withdrawing?”

Reason had never worked with those emboldened by religious fervor. Or a herd mentality. He had been as frustrated as he had been inspired by his mother’s people.

“I do not have an answer for this,” Aamir said, as if it was abhorrent that Sajjan would ask him.

“Then why are you here, Aamir? I am a busy man—”

“You have the power to influence people, to get to the bottom of this and stop it.”

“And why would I want that?”

Aamir lifted his chin only a degree. Enough for the arrogance and true purpose behind his visit to be revealed. “We must all work for a stronger Afghanistan.”