Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (38 page)

T
he explosion of wood registered as Sergeant Brian barreled out of his hiding spot. Took a knee. Sparks flew, and she knew in that instant he was shooting.

Did he accidentally shoot Jamilah?

No. No, she realized he was shooting at someone beyond them. Back in action, he fired at someone behind and to Mitra’s right. Moving decisively, he kept shooting.

Fekiria snapped out of the stupor. Spun. Tried to find the shooter.
Where are they? Who…?
Muzzle flash gave away the enemy. She aimed. Fired.

The
rat-tat-tat
of Sergeant Brian’s controlled bursts told her he wasn’t giving up. She ducked as plaster exploded around her.
They’re shooting at me!
Fekiria threw herself back, out of view. Inspired, she rushed to the other side of the wall, ordering the girls to follow her. From this vantage she could see Sergeant Brian—he’d made it to Jamilah and was helping her up.

Unlike Hollywood, Fekiria didn’t have an unlimited supply of ammunition. On her belly on the thin layer of snow that had fallen, she peered around the corner. Saw the shooter. Fired.

She heard the thud of boots from the other direction and knew Sergeant Brian was closing in on the safe spot. Fekiria needed to keep the shooter’s head down so they could make it.

Another wave of shots peppered them.

Fekiria flattened herself as dirt and snow spattered her face. Covering her head, she hoped they continued missing. Again came the familiar
rat-tat-tat
of Sergeant Brian’s weapon.

She resumed her position. Started firing so he could get to cover. Back and forth. It took awhile, but he finally hustled into the alley. “Keep moving,” came the breathy grunt from him.

On her feet, Fekiria turned—then froze at the sight of all the blood. She then followed the others, marveling at the way Sergeant Brian carried Jamilah over his shoulder as if he’d just been carrying a heavy sack. Mitra and Sheevah both carried one of the smaller girls, and she lifted Aadela, who had been running as fast as her little feet would go, a hand hooked onto a strap on Sergeant Brian’s leg.

The eight of them hurried down the street, turned left onto another street, then went right. A dizzying pattern designed to confuse their pursuers. A few minutes later, Sergeant Brian slipped into the partially open gate of a compound and motioned them all inside. He gently laid Jamilah down and went to a knee. His chest heaved against the exertion of having transported the teen through the city streets.

Jamilah’s face had gone pale. The accumulation of snow beneath her quickly grew red. “Fekiria,” she whispered.

“Shh,” Fekiria said. “You’ll be okay.”

Jamilah nodded, her face slick with a sheen of sweat.

Breathing hard, Sergeant Brian pulled out his phone again. “Hey”—deep gulp of breath—“Yeah. Got hit.” He breathed hard, peering out into the street, then tucked the phone between his shoulder and jaw as he dumped his pack on the ground. Dug into it and pulled out a smaller bag. “One seriously injured.” He huffed, his nostrils flaring as he worked to control his breathing. “Can’t make it.”

Medical kit.

He dug out bandages and pressed them against Jamilah’s side. The girl cried out, but Sergeant Brian kept working. He glanced at Fekiria, taking on a third task. His gaze locked with hers. “I need a street name.”

Nervously, she nodded, but Mitra whispered, “Haseb Sayee.”

Sergeant Brian paused as he considered Mitra then looked at Fekiria. “Was that the street?”

She nodded, still rattled. Still out of her element. She was a pilot and soldier! She should be stronger. Like him.

“Haseb Sayee,” he repeated into the phone then flung it aside.

“Are they coming?” Fekiria couldn’t help but ask.

“On the way,” he said as he sprayed something against the open wound. Jamilah whimpered but bit through it.

But he was still working to tend the wound. “Keep watch for my team. Black Humvee. Old.”

“I’m not leaving her!”

“If you want her to live, you’ll do what I say.” Finally, he looked up. Then to the gate. “Now.”

“I—”

“If you miss them, then she dies.”

Furious, she pushed away. Onto her feet and stumbling to the gate, dazed. Angry—at the men who shot Jamilah. At Sergeant Brian for being so unfeeling. So insensitive. Cruel.

He saved your life!

Had he not followed her…had he not ordered them into the streets during a storm…

If her friend died—if any of them died, she would not forgive him. She sagged against the gate, clutching the wood, shivering. Clinging to it as if her life depended on it. And perhaps it did. This whole thing was crazy. Who was behind all this? Who would do such a thing?

The rattle of a car engine stabbed the wintry night. She eased the gate to give a little more, not wanting to betray her location if the car was the enemy.

The Humvee rolled into sight, slow. No headlights.

“That sounds like them,” came Sergeant Brian’s voice, followed almost immediately by the sound of his steps. She felt his presence before he even cupped his hand over hers on the gate.

He pressed close, his presence warm. He looked over her head. “Yeah.” He nudged the gate just wide enough to reach through. Stepped around her and exposed himself. With a single wave, he signaled the vehicle.

The engine revved, and the Humvee swung toward them. Sergeant Brian opened the gate enough to allow the vehicle to roll inside, the engine dying as tires crunched over the pebbled path and the snow.

Men spilled out of the vehicle. Armed American soldiers—and from the passenger seat came Captain Dean Watters. Zahrah’s boyfriend. Though it was foolish to think she could still keep her secret, Fekiria drew into the shadows as he jogged closer.

“We can’t take everyone, but we’ll take the injured and youngest,” Captain Dean said.

“Why?” Fekiria’s demanding question revealed her presence, but it was the least of her concerns.

“Not enough room,” another soldier answered.

Hadassah clung to her mother, refusing to release her hand. A soldier with a kind face and a bit of years on him lifted Dassah into the Humvee.

“Okay,” said another with a dark beard and eyes. “Two more. The rest have to walk.”

“I’ll stay with Hawk,” said the one who’d put Dassah in the vehicle.

Sergeant Brian nodded then motioned to Fekiria. “She goes with the little ones. The teens can walk with me.”

“No.” Fekiria placed Wajmah inside the vehicle, surprised at how crowded it was in there. But even as she stepped back, Wajmah let out a shriek.

Mitra rushed forward and comforted her.

“Go.” Fekiria nudged the twelve-year-old inside. “Stay with them. You will be safe.”

The men started back to the vehicle.

“You okay?” Captain Dean asked Sergeant Brian, handing him another weapon and ammo.

“Fine.” He thumbed toward Fekiria. “She’s ISAF trained. Give her a weapon.”

The captain hesitated. Glanced at her, and the frown erupted across his face. “Fekiria?”

“It’s a long story,” Sergeant Brian said. “One I haven’t even fully heard, but you can interrogate her later. And I’ll help, but right now time is short.”

“Roger,” Captain Dean said without breaking eye contact. “Does Zahrah know?”

“No.”

A man built a little bigger than Sergeant Brian handed her a fully automatic weapon and two extra magazines. “I’ll need those back.”

His accent—European? Wasn’t British. “Thank you. I’ll return them.”

Crying and an ardent “no!” turned them all toward the vehicle.

Sergeant Brian looked like he was trying to wrestle a monkey with the way Aadela avoided being drawn off his back. “C’mon,” he growled. She crawled around his back and shoulders. He groped, missed, tried again.

Aadela railed, screaming. Arms and legs thrashing, she arched her back hard when he finally pulled her free.

“Hey.” Sergeant Brian wrapped her in his arms, and almost immediately she settled. “Easy, chiefette.”

Two of them went to Jamilah, lifted her, and transported her to the vehicle.

Captain Dean gave a terse nod then shifted his attention back to Sergeant Brian. “Already contacted the general. He’s mustering backup, but—”

A bright explosion of light lit the night.

Fekiria felt herself flying backward.

Rammed into something solid.

The world blinked out.

F
ire rained down. The wall to the left of the Humvee erupted, spewing cement and plaster into the sky. “Go, go, go!” Brian shouted.

The captain, Falcon, and Titanis dove into the vehicle. Brian grabbed Fekiria’s hand, the bundle of screaming terror still clinging to the front of his vest. Eagle rounded up the other two and they rushed to safety.

Brian was freakin’ fed up with this terrorist who seemed to have a tracking device on their location. Could they not get a break? His arms ached and his legs felt like putty.

The fleeing Humvee had drawn the enemy so they had a free run for the first mile. They hurried down through a warehouse district, putting as much distance between them and the location as possible.

“Hey, hey,” Eagle huffed, slowing. He nodded backward and started in that direction.

Backtracking, the little one clinging to him like a frightened monkey, Brian saw the vehicle. A sedan sitting alone next to a building where a lone light shone on the second floor. “Someone missed the storm warning,” he muttered then jutted his jaw toward the car. It wasn’t old and junked out, but it also wasn’t so new that hotwiring wouldn’t work.

Eagle made quick work of jimmying the lock.

“In, in.” Brian ushered the three women and little girl into the backseat. He climbed into the passenger seat as the older Raptor member hotwired the car.

Pealing out of the parking lot would make a cool exit. But they needed stealth. Eagle knew that and eased the car out of the parking lot with as little noise as possible. Once they hit the main road blanketed in snow, he gunned it. The tail wiggled a little, but the tires caught purchase. “Which way?”

“Away,” Brian said. “Just drive for an hour, Eagle. We can sort it later. Just need distance between us and them.”

“Who is ‘them’ anyway?” Eagle asked.

“No idea.” Brian peered over his shoulder to the women and little girl. He never would’ve said Fekiria was afraid, until today. With those wide eyes and the pale sheen on her face… But that wasn’t enough to stay his anger. She had a lot to explain. “Now might be a good time for those answers.”

Kabul, Afghanistan

23 February—1925 Hours

His attitude irritated her.

Maybe she did owe him, but did he have to act like that? The only good thing was that Mitra, Aadela, and Sheevah didn’t understand English enough to know what she was about to confess. “It was an accident.”

“Right. An accident. Bombing a building is an accident?”

Fekiria’s anger simmered. “I did not—” She clamped down hard on her tongue and cringed, drawing a concerned look from Aadela. “Somehow, the navigational guidance of the weapon…didn’t work right.”

Sergeant Brian shifted, looking her right in the eye. “Seriously? That’s your story? My team nearly got burned to death and you’re going to blame a screwy navigational system?”

Fekiria looked away, hurt and angry by his unwillingness to listen and believe her.

The other soldier driving gave Sergeant Brian a pat. “Hey. Fits with everything else, right?”

“What?” Sergeant Brian frowned. “You believe her?”

“Not surprising that someone would have her bombs target us, right?”

“But she—she hates Americans.”

“Come on,” the other man said.

“No. Serious. Dead serious—she told me to my face.”

“If you hate olives,” Fekiria said, “smash them all with a hammer?”

“If they’re green and salty, heck yeah.” Sergeant Brian wasn’t giving her a chance.

“Hey,” the other soldier said. “Give a listen. Hear her out.” He pointed out the windshield. “It’s going to be tough and quiet. I could use a distraction.”