Raptor 6 (19 page)

And suddenly, Dean felt empty. So very empty.

Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
04 June—1310 Hours

Right cross.
Thump!
Uppercut.
Thump
. He threw another right. It landed squarely, the impact carrying through his arm and shoulder. The telltale ache in his back haunted him, even after ten years. He toed the mat, bouncing and moving. Energy trained on the black bag. On shedding the frustration. The confusion.

The truth was staring him in face.

Had to be.
“If you weren’t distracted by her pretty face, you’d know why I’m calling.”

Pretty face.

Dean threw a hard right. Connected. The impact rippled through his muscles. Felt good. Burned.

The memory of her flowery scent and soft lips spiraled up and spiked his adrenaline. He aimed with a left cross.

“Saw the boy went home yesterday.”

Dean didn’t break line of sight on the punching bag as Sal came up beside him, removing his wraps.

“That school teacher sure takes good care of those kids. Saw how it ate her up over that little girl.”

An uppercut. He knew what was happening. Knew where Falcon was headed.

“Have a nice chat with her?”

Dean leaned back and drove his foot into the bag. Came up with a hard right. “D’you run the IDs?”

“Nothing yet.”

After toweling off his face, Dean moved to the speed bag.

“Any closer to your mystery puzzle?”

With a quick shake of his head, he tapped the bag. Right . . left … right.

“Oy, word is that the schoolteacher is one of your top general’s daughter.” Titanis morphed from the shadows, gym bag in hand. “I’d be chuffed with that news.”

“Not if her daddy was breathing down your neck like he is with the captain here,” Falcon said.

Right … left … right, left, right, left.

“That right? She’s a missionary, right?”

Rightleftrightleftrightleftleft.

“A bit crazy, mate. Coming into a war-torn country for religious reasons.”

Rightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleft.

“That won’t egg him on. See the wings on his back?” Falcon smirked—he could hear it in the guy’s voice. “He’s here for religious reasons, too.”

“The wings are raptor wings, I thought,” Titanis said.

“For us they are, but for Dean, the wings are also angel wings. Or so he says. That’s why he’s here.”

“Wrong.” Dean stopped the bag. Held on, his breath heaving, his mind trampling the wrong assumption about the wing and sword tattoo covering his back, covering his scars. “I’m here because I wasn’t going to let them win.”

Titanis eyed him. Then with a toss of his chin said, “Let who win?”

Dean rounded on the men, startled to find the entire team huddled. Breath leveling, he used that as an excuse for more time. “The ones who tried to break me.” He ripped off his gloves and tossed them to the side. “Look, we have things to figure out. I’m not the mystery.”

Titanis smirked. “Aren’t you though?”

Dean eyed the Aussie.

“That’s some artwork on your back. And I don’t mean the ink.”

“It’s not relevant to our mission.” Dean grabbed his bag.

“Isn’t it?”

Dean slowed. Gritted his teeth. Hung his head.

“I’ve been wondering why this mission has your brilliant tactical mind so clouded you can’t see the obvious.”

He turned. Slowly. Met the guy’s pale gray gaze. “Obvious?”

“Yeah.” Titanis seemed a brute of a guy, with a voice that wasn’t deep but contained a depth with what he said. “This girl—why is she here?”

Hawk snickered. “Dude, she’s a missionary. They got religious fervor, need to proselytize everyone.”

“Nah.” Titanis’s lips pursed. “See, I’m not buying that.”

Though his heart beat a mean cadence, Dean waited. Listened. He’d wondered this, too. Beyond the normal stuff in the file.

“There’s something behind her being here. What is that?”

“Her mom,” Dean said. Now it felt more like bouncing off ideas with a like-minded soldier. Falcon used to do that. Till something made him withdraw. Their friendship hadn’t been the same.

The guys looked at Dean.

He shrugged. “Her mom was an Afghan.”

“Maybe.” Titanis jutted his strong, bearded jaw. “But there’s more to it than that,” he said again. “See, you—you’re here because you want to beat what your captors tried to do to you, the lies they tried to beat into you. You’re here amid insane circumstances facing down death. That girl—she’s doing the same thing every day. And I just have to ask—why? What compels her to be in danger, day in and day out?” He shook his head. “I don’t know many women, or men for that fact, who would. So what’s behind it?”

Dean nodded. This was good.

“She’s here because of our captain.” Hawk chuckled. “She’s sweet on him.”

“I think the captain’s sweet on her, too.” Falcon sounded ticked.

“If he’s not, he should be. Or sign me up.” Hawk. Ever the gentleman.

“You’re stating the obvious.” Titanis sounded like an instructor now. “Get past those rudimentary elements and dig a little deeper, eh, mates? This girl might be sweet, but we’d be foolish to mistake that for soft or schoolgirl behavior.”

“What are you getting at, Titanis?” Falcon folded his arms over his chest, intent.

“That girl has steel for bones to be here, to face Taliban who’d as soon kill her as let her teach. So why? What is here? She’s got this mind-blowing degree. What is she doing in a dusty school with children and death blowing up her front door?”

Dean froze. Gaze darting as he mentally reviewed the data from her file. He grunted. “That’s it. Her degree. The SCIFs.” He slapped Titanis on the shoulder then looked at the others. “Shower up. Meet at the command center in twenty.”

Scrubbed and changed into fresh duds, Dean sat at his computer in the command center. He logged in and pulled up Zahrah’s profile. Scrolled to her education. Eyed her internship. Dropped back against the rickety office chair. He steepled his fingers and breathed against his hands. He lunged out of his seat and stomped down the hall. He rapped twice on the door.

“Enter.”

“General Burnett,” Dean said, his heart thudding against the question he was about to ask. “Neither I nor my team has any room for games. We are engaged in a deadly scenario.”

“Yeah, it’s called war.”

“I need to know one thing.” Dean didn’t want to give voice to this. But he had no choice. “Is Zahrah Zarrick an enemy combatant?”

Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province

Y
ou don’t really believe that, do you?” Lance Burnett leaned forward, feeling his temper in the bulging veins along his neck. “I thought you had more brains than that.”

“Sir.” Tight lips, tense shoulders, the guy was ticked. “That is the last thing I want to believe about Miss Zarrick, but the dots are leading me there.”

“Then get off the leash! Start walking this dog, Watters. That girl is no trouble to you or your mission. She has aided us countless times as translator and advisor.”

“I understand, sir. But her area of specialty—”

“I don’t think you do understand, Captain.” Lance didn’t want to tear into the guy, but it’d taken him too long to figure things out. “That girl holds incredible information in her head, but she’s got a heart of gold.”

“Agreed, sir. That knowledge she possesses is rare—invaluable. I imagine she’s helped SOCOM.”

“Many times.” He slammed down his pen. “She’s an asset, not a target.”

“For us, but it sure would be dangerous if someone with criminal intent found out about her area of specialty.”

“That’s right.”

“And I’m sure General Zarrick would breathe fire if anything happened to her.”

“It was bad enough when she was involved in the explosion.”

“Which is why she should leave the country. ASAP.”

Lance stilled. Son of a gun. “You walked me right into that one.”

Watters lowered his head. Probably to hide the smirk he wore. “I believe it’s in her best interest that she be removed from the area until we get this thing figured out and stopped.”

The captain might be right, especially if the guy wanting to send her back was part of the problem. “You don’t trust yourself.”

Pulling straight, Watters scowled. “Sir, I’m not on babysitting detail. I can’t be with her 24/7. There’s no way with her active life—one that has already drawn the scrutiny of men under investigation—and mine as a member of SOCOM that I can maintain OPSEC and keep her alive, too.”

Lance could not argue. Especially not after the dialogue with Ramsey. “Agreed.” He sighed. “But leave off about that. I’ll talk to Pete and see what he says. Right now, we have bigger fights to pick.”

“What’s happening, General?”

“Intel came down from Ramsey about a connection to the SCIFs.”

Mazar-e Sharif
05 June—0930 Hours

Raptor team kept its distance, not standing with the family but also not significantly distinct from the friends. The somber atmosphere kept them in check. With war ravaging the lives of those he knew, Dean held an intimate knowledge with death and funerals. He’d buried too many friends. Those took their toll but nothing like the funeral when he was eight years old. His gaze strayed to the little boy held close by his mother. Dean knew what it was like to be that young, to bury someone you loved….

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. Trained his eyes on the tiny, frail body wrapped in white and being lowered into the hole. His gaze tracked on their own to the lithe figure of Zahrah Zarrick, who stood behind the little girl’s mom. Arms linked with her cousin, she blended in with the other Afghan women in the gathering. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, black hijab and tunic. Sunlight captured a tear as it slid along her cheek, a hostage of her grief. She swept away the drop. Her shoulders lifted as she drew in a breath and raised her chin.

In the moment that their gazes connected and she managed a small smile, she suddenly seemed worlds apart from those gathered. How could he protect her when she stood out like that? It seemed a desert stood between them, her vulnerable and open. Him too far away to do any good. He wanted to move closer so he could react quicker.

What possessed a beautiful woman like her to give up the relative security and safety of life back in the States? He had to hand it to her, though. She fit right in. Nothing unusual about her—until she spoke. That American “accent” got her every time. And yet … it didn’t. She could speak fluent Pashto.

A nudge against his right elbow pulled his gaze to the ground.

“Two o’clock,” Falcon muttered without moving a muscle. “Hundred yards.”

Dean skated his gaze in that direction, not wanting to draw attention to himself. A line of clay and mud homes built into a hillside tried to hide from the sun in the desertlike setting. A glint from one of the rooftops tightened his gut. Was he staring down the wrong end of a sniper’s scope? As he took in the dwellings, he spotted the front of a white truck.

Heat flared across his shoulders. Threat? He eyeballed Hawk, standing to his left with Titanis and Harrier. Hawk must’ve heard Falcon’s whispered words because as soon as Dean’s gaze struck him, he gave an almost imperceptible nod and slowly shifted away. In minutes, he’d navigated around the crowd and slipped behind a building.