Raptor 6 (37 page)

Dean couldn’t move. He wanted to, but his feet wouldn’t obey.

“You know what they’ll do to her?”

“Yes. Much of what they did to me.” He met the man’s gaze evenly.

“Ah,” Zarrick said with a growl. “So that’s it. You’re yellow bellied. Chicken.”

“I’m smart enough to know if I go in there and something goes wrong, I probably won’t make it out of there alive.”

Zarrick stomped toward him. “Do you care about my daughter at all, Dean Watters?”

Swallowing hard, Dean hauled his composure back into line as he met the man’s steel blue eyes. “I respect her. A lot.”

“Burnett is convinced you’re the man to get her.”

Dean hung his head a little lower. Everyone believed he could do it, but him.

“And it chaps my backside to say it, but I agree. I’ve gone through your record. After Jalalabad, you came back stronger than ever. You’ve led your team on over a hundred successful missions. Never lost a man.”

“Incorrect,” Dean growled.

“
After
you were made team commander. I’m not talking about those in your convoy. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I should’ve stopped it.”

“And it’s killing you that you didn’t.”

“Yes!”

“But you didn’t, you sorry piece of dirt. You just watched!”

“I was chained to a wall!”

“Why didn’t you do something? She was counting on you! Any other soldier worth his mettle would’ve saved her. Would’ve gotten her out of there. You failed, soldier.
Failed!
”

Dean couldn’t breathe. Felt the burn in his eyes. In his throat.

Zarrick grabbed him by the shirt and threw him against the wall. “Is that the crap you believe? The poison you’ve ingested for ten years?”

Stunned, pain darting down his neck, Dean eyed the man. Fought the trembling in his chin. The tears demanding freedom.

Hands fisted with Dean’s shirt, Zarrick shoved against his chest. “It’s a lie! A downright lie!”

“She
died
.”

“Did you quit? Did you give up?”

It was hard to shake his head, but he did.

“Then you didn’t fail!” Zarrick shouted. He drew in a breath. Nodded. “The outcome was less than ideal, but you did your best. Is that right?”

“I … tried.”

Zarrick released him. Smoothed out the crumpled shirt. Patted Dean’s shoulder. “And I know by the way you stared at her picture before you knew I was here, you’ll do the same for my girl.”

Grief strangled Dean. “I can’t watch her die.”

“Neither can I.” The general’s words were thick and strained. “And I’ll have your bars and a few other pieces if you screw up. That’s why you’re going to get her back alive.” The guy was short in stature but long in character. No wonder he was Dean’s hero. “Isn’t that right, Captain?”

Fail. He’d fail. Again. But he’d try. “Yes, sir.”

“She believes in you, and though I hate the sight of you for stealing my daughter’s heart, I believe in you, too.”

“Stealing my daughter’s heart …”
He wanted to deny it, but Dean had seen the way she looked at him. The way her smile brightened when she saw him. Truth was … her smile—no,
she
brightened everything in his world. He hadn’t noticed that until now.

“What if I don’t make it? What if I’m too late?”

“Then you better die in there and save me the trouble of killing you.”

Somewhere in Afghanistan
27 June—1750 Hours

S
houts reverberated through the walls. Zahrah opened her eyes, surprised to find a bluish-gray haze affording enough light for her to see her surroundings. Which weren’t much to see. Stone walls. Steel door. Dirt floor. Pretty much as she’d detected with her exploration. After Majeeb stunned her with his length of stay, she couldn’t pry any more conversation out of him, except for his admonishment that she rest.
“You will need your strength,”
he repeated many times.

She’d curled up against the wall, huddled by the hole, her only lifeline to humanity. Sad day when her hope came in the form of an ailing old man talking to her through a hole.

At least, she guessed him to be old by his voice.

Shouts and clanking resounded yet again.

“Food,” Majeeb said with a cackle. “If you can call moldy
naan
and dirty water that. But,” he said with firmness in his words, “you must eat it if you are to survive.”

Zahrah found herself nodding, though she couldn’t imagine she’d ever eat naan with mold. Her stomach growled its objection. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Over and over a metallic
shink
radiated through the walls. It came closer … closer … then faded farther … farther.

Did they miss me?
Zahrah stood and wandered to the door. Pressed her ear against the rusted door, a shade of gray that reminded her of the Confederate gray. Only a little bluer. Fingers pressed to the cold metal door, she listened.

The sounds grew fainter. “Hello!” She banged on her door. “I’m in here! I need food!”

“No, no,
flower
. You’ll anger them.”

She turned, her hair dropping against her face. “But they didn’t give me bread.”

“Here. Come, sit. I share.”

“No, you need your ration.”

“I am old and do not need much.” Even as the words reached her, a chunk of bread tumbled through the hole. “Hurry. Before the rats smell it.”

Eyes wide, breath stalled, Zahrah stared at the naan that was more green than tan. Her stomach rebelled at the thought but then screamed in protest at
not
eating it. “Rats?”

“One is as big as a rabbit. I call him Zmaray.”

Zahrah returned to the hole, lifted the bread, and fought the urge to cry as she sat down. “Lion?” Naming a rat after a lion … only in an Afghan prison.

“Wait until you see him,
gul
.”

“Take your bread, Majeeb. You need it. I can hear the weakness in your voice.”

“What you hear, gul, is old age.”

“And stubbornness.”

“I am Afghan, yes?”

Smiling, Zahrah flicked the bread back through the hole. “But so am I.” Tilting her head against the uneven wall, she sighed. “I’m sure they’ll find me. It’s a mistake I’m here. I’m not a prisoner.”

“Aren’t you? How can you argue with the walls?”

How indeed?
“I meant …” What did she mean? She wasn’t even sure why she’d been snatched. She’d expected them to rape and kill her right away, but they’d been more intent on secreting her away.

“Imminent danger.”
Dean’s words wouldn’t leave her alone. He’d tried to warn her. And she rejected that warning. Zahrah traced the stone with her hand once more, fighting off the fear and depression. Would Dean find her? Had he found the surveillance video? Surely he had. Of course, it probably would’ve been smart to tell Fekiria about it.

Was her cousin going mad with worry? What about Daddy? She almost laughed. He was probably threatening dismemberment and death over her disappearance.

The bread leapt from the hole again. “Eat, flower. It is disgusting, but it will help.”

She lifted the bread. Ached for the old man sacrificing it for her. And lifted the bread toward her lips.

The steel door groaned on its hinges.

Zahrah punched to her feet, ignoring the stab of pain from her head injury as light flooded her cell. Bright, warm glorious sunlight.

Two men stepped in. The older, rounder one glowered. Shook a fist and demanded to know where she got the bread.

Startled, Zahrah looked at the evidence in her hand. “It was a gift.”

The man stalked toward her. “Who? Who gave you this?”

Zahrah said nothing. Would not betray the only man who’d given her hope.

“Never mind about the bread,” Kamran’s voice boomed through the cell from somewhere outside. “Bring her. He wants to see her.”

The man slapped the bread from her hand.

They stuffed a hood over her head and yanked her from the cell. Right at first, ten paces, then a left. As she walked, the warmth of the sunlight broke through the gloom with intermittent regularity, as if they walked beneath arches or past windows or something. A prison with arches?

Only as they thrust her into a room did she realize she’d stopped noting her passage. Stumbling in and unable to see, she hesitated and slowly straightened, her gaze on the ground.

Old, dusty, brown boots stomped into view. Seconds later, the hood came off.

Zahrah blinked and her gaze locked on to a lanky man standing before large, grimy window with steel safety bars that dwarfed him. He wore a dark suit and held a phone to his ear, keeping his back to her. His distraction gave her a minute to take in the room, but she wished she hadn’t. Plaster that had once probably been a bright coral—evidenced by a square of the brighter color left from a picture that had been removed—now looked like it had blue-green lace crawling up from the floor. Mold.

But it was the table that bothered her most.

No. Not the table. What sat on the table. A computer. And not just some refurbished computer from a large manufacturer.

“I see you recognize this.”

Zahrah’s gaze snapped to the man who’d been talking on his phone. He faced her, his eyes narrow slits. Chinese. She automatically stepped backward.

“You are very bright, Miss Zarrick. No doubt you suspect what I want from you.”

“No.” She backstepped—but this time got shoved forward. “I won’t help you.”

He smiled, his muddy-brown eyes vanishing. “I thought you might say that.” He lifted his chin. “Bring him.”

Heart racing, she waited what felt like an hour before two armed guards brought in a haggard man. Scraggly gray beard, unkempt clothes, and wild, frantic eyes.

“Do you know who this is, Miss Zarrick?” The Chinese man watched her. He stood her height—five foot nine—and had a lanky build. His black hair was tied back in a queue.

She shrugged. “How could I? I was locked alone in a cell—for no crime I’ve committed.”

The Chinese man returned to the table. “What is your name, good sir?”

Pushed to his knees by his captors, the man curled in on himself. “I am Majeeb Yusufzai.”

“Of what crime were you punished, Majeeb?”

He hung his head, gnarled fingers cradling his ratty hair. “Stealing.”

Zahrah frowned. Grew uneasy as the Chinese man worked with something on the other side of the computer. When he lifted it and she saw the gun in his hand, she took a step forward.

Eyes on her, he walked toward the old man. “What did you steal Majeeb?”

“Bread. That is all. My children were hungry. My Zuleika—”

“Stealing is a crime—is it not? You stole from another Muslim. Does not the Qur’an speak against such things?”

Two things struck Zahrah—the Chinese man speaking of the Qur’an and the cold menace in the man’s words.

Majeeb nodded, rocking back and forth.

“And what did you do this morning, Majeeb?”

The old man stilled. Lifted his head ever so slightly but didn’t dare look the man in the eyes.

“You gave bread to a prisoner who did not have a ration—is that right?”

“She sounded so scared—”

“Stop it,” Zahrah said.

“That is a crime, Majeeb. You know it’s forbidden to share your rations.” He locked gazes with Zahrah, aimed the gun at the elderly man.

“No!”

Her shout was lost in the weapon’s report.

Shocked, Zahrah stared. Saw the blood. The crumpled man. Rushed to him with a scream. “Majeeb!” Tears streamed down her face as she dropped to her knees, sobbing.

Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province
28 June—0415 Hours

N
o. No way this can end good.”

Dean held his peace, knowing his guys wouldn’t like it. They were like brothers. Even Falcon, who’d betrayed him. Who wouldn’t look him in the eye right now.

“If the guy from the school is involved and sees you,” Hawk said. “It’s over.”

“He’s right,” Harrier said quietly. “You’ve been there, Dean. You ready for this?”

“No.” He wouldn’t lie to them. “I’m doing something I promised myself I’d never let happen again. I swore I’d kill myself before I let them take me alive again.” The truth almost suffocated his ability to continue. “But we don’t know where she is, and since Kamran saw me with Zahrah, if he sees me there, I believe he’ll take the bait.”