Running Fire (30 page)

“You have a degree?” Leah blinked. Why wouldn't he? Kell was intelligent.

He gave her a half smile. “I'm a physician's assistant. That's one rung below being an MD. I'm a combat corpsman and I've always liked helping people who were sick or wounded. I talked to my counselor at the university in San Diego and she said that with my background, I could get hired anywhere in the US.”

He frowned. “There's a shortage of doctors here in our area. As a PA, I can work under a doctor, but be free to diagnose, treat and write prescriptions for my patients. It's something I want to do, Leah. I like helping people, and maybe Ma being a registered nurse was a defining influence on me. I was talking to her before dinner tonight and she was telling me our local hospital is desperate to hire a PA. And,” Kell added, hope in his voice, “she said they're expanding their services to add a medical helicopter. They're looking to hire two pilots. Maybe you might consider applying for it?”

A good kind of shock rolled through Leah. She eased out of his arms and turned around, their hips meeting as she looked down at his peaceful features. “Move back here?”

He shrugged. “Would it bother you to do that?”

Her mind whirled with so many questions, so many emotions. Leah knew how important family was to Kell. And how important it was to her. “When is your enlistment up?”

“A month from now.”

Leah wrapped her arms around her legs, drawing them up against her chest as she considered his ideas. “Would the hospital wait a month until you got out?”

“Ma told me to call the administrator on Monday morning and go in and meet with her. She feels they would hold the position open for me if they knew I'd accepted their job offer.”

“Wow,” Leah murmured, shaking her head, drowning in his dark, thoughtful expression.

“Do you want to fly when you get out?”

“I'd wanted to, yes, but hadn't given it much thought.” Until now. “I have to earn money. I can't sit at home and expect you to carry the load, Kell.”

He reached out, trailing his fingers down across her back. “If you want to stay at home, Sugar, you can. I'll be making very good money. Enough to support the two of us very easily. We aren't going to be in financial stress at all.”

Leah bit her lower lip. “What if...what if I told you I wanted a baby, Kell? I'm twenty-nine years old and I'm not getting younger. I sat in your parents' kitchen today thinking how wonderful it would be to have a baby. That baby would get so much love and attention from your parents, from you and me...”

Kell sat up, leaning against the headboard, drawing Leah into his arms. When her head came to rest on his shoulder, he whispered, “You will make an incredible mother,” and he kissed her lips tenderly, with all the love he had in his heart for her. Leah might have been cheated of love growing up, but Kell knew in his soul she'd shower any children they had with all that love she held in her huge, giving heart. “I'm very open to making a baby with you,” he whispered against her lips.

“Really?” Leah stared into his eyes, her heart bounding with hope.

“Really.”

Leah drew in a serrated breath and kissed Kell with everything she held in her heart for this man. She could feel him smiling, felt the tender way he grazed her temple and cheek with his fingers. Kell would make a wonderful healer. Who knew that better than her? He'd helped her heal from festering wounds she'd carried around all her life. His love had opened them up, allowed them to drain and then sutured them closed, making her realize she was worthy. Drawing away from his strong mouth, she whispered, “Let's do it. I want to stay home, Kell. I want to make us a home. I love to cook, and Mary can teach me what I don't know.”

“Then you're ready to hang up your wings, Sugar?”

Leah slid her hand across his sandpapery cheek. “I'm ready to fly in another way, Kell. Only this time around, you'll be my wingman.”

“That sounds like a doable plan,” Kell murmured, easing her down on the bed, sliding against her warm, soft body. There was such peace in Leah's shadowed eyes now. Kell saw joy in them, the way the corners of her mouth drew upward, the hope burning in them. Never had he wanted to give her anything more than what he saw reflected in her wide, lustrous eyes. Leah was so brave and yet didn't see it, but he did. “Then,” he murmured, placing small kisses along her hairline, “we should use the time we have here to start looking for a house to buy.”

“I like that. A big house, Kell. With a huge kitchen like Mary's.”

“You can have anything your want, darlin'. I want you happy.”

She moved her hand up his hard, muscled arm. “Will you miss the SEALs?”

“I'll miss my friends. I've given my service to my country. Now, I want to give it to you. To our growing family.” Kell splayed his large hand out across her belly. “And I want to be there for any children we have, not gone most of the time.”

His hand was warm, strong, and Leah could feel Kell's support in his eyes, his voice and his touch. “I want you near. I want you home every night.”

“I'll be there,” Kell promised, sliding his arms around her, holding her close. Holding her forever.

* * * * *

Don't miss Lindsay McKenna's next HQN, NIGHTHAWK, available soon!

Keep reading for an excerpt from TAKING FIRE by Lindsay McKenna.

“A treasure of a book…highly recommended reading that everyone will enjoy and learn from.”
—Chief Michael Jaco, US Navy SEAL, retired, on
Breaking Point

If you loved
Running Fire
don't miss the rest of Lindsay McKenna's thrilling Shadow Warriors series:

Taking Fire
Never Surrender
Breaking Point
Degree of Risk
Risk Taker
Down Range
Danger Close

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CHAPTER ONE

T
HE
SEAL
TEAM
BELOW
, where Marine Corps Sergeant
Khatereh Shinwari hid in her sniper hide, was in danger. The June sun was almost
setting in the Hindu Kush mountains of Afghanistan. Khat made a slow, sweeping
turn to the right with her .300 Win Mag rifle along the rocky scree slope. She
spotted fifteen Taliban waiting behind boulders to jump the four-man SEAL team
climbing up the nine-thousand-foot slope.

Lips thinning, Khat watched the inevitable. She knew the team
was looking for Sattar Khogani, the Hill tribe chieftain who was wreaking hell
on earth to the Shinwari tribe. Her tribe. Her blood.

Pulling the satellite phone toward her, she punched in some
numbers, waiting for her SEAL handler, Commander Jim Hutton, from J-bad,
Jalalabad, to answer.

“Dover Actual.”

“Archangel Actual.” Khat spoke quietly, apprising Hutton of the
escalating situation. She shot the GPS, giving the coordinates of where the
SEALs were located and where the Taliban waited to ambush them. She asked if
Apache helos were available.

No.

An A-10 Warthog slumming in the area?

No.

A C-130 ghost ship?

No.

A damned B-52 on racetrack?

No. All flight assets were tied up with a major engagement to
the east, near J-bad.

“What the hell
can
you give me, Dover?”

Khat was only a Marine Corps staff sergeant, and her handler, a
navy commander, but she didn't give a damn at this point. Four good men were
going to die on that scree slope really soon.

“No joy,” Hutton ground back.

“You're going to lose four SEALs,” she snapped back in a
whisper, watching through her Nightforce scope. “Do you want another Operation
Redwings?”

She knew that would sting him. Four brave SEALs had walked into
a Taliban trap of two hundred. They were completely outmatched and without any
type of support because their radio failed, and they couldn't call for backup
help.

It had been one of the major reasons she'd gotten into her
black ops activity and become involved. Khat didn't want any more fine men
murdered because a drone wasn't available, or a satellite, or a friggin' Apache
combat helicopter.

More men had died that night when a hastily assembled QRF,
Quick Reaction Force, was finally strung together out of J-bad. The MH-47
Chinook had taken an RPG, rocket-propelled grenade, into it, and it had crashed,
killing all sixteen on board. More lives were wasted. She had cried for days
after it happened, unable to imagine the tragedy inflicted upon the families
involved. None of their husbands, brothers or fathers were coming home.

It can't happen again.
She wouldn't allow it. Khat
knew without a sat phone, radio calls into this area were DOA, dead on arrival.
The radio call would never be heard. She wasn't sure the leader of the patrol
had one on him.

“There are no assets available.”

“You said this team is out of Camp Bravo?”

“Affirmative. I'm initiating a QRF from Bagram. But it will
take an hour for them to arrive on scene.”

“What about a QRF from Camp Bravo?” Khat wanted to scream at
this guy to get off his ass and get involved. Sometimes she wondered why they'd
given her Hutton. He was a very conservative black ops handler. She wished she
still had Commander Timothy Skelling, but he'd just rotated Stateside. Hutton
reminded her of a slug; as if he didn't know what to do quickly, when
pressed.

“I'm calling them, too. They can be on scene, providing they
aren't already engaged elsewhere, in thirty minutes.”

“Roger,” she said, her voice hardening. “Get a call patched
through to that platoon and warn them.”
Like fucking yesterday.
She
felt her rage rising. It always did in situations like this. She didn't want to
lose Americans.

“I've sent a call over to Chief Mac McCutcheon of Delta
Platoon.”

“I'm waiting five minutes,” Khat growled. “If I don't see that
team stop and hunker down for an incoming call from Bravo, I'm engaging. The
least I can do is warn off the SEALs, and they'll take appropriate action.”

Shifting her scope, she saw more of Khogani's men sneaking up
on the other side of the ridge. There had to be twenty of the enemy in all.
Smaller boys with the Taliban group held the reins of the horses far below the
slope. Sweat ran down her temples, the heat at this time of day unbearable.

“Archangel, you are
not
authorized to engage. Repeat.
Do not engage. Your duty is to observe only. Over.”

She cursed Hutton in her mind. “Roger, Dover Actual. Out.” She
hated Hutton's heavy, snarling voice. All they did was spar with one another.
To hell with him.

Khat wasn't about to take on thirty or so Taliban with one
sniper rifle. But she could fire some shots before the muzzle fire from her
rifle was seen by the Taliban. They would be fourteen-hundred-yard shots, and
she set up to take out at least two or three of the hidden tangos. A .300 Win
Mag didn't have a muzzle suppressor. Khat knew she could become instant toast
when the sharp-eyed enemy spotted her location.

In the back of her mind as she checked elevation and windage,
she knew Hutton would get a QRF up and pronto, if one was available. A quick
reaction force would be needed because she knew Khogani's men would attack these
four SEALs. Camp Bravo, a forward operating base, sat about thirty miles from
the Af-Pak border, near where she was presently operating.

She knew SEALs carried the fight to the enemy, but sometimes it
was wiser to back off and wait another day. Frustration thrummed through
Khat.

Settling the rifle butt deeply into her right shoulder, her
cheek pressed hard against the fiberglass stock, she placed one of the Taliban
in the crosshairs. They were in a rocky stronghold waiting to spring the trap on
the unsuspecting SEALs. Khat wished she could contact the team directly. She
didn't have their radio code because it changed daily. And that's what she'd
have to have in order to call that lead SEAL and warn him of the impending
ambush.

The SEAL patrol members were all carrying heavily packed rucks
and wearing Kevlar vests and helmets, which meant they were going to engage in a
direct-action mission. Usually, she saw some patrols with SEALs wearing black
baseball caps, or field hats, their radio mics near their mouths and carrying
light kits, making swift progress toward some objective in the night.

Not this patrol. These guys were armed to the teeth. The lead
SEAL's H-gear, a harness that held fifteen pockets worn around the man's chest
and waist, held a maximum load of mags, magazines, of M-4 rifle ammo where he
could easily reach it. These guys knew they were going into a firefight. But in
broad daylight? Who authorized that kind of crazy mission? SEALs worked in the
dark of night to avoid being seen by the enemy. It was rare they would be out on
a daylight mission. What a FUBAR. Whoever put this op together was crazy.

Taking a deep breath, prone on her belly, she was glad she had
on a Kevlar vest so she wouldn't have small stones biting deeply into the front
of her chest. She had a 24X magnification on her Nightforce scope and could
clearly see in the late-afternoon sunlight the man she'd chosen to kill.
Glancing at her watch, she had two minutes before those five minutes were up.
Hutton had better damn well have gotten his SEAL ass in gear.

The sun's slant was changing. Khat patiently watched her
target. Every once in a while, she'd twist her head, glancing toward the SEALs
slowly making their way up the steep slope. They blended in, but the Taliban had
sharp eyes like her.

Two minutes.

Nothing from Hutton.

Nostrils flaring, Khat settled the scope on the nearest man
holding an RPG casually over his shoulder. There were seven tangos in total who
had RPGs. That was more than enough to kill these four SEALs. And they were a
hundred feet of being in range of them. Slowing her breathing, she sighted, her
finger brushing the two-pound trigger. Exhaling, she allowed her lungs to empty
naturally. There was a one-second beat between inhale and exhale. The snipers
referred to it as the still-point. And that is when she took the shot.

The booming sound of the .300 blasted through the silence. The
jerk of the rifle rippled through her entire body. Khat instantly shot again.
And a third time. She released the spent mag and slapped in another with the
butt of her palm. All the Taliban targets went down. Jerking her rifle around,
scope on the SEALs, she saw them instantly flatten out against the rocks. They
were looking in
her
direction!
Damn it!

She didn't have to wait long. RPGs launched, even if out of
range, toward the SEALs. Khat swung the scope toward the Taliban. A number of
them were angrily pointing her way. Yeah, they had her location. But she was
fourteen hundred yards out of range, and those SEALs were four hundred yards
from the enemy. Were they going to send tangos after her or not? Her heart
started a slow beat as she scoped the enemy. There was confusion among their
ranks. They were yelling at each other.

And then her blood iced. There was Sattar Khogani, the young
punk of twenty-four years who'd just taken over his father's leadership as chief
of the Hill Tribe. His father, Mustafa, had recently been killed by a SEAL
sniper. She'd celebrated. Sattar was in the center of his commanders, too short
to take a shot at.

There were a lot of arms and hands waving, and she could see
his lieutenants yelling and pointing at the SEALs and some pointing in her
direction. Who to go after? She was counting on that confusion among the
enemy.

Smiling grimly, Khat settled down again, muzzle and sights on
the Taliban. She heard the throaty answer of the SEALs M-4 rifles as they
engaged, firing off careful shots at the Taliban hidden behind the walled, rocky
fort.

Not waiting, she began to fire into the crowd of Taliban
officers, picking them off. Her shoulder felt bruised after firing nine rounds,
the buck of the Win Mag terrific. Below her, her hearing keyed on the SEALs,
they continued to return fire, spread out in a diamond formation on the scree to
protect their flanks.

The Taliban suddenly surged out of the fort, waving their
AK-47s, firing wildly at the SEALs. The RPGs were launched.

Khat swung her rifle, sighting on the closest man, taking him
out before he could lob an RPG into the SEAL team. Damn! There were too many for
her to stop! Cursing softly, she heard the RPGs explode. The pressure waves
reached her, but she was spared, hunkered down a hair beneath the ridgeline.

Khat couldn't look to see how the SEALs were doing. She was
taking out the enemy systematically, one at a time. There were more than thirty
of the enemy and it seemed more and more arrived, and they started realizing
they were caught in a deadly crossfire.

Khat pulled out two more mags of three bullets each. She
released the spent mag and slapped in the full mag, settling in, swiftly looking
through her sites. She saw one man shoulder the RPG. She shot before he did.
Sweat was rolling down her face, burning into her eyes, making her blink, her
vision blurring momentarily. With a hiss, she remained focused, continuing to
pick them off.

The Taliban grudgingly retreated.

Khat waited, taking a deep breath, watching them through the
scope. Lifting her head, she checked down the slope at the SEALs. They were
quickly retreating in diamond formation. Smart guys.
Get the hell outta
Dodge because you are way outnumbered, guys...

Wiping her face with the back of her cammie sleeve, she quickly
focused on the stone fort. More hand waving and shouting among the Taliban
officers. The group had just lost half its men. More fists waved angrily in the
air.

Sattar was still surrounded, and she couldn't draw a bead on
him.
Damn.
She'd really like to take out the little bastard. Partial
payment for what his sick monster father had done to so many innocent young boys
and girls over his one-year reign as chief. He'd turned into a sex slave trader,
and had so many young Afghan children kidnapped and sold across the border in
Pakistan. She hated Mustafa, and she was sure his son was going to pick up where
his sick sexual-predator father left off.

* * *

M
IKE
T
ARIK
ORDERED
his men to retreat.
He'd made calls to Camp Bravo, finding out the QRF was out on another run in the
opposite direction from where they were located. There were no flight assets
available. Worse, no drone or satellite was available over their area to
understand the field of battle.

They were essentially blind in the fog of war, and engaging a
much larger force than was anticipated. And they were caught out in the open on
the scree with no place to hide.

Breathing hard, he kept watch over the other three men that he
had responsibility for. Their comms man, Ernie, couldn't raise shit in this dead
zone. The sat phone he had in his ruck had taken a bullet earlier. They were in
a bad situation. The only thing they could do with the sun setting was retreat
and then melt into the landscape of darkness and wait for pickup sometime later.
They
had
to get off this scree ASAP.

Tarik heard a scream. Then more screams. He was playing rear
guard to his men, higher on the slope than they were. Lifting his M-4, he saw at
least fifteen Taliban charging them. Fuck!

He moved backward, slipped and fell among the rocks. Rolling,
he managed to hang on to his rifle that was clipped to a harness across his
shoulder and chest. He stopped his slide at the edge of the ridge, a
hundred-foot drop into a wadi, or ravine, below.