Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (48 page)

A scream pierced the cabin.

Brian jerked toward it, saw Fekiria removing the little girl’s boots. “No!” He rushed toward them. “Keep the clothes on. Just put more on.”

“But she—You said—”

“Nothing comes off until we get medical aid. Clear?” Aadela would be screaming a lot—all of them would as their limbs warmed back up and circulation returned.

Fekiria stared at up at him and nodded. “You think we can get help?”

He pointed to the table. “If they aren’t already working, I can get them up and running. Then we can make contact with someone. Get an extraction.”

“Up here? During the storm?”

Brian’s excitement deflated a little. “No. But as soon as it breaks.” He motioned her back to the others. “First things first. Can you see what food there is?”

She bristled. “What, I’m the cook because I’m a woman?”

Brian almost grinned. Not five minutes out of the storm and already her fire returned. “I’ll cook. You want to do surgery on Mitra?”

She blanched, her lips forming a silent O.

Brian rustled through the cabinet and found pretty much nothing he needed—except a bottle of what he thought, and Fekiria confirmed, was the equivalent of ibuprofen. He told her to mash some up and give it to Aadela. She and Sheevah needed to take a few, too.

“Why?” Fekiria asked. “I’m okay.”

“How do your hands feel?”

She hesitated.

“And your feet?” Brian didn’t mean to be confrontational. “You can’t feel them, can you?”

She blinked. “I…I—how do you know that?”

He tossed a few pills in his mouth. “Because you’re not groaning or screaming in pain.” He swallowed dry and went to the other room where Mitra was laid out, unconscious. He packed a blanket around her then drew her pallet toward the other room. There, he built a fire in the small pit and let the warmth fill the room.

Aadela eventually fell asleep, and that’s when Brian knelt to work on Mitra. Hand against her carotid, he knew the odds of making it were against her. Her thready pulse made it unlikely she’d survive any attempts he made to remove bullets. And he couldn’t sew her up, so…

24 February—1730 Hours

Violent shivering wracked Fekiria hours into their stay in the shanty. She made a light soup with some leftover partially rotten vegetables. They were not so ruined they were unusable, so in the pot they went. After their bellies were filled, everyone lay down.

Everyone, that is, except Brian. He worked on. Exhausted. In pain. He worked.

As she lay before the fire, her back to the flames, agony tore at her limbs, fiery yet freezing. She curled on her side, holding her hands, keeping her feet toward the fire. She shared a blanket with Aadela, who whimpered in her sleep constantly. Sometimes, waking into full fits of screaming that broke Fekiria’s heart as she held up her hands in obvious pain.

Wind howled and the storm raged through the night as Brian sat on the floor, not far from the fire either, with a powered-up laptop. He’d told her right away there was no signal. No way to communicate—yet.

But he worked. Fastidiously. Shaking out his hands. With the fire behind her, she was sure he couldn’t see her watching him because he made no effort to hide the pain as he tucked his fingers under his armpits and doubled over, his face screwed tight. His teeth bared in what would be a growl—that is, if he allowed himself to make a noise. But he didn’t. He soldiered on, as he liked to say.

He was handsome—even with the swollen eye, the cuts and bruises. He never gave up. Never left them. Strong and brave. A fighter.
A good man
.

She drifted in and out of sleep, awakened often by Aadela. Sheevah burrowed closer to them, smiling at her and muttering something about Aadela sleeping better if she couldn’t see Mitra. Fekiria understood—her friend looked dead in the flickering firelight. Grateful for the girl’s wisdom, she scooted over a little until they had Aadela sandwiched between them. The next time Fekiria awakened, both girls were sound asleep.

Brian cursed.

She looked up but he wasn’t in the same spot. She heard the
clack
of him typing behind her and rolled onto her back. He was propped against the wall, his feet near her head, the glow of the laptop splashing a dull light against his beat-up face.

“What’s wrong?” She tucked an arm behind her head to prop herself up.

Brian heaved a sigh. “Trouble.”

Fekiria groaned.

“No kidding.” He lifted the laptop, drew his feet closer to himself and put the computer near her face. He laid down on his stomach. “I think…I think the men who were here are the people who’ve been hitting my team.”

Fekiria rolled onto her side, pushing her torso up. “Really?”

Another strong exhale. “Yeah.” He jabbed a still-gloved finger toward the screen. “These codes… If I’ve figured it out right, they match the coordinates for our troops. It’s all old data though. But still—”

“It’s a lead.”

Brian considered her. “You seem as excited as me.”

“They took over my aircraft and tried to make me kill innocent people. Those are not the type of people who need to control Afghanistan, so yes—I am excited.”

He bounced a finger toward the screen. “I’m running a program, searching the laptop for key phrases. If I can get this back to the base, they can dig into it better.”

“Do you know who’s behind it?”

His gaze bounced over the different applications running. “We only have theories, suspects, but no proof. Not sure I can—if I had equipment, I probably could figure something out—which is why I want to get this back to Command.”

She noticed the disassembled phones on the floor. “They don’t work?”

“Still working on them.”

Fekiria couldn’t help but smile. “I didn’t realize you were so smart.”

He scowled. “I’m not.”

“How can you say that? The last twenty-eight hours, you’ve protected us, guided us. You knew how to skin that leopard. How to fashion extra protection for Aadela, how to perform surgery on—”

“Okay, okay.” Brian shifted his attention back to the computer, his expression stern.

She’d faced her brother’s anger. Her father’s. And took it in stride. But seeing Brian’s turned her stomach. “I did not mean to anger you.”

Brian hung his head. “I know.” He put a fist to his cracked, bloodied lips. “It’s just… I don’t like people thinking…
saying
I’m smart.”

“Why? You are very smart.”

“Smart isn’t always a good thing.”

Fekiria studied him. What was behind that statement?

“My dad,” he said, as if it hurt to even speak the words. “My dad was this majorly smart guy—rated Mensa. He was too smart for his own good, felt he didn’t owe anything to those who depended on him. His work, his wife, his family.” Brian seemed to study the dirt floor. “When I was fifteen, he was arrested. Someone had told the police what he was doing behind closed doors.”

“What was he doing?”

“Running a really big scam. Stealing money and funneling it to other agencies. He thought he was so smart he didn’t have to answer to anyone else.” He tried to wet his lip and shook his head. “He’s in prison still. The whole thing really got to me. Changed my life.”

Something in his expression shifted, went…vacant. Fekiria eased up, as if she could draw him out from the hole he’d vanished into. She could only imagine the humiliation his family must have faced when his dad went to prison.

“Why? Was it hard on you and your family after…?” Wondering about it and voicing it were two different things. She hurt for him—this clearly affected him. “Was it the shame?” She could relate to that, with all that had happened with her family.

A twitch in Brian’s left cheek almost seemed like a smile. “No.” He looked at the laptop, seemingly
through
it. “No, it changed my life because…” His hesitation dangled on the precipice of something haunting. Fekiria wouldn’t push. If he wanted to share it, he would.

T
aking a bullet in the head would’ve been so much less painful than this whole interlude with the Chinese. Take down the American computers. Spy on them. Make them hurt.

Sounds easy, right?

That’s what I thought, too. But now I’m staring at underground chatter in the hacker world and hearing something very disturbing. Osiris is taking credit for my work. The brainless, dimwitted Chinese hackers are taking credit for
my work
.

No. This is not happening.

I grab my phone. Almost press the keys through the device as I dial the number I’m not allowed to store in my phone but I’ve memorized.

“What do you want?” Her voice is sultry and hateful. Weird combo, but totally works.

“That is my code you’ve been using. My work. My genius—”

“If you call this number again, I will make sure your genius is available for everyone to see.”

A threat? I laugh. “You can’t kill me. You kill me and everyone will know.”

“Yes, precisely,” she says—and I swear it sounds like a cat purring. It’s totally sick. And hot, which is twisted and wrong since she’s totally threatening me. “You understand?”

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to be civil. “This isn’t right.”

“Do. You. Understand?” she asks, biting out each word.

“Your words are clear.” I will not tell them I understand. Because this is wrong on every level and then some. And they’ve screwed me over so many times I can’t see straight. Now…
now
they’re taking credit for my handiwork.

Know what they say about payback, right?

I crack my knuckles and stretch my neck. This may be my last act of kindness, but it’s going to be a doozie. Then Osiris will know not to mess with me. And I have the perfect counterpart to disguise as an accomplice. The Doris to my Boris.

But how…how can I do this? How to tip off the Americans without tipping
my
hand?

A line of code pops up on one of my monitors to the left.
“What the…?”
It’s one of the hack-proof systems I provided. One that, of course, has a backdoor code. No decent programmer would hand over his tech without one. But—

I glance at the other computer. The video feeds from the chopper. From the other locations. Nobody should be on that laptop. They’d told me it wasn’t working.

Streaming data sprints up the screen.

“Holy crud,” I whisper, wheeling my chair to the keyboard. “Someone’s hacking it.”

It’s a race. Whoever it is, he’s almost in. And that
can’t
happen. My fingers are racing against my brain. Where did this laptop come from?

Son of tortoises! It’s him. It’s Hawk. Gotta be. These systems were in the safe house.

And then, like a generator powering down, I realize…

This is perfect. Absolutely, singularly perfect.

So it’s time to show them who is really in control. A few tips here and there—really, did they not figure out I’d tipped off the military elite months ago?—to remind my Chinese friends who had given them this feast on a platter.

While my good friend Hawk is hammering his way through the security measures, I’ll just lay a golden egg.

A few keystrokes…

Right in his lap.

But just for good measure, to make sure nobody knows how many cards I have in play, I lift the phone. Dial.

Yeah, I know. She said not to call. But trust me, she’s going to want to hear this.

“Are you stupid, calling me again?”

“Quite the contrary. I have information you will want.” Oh wait. I can’t tell her he has the laptop. Because they’ll take it or kill it or him. “I know where he is.”

Silence greeted me.

Ahhh, thought so, genius. “He’s at Location Four.”

And just like that, my systems are going berserk.

They’re back-tracing me. Trying to figure out how I know where he is. I have to admit—my heart starts pounding. Did I go too far? Have they figured out what I’m doing?

“Good night, Mr. Kolceki.”

That’s it. They’re coming after me. They’re going to try to kill me. Trust me, I’ve heard that code enough times to know the real meaning.

Punching the leather seat, I curse. It shouldn’t happen this way. “I gave you everything!”