Raptor 6 (9 page)

“I ain’t cheating!”

Closing the distance in a half-dozen long strides, Dean noted Falcon moving in, too. “Hey.” Dean pressed a hand to Hawk’s chest. “Stand down.”

“Sorry, sir,” the specialist muttered. “He said I was cheating, and I can’t take that sitting down.”

Dean pointed the young kid, who couldn’t be more than nineteen, away from the tables. “Grab a soda or something.”

“But sir, this is my game. I signed up for this hour.”

“Hey, didn’t you hear the captain?” Hawk growled.

Dean rounded on Hawk. “
Sergeant
. A talk. Outside.”

Fury lit Hawk’s eyes and rippled through the guy’s entire body.

“I think it’d be wise to listen to our commander,” Falcon said, using his presence to push Hawk out of the situation. “Now, Sergeant Bledsoe.”

Hawk thrust a finger at the Spec-4. “Don’t let me see you—”

As Dean turned away, Hawk’s entire demeanor shifted. And Dean knew the Spec-4 had given Hawk a one-fingered salute. Hawk lunged.

Dean did, too. He rammed his shoulder into Hawk’s pec. “No!”

Falcon hooked an arm up and over Hawk’s shoulder, dragging him backward. Boots squeaked against the floor as they herded him out of the room. Something about crowds and competitive sports brought out the worst in the top-notch operator.

The door to the USO building flung open. Hit the wall. Flapped back.

Hawk kicked it. Spun around. “You see what he did to me? And you’re going to treat me—”

Dean stepped into Bledsoe’s personal space. “One more incident, Bledsoe, and I’m writing you up myself.”

“You gotta be—”

“So help me.”

“But—”

“You’re one of the best soldiers I know, but you walk into a place and pick a fight.”

“Me?”

Nostrils flaring, Dean took a step back. “One more time and I’m yanking you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. God help me, I know.” Dean hauled in a steadying breath. “I don’t get it. You run around with some chip on your shoulder, looking for a fight. Looking for someone to glance at you crossways. What is this? Ego?”

“I want respect!”

“Then earn it! Those guys in there, they’re nineteen. You’re twenty-eight and a freakin’ hero. Special Forces.” He slapped Hawk’s arm with their unit patch on it. “Raptor team. And so help me, if you don’t soldier up and act like you earned that, I’ll rip it off you.”

Hawk’s smirk vanished. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You have to be above the fray, better than the best!”

“It was just a scuffle.”

“Yeah, but you have those scuffles every time you enter the USO or a bar. I’m not sure what’s happening with you, but you need to get it together.” Dean’s secure sat phone rang. He nailed Hawk with a look he hoped warned him not to press his luck then turned as he lifted the phone. “Watters.” He stomped away before he said or did something he regretted.

“Captain Watters, Pete Zarrick.”

Dean slowed, turning away from the congestion of foot traffic back toward the air-conditioned tent that had been his home for the last few months. It took a split second for him to get his bearings on the caller. Which was why his heart rapid-fired for another second before he could answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who I am, Captain?”

His heart beat a little harder as he stepped off the path and turned a circle. “I do, sir.”
What on earth?
His number was secure. Only Burnett, SOCOM, and his team had it.

“Then I need you to listen very carefully. I have two concerns right now, son. Do you know what they are?”

Confusion peppered Dean, but the biggest question was why. Why was he having this conversation with one of the fiercest, toughest generals to serve as commander of the coalition forces? A general now retired. “I’d imagine one of them is your daughter. Sir.”

“You would be right, Captain.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure I understand …”

“Zahrah said you tried to talk to her when she was in the hospital.”

“Sir. You know I cannot discuss this.”

“Bull! I wouldn’t have this number if I wasn’t cleared to talk to you.”

Dean didn’t like being bullied. And he didn’t like being cornered. As ticked as he was, he knew chain of command. Knew this guy could string him up with a flick of his little finger. “I’m listening, sir.”

“Zahrah is coming back to talk to you.”

Lifting his hand in question—why would the man’s daughter need her father to inform him of this?—Dean turned another circle. Met Falcon’s curious gaze. Shot him a wicked scowl that drew the Italian closer. “Very good, sir.”

“My daughter is a brilliant young woman with a good heart.”

And your point is?
“Good to know, sir.”

“Don’t you get on your high horse with me, you piece of—” A huff. Another huff. A clank in the background. “Zahrah might need protection she doesn’t know she needs.”

Falcon gave him a questioning look.

Dean shrugged. “Sir?”

“Read her file, son.”

“Already have, sir. Twice.”

“And how many times have you stared at her picture?”

Heat spread down Dean’s neck. “What you are insinuating, sir?”

“You know very well because if you’d paid attention to her file and not her pretty face, you’d know why I’m calling.”

Haidary Residence, Mazar-e Sharif
29 May—0700 Hours

Mission impossible. Small white cup in hand, Zahrah paused and muttered, “Whether or not I choose to accept it.” When the general spoke, the general
spoke
.

Voices skittered through the narrow hall and drew closer.

She dumped back the last of her tea, washed her cup, then lifted her messenger bag. She swallowed the thick knot of emotion—it was the same bag in which she’d carried her students’ assignments home to grade. She slung it over her shoulder, wrapped a burgundy hijab around her head, and hurried to the rear door on said mission.

She pushed it open and bright Afghan sunlight stabbed her. Ducking, she took a second to let her eyes adjust.

“You are out already then, Zahrah jan?”

Zahrah closed her eyes. Hesitation kills every time, her father would say. If courtesy and respect did not demand she answer, Zahrah would pretend she hadn’t heard her aunt. But she did. She stepped backward. “Yes, I’m …” She would not lie. Not to the only family she had out here. “I … I must hurry.”

“Fekiria went to see Rashid’s family. You will see her?”

Fekiria had left already? So early? Zahrah’s mind blitzed, preventing her from answering. Odd that she’d gone to see Rashid. Her cousin had never shown as much fondness toward the children as Zahrah had.

“She was in such a hurry. Tell her to bring home eggs.”

“I can get some on my way back,” Zahrah said, deftly avoiding a lie and guilty conscience. Besides, she wouldn’t be lying—she was headed to Rashid’s home to visit with his mom, see if she could convince her to go to the base. “Must hurry. Bye!”

And with that, she was out the door and tapping a note into her phone to remember the eggs. Warmth kneaded Zahrah’s muscles, still tense from the explosion and the stress of the entire episode. But somehow, some way, she still felt the peace that had drawn her to Afghanistan, to her mother’s people.

A song about God’s beauty filling the sky drifted through her mind and sailed across the battered edges of her nerves. God had watched out for her in that explosion. Kept her from further injury. Kept her alive so she could find Rashid and get him help in time. And yet … all those things did not give her the sense that she had completed the reason God had drawn her here.

She rounded the corner and nearly collided with another woman. “So sorry,” Zahrah said with a laugh, then realized—“Razia!”

“Zahrah,” Rashid’s mother breathed then kissed her three times, alternating cheeks.
“Assalaam alaikum.”

“
Wa ‘alaikum assalaam
, Razia.
Sanga ye
?”

“Not well,” she said with a deep frown.

“Why? What is—?”

“They cannot find Ara.”

Zahrah’s stomach squeezed. “She didn’t come home?”

“She was at the school, yes?” Razia teared up.

Mutely, Zahrah nodded as the knot of dread grew. She’d been
right there
with her when she and Rashid were knocked to the ground.

“They believe she was … that she is buried….”

Zahrah shook her head, as much to ward off the tears as the possibility of that sweet girl trapped beneath the building.

The woman’s tawny face went pale. “They say it is too dangerous to search for her.”

“And Rashid?”

Razia lowered her head. “Atash …” She swallowed.

Ah. Razia’s husband did not want her going to the American base. Very well. Zahrah had an option for her. “I’m on my way there now. Would you like to go with me?”

Razia brightened. “You would do this for me? Atash refuses to go. He says bad things will happen to me. And he’s very angry with the American soldiers.”

“But—this wasn’t done by the Americans. They are the ones who came and helped
—after
the blast.”

“I know. He is just angry because there is still no word of Ara.” Tears slipped free. Her long lashes dusted her cheeks as she looked down then back up to Zahrah with a smile. “I need to see Rashid. To touch him.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time.” She hooked arms with the woman who could not be much older than Zahrah.

It took them longer to make the trek on foot than she’d expected, leaving Zahrah sweaty and longing for a glass of water. As they walked the road that led to the main gate and checkpoint, one of the guards at the foot gate signaled someone from inside.

Razia clutched Zahrah’s hand. Squeezed tight.

“It’s okay. Probably just getting a woman to help us.” At least, that’s what Zahrah hoped was happening. Hoped they didn’t suspect them of being suicide bombers.

A female soldier emerged in her desert camo and waited as they approached, hands at her side. “Assalaam alaikum.”

Appreciating the efforts the soldier took to greet them appropriately, Zahrah smiled, gave Rashid’s mom a reassuring squeeze, and returned the greeting to the soldier. “Wa alaikum assalaam.”

Face tanned, the female soldier smiled at them—a friendly one that did little to counter the fully automatic weapon slung across her chest or the handgun strapped to her leg. Her name patch read HOMEWOOD. Her rank marked her a specialist—yes, sometimes it benefitted Zahrah, being raised by a general. “How can I help you this morning, ladies?”

Zahrah motioned to Razia. “Her son is the little boy injured in the school explosion the day before yesterday. She would like to see him again.”

“Very good. If you’ll come with me,” Homewood said as she turned, “I will need identification, and we can get an escort assigned.”

Zahrah hustled after the soldier, her father’s mission at the front of her mind. “I wonder … I … there was a captain I spoke to yesterday after I was released from the hospital. He is familiar with the incident and the boy—could he help us perhaps?” She needed a plausible explanation since it wasn’t proper for a woman to ask after a man.

“You were here, too?” Homewood stepped through a small door into a receiving area where Zahrah knew they’d be checked for threats they might possess.

“I was knocked unconscious in the explosion.”

“She is my daughter’s teacher.” Razia sucked in a hard breath.
“Ara.”
Tears welled in her eyes.

As the image of Ara popped into her mind, Zahrah drew the woman into her arms and held her, noticing the soldier watching. “Her daughter has been missing since the explosion.”

Another female soldier joined them, and the two conferred as Zahrah comforted Razia.

Specialist Homewood nodded. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The woman bunched her shoulders. “I just can’t imagine. I will pray that they find your little girl. I have two children, and I miss them like crazy.”

Razia, made of tougher stuff than her initial tears bespoke, lifted her head. “Thank you.”

The other soldier asked for permission to do a pat down, and Razia consented.

“What was the name of that captain you mentioned?” Specialist Homewood asked.

“Captain Watters,” Zahrah said.

“First name?”

Zahrah stilled. “I … I don’t know.” Had he ever said his first name? “He was Special Forces, I believe.”

Specialist Homewood lifted a phone and dialed.

The other soldier patted her down, too, verifying they weren’t carrying weapons or bombs or anything else that could cause injury to the personnel on the base. Cleared, they were instructed to wait by the door.

“I’m sorry,” Specialist Homewood said. “Couldn’t track down Captain Watters. But I’ll escort you to the hospital.”

“Thank you.” Disappointment lurked behind her civil answer. She couldn’t give up on the mission. Her daddy would grill her for surrendering so soon. When they stepped outside, Zahrah was surprised when Specialist Homewood led them to a golf cart.

“No.” Razia gripped Zahrah’s arm and drew back. “I walk.”

Zahrah looked to the specialist for direction, concerned they were already creating tension.

“No problem.” Homewood set out on foot. “If you don’t mind getting more sweaty.”