Raptor 6 (5 page)

“Every day.”

“Right?” Falcon cut right around a hut with a burned-out roof and carried the team down the main street—“paved” with dirt pounded into a hard surface by years of foot traffic, beasts of burden, and vehicles.

Dean’s mind buzzed with the unspoken warning Burnett had given by suggesting an early ETA. They’d been working with the villagers to provide medical care for the last several months. Alternating arrival times to avoid stepping into a pile of trouble. But for Burnett to suggest it—well that
suggested
anticipated danger.

Stretching his jaw, Dean scratched his beard. Just another few weeks and he’d shave it for his leave Stateside. Mrs. Elliott didn’t like beards. But then, she didn’t like that she now stood nearly a foot shorter than the young man her husband had taken under his wing. He smiled, remembering her taunts and teasing, but mostly—her love and prayers for him.

“Thought we’d stroll into Mazar-e on our way back.”

Dean snapped his attention back to the Falcon. “What?”

“Hooah!” Hawk shouted from the back. “Get me some girls!”

Dean would scowl at the live wire, but it’d only fuel the fire. He thumbed toward Hawk. “That’d be a bad idea, unleashing him on an unsuspecting city.”

“Need to get him one of those choke collars,” Harrier put in.

Laughter trickled through the mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicle.

“Hey.” Titanis eased forward, stabbing a finger toward the front, between Dean and Falcon.

Dean squinted past the glare the sun cast against the tan paint to see what the Aussie indicated. “What?”

“Trucks. I just saw trucks.”

He shot a questioning look at his engineering sergeant. “You sure?”

“I know what a truck looks like, Commander.”

Relatively new to Raptor, Titanis didn’t have the casual comfort Dean had with the other members of the team. But his intensity, his penchant toward perfection and accuracy, brought a much-needed element to the team since losing Candyman.

“Pull over.” Dean pointed to a street two blocks north of where the team normally conducted the clinics. “Eyes out.” With that, he climbed out into the sun-drenched afternoon, lifting his M4 from the strap and cradling it as he scanned the street.

“Anything?” Falcon asked.

Tracing the buildings’ walls, doors, shadows, Dean didn’t detect a threat. But he also couldn’t ward off the foreboding sense prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “Nice and easy,” he said as he walked the narrow road.

“This sucks.” Hawk walked a cautious but steady pace.

“Quiet.” Dean advanced, taking everything in. But that was just it. The streets should be filling with people heading to the clinic. Instead, only dust and dirt clogged the streets.

“I should be a half mile out and a dozen feet up.” Broad-chested and well built, the team sniper seemed tense. More so than usual. Then again, Eagle always preferred higher ground and laying prostrate with his sniper rifle. But the threat level didn’t warrant that. “You know what …” Eagle slung his carbine around to his back and turned down an alley. He hoisted himself up onto a wall and reached for a rooftop ledge.

“Cover him,” Dean said.

Titanis and Harrier took up positions as Eagle climbed.

A teen rounded the corner, not six feet from Hawk. The teen’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath. Spun. And sprinted.

“He’s running,” Hawk growled. He glanced to Dean. “Why’s he running?” With that, Hawk lurched into a sprint.

To warn someone!

Dean joined the chase. “Stop him!” Behind him, he heard the pounding boots of Falcon, who darted past him despite the seventy-five-pound gear strapped to his back.

“Eagle, you got eyes on our boy?” Dean keyed his mic, rushing forward, eyes and brain processing every shadow and movement.

“Roger that.”

“Where’s he headed?”

Seconds pounded off the clock. Dean took a corner. Down the main alley that led to the “community center,” which was simply a cement-block building erected by the team. One more turn and he’d have it in view. “Eagle!”

“Taking fire! Taking fire!” Falcon shouted through the coms.

A heartbeat too late.

Dean rounded a corner. The world blurred into slow motion. He saw it—a dozen or more fighters had taken position around the truck. M16s, AK-47s, handguns spewing bullets. Hawk and Falcon on the ground, returning fire at a cluster of three trucks parked in front of the building they’d used for a clinic.

Dean skidded to a stop. His boot slid on the dirt. Out from under him. He landed. Hard. Pain jolted through his backside. Shots pelted the wall. The small structure to his right seemed to spit dirt and cement at him. He palmed it, trying to gain traction and backpedal.

Dean rolled out of sight and pressed his spine against the cement brick wall. “Eagle, I need me some eyes in the sky.”

“Roger. Two dozen men. Loading up. In a hurry. Armed.”

No joke
. “Locations!”

Hawk scrambled for cover with him. Lifting his arm that exposed a gleam of red on his sleeve, he glowered.

“Can we take them?” Dean asked.

Falcon dove into them. Together with Hawk, Dean dragged him the rest of the way to safety.

Hawk slammed a grenade into the tube. “Yeah.” Now Hawk’s grin seemed greedy.

Gears ground. Axles groaned.

“They’re leaving.” The tight, controlled voice betrayed nothing to the uninitiated. To the initiated—like Dean—Eagle was ticked.

Trucks lurched.

“Not on my watch,” Hawk ground out.

Dean peeked around the corner.

Cement smacked him back.

He nodded to Hawk. “Do it!”

Angling his M4 around, Hawk took a bead on the first truck. Fired a grenade through the launcher.

It struck the engine. A fireball erupted. Men poured out like ants from a doused anthill. Dean watched, confused. But just as quick, the men climbed into the other trucks that sped away. He started forward.

Bullets ate up the ground.

He threw himself against another building, one closer. Keyed his mic to ask Eagle to level the playing field. As if a blanket had dropped over the village, quiet reigned. Dean cautiously waited. He circled a finger in the air, giving the signal for the team to group up.

They treaded the road, hugging buildings so they didn’t get turned into Swiss cheese approaching the truck.

Sidling up, Dean waited for the others. Falcon angled out in the open, ready to neutralize any threat. Hawk took a knee, watching their six. Sweeping around, Falcon came to the side. Nodded to Dean then yanked back the flap.

Heart in his throat, Dean snapped his sights into the back. A breath whooshed out. Nothing. No one. “Clear.” He moved with purpose and precision toward the cab of the truck.

The door hung open.

Falcon shook his head, anger fueling in his dark eyes. “Clear.”

Dean turned back to where the street funneled down the hill. He looked in the direction of their team sniper. “Eagle, you got anything?”

“Negative.”

“What the heck was that about?” Hawk might as well stomp his feet. “I got shot for … what?”

“Raptor, someone’s in the building.”

The words were a swift kick in the chest. Dean flanked the door with Falcon and Hawk, who lost his mouthy objections in the heat of another potential conflict. Falcon took point kneeling at the door, gloved hand on the rusted knob.

Adrenaline rushes never got old. Dean gave a nod.

Falcon flicked the knob and threw back the door.

Dean hurried over the threshold and went left, pieing out with his carbine as he moved. The room sat open and empty, save the bank of tables used by the team to line up those in need. A curtained-off area served as examination rooms and surgical area, though only outpatient surgeries took place here. As he swept back toward the door, cheek pressed to his weapon, he waited till his line of sight struck Falcon’s on the right.

Hawk streamed through them, making a line straight for the curtained area.

As he trailed his coms guy, Dean noted the stacks of papers on the table. Kept moving. Expecting. Ready.

“Get down! Get down!” Hawk shouted, his weapon trained on someone.

Dean hurried forward. A man—no, the teen who’d sprinted away from the team—went to his knees, hands up. “Please … I not bad.” Tears spilled down the youth’s dirty cheeks.

“Why’d you run?’ Hawk demanded in Pashto.

“They pay me to watch.” The teen ducked, shame ringing his dark, dusty features.

Hawk cursed.

“Get him up and find out what he knows.” Dean pivoted and returned to the table. Boxes of papers … wait … no. There were spiral-bound documents on the table, but the box … He tugged back the flap.

“Oh God, help us.”

Mazar-e-Sharif
27 May—1245 Hours

M
ockingbird, this is Raptor Six Actual.” Swiping a hand over his beard did nothing to stave off the doom planting itself on Dean’s shoulders as he held the secure sat phone to his ear.

“Go ahead, Raptor Six.” General Burnett’s voice boomed through his coms. It meant one thing that he answered and not Hastings: Burnett
expected
trouble.

“Your warning paid off. There were armed Taliban here. They had trucks and men.”

“No surprise.”

Frustration strangled Dean. “No, sir. But what I found is.” He stared at the box again.

“Go on.”

“A SCIF-in-a-box, sir.”

Burnett huffed. A loud thud carried through the connection. “How in the name of all that’s holy did they get one of our secure computers?”

“No idea, sir. But it’s here.” Dean flipped open one of the spirals. “And they have manuals.” He thumbed through it. “Pages are missing, but it’s pretty close.”

“Get it back to the base. Wait for me there. Show nobody—and I mean
no one
. Am I clear, Captain?”

“Yessir.” Dean stuffed the phone into his pocket and velcroed it. “Move out.”

“Hold up,” Hawk said as thumbed over his shoulder. “The clinic.”

“Not this week.”

Lips tight, Hawk cocked his head. “Hey, man. These people can’t control when terrorists get stupid. The villagers need medical attention.”

“Harrier will have to play Florence Nightingale’s brother next week. General ordered us back to Bagram.”

Hawk held up his hands. “Give us an hour.”

Dean let out a huff. Noticed the people gathering at the clinic. “Eagle, Falcon, bring the MRAP.” He slapped Harrier’s chest. “One hour.”

Kohistani School, Mazar-e Sharif
27 May—1345 Hours

Clouds broke away from the sun, throwing sunbeams across the hard floor. In silence, the young girls worked on their handwriting, heads bowed over their papers. Three to a desk seemed cramped by American standards, but the Afghan girls in her class were so happy to attend school without fear of reprisal that the proximity to their classmates didn’t bother them.

Zahrah walked the room, fingers threaded in front of her as she made her rounds. She touched a paper and admonished one student to watch her spacing. Writing English was as important as speaking it.

Back at the front, she folded her arms and glanced at the clock. “Thank you, children. Pass your papers to the front. Remember your reports on your favorite person are due tomorrow.” She accepted the papers from the students on the end and then smiled. Her heart thumped in heady pleasure. Teaching these girls, assuring they could communicate effectively—her dream had come true! “Thank you. Have a good evening, and may God bless you.” She’d gotten away with the blessing because
God
could be interpreted many ways. In her heart, she knew whom she meant.

The girls thanked her in unison then filed from the room. Zahrah turned to her satchel and slipped the stack of papers in, alongside math worksheets. When she turned, she stilled. And smiled inwardly. She would not let the little girl know she was on to her. “Ready for tutoring, Ara?”

The doe-eyed child sighed. “Yes, Miss Zarrick.”

Zahrah moved to the bench seat in front of Ara’s desk. “Okay, let’s go over the lesson one more time.” She shifted to sit beside the girl, being sure her voice carried well enough to the door and hallway where she knew the girl’s older brother listened—learned. He’d been too proud to accept teaching and instruction from a woman, let alone an American woman. Yet he was here. Hungry to learn.