Raptor 6 (12 page)

Burnett chuckled.

Unease slithered through Dean. He checked his watch. “Gotta go. We head out in ten.”

More laughter. “Let me know what you find.”

“Yessir.” Dean ended the call, too ready to remove the cackle bouncing off his eardrum. Burnett knew what was going on, and he wasn’t going to help Dean figure it out. He hurried across the base and met up with the guys.

Titanis looked up from his gear. “Got something out there?” The burly Australian tossed his pack into the back of the MRAP.

“Heading back to the school. Officially, we’re just there to help and hopefully locate the missing girl.”

“Unofficially?” Sal Russo asked.

“Gathering intel on a group of men who turned up bloodied the day of the explosion. We need to ascertain why that school was hit and who hit it.”

“Well.” Hawk sauntered toward them. “That’s one mighty big coincidence, don’t you think? Them showing up all bloody the same day we bloodied some terrorists in that village.” He held out his hands. “And we’re just there to help, right? It’s the mission of the Special Forces, isn’t it? Training others, looking out for the locals, teaching them to take care of themselves.” He grinned and winked. “And killing the bad guys.”

Across the motor pool, Dean saw the reddish-blond hair of Archer bobbing among the cars. “One of our parameters,” Dean said. “Listen.” He roughed his hands together. “Archer’s heading home soon. His wife’s sick again. Doesn’t look good. We’re going to support and cover for him.”

The somber message shriveled the cocky attitudes, forcing a dose of brutal realism down their throats. It was part of life. Men got married or had girlfriends. Someone to go home to. But often, those loved ones ended up
not
being there, one way or another. Just like Mom. And Desi.

Shift gears
. “One of the teachers we picked up from the explosion is going to be at the school, too. We don’t want to tip off anyone that she’s in collusion with us.”

“Terrorists wouldn’t bat an eye at stringing her up,” Falcon said.

Archer strolled up, looking as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Mate.” Titanis offered his hand. “I’m sorry to hear the news.”

Archer hesitated then accepted the sentiments. “Thanks.”

“Do what you need to do, Eagle,” Falcon said from the driver’s seat. “We got your six.”

“Thanks, guys. It means a lot. I …” He shook his head. “I need to be there. This might be the last time I …”

Quiet punched through the metal building. Nobody wanted to finish that sentence. Jinx the mission or the team. Or Archer.

Dean nodded. “Okay, let’s check it out.”

“Did he figure it out?”

Lance laughed. “Not yet, and it’s eating him alive.”

“Then he doesn’t understand the danger.”

Easing forward in his high-backed leather chair, Lance propped his elbows on the desk. “Watters might not have the specific threat nailed down, but he knows something isn’t right. That boy is one of the best, Pete.”

“I don’t give a rat’s behind. If my daughter dies—”

“She won’t.” Lance shifted and sighed. “Listen, you told me to keep her expertise under wraps, and that’s what I’m doing. And quite frankly, I don’t appreciate you trying to lead one of my guys down a path that could get him—and your daughter—killed.” He dragged the Dr Pepper can across the desk and slurped. “Now, get off our backs and let my men do their job.”

Pete grunted. “If they find out … if someone knows …”

“If you want that secret kept, stop talking.”

His friend released a heavy sigh. “She’s all I’ve got left of Izzah. I can’t—
won’t
lose her.”

“Understood. Now, give us some breathing room. I’ll keep you posted.”

Kohistani School, Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan
29 May—1400 Hours

Charred and blackened, the building looked somber. Wounded. As the car waited outside the gate, which had gone remarkably unscathed, Zahrah traced the roof of the section that seemed undamaged. Her gaze shifted to the outer building missing an entire wall and another leaning outward, as if reaching for help.

What would the children think? Could they return here and study without distraction? Zahrah felt a niggling. Never mind the children—she would never feel safe here again.

But then …
I’m
not here for my comfort
.

She was here with a purpose.

“What made you come here?”

The voice almost startled her. The female soldier hadn’t spoken during their twenty-minute trip away from the base. “To teach them.” It was the obvious answer. But something in Zahrah made her resistant to open up to this woman. Maybe because of the way the woman had eyed Captain Watters. Or maybe because this woman was probably the type of woman the captain would like—tough, willing to step into danger.

How silly. Jealous over a soldier she wasn’t even on a first-name basis with. Just that she admired the captain would be enough to earn her father’s ire. That Captain Watters was a soldier wouldn’t matter; that he wanted to date his daughter would. It’d be amusing to see those two in the same room.

“Looks like there’s a crowd.”

Zahrah snapped out of her musings and looked through the front windshield. Her nerves hiccupped when she spotted Fekiria standing with Director Kohistani and a group of men. “That’s my cousin,” she muttered. Then looked at Specialist Homewood. They needed a story to cover the woman’s presence. “You’re a missionary … looking … for a school for your children while you’re here.”

The specialist held up her hand and wiggled her ring finger. “Not married.”

“You’re widowed.” Zahrah stepped out of the car. She strode up to her cousin and kissed her warmly on each cheek. “Just play along,” she whispered as the specialist joined them. “You remember Rachel Phelps. She finally made it over.”

Fekiria’s wide green-brown eyes slowly shifted to the other woman as she smiled.

At the palpable tension, Zahrah’s stomach knotted. She turned to Director Kohistani. “This is Mrs. Phelps. She’s visiting, looking into schools for her children. Her husband died recently, and she wants to take up his work here.” It was a miracle her nose hadn’t grown for all the lies she just told. She had to believe, though, that God would forgive her, the way He had with the Germans hiding Jews. Considering what some Muslims did to Christians … “I hope you don’t mind me bringing her.”

“No. Of course not.” Director Kohistani’s lips were tight. His posture stiff. “Mrs. Phelps.”

Zahrah turned a circle, eyeing the school. “It has a lot of damage.”

“Yes,” the director said with a long sigh. “I’m afraid it’s too dangerous for the children to stay here.” He pointed to the roof. “There is structural damage there, and it might cave in.”

“But where would we go? The children …”

He tossed up his hands. “We have nowhere else.”

“Over there,” Zahrah said, going to the section of the building where her classroom stood. “It does not seem damaged. What if we had someone block off the left side and—”

“We can’t stay,” Fekiria said, her tone sharp.

Zahrah eyed her cousin. “But we have to resume school. The children will need to know that some things cannot be stolen from them. That life goes on.”

“But for some, it does not. And putting the lives of the children in danger is foolish!” Fekiria’s tone bordered on hysteria.

“What—?”

A form coalesced from the shadows of the heavily damaged building. Zahrah recognized it—him. The man. The same one. Involuntarily, she took a step back.

Director Kohistani lowered his gaze.

Fekiria, back to the man, pleaded with Zahrah. “Let’s go, we should—”

“You have been at the American base,” the tall, strong man said in Pashto, his voice loud and forceful.

Zahrah would not be bullied. But she also knew better than to engage in a confrontation with this man, with
any
man. She averted her gaze. “Of course I went to the base.” She kept her voice light. “I was injured. They kept me overnight to make sure I wasn’t hurt more.”

“Then you went back this morning.”

Zahrah felt a gush of warmth across her abdomen. Fear. This man had her followed. She must retain control. Not show how much he scared her. “Yes, I went to see Rashid, a little boy who was hurt in the explosion. I—I took his mom there.” When she saw Specialist Homewood step forward, Zahrah flashed her a warning to stay back. “He was badly injured in the explosion, and she wanted to see her son.”

When he lurched toward her, she drew her arms up to protect herself.

He grabbed her wrists. “Who do you think you are lying to?” His crushing grip forced her to cry out. “You’ve drawn the anger and attention of the Taliban, you stupid, lying woman!”

“Please! I am not lying.” Zahrah wrestled the panic writhing in her chest. Pulled away from the man. “Release me!”

“It’s true,” Fekiria said. “She took Rashid’s mom.”

The man reared back and rammed his elbow into Fekiria’s face.

Her cousin yelped and covered her nose with her hands, drawing the sympathy of Director Kohistani. Would no one help her? No, of course not. This land was plagued with fear of those who wore hatred and vengeance like a mantle.

“Release me,” Zahrah said. “It’s improper!”

His hand came down hard on her cheek, clattering her teeth. “Do not speak to me, wh—”

“Americans coming!”

Kohistani School, Mazar-e-Sharif
29 May—1405 Hours

D
’you see that?”

Two Afghan males darted out of sight as Raptor’s MRAP rolled through the gated entry. “Titanis, Hawk, Harrier, walk the perimeter. See if you can figure out who they were and where they went—and eyes out. There could be more than those two hiding.” Dean shoved open the armored door. “Falcon and Eagle on me.”

Helmet on, Dean climbed down and adjusted his M4A1 slung around his chest. “Nice and easy,” he muttered into his mic, taking in any place insurgents could hide. Once he’d noted the layout and possible hot spots, he turned to the man in gray. “Director Kohistani?” He briefly met gazes with Homewood.

The man gave a bow with his capped head then smiled—
fake
—at them. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Pleasure. Right. “Captain Watters, U.S. military. We are doing a routine patrol and thought we’d follow up on your school after the explosion. We’ll take a quick look around. Be out of your hair soon.”

“You have no right—”

“Innocent lives were taken and others injured, including an American. It’s our responsibility to ensure safety.” Dean came around the civvie vehicle that had delivered Zarrick here. His gaze fell on her now, and he stopped. Something squirreled through his chest as he noted the red, swelling spot on her cheek that glistened.

She reached for her bright hijab that had slid back, leaving long, dark strands of hair in full view. He noticed her beauty, but more than that—the red marks on her wrist. She’d been manhandled.

She looked down, then her gaze flicked to the other woman—her cousin, if he remembered right—who adjusted her silk scarf, not meeting his eyes. Blood spotted the front of her hijab and orange kaftan.

Zarrick wouldn’t look at him now, and that bothered him. She wasn’t a hider. Heat poured across his shoulders. “You okay?” he finally asked.