Raptor 6 (29 page)

“Taking him. He knows where she was living. We don’t.”

“You gone soft?”

“Too thickheaded for that, sir.”

Lance tried to laugh. But this was a butt-ugly situation. “You realize I have to make a phone call. And that someone is going to be climbing down your throat.”

Watters hesitated then nodded. “You can tell him to blame a certain general who got us out of the way so he could play war games.” His nostrils flared. “So help me—if I …” Dean’s jaw muscle popped. He shook his head, looking down.

“Take it easy with that anger, son.”

“No.” Dean cocked his head. “He put lives in jeopardy and now she’s gone. Had we been here—”

“You couldn’t have done anything.”

Watters drew up straight.

Lance held up his hands. “I hear you—I know you’re ticked. So am I. But we aren’t going to fly off half-cocked. Get the facts. Figure out our strategy. Then … then we’ll see.” Ramsey would be through the roof to have something like this happen as the American presence wound down. This wouldn’t go over well in the media. He’d fight like the dickens to make sure Zahrah Zarrick came home alive and in one piece. “We’ll see.”

“Just make sure I don’t
see
him because I make no promises.”

He’d chosen this man for a reason, and this was part of it. But if Watters lost control … “Just remember, if you do something to soothe that beast inside you, she may be lost.”

The man lifted his chin. The lines between his eyebrows knotted.

Good. Lance had made his point. “Her life depends on you keeping your head on straight.” He nodded. “I’m depending on you, her father is, and so is your team.”

“Hey, Cap’?”

Watters looked to the side where the communications expert waited, rubbing his shoulder.

Bledsoe stood. Surveyed the surroundings. “Had a thought.”

“Go on,” Watters said.

“Remember a certain school and late-night deliveries? A hooded captive?”

“Let’s move!” Watters launched out of the room.

Mazar-e Sharif

T
he weight of his uniform, M4, tactical vest, M9 holstered at his hip, and helmet with live cam had nothing on the one sitting on his chest. A thousand-pound cement block called guilt. Dean jogged toward the waiting vehicles that would ferry them out to the airstrip. There, two Black Hawks waited, engines whining in anticipation of the flight.

Dean hustled toward the birds. His gaze hit a team waiting, and he slowed. The very SEAL team that had gotten them kicked off the mission, diverted from doing their job. The same guys, Dean felt, who’d sacrificed Zahrah’s safety and life for a bit of brass ego.

“No,” Hawk said with a growl over the din of the rotor wash. “No way are they coming.”

The SEAL who’d bumped Dean’s shoulder with his own two days ago offered his hand. “Lieutenant Commander Chris Riordan.” Ferocity defined his features. “Heard what happened.” Greased up and bearded, he held his M4 over his chest. “We want to offer our help.”

Dean considered the other half-dozen men. Six men he didn’t know. But they were six men interested in protecting and preserving lives, especially American lives. If they were doing an extraction, if this got ugly, more manpower never hurt. He stuffed his hand against the SEAL’s. “Thank you.”

“You’re kidding me!” Hawk threw his hands up then headed for the chopper. On board, he pointed to Commander Riordan. “After this—watch your back.”

One of Riordan’s men snickered as he passed Hawk. “You should take your own advice. Surprised that vest doesn’t hurt.” He slapped Hawk’s shoulder. Hard.

Hawk about came out of his uniform.

The tattoo. The SEAL knew about the tattoo Hawk now bore. As Dean climbed in, he leaned in and pressed Hawk down. “Later.” He patted his friend’s shoulder.

The ten-minute ride to the compound was made in virtual silence. They had their objective: secure Zahrah Zarrick at all costs. The SEALs didn’t know Dean’s connection to her. While they might know she was General Z’s daughter, he guessed they had no knowledge of her area of expertise.

Or maybe they did. Maybe he was the slow one. The one to blame for her disappearance. The numbing vibration of the chopper needled its way into his brain. If he’d figured out sooner what they wouldn’t openly tell him, he could’ve spent more effort on convincing her to leave.

“It is not my place to put demands on how or what He does with my life.”

Maybe she wouldn’t take that liberty, but Dean sure would.
God … You gotta keep her safe. This can’t happen. Not again. I can’t do it again
.

Twisting his hand around the grip of his M4, he felt the Oakley gloves twist. Tighten. Constrict. Much like the agony of knowing how this could end.

Screams shrieked through the passages of time. Pierced the steel box where he’d stowed his heart. Stowed his ability to care ever again. He stared down at the steel hull where boots touched and felt as if he’d died in that cell ten years ago.

Dean Watters, the kid fresh out of Basic and still wet behind the ears, had died. In his place, the sole survivor emerged. Hardened. Focused. Maybe even a bit jaded. A screwed-up life and torture did that to a guy.

Blond, blue eyed, and so sweet, Ellen screamed into his present.

No
. Gritting his teeth, he pushed her visage back. Refused her voice.

Descent pulled his thoughts out of the quagmire. He lifted his chin and found Commander Riordan watching him. Dean checked his NVGs and shifted to the edge of the seat, eyeing the city as it blurred beneath them. Almost there.

The Black Hawk hovered over the compound. Harrier went first, fast-roping down. Dean followed, the wind ripping at his duds as if telling him to hurry. Dirt peppered the little flesh exposed.

His boots touched ground and he rushed out of the way and went to a knee. The shelled-out building that once housed a large gym-like area gaped at them in shock that it’d lost a fight. Cinder blocks tumbled out like broken teeth. Stock pressed into his shoulder, Dean used the M4 for a line of sight, scoping the windows. Doors. Searching for combatants, expecting opposition like they’d encountered unexpectedly. Why hadn’t they come out fighting? Last night, they’d kept a safe distance but ended up eating bullets. Now, they were on top of them and …

Too quiet
.

Pulse hammering, he again eyed the doors and windows as the team disembarked from the bird and took cover against the building. As soon as Falcon patted his shoulder, giving the all-clear, Dean sprinted to the building. Slammed up against the wall, back to the plaster, gaze down and to the side, waiting. Any moment it could open … or fly apart. His team with it.

Hawk knelt beside the door on the other side, his muzzle trained on it. Weeks back, Zahrah had said the men hid in the structure. With the condition it was in, it didn’t surprise Dean that terrorists were using it for a bunker. Smart. Nobody would think to check here, not after the explosion. Not after his own team had cleared it. They hadn’t—until Hastings gave them a heads-up on the activity.

A pat on Dean’s shoulder kick-started the adrenaline and signaled the team’s readiness to breach the building.

Dean stepped out, leaned back, and thrust the heel of his boot toward the door handle. It cracked but didn’t give. He caught his balance. Gritted his teeth. Rammed his boot into it again. The door flung back.
Crack!
Chunks of wood splintered. Even as his foot came down, Dean brought up his weapon. Even with the wash of green illuminating the setting, gloom spiraled up a short flight of stairs.

Falcon pivoted around the opening and rushed in, sweeping left and right as he descended into the darkness. Dean rushed in behind him. As he made the third step, he spotted a hall off to the left. At the corner, he pressed his shoulder to the wood and waited. Soon as he got the signal from behind that they were ready, he stepped out. He hurried down the long, narrow corridor. His breath puffed in his ears, every crunch of his boots feeling like an RPG. Gripping his M4, he forced himself to stay focused. Stay calm. Something bugged him, tugged at his conscience.

Too quiet
. Holding up a fist, he blew out a breath through his mouth. Scoped the hall. Three doors right. One left. Threat of death at every step. Over his shoulder, he made eye contact with Riordan. Sent the SEALs left while he and Raptor would clear right. Hawk put his hand on the first knob and waited.

Dean gave a nod.

Hawk flicked the door open.

Scuttling inside, Dean went right, using the wall to guide him as he rushed along the L-shape and pied toward the center, trusting Falcon had done the same on the left. The room sat empty. No dust. Dirt. Not even a gum wrapper.

After walking the wall, he angled back to the center. “Clear.”

In the hall he heard two more clears. He motioned Harrier and Titanis to the next room and rushed to the end of the hall, where he and Falcon cleared a left turn. Times like this made him appreciate the team, the way they moved without hesitation. Their skills. No need to give directions beyond the game plan. The men knew what they were doing and were the best at it. They might have disagreements or talk crap, but here, in the thick of combat, they knew who to count on.

Within a dozen paces, a corner seemed to lure them into another trap. Blind to what might be waiting—more of the same or an entire band of fighters—he once again attuned himself to the team, to the movements. Clears, swish of tac pants, crunch of boots. Mutters. Behind him, he felt Falcon close up. They hurried, moving quickly, giving the enemy less time to sight and shout.

He banked left.

Clear.

Another turn—he nearly cursed. Another corner. What was this? A maze? He stalked, back arched a little, weapon stabbing the darkness before he reached it. Two more “clears” behind. How many rooms did this hole in the ground have? Moving faster but not with less caution, he approached a door. No Arabic lettering or signs to tell him what lay behind, what to expect. Just like the Taliban—ambush seemed the method of choice. Dean checked Falcon, who nodded his readiness. At the corner, Dean did his quick look-see.

A tiny spark threw him back for cover. “Taking fire!”

On a knee, Dean leaned out and fired. Tight, controlled bursts where he’d seen the black blur against the dingy wall. No spraying and praying. As he made the shots, he watched the guy disappear through a door on the right. A commotion ensued not unlike a door flapping and hitting something.

Think I got him
.

With a signal, he sent Falcon and Hawk down the hall. The two moved swiftly, confidently. Fear—heck yeah. But this was where the boys were separated from the men. As they moved without incident, Dean pushed from his position. He walked backward, covering their six.

“Tango down. Going in,” Falcon radioed as he vanished into the room.

Weapon up, heart hammering, Dean moved forward. Noticed a slight break in the wall plaster on his right. But he trained his attention on the left, where Falcon vanished. Harrier and Titanis were on him. Dean made a wide arc around the door, prepared to take more fire. Each second without contact gave him hope that Falcon had either neutralized threats or there weren’t any more.

A body lay almost across the threshold. The fighter who’d shot at Dean.

“Cap’, we got something,” Hawk’s husky voice served as a towline on Dean’s movements.

In the room, row upon row of shelves greeted him. Empty. He’d guess only recently since no dust had collected. Through at least a half-dozen racks, he detected movement at the back. Sweeping left and right, his gaze tracking the team and the SEALs, Dean headed along the length of a shelving unit that reached almost to the eight-foot ceiling and spanned almost the entire length of the room.

“Here,” Falcon said as he stepped out and waved them on.

Dean slipped around the corner and slowed. Curses behind him echoed his feelings. Bounced off the hiccup in his heart rate. A dozen or more men—dead. Shot.

“Freakin’ bloodbath.” Hawk squatted next to the mound of bodies.

Riordan joined them, hunching down, his weapon cradled across his arms. “Blood’s coagulated, but there’s no bloating. Little discoloration.”

In other words, they hadn’t been dead long. Maybe even the fighter he’d just taken down had done the deed. But one against eight or ten fighters? Hands weren’t tied. No blindfolds. These men had been killed so they couldn’t talk. About what?

Falcon stood, rubbing his beard. “Eliminating witnesses.”

Did that include Zahrah? Dean grimaced. Didn’t want to look, but he had to know—was she here? “Is she …?” The words jammed at the back of his throat.

Straightening, Hawk waved a hand toward the feet. “All males.”

Swallowing the shot of adrenaline at the thought of her being on the bottom of that pile, Dean shook his head. “Record it, call it in.” She wasn’t here. She wasn’t dead. For her sake, he almost wished the latter for her. But not for him. He’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t bring her back alive. But where? Where were they supposed to begin? Where and why had they taken her? He just wouldn’t let himself believe they’d found out about her quantum crypto skills. He started for the door, more defeated than ever.