Raptor 6 (26 page)

Mazar-e Sharif

They wouldn’t have desks after all. Only tables and benches. And just half the children would return. Zahrah spent the better part of the day trying to reach the families by phone, mostly to no avail, and then visited the ones she couldn’t reach. If she didn’t have children to teach, what good was she here?

Her mother had taught her not to question the bad things. But to embrace them—because God was there regardless. God wasn’t taken by surprise when things went wrong. His plan hadn’t changed.

Yet … what if the plan she thought was God’s ended up vanishing before her eyes? Did it mean she had misunderstood? Or maybe—the niggling she’d had the last six months—there was a bigger plan shielded behind the smaller one that had flopped?

Either way, she would thank God the few children who would return could sit in chairs and not on a dirty floor or mats. They’d have electricity and running water. The children should be safe here among collegiate students on a large campus. But it was a false sense of security. If someone was determined enough, no security protocols would stop them.

With her purse and books in hand, Zahrah started for the door. As she flicked off the light of her first-floor classroom, her phone buzzed. She fished it out, saw Fekiria’s name on the display as she pushed through the door. “Ah, just in time. Where do you want to meet for dinner?”

“I, uh …”

Dusk wrapped her in its embrace as Zahrah stomped her foot on the path. Then she felt foolish. “You can’t tell me you’re having dinner with him
again
.”

“I think he really likes me!”

Never had she seen her cousin so … “This isn’t like you, Fekiria.”

“What would you know about that?”

Zahrah frowned and slowed. “I’ve lived with you for the last eighteen months. We’ve been like sisters!”

“You’re American. You’ll never understand what it’s like to be a real Afghan woman.”

Shocked and numbed, Zahrah tried to fight the stinging tears. “How can you say that?”

“I have to go.”

“Fekiria, please.” She wandered to a quiet spot. “Talk to—”

The call ended with a loud, droning noise. Grief weighted Zahrah as she stumbled the rest of the way to her dorm apartment she was supposed to share with her cousin, who had been more absent than present since the move four days ago. It was as if she’d found her wings and flown the sanity coop. Her cousin had a deep passion for teaching, for helping others, but she’d also been irritable for the last several months. Zahrah prayed her cousin wasn’t getting into something that would shatter her, something that would shame the family. While Kaka Jahandar had been reserved in his behavior, a fierce loyalty to Islam hovered beneath his facade.

As she crossed the parking lot, she scanned it for signs of the white pickup or the man from the school. Skirting the perimeter, she saw no threat. Zahrah hurried up the steps, into the apartment, and secured the locks. She eyed the small green light peeking out of the hanging ivy plant in a corner. Fekiria hated the thing, but Zahrah told her to leave it alone. She made her way to a cabinet, opened the door, nudged aside a couple of cans, and eyed the black box. She slid the cans back into place and headed to the bathroom. A long, hot shower would work the knots in her shoulders, the sense of defeat over the classroom, and she had to admit, the lingering frustration over her conversation with Dean Watters. As the water warmed, she sat on the edge of the tub with her forehead propped on the heel of her hand.

“God,” she whispered, bone weary, tears right on the verge of spilling over. “I know I’m supposed to be here, but everything—
everything—
is going wrong.” It wasn’t that she expected things to go perfectly, to be easy, but could just
one
thing be good? She’d thought she found that with Dean.

“And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”

Zahrah groaned. “Then you must be very strong, but I am very weak right now.” She undressed and slipped into the shower. She scrubbed her hair clean. “I should’ve gone home like Dean asked.”

Shampoo slid into her eye.

“Augh!” She rinsed out the stinging soap. “Okay, okay, I get the point. No more complaining.” After she was clean and refreshed, she wrapped her hair in a towel. “Would it hurt, Lord, to help me know I’m on the right path?” Her mother had called them kisses from God, moments when something happened that left no doubt God had orchestrated it. A bread crumb along a hard path.

Tummy growling, she made her way to the fridge. It sat almost empty. She grimaced. Nothing really edible. They hadn’t really had time to do much shopping, and Fekiria loved takeout. “Which … looks like that’s what I will have to do.” The campus cafeteria had okay
halal
, but it wasn’t like homemade. She really missed Khala Hafizah’s cooking.

Guess it’s takeout
.

Dressed, she retrieved a scarf and returned to the small living area. Her phone buzzed. Had Fekiria changed her mind? “Oh!” She hurried to the phone. Maybe Fekiria would grab something on the way home for dinner. She eyed the caller ID. Hm, weird number. The message read: THOUGHT I’D CHECK—STILL ALIVE?

Warmth flooded Zahrah as she slumped onto the small cushion with a smile. “Dean,” she breathed.

Thumbs poised over the keypad, she hesitated over how to respond.

A noise outside her door drew her attention. Kids again. Had she really been so foolish at twenty?

She typed, QUITE ALIVE, TH—

Crack!

The door flew inward.

Zahrah jolted. Dropped the phone.

A half-dozen men flooded in. In the split seconds of their entry, her mind registered several factors: With their faces hooded, they didn’t want to be recognized; they were heavily armed; they said nothing, though her ears rang with the intrusion.

Terror replaced her calm. She spun around—not to search for a place to escape, but to stare at the plant. Her only hope.
Please, God, let them find it!

A weight plowed into her back.

Her cheek collided with the short table as she went down. On all fours, she took a second to collect herself. To not panic. Daddy said panic and stupid reactions got people killed.

“Who are you really, Zahrah Zarrick?” a man demanded.

She started to look up, only to see a fist flying. It connected with her upper cheekbone. Pain exploded across her face and neck. Snapped her head back. She crumpled beneath the weight of the blow.

“I asked who you are,” the man—not the one who attacked her, but one behind him—demanded again, removing a glove. The black-and-white keffiyeh made his chest appear broad and thick. He waved and two men hoisted her onto her feet.

“I’m Zahrah Zarrick, a missionary teacher with the—” Something smacked across her face and jaw, spinning her vision. Warmth slid down her mouth.

“No!” he roared. “You are not a missionary. You are not this innocent little teacher.”

“I am!”

“I will ask one more time: who are you, and why are you in my country?”

“I told you—”

He jutted his jaw toward one of the men.

Zahrah saw the man rear back with the butt of his weapon. “No! You don’t have to kill me!”

They lunged at her. Something sharp pricked her neck.

“No …” The word gargled in her throat against a paralyzing body.

“You are the daughter of General Peter Zarrick and the niece of Jahandar Haidary. A teacher? Perhaps,” he gloated. “But of what? What secrets are you stealing from us, Miss Zarrick?”

Zahrah shook her head. “No secrets! No secrets.”

The rifle butt flew at her face. A flurry of fists hit her. Zahrah felt an oppressive dark cloud blanketing her.

O God—help!

“See? The truth is much easier when you don’t fight.”

Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
15 June—0945 Hours

L
ights out. Thirty-two hours without sleep made him hit the rack like an M1 Abrams. Dean closed his eyes. Welcomed the greedy claws of sleep with an audible groan. He just wanted to sleep. An hour. Two, if God felt generous. Trembling muscles caved to the powerful force. Surrendered the nagging irritation that Zahrah hadn’t replied to his text. Wasn’t hard to say, I’M ALIVE. Then again, maybe it was hard—she could still be mad at him. Whatever. He had to rest. Sort it out later.

“Watters!”

Dean jerked. Eyes open, he stared at the tent ceiling, digging through his foul mood to find a modicum of civility. “What?”

“All hands,” Hawk said bending to retrieve the tac vest. He tossed it across his legs. “Might need this.”

Groaning, Dean peeled himself off the cot. He hadn’t even removed his boots. “Where are we going?” On his feet, he threaded his arms through the vest. Strapped on his belt.

“Don’t know.” Hawk shot him a fierce look. “But we won’t be alone.”

Securing his gun clip, he eyed the communications specialist. They were pairing Raptor with another team? Why? “Who?”

Hawk shrugged, his anger scratching long lines into his tanned face. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

They stalked across the base and entered the subcommand center for SOC. Once inside the building, Dean’s nerves buzzed. Loud and fierce. First because Titanis stood outside the room like a tornado ready to rip. Beside him, Falcon simmered. Though few Italian jokes had been cracked, Dean knew this guy had the classic Italian temper. And it was brewing a big one. If his men were ticked …

Dean acknowledged them and returned their irritation. Whatever had upset them did the same to him. He gave a nod to the briefing room and headed in, trailed by his men. The door swung open, and an odor of betrayal drenched him. Crossing the threshold felt like he’d walked into a trap.

Around the table sat a half-dozen SOC operators, bearded and grungy. Lieutenant Brie Hastings sat between one of the hairier operators and none other than General Burnett. The searing glare shooting lava out of Burnett made the back of Dean’s neck tingle, especially as he glanced at the other four-star seated with his team. What irked Dean most was the lack of chairs. Only two. His team had six men.

Hands at his side, Dean stood at attention, awaiting instruction. He felt his team fall in beside him, doing more of the same.

“Captain Watters,” Ramsey barked. “Good of you and your team to join us.”

Baiting me
.

Burnett’s reddened face and flared nostrils coiled a knot in Dean’s gut. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good. “I want it known,” Burnett said, his voice a low growl, as he stabbed the table, “here and now, that I had no knowledge until an hour ago of what will be said in this meeting.”

Dean’s pulse jammed. His gaze slid to Falcon then back to the general.

“Relax, Lance.” Ramsey slumped back in the chair and stared up at Raptor team. Assessing. Analzying. Picking them apart with his gaze. “You’re a darn good team,” he finally said. “But I couldn’t let you screw up an above top-secret operation.”

Hawk shifted. So did Dean.

“Which is why we sent you to Majorca.” Ramsey leaned forward, threaded his hands, without breaking Dean’s gaze. “I needed you out of the way.”

Dean felt the scowl and confusion ripple through his face. “Sir?”

“Don’t get all sanctimonious, Watters.” He flipped his hand at him. “At ease, soldier. Or have a seat. This could take a while.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll stand with my team.” Dean slid his hands behind him, spread his feet, and remained in position.

“Suit yourself.” Ramsey opened a folder. “I needed you out of the way because you were too close to the truth.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “Sir?”

“SCI, Captain Watters. You jeopardized other intelligence operations.” He shot them a fierce glare. “It couldn’t happen.”

Sensitive Compartmented Information—information that needed extra protection above a top-secret security clearance level. “Majorca was a diversion.” Though he understood the meaning, Dean didn’t understand putting lives in danger to get Raptor out of the way. “Raptor has handled sensitive situations before. We could’ve—”

“Negative.” General Ramsey rapped his knuckles on the table. “Son, you are so far in over your head, you can’t see straight. And I’m not giving you the glasses to do it.”

Ramsey hadn’t been a fan of Raptor’s formation, and now he was doing everything he could to snip its wings. Dean could deal with SCI missions being kept from him, but knowingly and deliberately sending the team on a wild drug-lord chase …

“What … what are you saying?” Falcon asked, then added, “Sir.”

“I’m saying, I need you boys out of this SEAL team’s way. I need you to shift your priorities. Track down drug dealers. Patrol some villages.”

Fury singed Dean’s spine. “Sir, we have tracked SCIFs. We’re close—”

“I know full well what you’ve done.” The general’s lips stretched taut. “And I don’t give a donkey’s behind how close you are to anything. What I care about is that you stay out of this.”

“Lives are in jeopardy.” Dean’s fingers curled into fists. He talked himself down—at least, he tried to.

“You aren’t the only heroes on the planet, Captain Watters.” Ramsey stood and shoved back his chair, knuckles on the table as he stared at them.