Raptor 6 (46 page)

“Then this”—she held out her hands to their cell—“is where you belong.” Calmness replaced her surprise at the dialogue that had opened between them. She’d hit a nerve talking about family. “Because you were a captive to those wrong beliefs before you ever entered this prison. They have held you hostage, kept you in fear, and forced you to sacrifice what you want.”

“Yeah?” he growled, his face a simmering pot of rage. “And what is that? You? Are you going to tell me
you
are what I want?”

Zahrah looked at him. Prayed for wisdom, prayed to see beyond the poison spewing from his anger and to see the wounds behind those words. Asked God to help her reach the man standing before her, the one who’d been so strong and quiet and now stood in rage of fear and panic.
God, help me help him … just like You planned
.

And like a cool breeze, she remembered. “When was the last time you talked to Desi?”

Dean jerked as if she’d slapped him. “What do you know about her?”

“Is she your sister?”

He froze. Then turned away. Facing the wall.

Zahrah went to his side, touched his arm. “You don’t need bars, a crust of bread, and water to be a prisoner. If your past is holding you hostage, then it’s time to break out.”

His nostrils flared as his chest rose and fell unevenly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. “What about you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. “You’re here. You’re a prisoner.”

Zahrah inched into the space between his chest and the wall. “I’m not a prisoner, Dean.” She smiled, feeling the liberation of the words before she spoke them. “I’m right where God wants me.”

Voices outside jerked Dean around. The broken soldier, the raw one, was gone. In his place was the one always in control. The one ready to do violence.

Somewhere in Afghanistan
25 July

T
oo far away to do serious damage, Dean would let the players enter his domain. He’d assessed the threat. Knew if he was fast, if he moved with violence of intent, he could do this. He’d had enough. Enough idleness. Enough inaction. Enough … enough of her. This was it.

Too far away to take them upon entry. He’d have to just use the element of surprise.

Two guards entered. Fear—of him?—made their grips tight but sloppy. Sweat on their brows. Which meant their hands were probably sweaty, too. Easier to disarm.

Kamran stalked in. His breathing was … odd. His gaze on Zahrah.

Like a battering ram, knowledge of that man’s intent struck Dean. He knew that look. Knew the hunger in the man’s eyes as his gaze slid over Zahrah. Knew without any doubt what this sick perv had in mind.

Dean’s anger slid up another notch as the men marched in. Weapons raised and aimed solely at Dean.

This is it
. Had to end this now.

Dean grabbed the muzzle of the M16. Rolled his shoulder into the guard. Jerked back his elbow into the man’s face. Slid his hand toward the handgun holstered at the guy’s thigh. Yanked it up. Spun. Aimed it at the second guard. Fired.

The man, face frozen in shock, stumbled backward and fell across the door’s threshold. As Dean came round to take on the second guard, in his periphery he saw Zahrah kick out—nail Kamran in the knee. The man howled as she came at him with a controlled punch.

Satisfied she could hold him for a second, Dean whipped around. Sent a double-tap through the temple of the first guard.

Shouts yanked him up. A half-dozen armed guards flooded the room.

“Secure him,” Kamran shouted. Limping, he held Zahrah’s neck in the crook of his arm, her feet off the ground as he hauled her out of the cell.

Dean flung himself sideways, right between two guards. He lunged. Dived into Kamran. The captor and Zahrah pitched into the wall. Zahrah’s soft grunt pushed Dean to fight hard. This was it. They had to get out of here. This puke of an Afghan was going to do unmentionable things if he could get free. Dean couldn’t allow that. Wouldn’t.

He dragged himself on top of the man. Threw a hard right into the guy’s nose.

Kamran sliced his hands into Dean’s sides.

White-hot fire shot through Dean, fuzzed his vision. He gritted through the excruciating pain. Had a fist-hold on his tunic. Used it as a homing beacon. Kamran threw his own punch. Connected with Dean’s jaw. Dean squeezed hard with his knees. Resisted being thrown. Dropped and pressed his forearm into the man’s throat. Grunting and straining, Kamran struggled. Dean felt the power infusing him. The surge to make this guy take his
last
breath.

Crack!

Before Dean could react, he found himself slammed against the wall. Numbness spreading down his neck.

A blur of camo and gray uniforms descended on him.

Dean struck out.

A fist cracked across his jaw.

“Lock him up!”

Hands, so many of them, pawed at him. Dragged him. Dean scrambled for purchase, watching as Kamran stumbled backward, limping, his arms wrapped around Zahrah’s midsection. She flailed against the man, her attention glued to Dean. She reached for him, screaming and kicking as another guard tried to assist the oversized Afghan.

“Dean!” Her shriek echoed through the dark, narrow passage and thunked right into his heart.

“Fight!” Dean howled as he threw a hard right, sending one backward. Coldcocked another. “Don’t stop fighting!”

After another whack against his head, Dean’s responses blurred. Slurred. He shook his head—and the world tilted. He felt himself falling. Or climbing. Something hard collided with his shoulder. He didn’t care. Zahrah—had to get to her. He blinked. Gathered his senses. Inside. He was
inside
the cell. Door sliding shut.

He threw himself at the barrier. Banged. Kicked. Cursed. Shouted. Cursed himself. Cursed God. Rammed his foot at the steel again and again. Everything hurt. Nothing hurt—not when he knew what was happening to Zahrah.

God gave her to you to protect
.

And I failed. Just like always. See? This! This is why he didn’t deserve someone like her. Why he didn’t deserve to be happy
.

The thought sobered him. Palms flat against the steel barrier, Dean stared at the rust. At the door. At nothing in particular. Drank heavily of the guilt. Of the defeat.

But his heart, something deeper than that
—his soul
!—clung to the first part.
God gave her to you
.

No. No, good things didn’t belong to him. He didn’t deserve them. If he couldn’t protect his parents, if he couldn’t save Ellen, he didn’t deserve Zahrah.

A scream knifed the rank air. Drew Dean up tight. He listened, his heart sputtering. Knowing …
knowing
what was happening.

He kicked the door again. Roared. Hopped around. Drove a heel into the cement wall. “Where are You?” He shouted to the ceiling. To the sky. To God!

“You.”
The way she’d said that. The conviction that flooded her eyes and her words, her belief so utterly resolute that her real purpose for being in Afghanistan was Dean.

“No!” Condemnation drowned him. If it weren’t for him, she’d have gone back. If it weren’t for him, Zahrah would be home. Safe. Unhurt. Whole.

Dean’s legs wobbled. Failure pushed him to the ground. His shoulders sagged. Head hung, he reached for the only tendril of hope. “God …”

Memories crashed in on him. Smells. Darkness. Gunshots. Desi screaming and crying. Head against the steel door, Dean let them come. Let the nightmare take him.

Running scared. Bullied at school. Bullied at home. His brother had a thing for power, just like their father. And Dean had had enough that night. More than enough. The Watters blood held poison and generational curses. Some genealogy charts held heroism and valor. His held violence and cowardice.

“Dean, you can’t change what’s inside on your own, son. It’s an uphill battle that never ends.”
In his standard blues, Sergeant Elliott showed up to talk with Dean after his shift one night. It’d been a bad week—
month
. His foster brother had called him the brother of a murderer. Dean punched him. His foster mom called Sergeant Elliott.
“But with God, you can.”

It was then Dean asked a question he didn’t even know existed within him. “What if you don’t want to change?” He was sure Sergeant Elliott would come down hard on him. Reject him. Those were bad thoughts.

“Why don’t you want to change, son?”

“Because—they’re doing wrong. And getting away with it. That’s wrong, too.”

That’s when Sergeant Elliott said the words that changed Dean’s life. “There’s a warrior in you, Dean. God only gives that gift to a rare few.”

“Being a soldier like you?” Dean’s heart raced at the thought back then—he’d wanted nothing more than to be like his hero, his mentor, who’d served as an Army Ranger. “Is that what you mean?”

With a smile as he stood to leave, Sergeant Elliott turned to him. “I know you’ll work hard to be worthy of that gift.”

And Dean had. A year later with Sergeant Elliott at his side, Dean signed up at seventeen for the Army. The Monday after his graduation, he was on a bus headed to Fort Benning for Basic.

If only he had Sergeant Elliott with him now. To give him some sage advice. But Dean was alone. And defeated.

A warrior …

If only.

Somewhere in Afghanistan

T
he Lord is my rock, and my f–fortress …” Zahrah sobbed through her words as the bindings were cut from her wrists. The verse. How did it go next? She strained to focus on a comfort in her soul when her body screamed in agony. For God to make the words true. “A–nd m–my deliverer—yes. My deliverer.”
Please deliver me!

Hand on the wall, Zahrah gingerly made her way back to the cell following the guard and praying God would block the event from her mind. That she’d stop hearing his grunts. Smelling his smell. His stink. His sweat.
Please …

They turned right, down the long, anorexic corridor that led to the cell. To Dean.

She stumbled.

The guard turned with a scowl. “Hurry!” He motioned her onward. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t go forward. Couldn’t return to Dean. Her shame hung like a water-drenched wool pashmina around her shoulders. He’d know.

Four guards crowded into the passage with them. As one worked the lock, the others took up positions. The door flung back. Shouts echoed through the hall, “Hands up, hands up! On the ground. On the ground!”

A short burst of gunfire made Zahrah jerk.

Blinking through her tears, her shame, she waited, propped against the wall. The guards parted and ordered her inside.

Zahrah couldn’t move. Remained in the shadows with her shame. She’d argued with Dean. He’d be angry. And now … now what would he think of her?

“Go,” the guard beside her said.

She shook her head.

A guard by the door stomped toward her. Grabbed her arm.

“No,” Zahrah snapped. Wrestled.

Another joined the rough one.

“No!”

They dragged her, her feet tangling with theirs. They tossed her into the cell. Scrabbling onto her knees even as the door groaned and squeaked shut, Zahrah snapped her gaze to the ground. Held herself tight. Ignored the pain between her legs as she knelt there.

It was so quiet. Felt so empty in the cell. Was Dean even here? Her gaze darted to the wall, to the side. There. To her left, just beyond her visual reach, she saw his knees.

Her courage—what was left of it—crumbled. She covered her face and a gut-birthed sob ripped away her last vestige of strength.