Raptor 6 (25 page)

Exhausted and defeated, he swam. Pushed himself to the ends of his strength and mental abilities. When he crawled up on the beach, the sun had set. Darkness loomed. He hiked down to the pier, retrieved a pack planted there earlier, and changed in the shadows. He was alive. His men were alive, as far as he knew. Good things. But that’s where the good stopped.

This failure, this defeat felt as if he’d taken a bullet straight to the heart. Though he couldn’t explain why, he knew today would prove to be a
catastrophic
failure.

In the pack, he felt a buzzing. He rifled through the contents and dug out the throwaway flip phone. He opened it. His heart vaulted into his throat at the message:

COMPROMISED. GET OUT OF COUNTRY.

H
ow ya doing, son?”

Todd looked at his father. Then at the beautiful brunette sitting in a rocker on the back porch with his mom and good friends while he stood here by the hot grill. How was he doing? Besides having his heart ripped? Going to bed every night wondering if she’d be there in the morning? Afraid their adventures would end badly, either in an accident that cut their little time together short or if she collapsed….

He turned back to the sausages and turned them.

“I’m proud of you. The leave you took from the Army, the way you’ve been here 100 percent for her—”

“Should’ve done this years ago.”

“Nah, don’t do that to yourself. You had a job, so did she.”

“Maybe.” Todd trained his attention on the grill, on the heat plumes, on the smoke, on anything other than this conversation. “But my job took me away from her.” He closed the lid so the smoke would seep into the meat. “She wanted to start trying for a baby last year.” Now there’d be no baby. No Amy. His life would be empty.

His fingers closed around the handle—tight.

Something splatted his face. Todd twitched and swiped it away.

Water?

Another splat.

He turned. Amy stood there with a bazooka soaker. She laughed.

“Ha. Ha. That’s enough—I’m grilling.”

She didn’t stop.

“Amy …”

Pumping that thing at him for all she was worth.

Todd set down his grill tongs and launched himself at her.

Dropping the water machine gun, Amy squealed. Sprinted around their guests. Todd navigated the table of food and the lawn chairs, sailing clear over one that held a friend’s four-year-old son.

Amy zigzagged and raced around toward the barn. Into the waist-high grass. Laughing hysterically, Amy slowed. A lot. He caught her shoulders.

She tripped. Went down.

Todd cringed, frantic she’d get hurt. He dropped beside her but quickly realized, with her laughing gasps, that she was fine. He crumpled beside her. “All right, Rambette.”

Laughter bounced her chest against his.

The wave of grief came stronger than ever before. He didn’t want to miss her laughter. Didn’t want to miss chasing her through the fields. Didn’t want to miss her feistiness.

“I am your prisoner, Mr. Special Forces.”

He couldn’t help the grin. This was their private joke. “I guess I’m going to have to torture you.”

A twinkle glittered in her blue eyes, just the same as on the night of their honeymoon.

Todd leaned against her and kissed her. “I love you Amelia Celine Archer.”

“Hey,” someone shouted. “You still have guests over here, you know.”

“Reminds me of our wedding night. The guests just wouldn’t go home.” Amy ran a hand over his short hair. “I’ve always loved your reddish-blond hair. Your beautiful gray-blue eyes.”

“I’ll tell my parents they did good.”

She laughed again.

He smoothed her hair from her face. “I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Hey.” She held his face. “No.” She kissed him. “Regrets.” Another kiss. “Todd.” “Amelia?”

At the sound of her mother’s voice calling uncertainly, Amy groaned and rolled her eyes. “You’d think I was still living at home.”

Todd pushed to feet and held his hand out. “C’mon. Meat’s probably burning.”

As they walked, he dusted off his pants. Seeing the amused and yet thoroughly pleased looks their friends shot them, he announced, “The aggressor is subdued, ladies and gentlemen. No regrets!”

A collective gasp and widened eyes followed.

Todd glanced to the side. Amy lay on the ground. Unconscious.

Palma de Mallorca, Balearic Sea, Spain
14 June—2010 Hours

L
egs trembling, he made his way into the dark alleys. Toward the empty warehouse that had been their “last resort” option. Their only way out. Jaxon promised to have a van and driver there to ferry them to a private airstrip that would give them a hop to U.S. Naval Air Station Rota in Spain. From there, he and the team would get back to Mazar-e. Their cooperation with Jaxon and his wife was over. They wouldn’t see them again. Had to be that way.

Compromised. How? What happened? They’d had nothing identifying. They’d been brutally meticulous and careful. How could so much go wrong so fast? Had they been betrayed? But by whom? And why?

The musty stench of rotting food and sewage, that sour, pungent smell that makes eyes water, swarmed him. Choked him. Much like his failure, it wouldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t escape it.

No weapon. No passport. Life hanging on the lone thread of hope that Jaxon would make good on his word.
You’re trained for this
. One way or another, they’d get home. But there was a piece of him that wanted to lie down and give up.

Until an oval face and brown eyes swam into his mind’s eye. Was she alive? If he gave up, who would protect her?

Who’s protecting her now? No one
.

He pushed on, refusing to surrender to the gloom.

“Hey.”

His feet tangled. He shifted and leaned against a wall, not moving. Hoping whoever saw him would ignore him.

“Raptor,” the voice hissed. “Inside. Quick.”

It took seconds to register the voice—Falcon. Dean flopped around, strained to see in the dark alley. Slowly, his vision adjusted and he spotted his buddy. He shoved off the wall and hustled toward him.

Falcon hauled him in. “Van’s here. Waiting on Hawk then we’re good.”

Dean nodded and climbed into the van. He dropped against the vinyl seat and slouched. Rested his head against the window.

“How long do we wait?” the driver asked.

“Till he comes,” Dean growled.

It took fifteen minutes for Hawk to show up, his shirt plastered to his bodybuilder frame with sweat. He sprinted into the van. “Go, go! They’re following me.”

The van lurched out of the warehouse and careened down the alley without lights.

Ping! Tink! Crack!

“Shooter,” Dean said.

But they couldn’t do anything. No weapons. No identities. Their only option—escape!

Dean gripped the driver’s seat as they whipped around a corner. Barreled down a crooked road. The van screeched right then launched onto a busy street.

Searching the road behind them, Dean sought their pursuers. Nothing but more of the same—cars, lights, and the normal congestion of tourist nightlife.

“We need to get out of here,” Falcon snarled.

“We’re fine. No more tails,” the driver said as he wove in and out of traffic, zipping through the crowded streets.

Fifteen minutes of running red lights and avoiding pedestrians delivered them to a private airstrip and to the droning noise of a prop plane. They crowded in and were airborne almost before the door could be secured. A half-hour flight had them touching down on another airstrip where a Seahawk waited.

“It’s good to be home,” Hawk shouted as he jogged toward the helicopter that had a small contingent of armed operators protecting them.

Dean could almost breathe easy as he slid onto one of the canvas seats. They were ferried to Rota air station. There, they were immediately put on a C-17 Globemaster III back to Afghanistan.

Head back, he closed his eyes. Forced himself to walk through what happened rather than fall asleep. He hadn’t just failed. They’d floundered, lost a man, and two were wounded. Technically, Dean didn’t qualify his scratch as a wound, but it’d get logged in his AAR, and that didn’t sit well with him. Guilt plagued him. What could he have done differently? Could he have stopped Ashgar from the suicide mission?

“Sir,” someone shouted.

Dean flinched and opened his eyes.

A private stood over him with a sat phone and shouted over the din of the engines. “You’re ordered to code in ASAP, sir.”

Right. Because yelling into a secure line on a troop transport made sense. But if he didn’t, he’d never hear the end of it. Phone in hand, Dean freed himself of the crowded row and made his way to the comfort pallet, where he stepped into the walled-off latrine closet. Shoulders practically rubbing the walls, he leaned back against the door and coded in. Dean wasn’t small, but he knew someone like Hawk would probably get stuck.

“What in Sam Hill happened down there?” Burnett’s voice ricocheted through the receiver.

“That’s what I’d like to know, sir.”

“Two people got shot, our target is dead, and all of Majorca is screaming.”

Dean gritted his teeth.

“Well?” Burnett barked.

“They were on us from the second we set down. It was like they knew we’d be there.”

“And how in this sick planet would they know that?”

“Again, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“Are you blaming me, Watters?”

“Negative, sir.”

“You sound ticked.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean’s pulse amped up. “We were ambushed. My men were put in danger. Lives were lost. Operatives were compromised. The target ate a bullet so he couldn’t be forced to talk.” He held his forehead. “It was a waste of time. Sir.”

“Well, get back here. We need to sort this thing out.”

“Roger that.”

“I’ll start with Ramsey.”

“Good enough, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“How—?” Dean clamped his mouth shut, startled at what was about to escape his lips. Would not go there. The general already had a noose around Dean’s neck. He didn’t need to give him ammo, too.

“What?”

“Nothing, sir. I’ll code in when we’re boots on ground.”

“Good.” Burnett’s huff carried through the line. “By the way, she’s fine.”

Dean’s eyes slid closed. He gave a nod but said nothing. Couldn’t voice how big that weight had been that lifted from his shoulders.

“Get some rest. Full debrief at 0800.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s fine….”

Breathing in deeply, he rested his head against the wall. His prayer had worked. God kept her safe. Roughing a hand over his face, he thought of the dream. The one where little Ara Mustafa morphed into Zahrah Zarrick. The images, the possibility of that happening, punched a hole in his gut. No way he could live with that. Why wouldn’t she just trust him and go back?

He saw it in her eyes that day of Ara’s funeral. The conviction that told him she wouldn’t leave because she believed in something. And Someone. It’d angered him. Frustrated him. Scared him.

He snorted. He’d been scared a lot. But not like this.

Why? She wasn’t anyone to him except a missionary teacher.

But she was the only missionary teacher he’d wanted to spend time with. Learn about. Get to know better.

“Call me to make sure I’m still alive.”
The sarcasm of her words had annoyed him. It wasn’t a joke. She could end up dead. Even now, though Burnett gave reassurance that she was fine, that information was old. It’d take just a split second for that to change. And still … he wasn’t close enough.

He considered the phone in hand. What if something
did
change? What if Burnett hadn’t been right? Thirty-four thousand feet above the earth, Dean couldn’t do a thing to keep her safe. The walls closed in on him. Reminded him of another time when he’d been powerless. Scared. Unable to fight back.

Shots banged through the house. Shouts. Screams
.

“Donny, no!”

Bang! Bang-bang!

Even from his darkened closet in the bedroom, Dean heard the screams. Heard the howl of death. Felt the sting of betrayal
.

Feet pattered to his room
.

He drew his legs closer. Tighter. Curled against the wall, the phone clutched in his hand. Prayed against all odds his brother wouldn’t find him
.

The door swung open
.

He sucked in a breath
.

“Dean—”

A rap against the door startled him. Dean straightened, his thoughts slamming shut with the weight of a steel vault. He drew in a breath and exited. Nodded to the specialist waiting then waded through the sea of bodies and wedged in between Hawk and Falcon, the two snoring loud and long.

Dean thumbed the keypad again.