Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (14 page)

She drew in a sharp breath. “Why would you do this to me? Do you, too, see me as nothing but—”

“I see you as a capable pilot who is making Afghan military history.” His gaze went tender, needling her razor’s-edge words. “You will be flying a dignitary, Fekiria. That means, you—a woman—will be in view of a male official. What better way to show them that women are making gains? And if you do a great job and the flight is smooth, he will be more inclined to pay attention.”

Disbelief swirled through her. She visually traced the lines of his face, the clean-shaven jaw, so contrary to most men in her country. The stiffness of a soldier who walked and talked with control demanded respect from those who met him. Dark brown hair cut close with a sprinkling of gray.
Gray?
How old was he? The realization that she didn’t know startled her.

“Besides, as a candidate in the advanced program, you need to continue flying. And every flight logs hours, and you need those regardless of who is in your aircraft.”

How could she have been so wrong? So quick to think they thought less of her? Then again, she’d fought those prejudices her entire life. “It is true,” she began slowly, still not believing him, “that you did this? You are not covering for him?”

“Do you really think I’d let them snatch one of my favorite flight candidates out from under me in the middle of training?” He smiled. “Trust me, Fekiria. This is a good thing. It shows you are more than capable.”

“But if something goes wrong—”

“Nothing is going to go wrong, because you are going to fly like the ace that you are.”

After letting out a leveling breath, one in which she pulled together the fragments of her courage and pride, she gave a slow nod. “Thank you.” She met his eyes. In those gray irises, she saw friendship, belief, confidence…and a lot more.

It would not be so bad, would it, to accept his advances? He showed interest. He was a good man. They had a common bond—flying—and…
He’s American
.

Perhaps. But he wasn’t like most Americans she met. He wasn’t like Sergeant Brian.

Why could she not empty her mind of that soldier? His gray-green eyes. His laugh.

“When you get back, maybe we can grab a bite to eat.”

A weight dropped into her stomach. Made her hesitate. But enough of this resistance. He was a good man. “Yes, perhaps.”

His smile could rival the sun. With her answer, she’d given him hope that something could happen between them. “C’mon. I’ll walk your preflight with you.”

They headed out to the tarmac where the Mi-17 waited. Captain Ripley handed her the clipboard and took a step back. Observing as she checked the exterior of her craft then climbing in after her for the instrumentation check, he let her set the pace. Gave her the room to do what he had trained her to do. Though he didn’t crowd her, it took everything in Fekiria not to feel suffocated by his hovering.

It’s in your mind
. She had given him an open door to her heart. So why did she suddenly want to slam it shut?

“You are double minded!”
Zahrah’s words, though more than seven months old, were as sharp and clear as the day she’d spoken them. Then, the context had been about Zahrah and Captain Dean. Today…Fekiria and Captain Ripley.

The irony was not lost on her.

Was she afraid of relationships? Love?
More like afraid of Americans
.

And
afraid
might be the wrong term. Perhaps
resistant
.

“Looks like your VIPs are here.” Captain Ripley climbed out of the chopper. “See you when you get back.”

Fekiria nodded, her heart thumping a little harder than she’d expected when the sleek black limo slid into view. Flags with crests snapped in the cold wind as the doors opened. Fekiria started the rotors. Three men in suits stepped into the gray, wintry day, bundled against the weather and rotor wash.

Colonel Mahmoud rushed toward them and motioned to the chopper. The four of them made their way into the belly of the chopper as the engines roared. A final man emerged from the limo. Tall, broadshouldered, he seemed oblivious to the elements and engine noise. He glanced to his right and left—then straight into the cockpit.

Fekiria’s stomach heaved. She had never been so grateful for the bulky helmet and sunglasses she wore. It was her only protection against the man stalking toward the aircraft. Adeeb, her brother.

Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan

15 January—0930 Hours

Sergeant.

Brian stared at the rank on his new orders, a sickening concoction of anger mixing with humiliation and guilt. With a dash of annoyance.
You did this to yourself
. Hard work flushed down the drain of a bad temper. It wasn’t that he had a bad temper. He just…

No “just.”

As he trekked across Bagram to hook up with the mech team heading south, he reminded himself that if he couldn’t keep it together, he would never get to prove to himself that he had the good Bledsoe genes as well as the bad. Enough screwing up.

But it was true that evil succeeded when good men did nothing. So, what was he to do when presented with a scenario like what happened at the bar?

Okay, true. If it hadn’t been that cocky SEAL, Brian wouldn’t have thrown that punch. If it’d been a civilian, he might’ve restrained himself.

There it was. Pride.

He stepped into the Command building and lingered at the front, taking in the setting. The personnel. The thrum of activity. The fact he didn’t belong or know anyone.

“C’I help you?”

Brian jerked toward the voice and found a specialist who stood a full head shorter than himself. Blond hair, blue eyes, she had little makeup and didn’t need any more. Hot came to mind. But things had to be different this time. No screwups.

All business. Ruck slung over his shoulder, he shifted his gaze to the other grunts in the room. “Where can I find Captain Mason?”

Her gaze traveled over him, from his tight crop to his tactical shirt with his Raptor patch and his tac pants.

“Sorry,” he said, irritated that this hot chick who’d been checking him out had to be ignored. Wanted to ignore it. Would ignore it. “Didn’t realize this was an inspection, or I’d have donned my Class As.”

Her cheeks reddened, and she dipped her head.

Brian aimed toward the rest of the room and called out, “Looking for Captain Mason.”

A head popped up from a desk. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”

With a wave of thanks, Brian headed toward the office. He rapped on the half-glass door.

“Enter!”

Entering, he promised to make his time in purgatory short. Do the crime, do the time—then he’d be back where he belonged. With Raptor. “Captain Mason?”

An officer sitting in a metal folding chair looked over his shoulder at Brian. The oak leaf on his shoulder made Brian stiffen. The major frowned, his gaze doing a quick once-over of Brian’s uniform and finally settling on his sleeve patch. “Special Forces.” He grunted as he looked at the person behind the desk.

On the other side sat a very short, somewhat older woman with auburn hair tucked into a bun. No wedding ring, but an indention there warned him she’d been married. Or forgotten her band. Though, most women wore it like a trophy. “He’s mine, Garret,” came the amused voice of the officer who wore the silver bars on her shoulders. She folded her hands and met Brian’s gaze evenly. “Have a seat. Bledsoe, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Get his assignment and get out of here. Less scrutinization meant less chance to find something wrong with him and send him home packing. “I don’t mean to interrupt. If you’ll just give me my orders, I’ll—”

“Have a seat, Sergeant,” Captain Mason said. “Major Slusarski and I were just talking about this mission.”

“Mission?” Something pulled at Brian’s nerves as he lowered himself to the chair. “I came here with the understanding this was a routine patrol.”

“It is.” Captain Mason smiled after sharing a knowing glance with the major. “And it isn’t.”

Brian set his ruck between his booted feet and rubbed his hands. Swallowed. “Um, no disrespect, ma’am, but I am here temporarily—”

“You’re here for disciplinary action worked out through additional duties.” Her tone wasn’t ugly, but it also warned him she wouldn’t brook argument or opposition.

Was this her way of saying she didn’t like or trust him? That she had his number and was ready to yank and tank him?

“Make no mistake, Sergeant Bledsoe.” She leaned back in her creaky wooden chair. “I want you here. Men like you have instincts and experience I can’t buy. My troops are getting shot up and terrorized because they don’t have the training you have. With your assistance, we can get done what needs to be done.”

Gritting his teeth, Brian bit back his retort. This sounded too much like babysitting. Guard duty. Going out with his team, knowing each of the men whose six he covered also had his—that was one thing. But being dunked in a boiling pot of hostility with specialists and privates who barely knew the business end of their M4s, who didn’t know how to recognize and decipher threats from approaching locals…

He allowed himself only one question. “What’s that, ma’am?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. Not a threat. Just intense interest. Maybe even a challenge. “We are delivering supplies to orphanages and schools.”

“Supplies.”

“Don’t get overconfident, Sergeant,” Major Slusarski warned. “The region has a rash of attacks against supply caravans.”

“Besides me, how many will be on the run?”

“Three vehicles,” Captain Mason said. “Security in front, the supplies vehicle, then another security.”

“Why don’t you just paint a target on the side of the trucks?” Snap. There went his sarcasm, and by the wide-eyed look on the captain’s face, his humor wasn’t appreciated. “You’re telegraphing to the enemy that whatever is in the truck is worth being protected.”

“So, what?” The captain’s voice pitched. “Just leave them unprotected.”

Frustration coiled around Brian’s head, squeezing. “Yes, ma’am.”

She scoffed. The major hadn’t taken his penetrating gaze off Brian.

“More accurately, make them look normal. Don’t draw attention to them. Instead of three vehicles with one large truck, take four and split up the cargo between all four.”

“Some of the supplies won’t fit.”

“Make them.”

“I don’t think you understand, Sergeant Bledsoe—we’re supplying an orphanage and a school. The crates are too big.”

“Break them down.” Brian took in a heavy breath, remembering the last school he’d dealt with in Mazar-e. The one that introduced Raptor to the lethal talons of some psycho who’d nearly beat his team captain into oblivion. And the hostility of the Taliban against women being educated was more prevalent here in the south.

Not only did they want him to be a babysitter, they expected him to be a sitting duck while doing it.

Things could be worse—he could be cleaning latrines.

“Ma’am,” he said to Captain Mason, shoveling as much contrite attitude into his voice and expression as he could muster. “You wanted me here to help make your supply run a success.”

“Yes, and I meant with brute force.”

“The strongest force is our brains. If we use them, strong-arming won’t be necessary.” No wonder things were so messed up in the military. He then shrugged, recognizing he was irritating them. And irritating the captain holding your temporary orders could be a problem. “Just a suggestion, ma’am.”

Tensions tightened her lips and eyes. “You’ll report to the motor pool at 0800.”

Major Slusarski stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

Duly blown off, Brian pushed to his feet, pulling the ruck up as he did. “Thank you, ma’am,” he managed to say without sounding ticked. Which he was. Shouldering the ruck, he trailed the major down the short hall back to the main area.

Slusarski motioned Brian to follow him. “Things work a little differently around here, Sergeant.”

Here it comes
.

“As a member of SOCOM, you get used to having a voice in mission planning. Briefings are two-way streams of communication.” Slusarski pushed open the door and stepped into the bitter afternoon. “Around here, orders are given by officers and taken by enlisted.”

“Understood, sir.” In other words, shut up and stand down.

“You’re a bulldog.”

“Sheepdog, sir.”

Slusarski chuckled. “Hooah. But you’ll need to tone that down if you want Mason to write
plays well with others
on your file.”

Was the guy friend or foe? “Understood, sir.”

“Keep saying that. You might actually survive this sorry assignment.”

Brian shot the guy an uncertain glance.

Slusarski entered a tent where two dozen or so bunks lined up along the length. He pointed to the last bunk. “Home sweet home.”

Brian nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“For the record, I didn’t want you here.”

Foe it is
. “Makes two of us, sir.”

“Guess God’s punishing us both. Don’t screw this up, Bledsoe.”

Was the guy actually threatened by Brian? “Understood, sir.”