Raptor 6 (4 page)

“If the Army thought I needed friends—”

“They’d have issued them. Yeah, I know.”

Dean shot a glance to the Black Hawk as the wheels touched down. He stepped aside as two Marines jogged over, loaded Bain onto a litter, then hurried him back to the bird. Trailing them, Dean climbed into the jump seat and let out thick breath. Boots skimming the warm Afghan air as they sped back to the base, he eyed the horizon. They’d retrieved the objective. His men were alive and uninjured. The ANA’s team was with them, though a couple now sported extra holes. Another mission. Another deadly mission. Another deadly
successful
mission.

So why do I feel empty?

Kohistani School, Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan
25 May—0845 Hours

“Assalaam alaikum.”

Zahrah Zarrick looked up from her laptop.
“Wa ‘alaikum assalaam.”
She shook her head at her cousin easing into the room. “You know he was only flirting with you.”

With a cheeky smile, Fekiria Haidary giggled. “Oh, I’m aware.” Her green-brown eyes sparkled. Then she wrinkled her nose. “He’s too old.”

“Your
madar
would not agree.”

With a groan, Fekiria dropped into the chair beside her. “You must rescue me.”

Another laugh nearly choked Zahrah. “Me? You’re the one who insisted it was good to marry a man established in the community.”

“Yes, established but not with ten grandchildren!”

Zahrah could not help but smile. She adored her cousin, even with her
laaf
. Exaggeration was a way of life here in Afghanistan, and her cousin heaped hers in mounds. Zahrah, on the other hand, was too sensible and too Western to let her family decide who she would marry. But she also respected her
kaka
and
khala
enough not to interfere with their customs. “He has
one
,” she corrected her cousin.

“The man I marry should not have any! I am only twenty-one.” Fekiria moaned. “Why can’t I draw the attention of American soldiers like you? I served in the ANA and have just as much strength as you do!”

The words pushed Zahrah’s gaze down and filled her cheeks with heat. She turned and lifted the math books from the shelf, using the move to hide her embarrassment. But it was true—speaking English as fluently and clearly as she did Pashto and Farsi ingratiated her with the American military, who had used her as an interpreter. “Your parents would never approve—and they didn’t approve of your being in the army.”

“I am well aware, but that has nothing to do with marrying a grandfather!”

“Fekiria, in this, I think you won’t begrudge my American upbringing, yes?”

She pouted as her gaze traipsed the small classroom. “I like our customs. They have worked for thousands of years….”

A deep quiet settled in as Zahrah laid out the workbooks for the students who would return after their lunch break and the
zuhr
. Though she loved the mode the
muezzin
used for the noon
namaz
, she ached for her mother’s people to know Isa—Jesus.

Silence gaped, drawing her attention back to her cousin. Fekiria never sat still. Never stayed quiet. In fact, a weight seemed to settle on the face framed in a vibrant teal polyester/cotton
hijab
. “What?”

Fekiria blinked and straightened in the chair. A weak smile flickered across the beautiful lips that Zahrah had often envied for their natural pink hue and fullness. “Nothing.” She pushed to her feet and went to the window, where a dingy, striped, cotton curtain vainly attempted to shield the classroom from the sun. With two fingers Fekiria tugged aside the material.

Laughter pealed through the day, bringing joy to Zahrah’s heart that matched what she heard from the children. So good to hear them laughing and playing. Not screaming. She shuddered as the memory of the attack two weeks ago stomped her mood. Only then did she also notice the merriment in the courtyard warred with Fekiria’s expression.

Zahrah went to her cousin and touched her shoulder. “You wear the weight of the world. What’s wrong?”

Though Fekiria softened beneath the words, she did not look at her. Finally, she sighed. “You came here—why?”

Zahrah frowned. “You know why—what my madar went through when they moved to America …” She shook her head and watched the boys playing soccer in the courtyard and the girls huddled to one side. Her mother had done the same thing, but not just around other kids—she huddled in life. Feeling alone, isolated, and excluded because she did not speak English, did not dress like Americans, and was poor, her mother had become a virtual recluse. “I never want anyone to experience what she went through. If I can help just one …” Saying the words reinfused her with determination. “Why are you asking?”

Shoulders slumped, mouth pouting, Fekiria sighed again. “I feel lost, Zahrah jan.”

She still loved the endearments used in Pashtun and other Arab cultures. “Lost? How?”

Her cousin had lived in Balkh Province her entire life. Though Fekiria’s father had wanted to leave with his father and sister—Zahrah’s mother—his ties to Afghanistan were too strong. A prodigy in science, Jahandar Haidary had been scouted by Afghanistan right out of secondary school. When Zahrah’s grandfather escaped to America, Kaka Jahandar stayed behind for two reasons: fear of being captured and his love for the woman who would become his wife.

Shouts arose from the courtyard, and Fekiria stood straighter. “They’re back.”

Zahrah flicked her gaze to the school’s front gate. Her simple lunch of hummus and vegetables curdled in her stomach at the sight of a military armored vehicle lumbering into the yard, followed by a canopy truck. “What are they bringing in here?”

As the vehicles glided by, Zahrah and Fekiria tucked themselves aside to avoid being seen. Once the diesel sounds rumbled past, Zahrah again peered through the curtain as the vehicles vanished into the old gym. Doors slid open and the gymnasium swallowed the vehicles.

“I don’t know.” Fekiria eyed her. “Think we should go see?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Zahrah shook her head. “No, we need to stay right here. No need drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Must you always play it safe?”

“If we are killed or sent away, who will watch the children? Who will teach the girls?”

“But if we let them bring trouble to the school, they put the lives of everyone in danger—that includes you, Zahrah. And me!” Fire lit through her cousin’s eyes. “I’m going to see what I can find out.”

“Fekiria!” Her hissed admonishment fell flat in her cousin’s wake. With a huff, Zahrah turned back to the window. She slid a hand along the long gray tunic of her perahan tunban then placed that hand on her stomach. She willed herself to have nerves of steel like her cousin.

After pushing herself out the door, she looked both ways down the short hall. The corridor seemed ominous with its dirty walls, cracking paint, and crumbling plaster. She went right, toward the main entrance.

A wall of flesh rammed into her. Hands held her.

Zahrah jerked back with a gasp, wresting from the man’s hold.
“Zeh mutaasif yum!”
As her apology hung between them, her gaze hit his for a brief second, but it was enough to stab an icy feeling down her spine. “Sorry.” She dropped her gaze, sensing his strong disapproval for looking at and speaking to him.

As he and a group of other men stalked into the sunshine, Zahrah worked to steady her breathing. Who was he? She hadn’t seen him before. Too old to be a student. Another teacher? God forbid a man like that should teach children.

Only then did she notice the door Director Kohistani had insisted remain barred stood ajar. As she considered it, two more men emerged. Their fierce expressions urged her back.

The men breezed past. A shoulder hit hers—intentionally, she was sure. Her heart hammered, fear a familiar friend in recent days. Most Afghan men were kind and just like any other men, but a few made her want to flee back to America.

Shaken, she turned and walked after them into the courtyard to look for her cousin.
Father, I know You’re with me wherever I go…
. The silent prayer stirred peace in the recesses of her soul. Playing it safe, cool, she strode to where she’d seen Fekiria disappear.

“Miss Zarrick! Miss Zarrick!”

The shout jolted her. She glanced back.

Eight-year-old Rashid waved as he hurried out of the building—but just as fast, a hand clamped on his shoulder. Hauled him back, Rashid’s legs kicking up as his eyes widened. The tall man from the hall held Rashid against him, his tan
chapan
a sharp contrast to Rashid’s blue.

Zahrah’s heart plummeted.

“Who is this woman, boy?”

Rashid yanked away from the man, scowling. “My sister’s teacher.” He rubbed his shoulder and started for Zahrah.

The man’s gaze drifted purposefully to the gym-cum-warehouse. “Tell the teacher to keep to her books and students.” Then to Rashid. “If she values those she teaches.”

His threat hung in the air. Zahrah scooted the boy around her. At the same time the man spewed more hatred, a melody and sage voice smothered those words. Afternoon namaz.

Thank You, Lord
.

Swallowing hard, Zahrah bent to Rashid as the call to prayer sounded across Mazar-e. In her periphery, she saw the man stomp back into the building. She drew in a shaky breath and patted Rashid. “You should go to prayers.”

“But I saw them, Miss Zarrick.”

“I know. I saw the men, too.”

“No! Not them.”

She frowned. “Who?”

“American soldiers. In the hills.”

The beautiful mode used by the muezzin carried heavily across the city as it fell quiet, for the most part. As the zuhr began, Zahrah remained still and respectful of those who held to the Islamic traditions.

“Hurry.” She managed a smile. “To namaz before Director Kohistani notices you missing.”

“But the soldiers—”

“Are doing their job.” She touched the side of his face. “You must do yours now.” She gave him a nod. “Go. We’ll talk later.” As he darted off, Zahrah straightened, threaded her fingers in front of her kaftan, and looked toward the sloping rise of earth.

“I will lift up my eyes to the hills—From whence comes my help? My help comes from the L
ORD
, Who made heaven and earth.”

If the soldiers were close, in the hills, then that meant …

Zahrah looked back toward the gymnasium, mentally considering the vehicles. The strange men. “Trouble’s closer.”

Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province, Afghanistan
27 May—1045 Hours

G
o in early—break up your routine to avoid an ambush.”

Palms on either side of the laptop, Dean looked down at the monitor that held the grim visage of General Lance Burnett. The live feed between the Pentagon and Northern Afghanistan came through surprisingly sharp. Had the man’s gray hair gone
grayer
? They’d been through a lot in the last three years of working together. Dean guessed he probably had a few grays already, too.

Dean gave a slow nod, but something about the way the general said that made his nerves jounce. “Something we need to know, General?”

“Yeah,” Hawk said, chomping into a muffin then talking around it. “That sounds a lot like, ‘We know something you don’t know.’”

“Like talking with your mouth full is rude?” Harrier shot back.

“And disgusting.” Falcon eased into view of the camera. “General, if there’s trouble—”

“You’re in the middle of a war zone, Sergeant—of course there’s trouble!”

Falcon straightened and shifted aside.

“Look, there’s nothing we can put our finger on. But I have too much invested in your team to lose any of you.” General Burnett slurped a soda and slammed down the can. “Now, get your sorry carcasses out there. Early.”

“Yes, sir.” The connection canceled and Dean nodded to his team. “You heard the man.”

It took an hour to gear up and get the appropriate supplies for Harrier to work his medic magic in the village. Another thirty minutes spent rumbling over the brutal Afghan terrain and toward the village that hunkered at the foot of the mountain, east of the bustling Mazar-e Sharif and west of nowhere. The village had just come into sight when Falcon eyed him from the driver’s seat. “You feelin’ it?”