Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (43 page)

The young man clapped a hand over his mouth. “No! Shh! You must not make noise.” He glanced down the length of his body toward something. “They hear you, they come.”

Hot tears squeezed between his eyelids. He grimaced, the weight of the man’s hand even painful against his face and neck.

“Okay?” The young man stared at him, expectantly. “You quiet?”

A grunt was all he could manage.

“Good. Good. We get you out of here.”

Move? Are you freakin’ kidding me?
He could barely breathe without passing out! “No,” he croaked out.

The young man froze. Frowned. “We must. They kill you if you stay.”

“Can’t,” he whispered.

“Must,” the man reiterated. He lifted his hand. “Pills. They help with pain, yes?”

The pills felt like rocks in his mouth, but he did his best to work them to the back of his throat. “Water…”

“I brought some!” The man seemed pleased with himself as he helped coax water into his mouth.

A miracle that he didn’t choke.

“Now.” The man bent forward and slipped an arm beneath his head.

Teeth clamped together, he tensed against the knifing sensation in his lungs and spine. The man hoisted him up.

The room spun, crazy and carnival-like.

“Whoa,” he breathed as the earth tilted.

A hand pushed against his ribs. “Got you.”

The young man guided him off the table. His toe struck the cement floor. It felt as if an IED went off. His body railed against the explosion of pain. Everything hurt. His ears rang. Stomach roiling, he felt his legs give.

The man pushed up under him, supporting. “Hurry. They will be back soon.”

Hurry? He wasn’t even sure he could stand up, let alone walk. But if it meant staying alive, he would. Had to. If he couldn’t stand, neither would the terrorist’s attempts to silence him.

Kabul, Afghanistan
8 April—1925 Hours

The words she’d ached to hear for four long years had been spoken. Well, almost. Sal said he wanted her back. But even she knew it wasn’t meant the way she’d hoped. That he wanted her back in his life. He was a soldier and an American had been taken hostage.

But he’d held her. Protected her from the awful brutality exerted against that man. Now, he stood with his teammates in what looked like a bunk room, twenty or more bunk beds lining the wall.

She didn’t expect him to cuddle with her and croon over her. But she had thought he’d at least talk to her. But as soon as the doors closed and the team was shut up in here, Raptor huddled and had been talking among themselves. Strategizing. Mind-numbing dialogue about options, contingencies, retaliation—their soldiering on exhausted her.

And that man. She wasn’t ignorant. Real-life situations and war scenarios weren’t prime-time TV fodder. Nobody wanted to admit it happened, nor did they want to look on it. Least of all her.

She scooted back on the bunk and braced her spine against the wall. Hugging her knees, shadowed by the upper bed, she watched Sal. She’d

promised herself no more pining, and she wouldn’t break that promise now. No matter how he’d acted a few hours ago. She let herself lie on her side and closed her eyes. Sleep hungrily pulled her into its viselike grip.

Cassie flinched awake. The room hung in semidarkness, quiet chattering flitting from various bunks. She blinked and yawned—

A face turned toward her, not a foot away.

She started. Blinked again.

Sal sat on the floor beside the bunk. Legs up, arms over his knees, he looked at her. “Good nap?”

“How long—?”

“Forty minutes.”

She shook her head but stayed prone, liking the closeness to him. “What’s happening?”

“Takkar came in, said he wants us to stay. He can’t afford word to get back to the base—”

“To Ramsey?”

Sal nodded. “Gala is in two days. Team will report in as if we’re on recon in the field.”

“Are y’all okay with that?”

“It’s some downtime.” He smirked. “Who would be against that?”

Cassie nodded. What did it mean that he was here, talking to her like she was a normal person rather than avoiding her as if she were the plague itself? Though everything in her screamed to embrace this change, she didn’t dare trust herself. She’d wanted this too long, and she’d once already read into a situation and created a wider divide.

Was she weak to want him back? Pathetic? Or was she strong because she saw the good in him and knew his heart, knew the man he really was, not the one beaten down by war, grief, and self-condemnation?

“Did you hear about Ramsey’s daughter?”

Cassie stilled. “Daughter?”

Sal exhaled long and loud. “He has a four-year-old daughter with some Arab woman.”

When he didn’t go on, Cassie shifted to look at him better.

“Ramsey convinced the woman that if soldiers came to ask questions, she should kill the children before soldiers could.”

Cassie sucked in a hard breath. “What?”

Sal lifted a hand and ran it over his head and down his neck. “That is some sick crap. It was awful. The girl was bleeding out. Dying. Because he wanted to save his own butt. How could he do that to a kid?”

Swallowing, Cassie forbade images from conjuring in her mind what that would look like, because she knew invariably Mila’s face would replace the little girl’s.

“Working with Harrier to save her life,” Sal whispered, his gaze vacant, lost in the memory. “All I could think of…” He shook his head. Tears welled up in his eyes. “All I could see…”

“Mila?”

He looked at her, haunted. “I kept thinking—she’d die and I’d never know her.” He craned his neck. “Does she like ice cream?”

Cassie lifted her head. “What?”

“Does Mila like ice cream?” He shrugged, his brow knotted. “I don’t even know that. I don’t know her.”

I will not cry. I will not cry
. Cassie bit her lip and gulped the urge to defy her own commands.

Sal dropped back against the wall, thudding his skull twice against the cement. “I’ve screwed up so much. Been too angry for too long at too many people, including myself.” He shook his head. Met her gaze once more. “I want to change that.”

Darn tears were too powerful. Her vision blurred and Cassie ducked, pulling herself upright and turning her gaze out to the open. Away from him.

Sal was on the edge of the mattress. “Let me, Andra.”

She shook her head, not trusting herself to talk without a sob choking the word. “You know how long I’ve wanted you to say that?” Liquid drops of relief rushed down her face.

Calm down. He’s not asking to marry you. He just wants to know Mila
.

Right.

Right, Mila
. No, this was good. The way things should’ve been—well, mostly. He wanted to be a part of her life, and wasn’t that what Cassie had prayed for so hard?

Sal took her hand. “I—”

“Stop.” Cassie couldn’t believe she was doing this. But the thought of him being soft one minute and hard the next terrified her. “I can’t do this—I can’t have you tell me you want this and then you find some reason to be angry again.”

He let go and bent forward, arms on his knees. “I know.” He scratched the sides of his head. “You’re right. I’m tired of being angry. Tired of holding grudges.” Soulful brown orbs, the gold flecks glinting with grief and exhaustion, shifted to her. “I’m sorry, Andra. Really sorry.”

Stunned didn’t come close to expressing what she felt. Because along with it went elation. Shock. And even fear—what if he changed his mind, or realized once he got some distance between him and the Afghan-girl experience that he’d just been hyped or PTSDing. “What brought all this on, Tore? I’m glad to hear it, but I have to admit, it’s a little… I don’t know whether to trust it.”

Hurt rippled through the rugged lines of his face. “Seeing that little girl… it ripped apart something in me.” Intensity radiated off his taut muscles as he cocked his head to the side. “No.” He gritted his teeth and pursed his lips. “It ripped something loose—as if something had been stuck inside me.”

Salvatore Russo had never been one to wax poetic, so Cassie held her tongue and questions. Being this reflective charged the air around them and made her listen better than she had ever before. This was important. Very important.

His chocolate eyes searched hers, wrought with fervency and yet question. He looked lost, which stunned her silent because Sal had always been centered—and the center of her universe.

Suddenly he twitched. Glanced at her then away. “Sounds stupid, I bet.” He pushed to his feet and dusted his backside off. “I’d better talk with Dean about the plans for tomorrow.”

Kabul, Afghanistan
10 April—1615 Hours

Something had been knocked loose all right—his good sense.

Sal shrugged off the foolishness creeping along his shoulders as he and the team ran through scenarios and contingencies for the gala, for drawing Meng-Li Jin or Daniel Jin—whatever you wanted to call him—into their web. Painters tape on the cement floor provided a layout of the event setup for the team to rehearse lines of sight and strategy.

“Sal, wrong position,” Dean’s stern voice carried loudly through the basement.

Sal stopped. Glanced where he stood.

“Unless you like sitting in the punch bowl.”

Chuckles released some pent-up tension as Sal shifted to his left a foot. Might seem silly to some, but getting a feel for the layout would make the difference between a successful op and a total screwup.

“Group up,” Dean said, stepping toward the middle of the room.

Sal moved toward the team captain and bumped shoulders with someone. He glanced to the side. “Sorry.”

“No worries, mate,” Titanis said.

“Takkar wants everyone out of sight well in advance of the gala, so we’ll head topside. Sal, Titanis—anyone else who’ll be in view—shower up. Rest, check weapons and gear. Walk through the plan in your head until you can chant it in your sleep.” Intensity radiated off Dean as he considered the team. “This is our chance to not only capture Kiew Tang, but the mastermind. We can’t screw this up.”

“Think Takkar has something else up his sleeve?” Sal asked. “While I appreciate his help and cooperation, I’m finding it hard to believe he’s just letting us in on this.” Hands on his belt, Sal gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Last I knew, we were on his hit list for our attempt to take down Tang.”

Riordan, who stood a half-dozen inches shorter than Sal’s six-three, sauntered closer. “Agreed—something’s off.”

“Does Takkar have plans we don’t know about?” Dean bobbed his head firmly. “Absolutely. Do I know what they are? No. Will he deliberately act against us or put us in jeopardy?” He pursed his lips. “I don’t believe so.”

Schmidt grunted. “That sounds a lot like ‘probably’ in my book. Look, the guy’s given us no reason to trust him.”

“Gentlemen,” came the thick, stern voice of Sajjan Takkar as he entered the basement with his never-far-away strongman, Waris Singh, and three Asian men in suits. Also with them, Cassie. “If I might have some of your time. I’ve asked Miss Walker to join us because this information and her cooperation are integral.”

“To what?”

“The successful completion of this attack against you. The fund-raiser I have asked you all to attend will be the endgame, the point at which your thirst for justice and my desire to protect Afghanistan unite to take down a common enemy.”

“Meng-Li Jin,” Sal said, noting Cassie had made her way around to his side.

“Indeed.” Sajjan took a minute to meet the gaze of each operator in the room. “My sources say that Meng-Li will be here tonight to obtain a final high-level code.”

“To what?”

“While we have all been scrambling to stop the extensive breach of security, while your soldiers have stopped to lick their wounds and tend the injured, your government quickly shifted all security protocols and efforts to a new security program and software—Evangelion.”

“Are we supposed to know that?” Harrier asked. “I mean, Brian—Hawk would know it. But we’re not geeks.”

Cassie breathed a laugh, and Sal glanced down at her. She leaned closer and whispered, “It’s the name of an anime—her favorite.”

“It is also a program designed and created by none other than Kiew Tang.” When muttering and cursing singed the air, Sajjan nodded. “It is exactly as they planned—attack, expose the underbelly of the American cyber network, and they’d get your government to dive headlong into their very hands. With the code he will obtain tonight, Meng-Li and his rogue organization will have unfettered access and control to American troop location and movement.”