Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (46 page)

The shortness of breath.

The nausea…

“God, help us,” she muttered. And in her heart, she reached for a thin thread of hope that Mitra and Zahrah’s God would hear her. He seemed to hear them. Would He listen to her prayers?

As if an invisible hand blocked her, Fekiria stopped. Her attention lasered in like a targeting system on the space several meters away. A dark shape loomed there, taking stronger shape with each heartbeat. When her mind pieced together his long tunic, she choked back a scream.

Taliban!

A thousand questions pelted her as she spun around but nothing more powerful than the relief that he’d been looking the other way when she saw him.

Her foot twisted, but she threw herself up the spiral incline heedless of the pain tightening her ankle. Thick snow became a stark enemy, trying to push her back. Fekiria fought the elements, her fear, the questions—where was Sergeant Brian? Why were the Taliban ahead of him? Would they die here?—and plunged around another ledge.

The three waited, huddled against the cold and misery. “Get up! Go!” Fekiria growled, working every muscle to keep her voice down but urgent.

Sheevah punched to her feet, wide eyed and gripping Aadela, whose confusion washed over her face like a sheen of sweat.

“Run,” Fekiria hissed as she rushed in and scooped her arms around Mitra, who felt rubbery in her grip. “Mitra, are you with me?”

Her friend’s head lobbed, eyes popping open then drifting closed.

Fekiria shook her. “Mitra!” She strangled the sob in her throat. “Mitra, you must fight!” Afraid of the men pursuing them, the weapons they carried, she dragged her friend to her feet. Tugged her around the corner. Wedged herself in under Mitra’s arm and wrapped her arm around her waist. Holding her left hand with her own, Fekiria forced herself to move. To put one foot in front of the other. The adrenaline shot through her, pushing her hard.

She wanted to cry. Wanted to shake her friend. Smack her into fight mode.

“Leave…me.” Mitra’s whispered words were almost lost in the wind and the huffing breaths.

Let them be lost
. She could not let herself think of her friend as dying. That path was a dangerous, hopeless one. One they’d trip on and fall over the ledge to their deaths.

“Hadassah is waiting,” Fekiria said. “You
must
fight this.”

Mitra tensed. Her feet found traction in the crunching snow.

Crunching…snow…

Fekiria glanced back. Their footprints in the path created a homing beacon to their location. But there was nothing to be done for it. They had no time to hide their tracks.

“Here!” Sheevah waved to her from a thicket jutting up defiantly out of the snow and off the level area.

If they went there, they could be found.

But if they didn’t, they
would
be found since Mitra could not move fast enough. Fekiria guided her friend into the area. “Sheevah, help,” she said as she turned and shoved snow across the path and down. She swept her boots side to side, backstepping into the thicket. It was a vain hope to conceal their tracks.

Branches scraped her jacket noisily, and she could not help but wonder if the Taliban could hear that over the wind stalking the mountain. Eased to the ground by her friends, she brought out the weapon that Sergeant Brian had given her. She would not go down without a fight, without protecting Mitra, Aadela, and Sheevah.

Tiny arms wrapped around hers, binding Fekiria’s weapon arm against her side and forcing her to look down. Aadela’s pale face shone with the fear that gripped Fekiria’s own heart. She swallowed, lifting an arm to place it around the six-year-old. “Shh,” she whispered then readjusted so her aim was not hindered.

“Where is—?”

A shout came with a breeze that rustled the branches of the pine leaves, which teased the edges of Fekiria’s cheek. She remained unmoving, muzzle pointed out. Three men came into view, their Kalashnikovs dangling carelessly. Anger and confusion gouged hard lines into the grim, weathered expressions. The tallest of the three tugged on his scraggly beard. One whose beard and hair were more gray than brown waved the youngest up the path, while the beard-tugger pointed to the path.

They know
. Covering their path only created confusion, but it might buy them some time. It was a futile attempt—they were Taliban. Trained to track. Trained to kill. Merciless in both regards.

But not covering it would have drawn immediate attention.

Fekiria waited, watching and listening.

“They could not just vanish,” Beard-tugger groused.

“Hiding tracks does not work.” The older laughed. He turned a slow circle until his all-too-knowing eyes landed on the thicket. His eyes then narrowed as a sneer pushed his face into a menacing mask.

The thudding in her chest threatened to betray her.
Please, God!

Aadela whimpered.

Sucking in a hard breath, Fekiria yanked the girl farther into her, pressing her face against her hip. She crushed her to herself, willing the whimper to die on the wind. To not betray them. Holding her breath gave Fekiria little confidence they wouldn’t be found. Even the slightest movement of her head could betray them. The twig digging into the back of her head could shake loose some snow.

The man brought his weapon to bear. Muzzle pointed right at Fekiria.

A soft
thunk
sounded somewhere behind them. Both men yanked around.

Stealing a glance—without moving her head—Fekiria met Sheevah’s glossy eyes. She tried to convey a “stay still, we’ll be okay” look, but the girl remained terrified.

“Go. Check it out,” Gray-beard ordered. Minutes hung like hours as the fighters waited.

“No tracks up the path,” the younger said as he returned, his weapon now slung around his back. He feared little, this one.

Pine branches swayed against the tug of the wind, obstructing Fekiria’s view again.

“What is Lateef doing?”

“Who knows?” The younger shrugged. Beside her, Mitra moaned.

Sheevah slapped a hand over her teacher’s mouth and drew her close. Fekiria saw the grayness of death crouching at her friend’s feet and prayed again they’d make it.

When she turned back, with a jerk Fekiria froze.

Beady black eyes peered through the branches.

A
hand reached into the thicket.

Realizing she’d lowered the weapon terrified Fekiria. She snapped it up and fired. The sound ricocheted through the mountain like a giant thunderclap that pounded against her chest.

The man gasped and stumbled back.

But unlike Hollywood movies, the first shot didn’t kill him. It only angered him. Solidified his determination to make her die an ugly death—she saw it in his eyes.

Large nostrils flared against the graying beard. He uttered an oath. Spat something about her being an American lover as he raised his weapon.

With a feral scream, Fekiria sprang from the thicket. Dove through the branches, carrying the man backward. They landed hard. His breath punched from him with a wheezing gasp. Before she could drive a punch into his face, she felt herself flipping.

Wrestling with him was another futile effort. He was bigger. Stronger.

Before she could fight it, Fekiria lay on her back with his hands around her throat. Squeezing tight. Tighter. Panic flooded her. She thrashed.

Like a cord snapped in her, she regained control.

Threaded her right arm up and under his. She threw all her weight to the right, breaking his hold. On all fours, she heaved raw, searing gulps of oxygen.

A scream from Aadela jerked Fekiria out of her air-deprived stupor. The young Talib was bent over in the thicket.

Reaching for him, Fekiria felt a noose wrap around her right leg. She clawed for purchase but found none. Just bone-numbing iciness.

Yanked backward, she collapsed against the frigid, wet snow. Funneling her energy once again into freeing herself, she stuck her left ankle behind her right. Used her hips to thrust herself around. The man was dragging her so quickly, her sudden twist caused him to stumble. His grip broke. Fekiria pushed up with her hands.

He didn’t stay down long. With a growl, he lunged at her.

The screaming of the girls fueled her adrenaline. Told her she couldn’t stop. She had to kill this man. Kill all of these men before they killed them.

She kicked him in the gut. He doubled over. Used his forward momentum to slam a hard right into her jaw. Sent her flying backward. Her spine hit something hard. Knocked the wind out of her. Before she could move—even think—he towered over her. Kalashnikov in hand. Sneer on his old, shriveled face.

Crack!

Thwump!

Warmth splattered her face.

Then Gray-beard tumbled forward.

Fekiria rolled out of the way. Exhaustion weighted her. Relief flooded her. She still struggled for air. She heaved.
Breathe. Breathe!

Another scream—Sheevah’s this time—yanked her head up.

The young Talib slumped to the side, a crimson stain widening like a sick, twisted halo around his head.

Fekiria flipped over to a sitting position, staring out at the trees. Probing the terrain. The vegetation. Who’d shot the two Taliban?
Please
—
please, be Brian
. Scrabbling backward toward the girls, she saw a figure emerge.

Brian trudged out from between two trees, face bloodied, clothes torn and ragged. In truth
—he
looked ragged. His right eye was swollen shut. Lip cut and bulging, he swiped his gloved hand across a large scrape on his forehead. Blood glistened around his leg. A bloodied scrap of material—from the hem of his shirt, she guessed by the untucked and torn tactical shirt—tied around his thigh warned of another injury. A large knot rose on his cheek.

Fekiria lurched toward him. “Brian!”

His arm came around her without hesitation. A brief tight hug flooded her with relief and courage. “Let’s move.” He panted through the words as he moved toward the others. “They weren’t alone.”

Beneath the thicket, she knelt. “What happened to you?”

“Later.” He gathered up the weapons from the dead Taliban.

“There was another,” Fekiria breathed, glancing around for the last fighter.

“Dead.” Brian’s voice matched the word. Weapons slung over his shoulder, he turned and reached for Aadela. A tear in his upper jacket sleeve revealed another angry gash. His jaw muscle popped as he gave a tight-lipped smile to the six-year-old. He was in a lot of pain. She could see it on his face. In the stiff way he moved.

“Here. I’ll get her,” Fekiria said.

Brian’s gaze hit Mitra. “She’s unconscious.”

“No,” came a very weak response from the woman. Her eyes fluttered. “I’m…here.”

Brian muttered a curse. Sat back on his legs, his chin resting on his shoulder, and he puffed out a breath. With another sigh, he nodded as if agreeing with something. “Mitra, look at me.”

Her head lobbed in his direction, eyes shuddering open.

“I have to carry you over my shoulder,” he said. “It will hurt. Understand?”

Pale as the snow and covered with a similar sheen as the wintry elements, Mitra nodded. It looked like a drug-induced nod, but she understood. And whether she did or not, he had to carry her.

But…how would he? He was already limping and in a lot of pain.

As Brian hoisted Mitra away from the tree she’d been propped against, he screwed his face against the pain. With one more hoist, he hefted her into a secure spot across his broad shoulders.

Hand on her stomach, Fekiria swallowed the metallic taste that squirted through her mouth. That had to hurt. A lot. With the pain he was in and the pain Mitra probably no longer felt…

It was too much to think about, especially knowing there was nothing to do but continue on. Fekiria knelt and let Aadela climb onto her back. With Sheevah’s help, she tied the extra pelt across the little one’s back. She looked at Brian, and he gave her a weak nod.

He led them through the trees, off the path. They climbed at an angle across the rugged mountains. Leaden legs plunged into freezing snow. Fekiria pushed onward, refusing to quit. Refusing to fail. Refusing to let Brian down.