Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (24 page)

She would know
.

Brian stilled, the thought out of the blue startling him. A pair of green eyes and pink full lips swam before his mind’s eye. It still annoyed the crud out of him that Fekiria had thrown him to the wolves because of his nationality, but she was all over that officer.

Apparently, Brian wasn’t good enough.

That’s what you get, numbskull, for playing it safe
.

Playing it safe kept him alive. Kept him from getting his head bashed as a teen. Building bulk and benching brains—that is, pretending he didn’t have them—moved him into the cool crowd. Made him the “poor kid” whose father went to prison for life. Got him a scholarship to a university for hockey.

But he’d abandoned that after his mom’s death. Just had to get away from it all—the people, the pity, the pressure. The accusations. The truth.

But justice demanded action. He’d done the right thing.

Yeah, and if you hadn’t, Mom would still be alive
.

No. There was no way to know that. Brian shook his head. Shook off the thoughts and shoved out of his chair. Too many hours staring at a screen was dumbing down his brain. He went for the coffeepot down the hall.

A cup of joe to get his mind buzzing again, back into the coding and ciphering. He wasn’t giving up. This guy had hit the team hard time and again. Hand on the coffeepot, Brian stilled.

Hit the team.

Hit me
.

Had he hit anyone else? Anyone outside Special Forces—outside of Raptor?

Right. Because it’s personal
.

He yanked the coffeepot, chiding himself for staying up too late and letting paranoia dig its fingers into his skull. The pot practically flung upward, it was so light. He finally looked at the carafe. Empty. He slammed it back down. Checked the clock. Three in the morning. No way would he make more.

Maybe it was his cue to grab some rack time.

Scratching the back of his head and stifling another yawn, Brian headed back to the office Major Slusarski had tucked him in. He backed out of the programs and cleared the history. He deleted markers that left
his
virtual fingerprints and powered off.

Halfway down the hall, he heard something. Voices.

Correction: one voice.

Brian slowed, easing up to the juncture where the hall intersected the main area. He passed at the corner, concealed, as he attuned his ears to whoever was talking.

A man. Talking on the phone if the one-way conversation gave a clue.

Brian craned his neck forward for a quick look-see. Hit eyes on the target then snapped back so he wasn’t seen. A guy in a heavy jacket stood in a darkened corner of the office area, talking on the phone.

At three in the morning?

I don’t think so
.

Brian slid his Glock 22 from his side holster and held it low as he slid around the corner, sticking to the shadows. The guy shifted, angling away from Brian, who almost smirked.
Just make it easy for me, dirtbag
. Nobody was here, making calls in the dead of night and under the cover of darkness.

This guy probably was the leak. Maybe even the one who’d given the terrorist access to the system. Which could mean this guy was responsible for the deaths of Parker and Davis.

And nearly taking out Raptor.
Me
.

“Hands!” Brian shouted. “Show me your hands!”

The guy jerked around. Whites of his eyes bulging, he cursed. Slammed down the phone.

Brian moved in swiftly. “
Hands!
Or I put a bullet in your brain!”

Hands up, the guy wagged them at Brian. “Easy. I work here.”

“Move away from the desk,” Brian ordered, still closing the distance.

When the guy shifted to the left, he started to lower his arms.

“Hands!”

Fingers stabbed upward. “Easy, I’m telling you—”

“Name and rank.”

“Sanderson, Mike. Specialist.”

“On your knees, Specialist Sanderson.” If that
was
the guy’s name. Brian wasn’t taking chances.

“Are you kidding—?”

Brian stared down the barrel of his Glock and let that be his answer. Sanderson huffed but complied.

A shadow to Brian’s right flickered. He eyed the spot and found Slusarski emerging from an office.

“What’s going on, Sergeant?” Slusarski glanced down at the kneeling specialist.

“Came out to get coffee and heard this guy on the phone.” Brian let some of the tension ease up, but not enough that he couldn’t get a shot off if necessary. “He says he’s a specialist—find that mighty suspicious that he’d be here at this time of night making a phone call.”

“He is.” Slusarski hadn’t stopped considering the specialist. “He’s one of mine.” The tall, thin major stalked around the room and came in front of the specialist. “What’re you doing here, Sanderson?”

His shoulders slumped a little. “It’s my kid’s birthday. I wanted to call him before he headed out to school. I set my alarm, but when I woke up my phone was dead. Rec center’s closed up tight. Same with the USO’s.”

Slusarski gave an exasperated sigh as he eased onto a folding chair in front of the specialist. “You realize making personal calls is against regs?”

Sanderson gave a defeated nod.

Brian holstered his weapon, teeth grinding. What if the guy was making it up, about his kid?

“Go on,” Slusarski said with a wave. “Back to your bunk. Zero six hundred comes early when you don’t sleep.”

After a furtive glance to Brian, Sanderson came to his feet. “Yes, sir. Thank you,” he said to his CO. The guy left quickly, a swirl of wind and snow dashing in before the door thumped closed.

Once the door shut, Brian turned to Slusarksi. “You believe him?”

Slusarski rose and went to a cubicle. He lifted a framed photo and handed it to Brian. “His wife left him. Sent him a Dear John letter.”

There was a name for chicks like her, and it rhymed with
witch
. “If his wife left him, he could have motive.”

“To what?” Slusarksi pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know where you’re going. And you’re right.” He looked as tired as Brian felt. “I’ll have the number he called verified. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

The guy could walk out and find another phone. Notify his contact. If he had one. But there wasn’t much Brian could do about it. This wasn’t his base. Wasn’t his team. Wasn’t his CO. Wasn’t his problem.

Unless it was
him
.

“With all that’s happening, I felt we couldn’t take chances.” Brian gave him a nod. “Good night, sir.” He really hated calling this guy sir, but with the chain of command…

“Thanks for watching out for us.”

Brian gave another nod then headed for the door. He punched the level and was met by an angry squall of icy snow and wind. An instant reminder he’d forgotten his jacket. He pivoted and caught the door before it shut. He hustled down the hall, into the office, then snatched the coat off the back of the chair.

When he did, he saw something on the monitor.
Wait. I turned that off
.

“I thought you left,” Slusarski said as he stepped into the cramped space.

Lifting his jacket, Brian smiled.

Slusarksi laughed. Clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Be thankful we aren’t in the mountains. I hear a monster storm is brewing. Should hit in about a week.”

“That’s why I’m staying right here. Night.” As he moved behind the major, he caught a line of code streaming across the screen. A series of numbers: 051|215.

Slusarksi grunted. “What the devil?” He shook his head. “The system has been messed up the last few weeks.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t trust anything.” Including the man standing in front of Brian.

Kandahar, Afghanistan

26 January—0745 Hours

“Did you rest well?”

Fekiria stretched out the aches in her back as she glanced around the dim room empty of elaborate or luxurious furnishings. In fact, it had very little. Last night, she had reported in and informed Captain Ripley she would be staying with family in the area for the weekend. Though she was not blood related to Mitra, she was more deeply connected to her than anyone. Except Zahrah.

Though it’d been more than a week since her abduction at Adeeb’s hand, the weight and opression of that night hung over her. She wanted a break. And helping Mitra with the children was her best option. Her only option for an escape.

She moved to the small table where three children sat with bowls of something that looked like watery flour. “What are they eating?”

With a forced smile, Mitra said, “What the Lord has provided”—and her voice dropped to a whisper—“during desperate times.”

“You need a new lord if that’s all you have.”

Pain snapped through Mitra’s expression, but she refocused on the girls. There were six in all, including Mitra’s four-year-old daughter, Hadassah, a girl with bright eyes and a ready smile.

“Finish your meal then on to chores.”

A collective groan flittered through the girls at Mitra’s instruction. Once their bowls were emptied, they carried them to a bucket and set them inside before heading out a rear curtained-off area. Each time the fabric flapped back, it gave Fekiria a view of the dark juncture where walls had missing chunks and plaster had cracked and broken off.

Could anything good be back there? The thought felt ridiculous considering the poor shelter even
this
room offered. “What is back there?”

“A bathroom,” Mitra said as little Hadassah clung to her mom’s legs.

Fekiria suppressed a shudder at the thought of what that bathroom must look like and turned her focus to the little one. Ebony hair hung down her back, the clothes a bit too thin for the winter weather and too short at the ankles and wrist. Her shoes were simple flats that probably did little to keep the cold from her toes. Fekiria glanced over to the sleeping area then wandered over there. Feather mattresses were covered with thin, often torn sheets. Atop them, dingy gray blankets. Wool, but so thin they might as well be paper.

“Mi—” Fekiria stopped as she turned to find herself in an empty room.

Where was Mitra’s husband? Why did they not have food, warm clothes, and bedding? She started for the rear room but her friend reappeared. “Mitra, what is going on here?”

The little girl trailed her mother, holding on to the hem of her long tunic. Mitra bent toward her daughter and whispered something, which sent her scampering out of the room.

“Where is Jacob?” Fekiria asked, stalking across the room. What kind of man would make his wife and child live like this?

“It was not long after Dassah was born, I visited my mother in Mazar-e. While I was there, men set upon Jacob. Ordered him to renounce Isa or leave Afghanistan—alone.” She tidied the room then lifted a stack of books from a shelf. The move reminded Fekiria of Zahrah. “They vowed to kill me and Dassah if he did not.”

Fekiria stared at the table with five plastic chairs gathered around it. She did not want to vocalize the horrible truth lodged in her brain. But the question freed itself. “And he did not.”

Mitra gave an almost-imperceptible nod.

Which meant her husband was dead? By the grief evident in her friend’s face, she could only guess this to be true. Though she’d heard of stories like this, and Baba had said his sister had been threatened, it had never happened to someone so close to Fekiria. Except Zahrah—but that wasn’t connected to faith or jihad. It was knowledge that had gotten her cousin into trouble. “Why did Jacob not tell them what they wanted to hear?”

“If he would deny what he believed just to save his life, then he did not believe it.”

“But is it not better to tell a lie and save your life? How could he not think of you and his daughter?”

“He did think of us.” Fire sparked in her friend’s eyes. “What life would he have if he had to live with guilt for the rest of his years knowing he bowed his knee at a threat?” Mitra shook her head. “Even I would not want Jacob to do that.”

“But they killed him! Now you don’t have him.”

“I have his strength, and more than ever, I believe in Jesus. He has provided for us—”

“Provided for you?” Fekiria heard her own voice bounce off the roof. “Look at this place, Mitra! You have no heat, no decent food, and the clothes—”

“We have a roof over our heads and enough to keep us sustained!” Mitra blew a breath through puffed cheeks. “Forgive me for speaking so harshly. I know you do not understand. But…try.” Her friend’s expressive eyes pleaded with her. “Please.”

“But Hadassah will not know her father.”

Kindness never left Mitra’s face. Unshakable. “And what would she know of him if he lived by denying Isa? That he was not strong enough to defend his faith? That at the hint of challenge and danger, he would walk away from those beliefs?”

“No, that he loved his family enough to do whatever it took to live for them!”

Stretching across the gap between them, Mitra touched her arm. “Denying what one believes just for temporary comfort is the sign of a weakhearted man. A shallow belief. If we cannot stand for our beliefs, we will fall for everything.”

Fekiria placed a hand over her forehead, her mind spinning. It made no sense to die for something so…intangible. “And how is that different from those who jihad?”