Raptor 6 (27 page)

Dean flipped his gaze to General Burnett. “What about Zarrick? Does he know—”

“Zarrick? Peter Zarrick?” Ramsey chortled. “He’s retired. He has no say. You think you can get past me, Watters?”

“Negative, sir. I have concerns.”

“Who doesn’t?”

In his tac pant pocket, Dean felt the secure phone buzz. Ignored it. “Innocent American lives are in danger—right here. We can’t just walk away or pretend—”

“Don’t lecture me, Captain!” Gray eyes blazed with wounded pride and anger. “I know more than you could pretend to!” He faced off against Dean, who went rigid.

The heat pouring through Dean’s back and gut warned him to step off—he was ticked. Beyond ticked. His respect for the rank forbid him from unleashing the fury roiling through his veins.

With a huff, Ramsey slid his gaze back and forth along the line of Raptor team. “You men look tired. Get some rest.” He pushed past Dean and headed for the door. “That’s an order!”

Chairs squawked as the SEAL team stood and started for the door.

Dean met the gaze of one of the operators. A shorter guy. Black hair and just as black eyes. Teeth grinding, he forbid himself from saying anything stupid. Or smart. Anything he said would probably erupt in a fight.

Thud!

The SEAL’s shoulder bumped Dean’s.

Dean reacted.

A hand clamped on his shoulder. Spun him around.

“Easy, easy.” Falcon pressed him in against the grease board.

Hands on the wall, Dean worked his anger out through calculated breathing.

“Let the real men take care of this,” a SEAL said with a snigger.

Dean jerked.

Another hand clamped around his shoulder. Titanis huddled in with him and Falcon. “Not worth it, mate.”

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Behind him, he heard shoes squeak. Chairs squawked.

“C’mon, you piece of—”

“Hey!”

He glanced over as Harrier and Knight held back a writhing Hawk. The door thumped closed, and in the hall came the telltale laughter and high fives of the SEALs. Dean spun toward Burnett.

The graying general raised his hands. “You’re not going to say or feel anything I haven’t already felt.”

Dean took a step forward, pointing to the door Ramsey had just escaped through. “Are you telling me … did he imply what I think he did? We’re sidelined?”

“Officially?” Burnett nodded. “Yes.”

Hawk flung up his arms. “Son of a—”

“Check your language.” Dean thrust a hand at the guy. “There’s a lady present.”

Lieutenant Brie Hastings stood and arched an eyebrow. “Who could write the manual on foul language.” She smiled at Dean. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

Dean’s phone buzzed again. “Sir—”

“I said
officially
.” Burnett stared up through his bushy eyebrows at the team.

Thick tension hung suspended, each breath begging the general for release. “If you gentleman will excuse me. I need a Dr Pepper.” Burnett glanced at Hastings then thumbed at Raptor team as if to say, “Tell ‘em.” He left the room.

Anticipation thrummed through Dean. The two were playing coy about something. He waited for the thump of the door then eyeballed Hastings.

She closed up the briefcase, walked around the table, and stood directly in front of Dean. From somewhere, she produced a piece of paper. “You do all look tired. It’s a disgrace that you’d let yourselves get so worn down. That’s how mistakes happen. That’s how bad judgment calls are made.” The little actress wrinkled her nose as she tucked the paper into Dean’s hand. He curled it into a ball without breaking eye contact. Did she think someone was watching?

“Good night, gentlemen.” She almost pulled off the demure thing. “You’ve got what, a week? Maybe more?” At the door, she smiled. “Oh. And stay out of Ramsey’s way. He and his team are heading out first thing.”

Dean waited until after she left.

“What in a gypsy’s uncle was that all about?” Hawk frowned. Then saw Dean’s hand. “What—?”

“No.” Dean stalked out, his stupid phone buzzing again. He tugged it out and glanced at the number. Didn’t recognize it. Stuffed it back in his pocket. At his bunk, he stepped under a lantern. Uncrumpled the paper as the team crowded him.

ACTIVITY AT BOMBED SCHOOL. EQUIPMENT OFF-LOADED.

Dean’s pulse kick-started at the news. They needed to move. Now.

Falcon slapped him on the shoulder. “Think it’s time for Hawk to get inked?” His grin was wicked. “Don’t you?”

“Hey.” Hawk scowled, his face the epitome of challenge as he pointed at the team sergeant. “Don’t touch the temple.”

“Seems someone needs a little graffiti on their pristine, self-absorbed shrine,” Falcon said. “Bet there’s great artists near the Blue Mosque.”

Tattoo artist. Outside the wire.

Dean nodded, following the ruse. “ ’Bout time you committed to the team.” He shot a mean warning to Hawk. “Seal your deal with wings.”

“No.” Hawk started backing up. “No way. I don’t need poison in my body to prove I’m all-in.”

“Afraid of a little ink?” Titanis smirked.

Hawk’s nostrils flared. “You have wings, boy from Oz?”

Titanis grinned then tugged up his shirt, revealing the Victoria Cross over his heart. He’d earned two of those before being attached to Raptor for a mission involving MWDs and WMDs.

“
Wings
, Oz.” Hawk looked triumphant. “No wings.” He raised his hands. “If he doesn’t have them—”

“We’ll do it together.” Titanis’s bearded jaw jutted. “Take one for the team.”

Hawk’s eyes blazed. “Not happening.”

“You’re looking a little green there, runt.” Titanis gripped Hawk’s shoulder. “What do you say?” He patted Hawk’s chest. Though Hawk was about six inches shorter, the two were well matched in muscles. “Tell you what—I’ll hold your hand.”

Raptor tightened up on Hawk.

With a shout, Hawk crashed through the team and raced out of the tent.

“Get him!”

Mazar-e-Sharif
15 June—2115 Hours

A half mile out, they lay prostrate on a building, peering through scopes. The old school compound stood somber and broken in the dark night. Gate fixed and now guarded by two armed men in keffiyehs, the courtyard glowed beneath the halo of light the generator lamps cast across the crowded area where Dean first met Zahrah.

“Grand freakin’ Central Station,” Hawk muttered.

Two large canvas-topped trucks huddled against the back area, being disemboweled of large crates. Firearms. RPGs. Who knew what they were delivering.

“Recognize anyone?” Dean asked Falcon, who lay to his right, snapping pictures.

“Negative.” As Raptor’s expert in ops/intel, Falcon had a broader knowledge than most. “Hold up.” The soft shutter of a lens snapped a dozen times. “Kohistani just emerged. He’s got the ear of someone.”

Dean scanned the scene and located the bearded director walking with a man in a long tan tunic and even longer beard. Head and neck wrapped, he had the classic imam look. “Recognize his friend?”

“Hold up, hold up,” Hawk said, having temporarily avoided an inked back. Their ruse to escape the base had worked, especially with the extent to which Hawk had howled at the security point. They’d taken their time secreting into this position unnoticed. “Check the gate. Check the gate.”

Dean slid his binoculars down to where a dark van pulled up to the gate, which was already opening.
What am I missing?

“Dude in the passenger seat is the guy who hit Double Z and her cousin.”

Sliding the nocs along the moving van, Dean caught a blurred glimpse before the van swung around on the other side of the large canvassed trucks.

“D’you see him?” Hawk asked.

“Negative.” The mechanical whir of the long-range zoom gave Dean hope that Falcon would capture something.

“They’ve got someone.” Falcon’s words held warning. “Hooded, hands tied.”

“Male? Female?”

“Unknown.”

Dean scratched his jaw. Whatever Kohistani was running, it couldn’t be legal. Not with a night operation and blindfolded hostages.

“Do we go in?” Harrier asked.

“Negative.” Dean shook his head, not as an answer but to ward off the knot in his gut. Hated leaving anyone in the clutches of these men. But there were too many unknowns. Not enough information. “Not our mission.”

“Technically,” Hawk muttered as he adjusted and continued staring through the nocs. “Neither is—oh crap!”

Cement exploded in Dean’s face. He buried his face in his forearm and covered his helmet. “Exposed! Exposed!” he shouted as he scrambled backward.

He rolled to the left. Swung his body down over the lip of the rooftop, reached for the open window and caught it. Then dropped. His boots crunched and hit the ground running. Behind him, he heard a half-dozen others pounding the dirt. Hoofing it without the ruck helped, but his tac vest and weapon added to the weight.

Cracks of gunfire robbed him of the hope they’d avoid an encounter. M9 out, he stuffed himself into an alcove, braced himself, and aimed down the dark alley and beyond the team as they sprinted for the vehicle.

A figure whipped around the corner. Weapon up and firing.

Dean eased back the trigger and neutralized the target.

Another skidded, probably seeing his friend go down, and slid straight into the body. Dean fired again.

“Go, go!” Hawk shouted as he slammed up against Dean.

He darted to the other side of the alley. Took up position, halfway down the alley. Dean searched but saw nothing. Traced the shadows with his muzzle. What he wouldn’t do for NVGs. “Clear!”

Hawk lunged toward him.

A tiny explosion in a shadow revealed the shooter.

Dean calculated—the spark had been a bit low … probably kneeling—and fired. A grunt preceded a tinge of cream slumping out of the shadows.

“Augh!” Hawk released an angry growl. “Crap. That freakin’ Talib clipped me.” Disbelief colored his words. A breathy grunt knocked out of Hawk as he dropped against the wall to Dean’s left.

Even in the dark shadows, the faint moonlight glinted off the blood seeping through Hawk’s shoulder. “How bad?”

“It’s bad—I’m shot!”

“Harrier—”

“No,” Hawk said. “Let’s get out of here. I can make it.”

“You sure?”

“Not if you keep wasting breath.”

“Falcon, cover us. We’re coming in—Hawk’s hit.”

“Roger!”

Dean threaded an arm under Hawk’s and grabbed his far drag strap. Together, they hurried to the armored vehicle and dove in.

They were in motion before the door closed. Dean unvelcroed Hawk’s tac vest as Harrier crowded in, anxious to do his medic thing.

Hawk leaned back against the seat, hissing. “Son … of a …
biscuit
.” His face screwed tight.

“Calm down.”

“It burns like—”

“Need me to hold your hand?” Titanis asked.

Hawk’s gaze locked on to the Aussie.

“Dope him,” the Aussie said. “He’ll never know how many needles hit him.”

Hawk glowered. “You touch me”—he grimaced as Harrier worked on him—“and the last thing you’ll see is my fuzzy kangaroo fists in your face.”

Dean snickered. Did Hawk realize Titanis was getting his mind off the pain?

“We’ll give it a go when you have your strength back.” Titanis cocked his head. “Or have you ever had it?”

With another powerful glare at Titanis, Hawk shook his head. Groaning, his face red and veins bulging as Harrier slid a needle into the meaty part of his shoulder, Hawk steeled himself. Then let out a breath. Focused on Dean. “How’d they see us? Two blocks away? Dark?”

He shook his head again.

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Falcon said.

Harrier pressed bandages to the wound and taped it. “Bullet’s deep. We’ll need to wait till we get back.”

“Beginning to think we have a traitor or spy,” Hawk said. “I’d start checking with foreigners on the base. Those assigned to SOC teams.” His gaze slid to Titanis.

The man took the half-tease, half-accusation hard. “You think—”

“Easy,” Dean said. “He’s just giving back what you dished.”

Face coated in a sheen of sweat, Hawk held his ground and expression. “Am I?”

When the lights of the base beamed into the vehicle, Dean leaned forward. “Falcon, take us to the motor pool. Harrier, you can fix this, right?”

“Yeah.”

If Ramsey got wind that Hawk needed surgery to remove the bullet, he’d climb down their throats. Dean would fill out the AAR with complete details, but he’d delay submitting it till things calmed down.

In the motor pool, they curtained off an area and Harrier went to work. Dean waited outside, watching. Analyzing. The others headed to the showers. How … how had the guards noticed them? No way they should’ve been seen. Not for some little operation like that stuff at the school. And who was their captive?

Dean coded in.

Behind the curtain, Hawk’s words slurred. Not using morphine, but something to dull the pain and keep him from fighting the surgery.

“Burnett.”

Dean focused on the general. Explained what happened. About Hawk. Told him about the hostage.

“How’s Bledsoe?”

“A little loopy.” He glanced toward the curtain.

“What’s new?”