Raptor 6 (54 page)

“Thank you.” Zahrah pressed her fingers curled around the gift from Dean to her face, waiting as the doctor left. As the door shut, she closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of her own breath pluming back in her face. Without a scent. Her heart raced. Could it be …?

Braced, she eased her hand back and unfurled her fingers. In a flood of joy, quiet tears streamed down her cheeks as a bloom smiled back at her.

A red poppy.

U
nderestimating one’s opponent is a mark of arrogance. And defeat.

I’m still there. They haven’t won. It’s a game, really. One in which they thought they had the upper hand. Where they believed themselves to be masters and me, the apprentice.

But this isn’t over. Far from it. We’ve gained more ground than I could’ve thought possible. Take that pound of arrogance, add a dash of politicking, an ounce or two of mistakes and stupidity. Bake for a few weeks or months on high, and you have a well-seasoned terrorist plot.

True, I’ve made my own mistakes that have cost me time. Money. Resources. And names—they’ve known me as Boris. Scythe. Whatever I need them to believe about me so I can play under their radar without detection. Whatever makes them feel confident enough to start relaxing. Slipping up. Making more mistakes. It would only take one mistake to put us over. To put is
in
their system. Then, as the saying goes, “All hell would break loose.” Imagine that—demons running amok. Of course, America would call them Muslims. Or Chinese. Or wait—their favorite—Islamic terrorists.

When my phone buzzes, I glance at the name on the ID as I pull the truck up to the gate. Flash my ID.

“Thank you, sir.” The Marine signals for the barriers to be moved.

Phone to my ear, I ease out onto the street. “I’m here.”

“They found your equipment.”

“As expected. Took them longer than I thought.”

Sub-base Command, Camp Marmal
13 February—0918 Hours

Lance stormed into the briefing room. Officers of all rank and branches stood in the semidarkened room, glued to the monitors. Explosions ignited on the screen, throwing bursts of light across the stricken faces.

He spotted his aide and joined Hastings. “What’s happening?”

“It’s … awful.” Hand over her mouth, Lieutenant Brie Hastings shook her head. “They never had a chance—walked right into a colossal ambush.”

“Who?” Lance scrambled mentally to map out the chaos ripping through the feeds. “Who is that?”

Hastings blinked. Looked at him. “It’s Charlie Company, Second Battalion.”

“What in Sam Hill are they doing there?”

She turned to him. “Ramsey sent them.”

“What is he doing ordering around an ODA team?” Generals were more facilitators of policy and mission-end goals. ODA leaders and analysts assembled packets of intel and planned mission specifics.

“No,” came a vehement growl from the back. “This isn’t me. I didn’t send them.”

An attractive blond in uniform turned stiffly. “Sir.” Her name patch read: WALKER. A single bar velcroed to her chest identified her as a second lieutenant. “I got the order from your secured address.”

Ramsey stormed forward. “You’re crazy. I never sent an e-mail. That’s not how it works.” He pivoted to Lance.

“I can prove it.” Walker turned and motioned toward a computer. “May I …?” When the Asian major removed himself from the seat, Walker sat. A few keystrokes later, she was in. “I received the e-mail on 23 January.” Her gaze scanned the e-mails. “I …” She frowned. “I don’t understand. It was right here.” Face unusually pale, she stood. “I have copies—I’d forwarded them to the appropriate deparments for the mission prep. I’ll retrieve them.”

“Sir!” someone from the front shouted. “Oh my—”

Gasps and shrieks severed conversation as an angry plume of fire and smoke vaulted into the sky.

“Mother of God, have mercy on us!” Burnett hurried back to his office, sensing Hastings bringing up the rear. “Get Raptor on the line.” In his office, he heard his fax machine and glanced toward the corner where it sat on the credenza. A paper dropped into the tray. Lance lifted and read it.

Hey, Diddle Diddle
.

The grunt and the riddle:

Which cow jumped the gun?

It’s not over, General. In fact, it’s just starting
.

Ronie Kendig
is an award-winning, bestselling author who grew up an Army brat. After twenty-plus years of marriage, she and her hunky hero husband have a full life with four children and a Maltese Menace in Northern Virginia. Author and speaker, Ronie loves engaging readers through her Rapid-Fire Fiction. Ronie can be found at
www.roniekendig.com
, on Facebook (
www.facebook.com/rapidfirefiction
), Twitter (
@roniekendig
), and Goodreads (
www.goodreads.com/RonieK
).

C
OMING SOON FROM

R
ONIE
K
ENDIG

THE QUIET PROFESSIONALS BOOK 2