Raptor 6 (50 page)

Watters seemed to hesitate.

“What’re you thinking, son?” Lance sensed the burden the guy carried.

“If we’re wrong—it’s hours wasted.” His gaze roved the map, the options. “But I don’t have any better ideas.”

“Uh, guys?”

Watters and Russo turned toward Black, who hadn’t spoken or engaged on this planning session. He held up a piece of paper. “Just came in on the fax.”

Lance took it. Stilled. “Is this some kind of joke? Where’d it come from?”

“Don’t know. Fax just spit it out.”

Watters frowned and nodded toward the paper. “What is it?”

“It’s an address.” Lance tossed it to Watters. “For the factory.”

“We’re not buying this, are we?” Watters scowled as he looked up from the paper. “How the heck did they know …?” His gaze skidded around the room.

Lance glanced around, too, feeling hairy spiderlike legs skittering up his neck. The mole. But only the team was here. “Get your team and head out to the factory.”

“But—”

“Now, Captain.” Lance tugged out his phone as he glared at Watters.

Ticked, Watters seemed to finally get the hint. “Suit up!” He started for the doors.

Lance waited till the men left then walked to the door, flipped the lock, and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hastings, get me a sweep team.” To the half-dozen service members in the briefing room, he met each of their gazes.

“All right, people. Settle in. It’s going to be a long night.” Which one had betrayed them? Who would face charges of treason against the United States? He set his hand on his holster. “Nobody’s leaving till I’m satisfied and we have a mole strung up.”

Balkh Province, Afghanistan
30 July—1720 Hours

W
hat do you think?”

Dusk huddled over the structure that was neither familiar nor unfamiliar. In fact, it looked like a dozen other structures Raptor had entered or passed during missions. Abandoned, in disrepair. “I don’t know. I was kept belowground.”

“Then let’s go belowground,” Falcon said.

“Hooah.” Dean nodded to the team and resisted the urge to remind them of everything they’d discussed en route: They’d hacked off her hair, and the man they’d ID’d as Nianzu on the video was her captor. All others should be held for questioning if Zahrah wasn’t found.

Heat and humidity chased them out of the MRAP and down the eerily empty street. Falcon had point, with Hawk behind him.

“Cameras on.” Hastings’s voice came through the staticky coms.

Dean reached up and activated his helmet cam. “Raptor Six Actual.”

“Copy that, Raptor Six.”

As they stacked up by a main door, the others followed suit with the cams. DIA and CID wanted as much intel as they could gather without getting their hands dirty. That was fine with Dean—less people in the way. If he hadn’t been here—wherever “here” was—he’d be back watching from the other side of the monitor.

“Going in,” Falcon said.

Parking lot vacant, doors hanging at angles, half-blown walls. None of it familiar. But he hadn’t been topside, except maybe when they dragged him in—unconscious.

Positioned at the rear, Dean held his M9 up. Heartbeat whooshing in his hears, he prayed
—begged
—God to let this be it. Let them find Zahrah. Get her back alive, safe, unharmed, no more than she had been when she walked out of that cell.

They streamed into the darkened halls. The thick air told him there’d been no circulation in here for a while. He waited, itching to be active the way Falcon and Hawk were as the leads on this mission. Cursed Kamran for disarming him, almost literally, and breaking his hand. Didn’t matter. They were trained to use both hands, so breaking one wouldn’t disable the operator. Besides, he sure wasn’t going to let a fracture stop him from completing this mission.

Three rooms were cleared as Dean waited in the hall, watching the main entry point, listening, attuned to the movement of his team.

“Clear.”

A tap on his shoulder told them they were moving farther in. Dean pivoted and trailed the guys through a set of double doors. To the right, a hall presented itself. Straight ahead, a half-dozen more doors.

Falcon led the team to the right, clearing the rooms one after another. Dean trailed them as they moved, fluid. Swift. Room one …

They’d find her. He couldn’t lose that thought, that hope. She was counting on him.
“I love you, Dean.”

He tripped.

Hawk eyeballed him as they made egress. “You okay?”

Dean nodded. He’d heard what she said but hadn’t
heard
. Until now. Burdened with a sudden responsibility to honor what she felt, to honor her, Dean vowed he would find her.
God, You know where she is, and she believes in You—and your plan—resolutely. Let me be a part of that plan. Let me find her
.

He turned the corner, the other five still moving without hesitation. As he took a step toward the first room, his gaze struck a steel door. No sign. A broken knob. But what really snagged his attention were the parallel lines in the dirty floor leading beneath the door. Drag marks.

Dean waited as the team moved to the next door then eased closer to the barrier. Stood on the drag marks. His heart galloped. “Found something,” he whispered into his coms.

Hawk and Falcon were on him in seconds, and in their eyes he saw that they understood. The team stacked up, everyone knowing they could open the door and it could blow. Or they could face a dozen armed gunmen. Or … emptiness.

Falcon fingered the knob. Twisted …

The door eased open.

Falcon nodded to Hawk. Then flung it open. Hawk rushed into the open area and cleared it. “Stairs,” he whispered.

Heart in his throat, Dean stepped forward. A gust of warm, stale air hit him. Flooded his senses with memories, and alarm. “This is it.” Adrenaline spiraled through him, his heart pounding and begging for a good ending.

They hustled down the stairs, expecting with every step for someone to move into the open. Shoot.

When they didn’t, each step grew more ominous. What he wouldn’t do to have his M4 in hand. They stacked up at a corner. Dean strained to hear a sound. A step. Crunch of boots. Chatter. A hinge squawking as they’d done when he was here less than twenty-four hours ago.

Hawk and Falcon turned the corner, pieing out to cover them as Harrier and Titanis moved in. Eagle right behind him then Dean. As he stepped into the new corridor, a cold rush of dread spilled down his back. This was definitely the right place. But it was dark. Empty. Abandoned.

Resisting the urge to rush past the men, cast off the life-saving clearing procedures, Dean eyed the cell. “First door, left.”

Hawk looked at him. Stilled.

“That’s the cell.”

Falcon and Hawk took up position. Breached. The others flooded in. Dean couldn’t move, afraid she was there. Dead.

“Clear,” Hawk said, still in the cell.

Pulling in a ragged breath, Dean nodded to himself. She wasn’t here. Good and bad. He crossed the threshold. Searched the shadows. Beams of light from the guy’s shoulder lamps bounced and bobbed. Dean aimed his at the corner where they always sat. Where she’d professed her love then walked out as the sacrificial lamb.

“You’re sure this was it?”

Stunned to find it empty, Dean nodded. “Yes.”

As the others searched the building, Dean couldn’t leave the cell. Couldn’t shake the memories. The time with her. The thought of never seeing her again. He crouched against a wall, staring at the last spot they’d occupied together. Part of him still wanted to throttle her. Together they had a chance. Now … now it was all multiple guess.

She’d placed an incredible trust on his shoulders, believing he could find her. Believing he had what it took to get her back before it was too late.

So get moving, soldier!

“Captain.”

Dean came off the wall and followed Hawk out of the cell.

“Found another flight of stairs.” Hawk hustled up the flight of steps. “Team found just what you described—the gaping hole.”

At the top of the stairs and to Dean’s left, a platform of sorts just ended. Beyond it lay a cavernous room. “The factory floor.”

“Nobody’s here,” Falcon said as he emerged from a room where a table sat.

“… a computer on a table …”
The words Zahrah had spoken pulled him into the room. He walked the circumference, imagining her here. His boots crunched—then popped. Dean stepped back and lifted his boot to see what he’d stepped on. Something blue peeked up at him. He crouched and reached for it, stilling halfway there.

Turquoise. The bead was from Zahrah’s bracelet that Rashid had given her the day at the funeral.

“Find something?” Hawk asked.

“A bead,” Dean said, straightening.

“Double Z had a bracelet like that—the kid gave it to her after the funeral, right?”

Dean glared at Hawk.

Hands up, Hawk chuckled. “I was there the same day you were.”

A door groaned and then thumped.

Hawk frowned.

Dean spun to the dirty window. Smashed his casted arm into one of the square panes. Outside, someone raced across the field toward a vehicle. “Got a rabbit!”

“Step back,” Eagle said as he swung his sniper rifle into position at the window.

“We need him alive!”

Balkh Province

F
alcon and Hawk sprinted out of the room.

Eagle didn’t falter. Two large, powerful strides carried him away from the door as he simultaneously took aim.

Seconds fell off the clock as Dean backed toward the exit, not willing to leave Eagle alone, but also not willing to lose the only person who could tell them where they’d taken Zahrah.

Crack!

A scream racked the air.

“Let’s go,” Dean shouted.

Eagle swung around and they both bolted down the hall. A glare of light streaked down the hall from the left. Dean chased it, breaking into the open in what felt like a heartbeat.

Dust plumed like a halo around a tangle of bodies.

“He’s hit,” Hawk said with a grunt.

Harrier sprinted toward them, already shrugging off his pack as he ran. He slid into them.

By the time Dean reached them, Harrier had a tourniquet around the leg of the man, who was laid out, tears streaming down his face as he reached toward his maimed leg that was missing a hunk of flesh.

Holstering his weapon, Dean glanced at Eagle.

Eagle gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He’s alive.”

On a knee, Dean leaned over the local. “Where did they take the woman?” he asked in Pashto.

Face screwed tight in pain, the man shook his head, crying.

Dean grabbed his collar. “Where is the girl?”

“They—” Arching backward, he gave a bloodcurdling scream. Then passed out.

Disgusted, ticked, and just plain exhausted, Dean stood. He shuffled toward the rusted-out Ford nearby. Kicked the fender. Kicked the tire. Every opportunity ripped out from under him. Every chance to succeed, he’d been defeated. Whatever chessboard God was up there playing with, Dean wanted to topple it. He bit down on a curse.

He got a good look at the guy from this angle and recognized him. “He was one of the guards.” In fact, Dean remembered—this guy had been the one who brought Zahrah back after they’d hacked off her hair. “Let’s get him back to the base. If we can get him drugged up, he might talk.”

“How long do we have if she’s cooperating?”

“She’s not,” Dean snapped.

On a knee, Hawk secured their prisoner’s hands. “I’m not a cyber-geek, but I imagine no more than twenty-four hours.”