Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (9 page)

Cassie seized the opportunity. She went to Sal and touched his arm.

He jerked, his handsome face contorted not in pain. But anger. “What?”

“What happened? Everyone’s—”

“Someone killed the prisoner.” His brown eyes sparked with disgust. “Camera feed wasn’t working while the man was in the facility murdering our only possibility of finding out who was behind the attack.”

“The feed didn’t work?”

“Coincidentally so.” Sal wouldn’t look at her.

She remembered the days when he couldn’t
stop
looking at her. When those brown eyes teemed with admiration and attraction. Not repulsion or disgust.

The phone in Cassie’s hand buzzed. She lifted her phone. “Excuse me.” She stepped away and coded in, receiving the text: O
UTSIDE, TWO MINUTES.

Her pulse sped. Slipping out and not drawing attention while Sal was within sight… She lifted her purse from the drawer and started for the side entrance. With a quick glance to verify Sal and his captain were enthralled in conversation with Hastings, Cassie pushed into the night. Almost seven o’clock. The thin veil of night had just draped across the base, but the stalwart lights served as sentries to ward off the darkness, the terrorists.

Though he might resent her and hold Vida’s death against her, Sal knew Cassie Walker better than most people knew their best friends. And she had walked out of the Command building with concern and haste. What had that been about?

He collided with someone and turned. Froze. “Candyman?”

The man’s grin was buried beneath a burly sandy-blond beard. “Glad to see you haven’t forgotten me.”

“What are you doing here?” Dean asked.

“Hastings called me in. Contracting me to work with Raptor because they’re pulling Titanis for another gig.”

Dean scowled. “When were they going to tell me about this?”

“Probably about now,” Candyman said. “Sorry if I popped the lid early.”

With a slap on the man’s shoulder, Dean smiled. “No worries. Glad to have you onboard again. We’re about to head out. You ready?”

The question was probably more about the prosthesis than about the man’s preparedness. “Titanium-man reporting for duty, sir.” Unflappable as always.

“Sal, talk to Riordan and let me know what he says.” Dean broke away from Hastings. “I need to work with Ramsey and General Ames to get things sorted. We need some credible intel to work.” He nodded to Candyman. “I’ll find you after the meeting.”

“Agreed.” Sal jammed his hands in his pant pockets and headed out of the building with Candyman. “I knew that guy was bad meat. Never should’ve left that cell.”

“What happened?”

“Spook got in and killed a witness.” He left and the guy died. “We all knew something was wrong.” Their boots crushed pebbles as they trudged across the gravel path from the Command building.

Sal hunched his shoulders. They desperately needed the tide to swing in their favor. “Too much going wrong,” he mumbled, his periphery catching something.

To the left, two people stood between the USO building and a portable maintenance building. No. Sal slowed. Not just two people. A male and a female. About to divert his gaze, his mind registered the hair of the female. Her build and shape.

Cassie.

Something in his chest backfired like an RPG had hit center mass. The man touched the side of her face. Cassie ducked then glanced over her shoulder. Looked right at Sal.

Anger exploded through him.

She widened her eyes.

Whistling, Candyman nudged Sal. “D’you see that?”

“How could I not?” Sal churned the memory through his mind. So, Cassie hadn’t changed. Was this guy her next victim?

“Crazy. I heard she was into you. Thought she had more class than that.”

“Yeah, well, now you know.” But as Sal made his way across the base to the Boardwalk to meet up with Riordan and the rest of Raptor, something tugged at his mind. Nagged at him.

“Hey.” Eagle hustled up to him. “Something’s up—oh! Candyman.” The two shook hands and patted shoulders.

“Candyman’s contracting,” Sal said. “And we knew something was up.”

Eagle was soon joined by Harrier and Hawk. “No, I mean with the SEALs.” He bobbed his head toward the Boardwalk.

In the middle of an open area, Riordan stood alone beneath a lone lamp. Like a well-lit target. The gruesome reminder of Burnett’s death made Sal hesitate to join the party. In a wide perimeter, Riordan’s team stood around him.

“What’s that about?”

“Dunno,” Hawk said. “Knight’s patrolling with Ddrake but none of them are talking.”

Interesting. Obviously Riordan wanted to talk alone. “Okay, spread out.” Sal started toward the SEAL commander.

“A little late, Falcon?” Riordan smirked. “Heard there was some excitement over at detainment.”

“Someone killed the shooter we captured the other night.” Sal glanced around the area, feeling exposed. Vulnerable.

“We needed to talk.”

“Kinda figured that out,” Sal said, spotting Knight and MWD Ddrake near some of the portable buildings that once held restaurants.

“Any thoughts on who killed your prisoner?”

Sal sighed. “A spook. Came in with too much information and got the job done before we could figure it out.”

“Surveillance footage?”

“Down.”

“Convenient.”

“Agreed.” Sal let out another long sigh. Then met Riordan’s gaze. “So, we’re here. You’re here.” He eyeballed the teams standing around, unsettled. “This is a lot of cloak-and-dagger stuff. What’s going on?”

Head bowed, the late-twenties SEAL looked up through a terse brow as he nodded. His dark hair hung in straggly curls around a bearded face. Against his sun-darkened brow a white scar told of at least one battle the SEAL had seen. He looked like a homeless man, but those dark eyes betrayed him. Told Sal the man missed nothing. He took everything in like a supercomputer, processing and analyzing. Though he hated squids out of Green Beret duty, Sal had a keen respect for this one. Schmidt, with his white-blond hair and cocky attitude, was another fish altogether.

“I think you know things are a bit whacked.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“I’m not entirely sure which of our COs we can trust.”

Sal drew his gaze back to the commander, surprised at the comment. But it was one that had become painfully obvious in the last month as Osiris made impossible headway in his attack against the U.S. military.

“They’ve already attacked CECOM, and it’ll be days, if not weeks, before we figure out what damage was done.”

“I can just about guarantee the intel we gathered from that Tera Pass laptop is destroyed.”

“It was a strategic, well-planned hit.” Riordan scratched the side of his beard. “They got in when they shouldn’t have.”

“Then someone kills the only lead we have on the shooter and those responsible for the attack.”

Riordan nodded. “I think you’re starting to see where I’m coming from.”

“I think I’ve been there for a while, just unwilling to accept what it meant.” Accusing superiors of colluding with the enemy wasn’t a charge made lightly.

“It’s too well coordinated. Funny that your prisoner dies while the cameras are down.”

“Hysterical,” Sal said. “About as hysterical as watching my favorite general bleed out.”

Riordan’s expression hardened. “So, we know the same thing—this goes up the chain.”

Balling his fists was all Sal could do with what he felt, a tangle of emotions he couldn’t seem to sort through. “We need proof. Work it hard. Keep reports to Command vague. Enough to keep them off our butts about reporting in, but not enough for whoever is behind this to head us off.”

“Or kill another friendly.” Riordan tossed his chin, indicating behind Sal. “What about your team?”

“What about them?”

“How far do you trust them?”

Sal didn’t like the question and threw it back at the SEAL. “More than I trust you.”

Riordan smirked. “Okay, let’s keep tabs. I’ll give you what I know and keep you informed. I’d like you to do the same.”

Sal nodded—and as he did, a glint somewhere caught his attention. He snapped his gaze to the right. To a shadowy spot beyond the USO building.

Riordan shifted. “What?”

He couldn’t say why or what propelled him, but Sal took off running. He wasn’t going to lose anyone to another sniper. Wasn’t going to let anyone take out another of his team because he wasn’t responsive enough.

Even as he bolted, he heard shouts and the teams rallying behind him—at the same time, he saw a shadow drop from the roof of the chow hall. A light beam struck the man.

Sal thanked God He’d made him fast. He sprinted. “It’s the spook!”

Takkar Towers, Kabul, Afghanistan

I
can’t believe you told him I’m your wife!”

Eamon locked the door, retrieved the weapon from his pack that he’d slung over his shoulder. He walked the condo, anticipating trouble, but not wanting to stress Brie any more than she already was. “It’s Afghanistan. A man and a woman staying in the same condo would not only draw attention, but ire and possible outrage. Being American and here is trouble enough.”

Fifteen hundred square feet with clean lines and Spartan furniture. No trouble crossing a room and avoiding obstacles. Easy to defend with only a short hall to negotiate. Bedrooms sat off the main living area and full-sized kitchen. A bathroom sat between the two smaller bedrooms and the master opposite. Yet it felt cramped. Maybe because every time he turned around, she was there. Right there.

He tossed his pack on the small bed of the first bedroom. “You can take the master.” She’d have her own bathroom and privacy that way.

“Don’t you think if someone comes in they’ll figure out we don’t sleep in the same bed?”

“No. I’ll store my duds in the dresser in the master room. Bed will be made with hospital corners and no creases.”

She crossed her arms. “You can do that?”

“Every day.”

Amusement rippled through her tawny features, but she said nothing as she slipped into the bathroom. After suitcases were delivered, they settled in. First order of business—Eamon set up miniature cameras and microphones throughout the flat, tested each one, then set them to record through his laptop. As dusk fell in on the space and he flicked on the kitchen light, Brie worked alongside with her system, setting them to receive the same data and keeping in contact with her superiors.

They had a good system that flowed naturally. Eamon made contact with his command sergeant major, updating on his progress and purpose, now that they’d relocated the mission to the tower itself. For now, he left out that he was alone with the beautiful lieutenant.

“I hope you don’t expect me to cook.” Brie stood on the vinyl floor, arms crossed. She had these brightly colored pajama bottoms and a tank top on, her brown hair down. Comfortable and less military.

“Why? Are you a disaster in the kitchen?”

“My forte is soup.”

Eamon shrugged and nodded.

“From a can.”

He chuckled. “Good if we’re going to survive the zombie apocalypse.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I am.” He laughed. “But no worries. I’m actually a decent cook.”

“You?” Brie came to the table and folded herself back into the chair, propping her leg on the edge of the vinyl cushion. “Seriously?”

Eamon worked to set up the temporary network. “I lived on my own and hated fast food, so I learned.” He lifted a shoulder casually. “And in one of my phases of rebellion—”

“
One?
You had more than one?”

He gave her a glare. “I went to culinary school just to anger my father.”

“Seriously? You know how to cook? Besides putting shrimp on the barbie?”

“My oath, I do.” He smiled at her, amused that she found that interesting. “And apparently, I cook better than you.”

Brie sat back with her hands up in surrender. “I gladly accept defeat.” She waved him to the kitchen. “I want dinner in an hour.”

He laughed as the system streamed data. “We need ingredients to do that.”

“Is
that
how that works?” She sounded saucy as she hunched around her laptop.