Raptor 6 (30 page)

“Commander,” a SEAL called from where he stood in the hall, wreathed in shadows, squatting at the same place where Dean had earlier noticed the break in plaster. Tracing a gloved hand down the joint, the SEAL looked over his shoulder.

“What’ve you got?” Riordan’s boots scritched against the dirt as he came up behind Dean, who shifted aside as the commander exited the room.

His guy grinned as he pointed to distinct track marks and boot prints, half hidden beneath the wall. As if someone walked through walls. “Think we have a secret room.”

Riordan nodded. “Get it open.”

Weapon at the ready, Dean eyed the commander, whose eyes possessed the same fierce determination Dean felt. Was Zahrah behind this panel?

Or would they find more bodies?

Or just one?

“Hawk, Falcon,” Dean called. “Group up.”

The SEALs breached the panel. Dean followed the commander in—who stopped. Cursed.

Dean wove around him. Ice dumped down his spine. He stilled. Held his breath at the sight of a female captive bound to a chair, head down and covered in a filthy hood. One with a gaping hole and dark stain. A lone bulb served as a mocking spotlight. What yanked the breath out of Dean was the teal blue hijab peeking out from under the hood. A soft moan issued from the woman. She went limp.

Dean threw himself forward. “Zahrah!”

“Don’t move—don’t move!” Riordan thrust an arm at him. Nailed him with a forearm across the chest.
“Bomb!”

Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
17 June—1005 Hours

T
hough his heart shoved him forward, his head slowed him. “Zahrah!” Made him nod when the SEAL punched his shoulder, making sure the threat was understood. “Got it.” Dean drew up straight. Swallowed—hard.

The SEAL eased over the trip wire, and Harrier moved forward. With the guy’s medic skills, she had a chance. As long as they weren’t too late. Harrier placed a finger gently against the woman’s wrist bound to the chair.

The heartbeats it took for Harrier to assess her situation defied Dean’s anxious plea to hurry up. “No good. She’s gone.”

“Is it her?” Hawk’s quiet question plagued Dean as the SEALs worked to defuse the bomb that booby-trapped the room.

Every second felt like an RPG hitting him. She was dead. Unmoving. Death by terrorist.

God, please …

“Okay,” Riordan said. “Clear.”

Dean couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring himself to remove the hood and find out it was Zahrah.
Never hear her laugh. Never hear her thoughts on things
. Somehow, his body moved forward. A step closer. Then another.

“You’re sure …” Hawk looked to the SEALs. “Sure you didn’t miss any wires?”

“She’s clear. I checked.”

Slowly, Hawk drew off the hood.

Black curly hair slipped from the hood and bloody hijab. The head lolled to the side, revealing a round face.

“It’s not her.” The realization knocked the breath loose Dean had been holding. Bending forward and catching his knees, he gulped air. Tried to breathe.
It’s not her
. Though he wanted to laugh, he didn’t. Instead he turned a circle. Rubbed his forehead. He closed his eyes, tortured by the incredible relief that it wasn’t Zahrah yet grieved for the young woman who’d died.

“She can’t be but fifteen,” Falcon growled.

Dean shook his head as he turned away, aware of how he’d just acted. Aware of his weakness. Aware the vault around his heart had a crack in it.

“Teams are en route to inventory,” Hawk said.

Fresh air. Need fresh air
. Still drunk on the relief that Zahrah hadn’t been among the dead, Dean made his way aboveground. They had one colossal problem—Zahrah was still missing. He didn’t dare remove his helmet though he wanted to shed every weight clinging to him. But even he knew the real weight bothering him was Zahrah. She was gone. He’d had a hope that he could get her back before it was too late. Before anything happened to her. Now, now they had nothing. Not a single clue to her whereabouts.

He stalked to the MRAP and climbed in. Dropped against the bench. Punched the seat beside him. Gripped his head in his hands.
How do I get her back?

“I think whoever took your girl,” Riordan said as he joined him, “wanted you dead.”

Startled at the company and the words, Dean stiffened. Ground his teeth together. But nodded. Yeah, it made sense. The explosives. The lone sentry to lure them deeper into the hole. His gaze scraped the structure. If the bomb detonated, the whole thing would collapse. Nobody would find them for days. By then, it’d be too late. “They assumed we’d find her, be enraged, and not notice the bomb.”

“Good thing I was here then, right?”

He eyed the SEAL.

Riordan shrugged, broad shoulders bunching against his thick neck. “Hey, no skin off my back.” A smile lingered in Riordan’s eyes. “And if you need help finding your girl, we’ve got your six.”

“She’s not my girl. She’s Zarrick’s daughter.”

He straightened. “You mean
Z-Day Zarrick
?”

Dean nodded.

“GeeBee, you picked the wrong chick to go soft over.”

“I’m not—”

Riordan held up a hand. “I saw your face when you thought that girl was her. I expected to have to medevac you out.” He laughed too loud for Dean to voice the objection on his tongue.

Fists balled, Dean jerked his gaze down. Harnessed the anger spiraling out of control.

“Don’t worry,” Riordan said. “We’ll get her back.”

Come hell or high water.

“Cap!” Hawk jogged toward them. “General wants us at her apartment. They found something.”

Somewhere in Afghanistan
17 June—1130 Hours

Jammed between two large men posing as women, Zahrah clung to hope. To a frantic, desperate hope that she would be found. Noticed. The van lumbered out of the courtyard, away from the place of death that had stolen Ara. Even now, Zahrah felt the bracelet cutting into her wrists, but she savored that feeling. She was alive.

Yet terror seized her as the van sped out of Mazar-e Sharif and headed south. The landscape raced by without remorse, pushing her farther from American forces. Farther from Captain Watters. Farther from discernible hope.

All too aware that most Americans taken by Taliban ended up on videos getting their heads chopped off, or being found strung up dead and naked for all to see, Zahrah struggled against the panic.

Do something!

But what? They were all armed. She was now in the middle of the desert. Alone with four men. It was not a matter of
if
they would violate her, but
when
.

She clenched her eyes. Fought the tears.

God, help me
… please
help me
.

And yet, she knew praying didn’t guarantee that things would turn out the way she wanted. It just guaranteed God would hear. Insufferable heat drenched her in sweat beneath the full-body burqa. Hands behind her back, she felt the tingling in her wrists and hands as her circulation slowly cut off. She leaned to the right, toward the open window and off the nerves in her arms, desperate for a breath of air and to stop the tingling needles.

The man rammed her shoulder. “Get off me, you whore!”

Zahrah drew into herself.

“Don’t worry,” Kamran spoke over his shoulder, leering. “There will be time for that later.”

His insinuation hung as rank and thick as the body odor around her. Zahrah searched Scripture for solace.
You are a shield about me, a refuge, an ever-present help in time of trouble
. And hello? She was definitely in trouble!

The car slowed. “Americans,” the driver hissed.

A mile ahead and between the shoulders of Kamran and the driver, a military roadblock gave her hope. Dogs circled cars that passed through the checkpoint.

“Act normal,” Kamran said. “We have nothing to hide. If they dare touch our women …”

Sick laughter bellowed around her as the car eased up to the checkpoint. Though she was the only real woman in the vehicle, the two men on either side in hijabs would be off-putting to the military. Arab men often shouted at American soldiers for improper conduct toward their women. It’d worked. Suicide bombers used the same ruse—dress up in a hijab and approach a checkpoint.

Kamran sneered at her, his strong features cruel and chilling. “Say nothing, or you will die.”

How she was supposed to talk with tape over her mouth, she didn’t know, but he made his point with the gun pointed at her. And if that wasn’t enough, the man on her right jabbed his weapon into her ribs.

Zahrah sucked in a breath and grunted.

“Quiet,” he hissed.

If they killed her now, she wouldn’t be able to serve their purpose—whatever it was. They must have one because they could’ve murdered her in the apartment rather than going through all this. But she wasn’t willing to find out if her theory was right. She didn’t want to die.
Lord—why did You have me stay?
She wrestled against what she’d felt when talking to Dean. Telling him she couldn’t leave, that a conviction kept her here.

And where was that conviction now?

Back in Mazar-e with Dean Watters.

“I can’t protect you….”

The car in front of them pulled into the checkpoint area. A soldier and a German shepherd circled the car, the dog sniffing, going up on his hind legs to check inside then dropping back to all fours as he trotted around, whiffing the bumper and then easing up off his front paws to sniff where the trunk and bumper met.

The dog would know, right? They were trained to ferret out trouble—weren’t they? Wasn’t it said that dogs smelled fear? She was oozing enough of it to attract an entire pack.

“Be ready,” Kamran spoke quietly into a small radio.

Where had that come from?

“Muhammad will create a diversion if anything comes up,” Kamran muttered. “Stay calm. It will be okay.”

Okay for whom? Certainly not Zahrah.

Dark eyes rose in the mirror. Looked right at her then past her—over her shoulder. Zahrah could not resist the curiosity. She tried to look back.

A sharp stab in her side froze her.

“Turn around,” the man growled in her ear.

Trembling, she obeyed. Sat stiff and awkward as the sedan eased up to the checkpoint.

The soldier, a fully automatic rifle in hand, greeted them with the traditional greeting. “Sorry to interrupt your day.”

“It is well,” Kamran said, his smile convincing. “You have kept our country safe. For that, we are grateful.”

Smooth talker just bought a lot of political capital with his lie.

The soldier couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty. Praise was more scarce than shade out here, so it did not surprise her that he seemed to relax. “Just doing my job.”

Zahrah could hear the dog sniffing. She flinched when its nails scratched the door as he went up on his hind legs. A black, dust-encrusted nose poked in through the window. Brown eyes considered them. Another couple of sniffs. She stared right into his brown eyes. Every heartbeat thudded against her breast like an anvil.
Please—help!

Pressure increased against her side. Her eyes clenched. When she opened them, the dog was gone. So was her fleeting hope.

She heard the dog at the trunk. Then to her left. The window wasn’t open as much, and again the dog rose up and leaned in.

C’mon. You have to notice something is wrong. You have to!

“What are you searching for?” Kamran asked.

“Drugs, weapons,” the soldier said. “That sort of thing.” He stepped back and raised his hand. “Clear!” To Kamran he said, “Sorry for the interruption. Have a good day.”

No!

The barrier ahead dropped. The driver pulled out of the corral.

No no no! They couldn’t—she had to warn them. Zahrah whimpered. The gun poked against her ribs.

She didn’t care. She bucked. Wiggled. Tried to shout around the tape. A futile effort, but she couldn’t just sit here. Couldn’t just—

“Shut her up,” Kamran hissed.

Through the tape, she shrieked.

Music, loud and clanking, blasted from the radio, deafening her scream for help. Tears streaming down her face, she banged her head back. Writhed.