Raptor 6 (44 page)

Undisclosed Location
14 July—1545 Hours

“Do not sit there and tell me we’re doing nothing.”

Booyah. Or wait, these grunts say hooah. Or is it oorah? Whatever. They grunt—which is why they’re called grunts. Anyway, my man Hawk is standing off with the general. And I’m ready for this show down. It’s wicked cool watching the pawns on my chessboard try to take control. They have no clue there is no such thing.

“Stand down, Bledsoe,” Burnett growls at the alpha male.

“He’s right.” Ah, so Falcon has finally grown a backbone. So the guy felt the Aussie was nudging him out of his top spot, huh? Sort of like Jesus’ disciples vying for a seat at his right hand.

Oh don’t get all sanctimonious on me. Everyone knows that Bible story
.

“Dean’s been gone two weeks and we have nothing. Have done nothing.”

“We’ve been digging.”

“Not good enough,” Falcon snaps. “Since you made it out of there without a scratch, you’ve had your head in the sand.”

Oh, ho-ho-hoooo! What’s this, insubordination? Taking down the American military might be easier than I’d predicted.

“You sorry son of—”

“Listen.” The Oz has spoken! “Division in the ranks will not bring back Watters or Zahrah.”

“You got that right,” Hawk says. “Action will bring them back.”

“And what do you suppose we do, Bledsoe?”

I swear, I can see the steam pouring out of Burnett’s ears. His face red. Even though this is a black-white feed.

The general motions crazily with his arms. “Randomly shoot targets?”

Bledsoe is about to blow! “No, find out how they knew Dean was bugged.”

“What’re you talking about? That’s pretty simple to figure out. The signal—”

“Hadn’t gone live.” Bledsoe pointed to the wall. “When I did attempt activation, it was dead.”

“Bad bug?”

“It’s not the flu. It’s a high-tech device. They knew and they fried it. Which means they had to fry Dean to do it.”

“That’s an assumption. And we all know what those do.”

Yeah, I probably don’t need to spell that out, but it’s pretty funny. Because it’s basically how I see these guys. So full of themselves, of their power … and I’ve made them power
less
.

“And how’d they know to retrieve you?” Hawk seemed to be on a witch hunt. Or maybe a spy hunt.

Speaking of … I’m still running the blurred image of that Sikh spy through my database. It’d net me another mill if I can hand that information over to the boss.

Annnd speaking of that, I flip the feeds and dive into the prison holding the honeymooning couple. I gotta admit—never saw it coming. Watters is holding out. I thought with his past, with his history as a POW, he’d have broken like a
watter
logged—pun totally intended—piece of wood. Instead, he’d not only held it together, but also helped the hottie do the same.

Which has to change. Because if it doesn’t, they won’t get what they want, and I won’t get what I want.

My time is limited. I’ve got to find out who’s holding Zmaray’s chain, who’s the bigwig behind all this. The one donating millions to Zmaray to pay me. Maybe if I demonstrate my abilities … So a few keystrokes and piggybacking back channels, which they have graciously—and foolishly—wired so I can remain in contact with them, diverts control of the power in that prison to my hot little fingertips.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say in my best announcer-man voice, “may I have your attention please?”

And zap! Just like that, they are without power. I start counting, knowing they will be calling me soon enough.

Bzzz. Bzzz
.

I smile as my phone rings. No, I’m afraid it won’t be as easy that. “You’ll have to come to me.”

It’s a death wish. But only if I didn’t know it was coming.

Somewhere in Afghanistan
14 July—1600 Hours

Quiet crashed into the cell.

Dean’s eyes popped open at the sudden intrusion of silence. He had no idea how long the music had played, but it had to be hours with the way his nerves felt fried, his head throbbed. A weight lifted from his right shoulder, drawing his gaze.

Darkness forbid him from seeing.

“What …?” came Zahrah’s sleepy response to the quiet.

“Music stopped.”

Shouts outside warned him of more than that. He stood and mentally mapped his route to the door. Hands on the steel, he listened.

Watch the doors. I can’t see anything, so neither can they
. “I think they lost power.”

“Can we get out?”

“Locks aren’t electric.” Hands guiding him in the blindness, Dean returned to the far wall. “Just means more darkness.” He stretched his arms and legs. How long had he slept?

“How’d you know I could dance?” Her question held amusement and the hint of a smile.

Dean could see that smile in his mind’s eye, in the many times she’d offered him one. Somehow, it already made him feel better. “I didn’t. Just hoped that with all the military balls your father probably subjected you to, that you’d gained some experience.”

She laughed. “I did. But what about you—military balls? Dates?”

“I went because it was expected. Never took a date, though.”

“But you dance really well.”

Another laugh. “I said I didn’t take dates, not that I didn’t dance.”

“I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

He laid on his back. “Don’t.”

He did some sit-ups, cringing and grunting against the lingering pain.

“I know how to score points with the officers by being charming.”

He did another set.

“My father met my mother at a benefit gala, much like the military balls. She said he was this young, dashing officer and her father the equivalent—in position and rank—of an Arab prince. She was the prize catch.”

“Not sure I like hearing about this side of your father.”

Zahrah chuckled. “I’m not sure he’d like me telling you.”

“That I can guarantee.” He alternated elbow-to-knee sit-ups as their ears slowly found equilibrium in the noise of the silence.

“My father fell in love with my mother that night. He said he knew the first time they danced that he’d do anything for her.”

“I bet her father liked that, what with all the social rules and protocols.”

“True, but my grandfather desperately wanted out of Afghanistan. He …” She drew in a long breath. “Like me, he had knowledge that could be deadly.”

“I thought that was your uncle.”

“They are both intelligent men.”

Her answer felt … off.

“My grandfather was so happy when my father showed interest in his daughter.”

“Let me guess—they made a deal.”

“It wasn’t quite so sterile as that, but yes, eventually. My mother was harder to convince. She was afraid of new things, especially living in a place where she knew nobody and could not speak the language. Then the Afghan government found out about their plan to escape to America. They were watched, followed, threatened, beaten….”

“Not much has changed, then.”

“But my mother started finding red poppies on her windowsill in the mornings. She knew it was my father—”

“So he’s an old softie.”

Zahrah laughed. Man, he liked that sound. “I bet you wouldn’t say that to his face.”

“I sort of like living.”

More laughter. “He brought the flowers because she’d told him they were her favorite flowers. She’d told him about a field near the mountains by their home. My mother knew it was his way of saying he was there, that he would take care of her, provide for her.”

Dean cringed. “Can we
not
paint these Romeo images of your father in my head, please?”

“He is a hard man, but he is also a very good man. Like you.”

“You saying I’m hard?” He kept the lightheartedness in his voice, not wanting her to hear how much her words hit him crossways. He’d never seen himself as hard. Focused maybe. Intense.

“I think you could become hard if you are not careful.”

The arrow pierced straight and true. He thought of his brother, his father … But they needed lighthearted talk. “So, what happened with the poppies?”

“He kept leaving them for her. One night, she slipped out of her house and went to the field. My father was there with a truck. He said he’d waited there for her every night. He wanted her to go with him right then, but she refused to leave her father behind. So they made a plan—the next time he left a poppy, that would be their signal that it was time to leave. My mother never betrayed the plan to my grandfather. Instead, one night, she woke him and begged him to come to the field with her.”

“He went?” Dean hated to sound incredulous, but that was a wild shot in the dark.

“He did.” Zahrah sounded pleased. “He later told her he saw something in her eyes he’d never seen in a long time.”

“What?” Dusting off his hands, Dean returned to the wall beside her.

“Love. Hope. Their lives had become so cruel, so hard, that she’d lost her will to live.” In the darkness, she shifted, her feet dragging over the dirt floor heavily. “All the times I’ve heard or thought of that story, I could never relate … until now.”

Dean tapped her leg. “Well, don’t lose your will to live, okay? I don’t have any poppies.”

Light exploded through the room, burning his eyeballs. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness behind closed lids. “Guess the power’s back.”

Zahrah looked pale, but maybe that was just the light. She’d shed weight since he’d seen her in Mazar-e. “And food.”

Squinting, Dean turned toward the door.

“I’ll get it,” she said.

“Nah.” Dean caught her hand. “I got it.” He retrieved it, sniffed—“rye and mold”—and, keeping his back to her, tore the bread in half. Cradling the smaller piece in his hand, he passed the other to her. “Doubt this is what they meant by be sure to eat your greens.”

“Ew,” Zahrah moaned as she looked at the days-old bread.

“Remember, ration it.”

She nodded and tore it into four pieces.

Dean slipped his into his pocket. He tucked a quarter-sized portion into his mouth and chewed slowly. Not to savor the flavor but to give the appearance of having more than he did. “When we get out of here, I might kill the next person who hands me a piece of rye.”

“Or sourdough.” Another favorite of their captors.

He knew what he had to do to keep her alive. Knew what he’d failed to do to save Ellen. He’d made those changes. The food. The dry, sometimes dark humor. Diverting the torture to himself. Drawing out the fighters to know what level of firepower to expect when they made a break for it. To cage his heart and harness his mind. Give her something to live for.

There was just one problem. One thing he’d screwed up. One parameter he dropped. One line crossed: He cared.

Somewhere in Afghanistan
18 July—1320 Hours

B
lood streamed in rivulets down the tattooed, scarred back of the Special Forces operator. Captain Dean Watters moaned as he rolled sideways then onto all fours. Hands propping him up, he steadied himself. Glared up through a bleeding temple.

At a dirty sink, Lee Nianzu flipped the knob. Water trickled out then faster. He scrubbed the crimson stains from his fingers. “Take him back. Remember, Captain, it is in your best interest to convince the woman to cooperate.”