Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (34 page)

“Okay.” Captain Ripley turned back to her, but like lightning, his fist shot forward. Right into her captor’s face.

The weapon flicked from his hand. Skittered across the cement floor.

A shot fired.

Fekiria frowned at the weapon. Had it gone off?

Another shot.

Captain Ripley grunted and stumbled.

Fekiria saw red bloom across his shoulder. She lunged forward, glancing back and finding Mahmoud with his own weapon raised. “Captain Ripley!” That’s when she saw the pool of blood around his throat. He’d been hit twice.

Gray eyes struck hers. Then he collapsed like a table with a broken leg. He just went down. Right out of her hands. “No!” Fekiria tried to catch him.

Hands clamped on to her. Jerked her backward.

“Help!”

The weapon swung in front of her face. “Shut up!”

“Kill me,” she screamed at the man. “Then you won’t have anyone to help you.”

“And what of your friend?”

Tears stinging, Fekiria looked down at Captain Ripley. So still. So bloody. Right there. At her feet. “You’ve already killed him!”

“And the girls? Mitra?”

She sucked in a deep, painful breath. How did they know about them?

“In the chopper or our first target will be your friend and those girls.” The man’s beady eyes seemed wild. Cruel. “Now, or I will make a call. They’ll die. One by one.”

“Stop! You don’t have to do this.” Hot tears raced down her cheeks.

“Good.” He waved the gun toward the bird. “Let’s go.”

Somehow, she stumbled to the chopper, glancing back more than once. Captain Ripley tried to save her. Protect her. And they’d killed him for it.

Numb, terrified, grief-stricken, she tried to remember what to do. Walk-around.

“No preflights.”

“Dalaal.”
Strong words, calling him an idiot, but he was just being stupid now. “If we don’t do them, then—”

“They’ve been done.” His eyes narrowed as he wagged the gun toward the cockpit. “In.”

Robotically, she climbed up into the cockpit. She settled into her seat, lifting her helmet as she did. Glanced to the right. To the hangar where Captain Ripley still lay. Her chin trembled.
I am so sorry
.

“No radio contact,” the man ordered as he dropped into the secondary seat.

“You can’t leave without radio contact.”

“It’s been taken care of,” he said.

Again, her gaze hit Colonel Mahmoud, who stood just inside the hangar. By Allah, if she lived, she would make sure he died. For what he did to Captain Ripley. For whatever he was helping orchestrate now.

“Head to Kabul City,” he ordered.

Fekiria powered up the bird, and within minutes they were lifting off.
Dear God—whichever one is out there and real, help me!

The chopper droned as they made their way out to the city, though the weather made the controls feel sticky and uncooperative. But even as she made her way into the city, somehow the navigation must’ve mucked up again.

Panic started threatening as buildings grew familiar. This was close—
too close
—to Mitra’s home. The girls. She tried to adjust course. Scowled at the controls. “What…?”

“Is it clear to you now, who is in control?”

“What are you doing?” Even with the driving snow, her mind filled in the blocked visual cues. A weapons-lock light exploded on the instrumentation. “No!” Her nerves vibrated with panic now. “What are you doing? You promised—”

“Remember what I did to your American boyfriend?”

Arguing that he wasn’t her boyfriend wouldn’t matter. “Yes, and I did what you asked.”

They were within a couple of miles now. She could see the compound with its crumbling roof on the upper level of the main house. “Please! Do not do this.
Please
!”

How were they controlling the instrumentation? How had they taken over her aircraft?

They zipped over the compound.

More tears trekked down her face and trembling overtook her limbs. Breathing hard, she tried to gather herself.

“You must learn a lesson.”

The weapon launched.

“Noooo!!!!”

D
etouring, Brian entered the bathroom.

He pressed his spine against the wall and turned his head toward the door, toward the sound of the approaching man. “Hello?” the man called in Pashto. “The school is closed. You should not be here.”

Neither should you
.

No need for a body count on a recon mission. Not if they could help it. And he could. Brian slid closer to the door, waiting. His pulse climbed a little, but not too much. Taking down one man—child’s play.

The door swung inward, covering Brian.

“Hello?” The man stepped in, holding the door.

Brian slid along the wood. As the Pashtun moved forward, so did Brian. He slipped his right arm around the man’s throat and hooked his forearm upward, cutting off air to the man’s windpipe.

Thrashing, the man tried to free himself.

With a slight push forward against the back of the man’s head, Brian anticipated the sudden shift to dead weight. “Target down,” he muttered. He eased the man to the ground, patted him down, located and extracted his wallet. “Moving out.”

“Eyes wide, Hawk. The mission just escalated.”

“Roger.” In the hall, he rifled through the man’s wallet and plucked out Afghani banknotes. He checked the next two doors and called them, folding the money into his tunic. This wasn’t about stealing. This was about protecting appearances. That man would report being mugged. Having his money stolen would deter suspicion.

But with the man unconscious, a dozen other problems could present themselves. What if he wasn’t alone? What if someone was waiting on him? What if he woke up?

Brian’s skin crawled. He sped things up but not enough to draw attention. Just four doors left. “Red seven clear.” His hand coiled around the next knob. He turned it.

Click
.

He looked at the door. “Red eight locked.” The narrow vertical window was barricaded with what looked like cardboard. Primitive but effective. “No view.”

“Hawk, you’ve got company coming.”

“Clear out. RTB,” came Captain Watters’s quick command. “We’ll make another hit tomorrow.”

“Copy. Clearing out,” Brian said as he strode to the end of the hall, dumped the wallet in a bin, then pushed his way through the door. Again, the wind smacked and tugged at him. The frigid temps bit at his cheeks.

“Hawk, might want to speed things up,” Eagle said. “Two unfriendlies coming into that building from the south. If they find your bathroom friend…”

“Understood.”

Brian angled right. Through the student housing and quickened his pace.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Brian’s pulse thumped.

“Running might be good,” Eagle said in a calm tone that belied the necessary urgency.

Brian broke into a sprint. Targeted a five-foot wall and launched himself over it. He landed in a narrow alley. Jogging, he kept a steady, even pace. Enough to put distance but not enough to make him look like a criminal being chased.

“Two blocks,” he whispered as he rounded a corner and tucked himself into another tight alley where he could move moderately undetected. “In view.”

A green police truck spun around the corner, sirens screaming.

“Company.” Brian threw himself back against an old jalopy, hand on the rusted metal, as he slid around the back side, gauging his surroundings, his options. He watched the truck race past.

Brian peeked out again. Checked the safe house. And broke into a sprint.

The door opened.

Brian dived through. He dropped to the floor, breathing hard. Laughing. “Nothing like a brisk walk in the snow.”

“Get up, gear up,” the captain said, extending a hand. “Eagle’s watching our location. If we’re compromised, we clear out, rendezvous with him.”

Hopping onto his feet, Brian shook the adrenaline tremoring through his fingers. “Only one room locked—I’m thinking that’s the jackpot.”

“We can’t verify that right now.”

“Roger, but I want to hit it tonight.”

The commander turned, scowled.

“If we wait—they’ll have it cleared out by morning. They knew something was happening. Somehow, they got tipped off.”

“Location is too hot,” Eagle’s calm, steady voice whispered through the room.

The captain’s shoulders rose. “Fall back.” A beeping pervaded their safe house. “Rendezvous at the market. We’ll retrieve you there.”

“Copy that.”

Freezing out there, and Eagle had to hoof it to the Najeeb Zarab Market a couple of miles away. They’d originally chosen the Pul-e bazaar, but that took him right past police headquarters.

“Okay, gear up. We’re”—Captain Watters looked around, scowling—“moving…” He turned a circle.

Helmet and boots on, Brian shouldered his way into his ruck as he shuffled toward one of the laptops.

A steady vibration wormed through his boots. “What’s that noise?” His gaze rose to the sky.

“Choppers?” Falcon stood. “In this weather? The rotors would ice!”

Brian felt sick. Something was very wrong. Why did he feel like he had a neon target painted on his chest? He glanced at the monitor.

His breath hiked into the back of his throat. A message with a single word. “
Osiris
,” he whispered. Then saw a blinking red dot approaching— “Get out!”

The weapon launched. A missile streaked out from the belly of the bird, snatching with it Fekiria’s breath. She watched as it tore northward. “I will kill you,” she shouted. “I will kill you a thousand times and leave nothing of you for those virgins!”

She flicked the protective cover of the fire switch and tried to shoot down the missile.

Laughter filled her headset, the son of a pig mocking her.

Anger swooped in.

The missile changed course. Darted east then veered.

Fekiria brought the bird around, watching the trajectory of the bomb. “Where…?”

“You have done a good thing for Islam, for Afghanistan today.”

She trailed the path of the weapon barreling over the city and tracked it as it angled downward. Streaked into a building.

Boom!

A fireball shot into the sky.

Fekiria aimed away from the natural concussion of the explosion but wanted to see what had been so important that the Taliban would kill a captain, kidnap her, and force her to blow up something. “What is it?”

“An American safe house.”

Can’t outrun death
.

The concussion lifted Brian off his feet. Tossed him violently, like a giant had grabbed him by the ankles and flung him to the side.

Silence cracked like two beefy fists against his ears.

White-hot light exploded.

Blinded and deafened, Brian knew he couldn’t afford to lay there. He peeled himself out of the wall he’d been thrown into, shards of pain knifing through his resolve.

Boom!

Another explosion punched him in the chest. Shoved him backward.

He looked up, feeling a tickle of something along his shoulder. He batted at it, and his fingers came away slick. Must’ve blown his eardrums. Bent in half, he worked to regain his balance. His orientation.