Raptor 6 (22 page)

“Let’s remember,” Knight said, “Ddrake saved your butts out there.”

“Easy, chief.” Falcon unwrapped a protein bar. “It’s all in the family.”

“We have a much bigger fish to fry. I’m talking great white.”

At his back, the team leaned in—Dean could feel the cumulative clogging of the air with the five of them gathered tightly. But that was good because they were a tight team. Dean folded his arms and leaned back, staring at the monitor.

Burnett continued, “The intel connects the SCIFs with a cybersecurity group there in Majorca.”

“So the trip to Majorca is legit?” Hawk hooted. “Beaches … babes … bring it!”

Titanis eyed Hawk. “They have tattoo artists there.”

“Brother from another country”—no laughter in Hawk’s voice now—“leave the temple alone.”

Dean fisted a hand, giving the hold signal.

“I won’t kid you,” General Burnett said. “This could get messy quick. I want you to get in, find out who is connected to this.”

Something weird thrummed in the general’s words. “You have concerns about the intel, sir?”

“It came from Ramsey. Need I say more?”

Mazar-e Sharif
12 June—1515 Hours

D
oubt crept along the edges of her confidence. A shiver traced her spine.
You are my hope and refuge, an ever-present help in times of trouble
.

“It is for the best,” Khala Hafizah had said as Kaka Jahandar stood behind her.

Zahrah glanced around the small flat she and Fekiria would now share—“prudent,” her aunt had called it, “a smart, independent move”—until the school building had been repaired and they could return to holding classes there.

Two weeks ago, she would’ve loved the freedom of living alone with her cousin. Freedom! But now?
“Imminent danger …”
Dean’s words pummeled her courage.

Dean—his name still made her pause—had been so angry when he left. Or should she say,
stormed
off? While his warning hadn’t convinced her to leave, it compelled her to be a bit more cautious.

Oh, who was she kidding? Flat-out scared was more like it. “Thank you, Captain Watters.” The severity of his expression and his harsh words were like watching a horror movie late at night during a storm. Just added more anxiety where it wasn’t needed.

She placed a hand to her throat. Disappointment tugged at her composure. She slumped onto the chair in the living area and stared at the phone. An ache bloomed in her chest, one that longed to have the tenacious captain treat her more like the friend she wanted him to be.

Friend? No, she had to admit, she’d hoped for— Well, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t happen. She hadn’t just burned that bridge. She’d blown it with C-4.

A shout outside made her heart skip several beats. Slowly, she rose and moved to the sliding glass door that led onto a small balcony. She looked over the edge, down three floors, and saw a rowdy bunch of college students in the parking lot. As she turned, a glint caught her eye. A silver Mercedes parked in the far corner of the main lot. Window down, the man smoked—

Zahrah shoved back several steps, her heart in her throat. The man from the school. The one who’d threatened her.

“Imminent danger …”

Dean’s words haunted her as a heavy blanket of dread draped her shoulders. She held her elbows and considered the danger. What was Kamran doing here? Watching her apartment? Why? Was he the danger Dean had detected at the funeral?

“You’re leaping without facts, Z,” she whispered to herself. But she couldn’t shake the question—was he somehow connected to whatever Captain Watters
wouldn’t
name in their conversation? She rushed to the couch and fished her phone out. Who … who would she call? Dean?

You trust God, remember?

The taunt smacked some sense into her. She did trust God. And she did
not
believe it right to leave Afghanistan. But should she have stayed at the base for a while? Or …? She shoved her fingers through her long hair. Doubts bred like maggots in her confusion.

Keys jangled at the lock.

Zahrah shoved off the couch. Keys. Fekiria. Only she had keys.

The lock turned and the door opened, sucking Zahrah’s breath from her chest.

Fekiria slipped in and released the key from the lock. She pivoted, cheeks flushed from the warm afternoon, and smiled. “Ah, you’re home.”

“Where have you been?”

Fekiria scowled. “You know where I was.”

Fingertips to her brow, Zahrah took a steadying breath. “Forgive me.” She shifted to the curtain. “He’s here, Fekiria. The man from the school, Kamran.”

Dropping her purse, Fekiria frowned as her face drained of color.

“Where?”

“The parking lot—silver Mercedes.”

Her cousin eased up to the balcony and peeked. She returned quickly. “What is he doing here? Back to break another bone? Make sure we obey the Qur’an?”

“Shh!” Zahrah looked around the apartment. The couch and coffee table. Kitchenette tucked in the far corner. To the right, the bedroom where twin beds meant she no longer had to share a bed with a cousin—or two. But nothing to serve as a weapon if he tried to come in.

Ha! Right. With his bulk and her size, he’d overpower her easily. She had to do something.

“Okay, enough.” Zahrah went for the door.

“What are you doing?” Her cousin caught her wrist, eyes bulging. “You can’t go to him!”

“Of course not.” She smiled. “I have a better idea.” She slipped into the hall and went down to the lobby where a phone hung on the wall. She punched in the emergency number. “Yes, I’m scared. There is a man sitting in a silver Mercedes in the parking lot. I—I think I saw him before at the bombing where the children were killed. He’s just … waiting. Do you think he …? Oh, I just can’t say it.” Making her voice weak, her words frantic added the dose of fear she wanted the dispatcher to believe.

“Stay in a safe place,” the dispatcher said. “We will send someone over.”

“Thank you.” Zahrah hurried back up to her apartment, knowing the ploy would work this time. But next time … he might not wait. “You should go out, stay away for a while,” she said to Fekiria.

“Where are you going?”

“A bit of shopping.”

“Are you crazy? Shopping—when he’s stalking us?”

Zahrah smiled. “Yes, I’m crazy. You’ve told me that since I arrived.” When she heard the sirens shrieking through the city toward them, she lifted her purse. “Go home with your parents.”

“No. I’ll go to Khaled’s.” Fekiria’s face paled, but then she faked a smile. “He invited me to eat with his family.”

“A boyfriend?”

Fekiria wrapped her favorite pink silk hijab around her hair and neck. “It’s better than grandfathers!” They wound down the stairs to the main level then parted at the back door.

A few blocks later, Zahrah entered a small shop. Three men wandered the cramped aisles while a couple of women chatted with the employee. Nerves skittered around her belly as she gathered the items and headed to the counter. This purchase would halve her savings, but if Captain Watters was right …

As she hurried back, she scanned the parking lot then watched for ten minutes before darting back into her building. In her apartment, she locked the door, slid the chain over, and then went to the two-person kitchenette.

She worked quickly and put her experience, the same one Captain Watters insinuated placed her in jeopardy, to work for her. God had given her a keen mind, and He’d put the captain in her path to warn her of danger. Now … now, she’d make sure to protect herself in the only way she knew how.

Palma de Mallorca, Balearic Sea, Spain
12 June—1730 Hours

A cool breeze wafted off the Balearic Sea, smelling of salt and fish. Dean tugged down his black, nondescript ball cap and shouldered his pack a little higher. Sparkling water nearly blinded him as the Majorca coastline chugged closer. Still weighted over the unsatisfactory ending to his conversation with Zarrick, Dean tried to push aside the anger that she wouldn’t listen. He didn’t want to face losing someone else while he was gone.

Just didn’t make sense. She was smart. She had to know things were escalating.

Powerless to stop her, to force her stateside, he feared she’d end up just like Ellen Green. He and God would have some serious words if that happened.

So many things about Zahrah confounded him. Her faith. Her comment that she had no rights. What was she? A slave? He didn’t get that. Sure, Christians talked about being servants of God. And he was okay with serving God. That’s what he felt he did in the field as a warrior. But he’d never met someone who took that to a literal level like Zahrah Zarrick. It was foolish. Idiotic to intentionally put one’s life in danger. If she died, how could she fulfill her calling?

How can
you?

And yet he did it every day. Walked out into the desert with the team, aware that it might be the day he didn’t come back alive. Faced Talib and other terrorists.

But that was different.
I’m a soldier
. She’s not. She’s … He hated himself for wanting to say
a woman
. It wasn’t just that. He didn’t have any of those idiotic prejudices. He just didn’t want her to get hurt. Didn’t want that guilt on his shoulders. Not again.

Walk away from it
. Had to. He’d done his job to warn her. She made her choice to stay. Now he had to focus on the mission. And that had taken him and the team to Majorca. After much shouting at Burnett for leaving Zarrick vulnerable, Dean knew he’d lost again.

The boat bumped against the dock and the crew set up the walkway. Dean stalked down it and waded through the thick crowd of tourists. He sighted Hawk in a bright Hawaiian shirt chatting up a blond. Dean shook his head and aimed for the rendezvous. At one of the tourist traps, he picked up a prepaid cell phone, a bottle of water, and a bag of nuts. He paid cash then headed down away from the crowds. Down a street and past the church to the condo that served as the safe house to host the team.

At the door, he rapped three times.

“Hold up,” a voice called from deep within. The locks clicked and the door opened. At about six-three, the guy almost looked Dean in the eye. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. I’m here about the Lotus you advertised.”

“You got the cash?”

Dean held out a stack of bills he’d been given.

The man eyed the money. “C’mon in. We can talk.”

Dean stepped inside. The door slammed shut.

A blow to his back sent him into the wall. Eating peeling wallpaper off a dank-smelling wall, he tensed—ready to fight. But stopped. Knew he was in their territory and if he fought, he could go home free of charge with an extra bullet in his head.

A forearm braced his shoulders as the guy patted him down. The pressure released.

Dean turned, irritated.

Hands braced on his hip, the guy stared at him. “You’re early.”

“Blame it on the boat captain—I hear they’re not reliable.”

A meaty hand thrust out. “Name’s Jaxon.”

Peeling his pride and self off the wall, Dean returned the gesture. “Dean. My team will show up over the course of the next few hours.”

“As scheduled. C’mon back.”

Drowning in the guy’s shadow from a lone window at the back of the anemic hall that led to the rear of the condo, Dean tried to take in the layout. But there wasn’t much to take in. Two closed doors.

“Door on your left,” Jaxon said, “is the latrine. To the right, a closet. And in here, we’ve got everything set up.”

“We?” Dean rounded the corner to find a small kitchen barely navigable. But Jaxon strode onward and palmed a panel. A three-by-four section of the wall popped back, revealing a control box. Jaxon punched in a code and a door whooshed back from the dark cherry wood paneling. Stairs offered an escape from the cramped kitchen.

Taking the steps two at a time, Dean detected a murmur of conversation and hum of devices above him. He stepped onto the next level and stopped. Cables strewn over the floor made crossing it hazardous. A woman looked up from a computer.

“The scrawny guy is Kilgore,” Jaxon said as he moved around him. “That’s my wife, Shiloh.”

“Welcome to the Cave, Captain Watters,” she said, then turned to Jaxon. “Brutus, we got two more on approach.”

“Got it.” He slapped Dean’s shoulder. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back.”

The sixty-by-twenty room stretched to his right and left, walls blocking the stairs in what seemed to serve as additional rooms. Exposed beams and pipes left the space drafty but open. Dirty, grimy windows blocked anyone from seeing in but allowed natural light to fill the room. Tables and desks littered with computers, monitors, cameras, and a lot of other high-tech gadgetry Dean could only dream of having in the field made the place feel cluttered and unkempt.

A wheeled chair rolled over the wood floor, hopping one set of cables before another tripped it up. Dean caught it, his gaze snapping to the booted leg that kicked it over. Then to its owner.

With a baseball cap on, she spun around, her reddish-brown hair protruding from the cap. “Have a seat. Lot of info, not a lot of time.”