Hawk (The Quiet Professionals, Book 2) (49 page)

T
elling this sixteen-year-old secret…

It seemed stupid. Holding on to it. As if he did something wrong.

That was just it. Brian had betrayed his own father.

But Dad betrayed us with everything he did
.

A soft pressure on his shoulder lured his mind from that dark alley in his past. Brian blinked and glanced to the side. Fekiria lay on her back, her gloved touch gentle. She was beautiful. One of the most beautiful women he’d ever known. And for all her “I hate Americans” talk, she sure showed him a lot of niceness.

If he told her the truth, she’d be the only one alive who would know. “I turned my father in.”

She rolled onto her side and pushed up onto an elbow. Concern traced dark lines around her beautiful eyes. And he hated it. Hated that something he did put that look on her face.

Brian yanked his gaze back to the keyboard of the laptop.

“That was very brave.”

Brian snorted. “Brave?” He shook his head. “I was fed up with him. Fed up with his lies. Hated that he was getting away with illegal money transactions and his criminal activity held the potential to destroy my mother. It had to stop.”

“Yes, it did.” She reached over and curled her gloved fingers around his. “You were sixteen?”

“Fifteen. Turned him in the week before my sixteenth birthday.”

“How did you know—I mean, if the authorities hadn’t figured it out?”

With a crooked smile, he met her beautiful green eyes again. “I’m smart, remember?” It was a lame answer, one that acquitted him of the guilt he felt. But…not really. “They knew. At least, I think they knew. My dad was smart—a Mensa, remember?—but I was smarter. Maybe not in quantifiable ways through Mensa measures, but through paying attention. I saw how things weren’t adding up, the meetings he had with people. I couldn’t cope with him lying through his teeth about the money he earned, money that would destroy all of us.” But there was more. “I was sick of him telling me I wasn’t smart enough.”

Fekiria sat up now, their shoulders almost touching. “That must have been hard.”

“No.” He sniffed. “No, it wasn’t hard at all. By that time, I hated him. I could never please him. And the way he treated my mom—she didn’t have a high IQ, but she was a smart cookie.”

Okay, enough with the confessional time
. Brian glanced at her. “What about you?”

Her bright eyes widened. “What about me?”

“You don’t exactly seem to have a good relationship with your family.”

“The worst,” she admitted with a smile. “Especially with my dad and oldest brother. They are both very old-fashioned. They both seem to like that women are under their fists.”

Talking with her, the fire crackling behind him, Brian wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to take her into his arms. But…she was Muslim. “You aren’t exactly the type to be suppressed.”

She laughed. “No, I’m not. My mom just wanted me to be quiet so her house could be peaceful.”

“That’s a false peace.”

She lifted her head, their eyes locking. “Yes. Yes, it is.” Fekiria gave a fake smile then shrugged. “I just wanted them to accept me for who I was—a girl. I wanted to prove to them I could do anything they could do.” Brian smiled. “And you did—flying the bird.”

She smiled back, sitting a little taller.

“Blowing up Americans.” Did that give her pleasure?

Her smile fell. She looked away, but Brian leaned across her legs, planting a hand on the blanket on the other side. “Hey.” Her chilled breath feathered against his cheek. “You still feel that way, think Americans are bad?”

Gaze skipping over his face, Fekiria didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Brian felt himself being drawn in. He tilted his head. When she angled in, too, he resisted the urge to close the gap. “What am I to you, Fekiria?” He bent closer, just a fraction separating them.
Hold…
“American?” He steeled his reaction when she swallowed. Parted her lips. “Christian?”

“Hero,” she whispered.

With his gloved hand, Brian brushed aside a strand of hair dangling along her neck.

Fekiria’s lips parted more, her chin drew up, and she pulled in a soft breath. All at his touch. He loved this, that the man she hated months ago was the same one dragging out a visceral response.

He leaned against her forehead. “We have things”—man, he wanted to kiss her again. But there were other—“things to sort out.”

Her eyes shuttered. She leaned closer, her dry, partially cracked lips dusting his.

That was all it took. Brian cupped the back of her head and held her there, kissing her. Testing. He dragged himself a little closer, deepening the kiss. Her arms came up his back. A siren to his warrior.

Even with a touch of frostbite and cracked lips, she was soft. Curvy. Beautiful. She tasted sweet and—

A shriek startled them both.

Brian jerked back, his gaze skidding toward the little one. Aadela writhed in her sleep, kicking her feet. “Frostbite,” he muttered, hauling his brain back to the situation. Out of the pool of heat and passion he’d been simmering in.

Fekiria sat up, her chin tucked and a blush in her cheeks. So she’d felt herself drowning in that pool, too. “I’ll take care of her.”

Brian caught her arm. “We should talk.”

She nodded and moved toward the girl then curled around her. Holding her close. Brian wanted her curling up with him. Holding
him
close.

Head out of the clouds. Head out of the clouds, Bledsoe
.

He glanced at the laptop—and stilled. The search program was spitting out information. Disassembling the encryption, files popped up. “Yes…yes!” He bent forward, opening the files—his awareness partially split by the gentle words Fekiria whispered to the little one.

A soft moan came from Mitra. Fekiria moved to her side, asking if her friend could hear her. Mitra whispered something, and Fekiria then shifted and dug into the woman’s coat pocket. From there, she produced a tiny Bible. Fekiria’s eyes shot to Brian’s. Questions. Fears. She slipped back beneath the blanket, propped against her arm, and started reading out loud.

Okay
,
God…didn’t see that coming
.

Over the next hour, he read files as Fekiria read to her friend. It was nice, the lilt of her voice—it enabled him to drift past it and immerse himself in the files hidden in the laptop. Files that were clearly connected to the mess plaguing Raptor and the military establishment. His heart ricocheted around words like— “Zmaray,” he muttered.

Was that the same one they’d faced off with eight months ago with the captain? The one who tortured the captain and had Double Z raped?

Then there was one that worried Brian: Osiris.

Why did that…? It felt familiar. Like he’d seen it—

051|215

Of course! Why hadn’t he realized it before? 051|215 was hacker code for
Osiris
, the 0 being an o, the 5 an s, the bar and 2 together formed the r.

Where…where had he…? Slusarski! He’d seen it on the major’s computer that day. Which meant Slusarski was complicit with Osiris—whatever that was. A person? A mission? Perhaps even the one feeding information to the enemy.

Then, by default, he could hold Slusarski responsible in the deaths of Parker and Davis.

But why? Why would an American soldier do this?

Ya know what? I don’t care why!
He just cared about stopping the piece of crap. The same way he’d stopped his father. The sick psychos had their own twisted reasoning that never made sense to the rest of the world.

That was beside the point. The point was—Brian was going to stop them. Somehow.

“So,” he said, opening another file. “Show me how to stop you.”

Another hour spent reading, both him and Fekiria with the Bible. Another hour poring over documents and coded files. “C’mon, c’mon,” Brian mumbled as he clicked to another file. “Give me the lead to nail you between your black eyes.”

And there it was.

Only…Brian couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Not with his eyes glued to the last file. A message that had been hidden so deep in the system, nobody believed it would get found. That’s the only explanation he could figure out for not having more security around it.

A mission parameter.

Names. And images. Names and images of the entire Raptor team, including him. Along with coordinates.

“A hit list,” Brian breathed. “Oh crap. Oh crap oh crap oh crap.”

“What?” Fekiria asked from the other side of the room, sitting beside her friend. “What’s wrong?”

When was this date? When did they have those coordinates? He worked the file, checked the properties.

“Brian,” came Fekiria’s voice that held a tinge of panic.

He held up a finger then quickly returned to his task, unable to voice what was going through his head. If they had the team’s location…if they had
his
location… He cursed.

“Brian.”

Would they find them here? No…no, this was here before he was. So it had to be a bit outdated because he was climbing the mountain.

But the team hadn’t been. They were most likely holed up at a… “Base.”

“Sergeant Brian!” Full-out panic shrieked through her voice.

“What?” He turned and found her staring down at her friend. Fekiria’s eyes were wide, her face pale.

Mitra was staring up at the ceiling. Eyes unmoving. Chest—was her chest moving? He jumped up and hurried to her side. On a knee, he leaned close to see if he could feel her breath against his cheek. Nothing. He felt her carotid.

Nothing.

Brian stood, grabbed the edges of the pallet Mitra lay on, and dragged it through to the other room and out of the sight of the children, who were stirring. On his knees, he started chest compressions and breathing, all too aware of Fekiria watching with her arms wrapped around herself.

“C’mon, dang it,” Brian muttered. “Don’t die. Not on my watch.”

A
rms hugging herself, Fekiria watched. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t risk making a move. She clutched Mitra’s Bible to her chest, holding tight as if that might make the words in the Bible heal her friend. Isa, the prophet the Christians held as Messiah, had healed people, right? Couldn’t he heal Mitra? Save her from this wretched ordeal?

“Is she okay?” Sheevah asked, her voice small as she sat on the floor, huddled under the blanket with Aadela.

“Shh,” Fekiria said, unwilling to trust herself to say anything else.

Brian lowered his head and knelt there for several long seconds.

What did that mean that he wasn’t working anymore? “Why are you stopping? Save her!”

Pushing to his feet, he didn’t turn or respond.

“What—?”

He stepped backward, tugged the thick blanket that hung in the doorway, and shut off the room. Turned. Eyes full of grief and defeat, he lifted his hands a little. “I’m sorry…”

Fekiria started to shake her head. Stopped. Then shook her head furiously. “No!” She rushed forward, but he caught her. Pulled her against his chest. “No, she can’t be—” A sob wracked her. Her legs wobbled. “Noo!”

Brian’s arms were around her, tight. Pressing her farther into his hold. Cradling her head. “Shh. Shhhhh.”

But there were too many tears. Too much pain. Too much grief. Too much fear. Would they all die like Mitra? What of Hadassah, Mitra’s daughter? Anguish twisted her lungs into a painful knot—Dassah was an orphan now!

“Be strong,” Brian whispered against her ear. “The children still need you.”

Swimming through that thick ocean of grief, she heard his words. Warm, challenging words. But it hurt—her friend had counted on her, trusted her.

“Fekiria.”

Fought for the children—

The children
.

His words, his meaning, finally made it through her muddied thoughts. Heard the gentle warning that the children were probably watching, probably growing more alarmed with her behavior. Easing back, she met his gaze as he cupped her face with his big hands.

“You with me, Kiria?”

She gave an acknowledging nod.

“I’m sorry. But we have to—”

“I’m fine.” She stepped free. Gave him a stiff look, unsure what she felt or what she wanted other than to escape this nightmare. Things were fine—magnificent in his arms, kissing him, then atrocious with Mitra dying right in front of her. She shuffled around, rejoined the children, feeling more lost than she had in her life.

In her periphery, she noted Brian slump against the wall and rough a hand over his face. Guilt coiled around her grief-stricken heart, but she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him. To look at him. She could barely process that her friend was gone, leaving her daughter alone in the world. Who would take care of Hadassah?

Who will take care of us?

“Is she dead?” Sheevah whispered as Fekiria curled up under the blanket and pulled Aadela into her arms.

“Quiet,” Fekiria said firmly. “Rest. We must rest.” If only she could.

Brian’s heavy steps thudded back toward them, then the dirt scratched, and he was walking away. The thudding behind her sounded like he’d taken a seat at the small table. She remembered his cursing, how hard it’d been to pull his attention from whatever he discovered. His stricken, panicked expression. He’d come upon something very bad with that computer, hadn’t he?