Raptor 6 (51 page)

Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif

Todd walked the hall of the sub-base command building. Though he’d been back a week, run a mission with the team, and it felt good and right, he still felt … off. He’d written up his AAR and submitted it. The routine of it all helped him not to think.

But then—if he didn’t think of Amy, she’d vanish.

Before he knew what he’d done, Todd stood at the counter of Cup of Joe and asked for a coffee. With vanilla. Oh, and ice.

“You mean a latte?”

Todd hesitated. Was that right? Amy’d always ordered for him. “Sure.”

A few minutes later, he crossed the base and headed back to the tent where Raptor bunked. Even before he entered, he noticed Dean lying on his cot. Todd tried to walk quietly, knowing the captain needed rest. The dark circles, bruises, cuts, broken bones—he’d been through a lot. And still went on that mission. Conducted himself as a true soldier, though a haunted one.

Dean didn’t move. Maybe he actually managed to fall asleep.

Todd set the drink down on the ground and removed his vest and tactical shirt. A shower would be good about now.

“Sorry about Amy. She deserved better than dying like that.”

Todd stilled then looked to his captain’s cot. “That she did.”

Still on his back, eyes closed, Dean still wasn’t moving.

“Thanks.”

“The team would’ve been there …”

“No worries. It was how she wanted it—quiet and family only. She was always like that, ya know, quiet and beautiful. But that girl could beat me three ways from Sunday without a word.” Todd snorted then flinched. He must sound sappy. “Reckon that’s TMI.”

“No.” Dean drew himself off the cot and sat on the edge, broken arm resting on his knee, eyeing something in his left hand. “No, it’s not. A month ago, I would’ve said I couldn’t imagine a loss like that …” He coughed into his hand. “Anyway, have they gotten anything out of the factory guard?”

“Doubt it,” Todd said. “He was in surgery last I heard.”

“You did good out there, nailing his leg like that.”

What was with this talk? Dean wasn’t himself. Had the days of captivity done a number on his mind? “Hey,” Todd began as he eased onto his own cot. “What’s this about?”

Dean closed his hand around whatever he held and bounced his fist. “She’s out there.” He shook his head. “And I have no idea where. They won’t let me in the command bunker—told me to rest. I told them I could sleep when I’m dead.”

Todd waited. Didn’t seem right to talk just then. The captain had a weight to get off his chest.

He opened his hand and the small blue bracelet bead rolled around his palm. “She put her life in my hands, and I’m just … sitting here.”

“Would doing nothin’ for no justified reason make you feel better?”

Dean met his gaze evenly. Angrily.

Todd held up his hands, feeling like that’d do as much good as staring down an angry prized bull. “I get your pain. You can’t be there, you can’t do the one thing her life depends on—go after her. But you’ve been through a lot, and if you aren’t rested up and got your strength back when we do know where to go, you’ll be in no shape to lead the mission.”

Dean lifted his broken arm. “Already there.”

“Dean?” He waited till the captain looked him in the eye. “What is this—did they get to you, or did she?”

With a snort, Dean smirked. “Both, I guess.”

“She mean that much to you?”

He rolled his palm and glanced at the bead again. “I … I don’t know.” Then he smiled. “You’d like her. The two of you could have a Bible verse contest.” His smile twisted into grief and vanished beneath a deep frown. “She was so convinced God wanted her to stay here. When we were in there together, she started talking about Japan and Corrie ten Boom.”

Todd chuckled. “How are those connected?”

“I think she was trying to get me to let go of my anger at God over her getting raped.”

The words barreled over him. Saw the way they tormented Dean. Felt the rawness of his answer. “God can handle your anger.”

Another snort and smile, but this time with only half power. “You keep telling me that. But it doesn’t make sense why He’d let someone like her go through all that.”

“Dean, if I’m hearing this right, Zahrah put her life in God’s hands, correct?”

Barely a nod.

“Just like when you signed up with Uncle Sam, you put your life in the hands of men like General Burnett.”

Dean eyed him.

“You signed up for whatever came your way. Bullets, terrorists, IEDs … why?”

“To fight for those who can’t.”

Todd smiled. “Exactly. Zahrah’s doing the same.”

“Are you saying I can’t fight? I think I did a pretty good job.”

“You are in a battle that can’t be fought with bullets and fists. This is a battle that demands complete surrender.”

Dean scowled. “Surrender? I’m not so weak I have to surrender.”

“Surrender isn’t weakness, Dean. It’s showing strength, recognizing the fight is beyond you.” Todd scooted to the edge of his seat. “It’s a paradox, really, because the act of surrender produces power and victory.”

“Dude, if I didn’t have the bruises and fractures to prove it, I’d say you’re the one who was captured and tortured—right out of your mind.”

“Zahrah wanted you to surrender the fight against God, right?”

Dean sagged. “She told me she wasn’t a prisoner, that she was right where God wanted her. It was crazy. Like she wasn’t afraid.”

“That’s because surrendered to God, she didn’t have anything to fear or anything else to surrender to.” Todd felt an infusion of inspiration. “Do you know who William Booth is?”

Dean shrugged.

“The founder of the Salvation Army. He said, ‘The greatness of a man’s power is the measure of his surrender.’ ” Todd lifted his latte and took a sip. “There was a song years back, a Christmas song, about a little girl who got fake pearls for Christmas. Then one year her father asked for them back. I don’t remember the story exactly, but she wouldn’t release the toy ones. Her father had real pearls for her, but until she surrendered the fake ones, he couldn’t give her the real ones. Life is just like that—you’re fighting so hard to stay in control, to fix things, but I think God has brought you to a place where it’s time to surrender.”

“Surrender what?”

Todd gave him a sympathetic smile. “Everything.”

Dean jerked his gaze down.

“What’s in your hand?”

As if he hadn’t noticed it before, Dean turned his hand over and revealed a turquoise bead.

“Think maybe God wants you to let go, so you can have the real thing?”

He stared at it, unmoving, silent.

“You’re fighting a fight you have no business fighting. If Zahrah gave her life to Christ to serve Him, that’s her choice. And it’s up to God what He does with that. Just like it’s Burnett’s choice to send you on a mission that could kill you. Just like it was His choice to free Amy of the pain and disease.” Raw at the mention of his sweet wife he’d never see again, Todd took a breather. “When it’s the wrong fight, fighting only wears you down.”

Quiet reigned before Dean, head tucked, staring at the bead. Held it between his thumb and pointer finger. “I can’t just leave her out there.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to. But I do think you need to get smart and stop blaming yourself and bearing guilt that doesn’t belong to you. You said Zahrah put her life in your hands.”

“She also said I was the reason she was supposed to be here in Afghanistan.”

“Okay, then that means God has a plan.”

Dean cut him a look. “I’d sure like that mission briefing about now.”

“Then fight like a surrendered man—on your knees.”

“You mean pray.”

Nodding, Todd smiled. “I mean to say.”

Hawk sprinted into the tent. “Factory dude’s awake!”

Somewhere in Afghanistan
01 August—1015 Hours

W
hat one plans and what happens are often two very different things. Especially when held at gunpoint. Zahrah slid a glance to her right then her left, where armed guards stood over her. They’d let her sleep through the night—a first in …
how
many weeks?

Betraying Dean had been the only way to save him. To save her and—hopefully—the entire military community. Perhaps America herself. That is, if she could stall long enough for Dean to get here.

Could he find her? In the cell, she believed resolutely, with deprivation and hunger gnawing at her insides, that Dean could do it. As an elite warrior, he had the training.

“You’ve been here since dawn, Miss Zarrick.”

Zahrah shifted on the seat, the chains binding her hands clanking. “It might speed my progress were I free”—she tugged the restraints to make her point—“to work without hindrance.”

Zmaray stalked between the rows of tables. Zahrah sat at the front. A half-dozen cameras trained on different angles around the box on the table that stared her down. “You have had twelve hours, and … what? What have you accomplished?”

“Besides raw wrists,” she said, hiding her fear behind the frustration of being chained to the task. “I believe I am close to unlocking the mechanism.”

“You’ve had twelve hours!”

“And your team has had”—she squinted at him—“how long have they been working on this again? And nobody’s cracked it?” She had to play her card, the only one she had over him. “You haven’t proven to me that Dean is alive and with his team.”

He stood on the other side, hate, spite, and fury spewing from his brown eyes. Jaw muscle popping, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “This will have to do.”

Zahrah took the sheet and unfolded it. The grainy image seemed to be a hospital room. A man with a bandage on his forehead and arm in a cast lay there. Whether alive, she couldn’t ascertain. She held it out to him. “He could be dead for all I know.”

“He is not.” He nodded to the paper he wouldn’t take back. “That is your proof. All I can and will provide.”

“Not good enough.”

Smirking, he tilted his head. “I think you need some motivation.”

Unease squirmed through her stomach, upsetting the lamb and curry they’d given her for lunch. “Threatening me will not make me smarter.”

“Oh, I think it will.” Zmaray raised a hand.

A guard left the room.

Silence gaped across the once-humming room as they waited. Everyone shifted. Muttering scampered around the room, filling the silence with tension. Well, more than had previously been here.

Thwat
.

A door swung open. In walked Kamran with a small—

Zahrah punched to her feet, her arms jerking taut against the chains. “Rashid!” She flashed a glare at Zmaray, but panic replaced the anger. “Don’t do this. He’s a child, for pity’s sake!”

“Yes. An innocent child.” Zmaray sauntered closer, his hands once again in the pockets of his suit pants.

Kamran led Rashid to the table and urged him into a chair at the end then chained him around the waist and arms.

“Rashid,” Zahrah said, looking at the boy. “Are you okay?”

Wide, frightened eyes held hers. He gave a nod, but his chin trembled.

Zahrah held out her hand, but with the chains, she couldn’t reach him. “Be brave, Rashid. It’ll be okay.”

Dean, where are you?

If he’d forgiven her, he had a monumental task in front of him since they’d brought her here. Wherever here was. “Pull your chair closer, Rashid.”

“No,” Kamran said.

“Leave him,” Zahrah said, the snarl in her voice surprising even her. “He’s hurting nothing and he’s terrified.”

“No. I’m brave. I can be brave.” Rashid nodded to the computers. “Please, Miss Zarrick. Fix it so we can go home, yes?”

“His life is in your hands, Miss Zarrick.” Zmaray stood before her then bent at the waist and placed his hands on the lip of the table. “I have seen how effective a little persuasion can be with you. Perhaps you will work more quickly so little Rashid here does not have to endure what you put Captain Watters through.”

“You wouldn’t—he’s only a boy.”

Almond eyes narrowing, Zmaray glowered. “Then you should work faster. You have one hour to free the computer!”