Raptor 6 (36 page)

“Captivity,” Watters said, his voice and expression grave as it slid to Lance. “If we do this … we go in … we aren’t coming out.”

Lance took his time responding so he could keep the panic from his own voice. “Yes.” He sat in the chair and motioned for the captain to do the same. “You survived Nemazi once. You knew how to buy their favor and another day.”

Seated, Watters held a hand over his fist, rubbing his knuckles.

“She needs you, Dean. You’re the only one who can bring her out alive.”

Bobbing his head, the man had tension roiling off him like thousand-degree heat waves. “You say I’m the only one who can bring her out alive, but you can’t guarantee that I’ll make it out alive this time.”

Watching Watters wrestle the demons of his past carved a long, deep gouge through Lance’s heart. He’d never
—never
—asked something so personal. “Nobody can, son.” Lance’s heart caught when Watters started shaking his head. Scrambling to think through a line of reasoning to convince this guy … and yet wrestling with the fact that he was—possibly—asking him to lay down his life.

Voice quiet and words raw, Watters said, “You know what I went through….”

Lance said nothing because they both knew that answer.

“They raped Ellen right in front of me.” Stony face. Staring at nothing in particular. “Over and over …”

This time, Lance swallowed.

“They wanted to break me by breaking her.” He leaned forward and propped his right forearm on his knee as he slid his gaze to Lance. “General—” A shuddered breath dragged through Watters. “I can’t watch that happen again.” The clock ticked … ticked … “Not to Zahrah.”

“Then help me get her out of there.”

“I … I have to think about this.”

Disappointment chugged through Lance’s veins. “We don’t have time, son. Don’t be afraid to sacrifice your life for hers.”

After a caustic laugh, Watters got to his feet. “Dying doesn’t scare me. In fact, I think I’d welcome it.”

“Then what is it—what’s stopping you?”

Hand on the knob, gaze on the floor, Watters paused. “Surviving.” It seemed like he was staring into the past. To something painful. “Surviving if she doesn’t. Remembering what I didn’t stop. How I failed to protect her.”

“Failed to protect her …”
This was as much about ‘04 as it was about now. Lance met him at the door. “Dean, what happened to Ellen wasn’t your fault.”

His greenish-brown gaze hit Lance. “Wasn’t it?”

Somewhere in Afghanistan

T
hudding pain hauled her from the stiff claws of sleep. Zahrah lifted her head, blinking through the semidarkness. Hard-packed dirt smeared out in a confusing mural of rock, dust, and shadows.
What…?
She pushed her torso up off the floor.

Searing pain exploded between her eyes.

With a yelp, Zahrah dropped to the ground and clutched her head. With the stab of pain came the recollection: She’d been kidnapped then forced into that tunnel. That was the last thing she remembered. More gingerly this time, she lifted herself. Took in her new prison. Dank and dirty, it reeked. Reminded her of the diaper pails in the nursery at church when she worked Sunday school. Of the slums on the outskirts of Mazar-e, where mothers and children foraged for scraps of food in the waste piles.

A small rectangular window no longer than her leg and not even as wide as her arm stretched along the upper portion of one wall. Grayish in color, no light filtered through. Or maybe that gray
was
the light pressing in against a grimy window.

Propped against the wall, Zahrah felt protrusions digging into her spine. She ran her hand along the surface, feeling the rocks sandwiched with mud. No, too grainy. Maybe mortar? To avoid additional discomfort, she shifted until she could sit without aggravation. Well, the throbbing headache wasn’t going anywhere. What happened to her head? It felt like the pain emanated from the back—

Pain shot through her, like a fork through her eye, as her fingers grazed a spot that felt stiff and hard. More gently this time, she fingered the spot. Dried blood crusted in her hair. A scab at the base of her skull, just above the beginning of her neck. Had someone hit her?

The injury told her she’d been out long enough for the cut or whatever to form a scab. What scared her most was that she had no idea where she was now. How she’d gotten here. Or what … what might’ve happened while she had been unconscious. Mentally, she checked herself, felt no other pains indicating … anything.

Had God protected her in that regard?

I choose to believe You did
.

Like a chilled whisper came the question,
Why didn’t he protect you from getting snatched?

Zahrah struggled to her feet. Thoughts like that would drag her down a sinkhole of depression. That wouldn’t serve her well in escaping or surviving. She had to keep her strength and wits up. Couldn’t do that if she sat being morbid and depressed on the cold floor. Hand on the wall, she walked. The rippling, partially jagged texture of the stone wall gave way to a plastered one. She worked her hands around the area, straining in the darkening light—
it
is
getting darker, isn’t it?
—to see the wall. Was this an interior barrier? Could she somehow break through it, given enough time?

She grunted. She didn’t want enough time—she wanted out!

But no. It was just a wall, so she moved on. Another four feet. She stubbed her toe and turned left. Two steps later, she felt something hard beneath her hand. Cold. Smooth, mostly. Maybe a little rusted. Steel? Her fingers traced the outline of a … “Door,” she whispered. Rats! No handle or lock. Not even braces for her to pry off. It bumped out several inches, but again, nothing to work.

With a grunt, she raised her fist to bang out her frustration. Then froze. No need to draw attention. Let them think she’d died in here.

Keep moving. Keep thinking
.

Four more steps delivered her to the next juncture. She turned left and the smooth gave way to more stone. And then the wall with the window or grayish indention. On her toes, she reached up, fingertips barely grazing the lip. She strained, ignoring the thump against her temples, and—yes! Smooth glass.

Could she clean it? If she did, maybe she could see out, figure out her location. She reached for the hijab—and stilled, remembering her hair, the scab.
No hijab
.

Okay, so no hijab.

Maybe if she just wiped the glass. On tiptoe again, she tried.

“It will not do any good.”

Zahrah flipped around and sucked in a breath. Hands against the uneven surface, she searched for the source of the voice. “Where are you?”

“Here,” the man muttered. “To your left—the cell next to yours.”

Cell? I’m in a prison!

“There is a small hole in the wall.”

Inching closer, still half afraid the owner would jump out at her, she squinted. “How … how can you see me?”

“I can’t,” he said, his voice gravelly and weak. “I hear your movements. I’ve been here long enough, I trust my ears, not my eyes now.”

Dread spilled into her stomach, hot and putrid. “H–how long have you been here?”

“What year is it?”

“2014.”

The man groaned.
“Ya salaam.”
A strange noise filtered through the darkness and stench.

Zahrah stumbled toward the noise, toward where the voice had been. She crouched. “Are you still there?”

The strange noise, almost like . .
. crying
. She used it to hone in on the hole he’d mentioned. Crouched near the base, she found the small opening. No bigger than a small apple.

Her heart clenched.
“Staa num tsa dhe?”
Asking his name wouldn’t cure his broken heart, but maybe …

“Majeeb.”

“
Khushala shum pa li do di
, Majeeb. I am Zahrah.” Sharing names somehow shared hope. That’s what it did for her.

“You sound like my Zuleika—sweet and young.” He groaned and a thumping came from the other side. Was he beating his chest or the wall? “She probably thinks I am dead.”

“How long have you been here, Majeeb?”

“Fourteen years.”

Camp Marmal Chapel
27 June—0630 Hours

Gone was the massive cross that once adorned the exterior of the Camp Marmal chapel, compliments of political correctness gone awry. But Dean didn’t need a wooden cross on the outside to tell him what he’d find inside—solitude.

Sitting on a folding chair, he sat alone with his thoughts. His agony.

He’d vowed—
vowed
—to never go back.

Serving in SOCOM was one thing. Knowingly and willingly surrendering everything and walking into that party—it was more certain he’d be captured than it was he’d walk out unscathed.

Hat in hand, he lifted the snapshot from the inside rim. Ellen had been a blond bombshell in ACUs. She had fire, she had tenacity. He’d admired that about her. Though a specialist like him at the time, she’d taken no flak from anyone, not even commanding officers. Then again, she didn’t give anyone reason to either.

Before her … before watching her … die, Dean had still been idealistic. Even with his messed-up family history, his murderous brother, his druggie sister, he reached for the dream that one day he might want a family. One day he might find that
right girl
.

She’d flirted with him the first day they’d seen each other in mess. His buddy, Will, had the hots for her, so Dean tried to take a backseat. But watching his friend hit on her twisted him up bad inside. He’d been arguing with Will when he drove right into the ambush.

Dean tugged Zahrah’s picture from his pant pocket. Unfolded it. And each fold felt like a wall around his heart. He clutched her picture and clamped his eyes shut. It’d be easier to convince himself not to go if he didn’t stare into those eyes. If he didn’t see her smile.

God … I can’t do this
. Shaking his head, he ripped the Velcro on his tac pant pocket.
I can’t go back there
.

It was ambiguous in terms of location but exact in terms of experience. Feeling that razor-lined strap ripping the flesh from his back. The stinging rod they’d stabbed into his side. The electricity shredding his nerve endings. Even now, he ran his thumb pad along the end of his right ring finger and felt almost nothing, it’d been so damaged by the high voltage.

That’s what they’re doing to Zahrah
.

Again, he clenched his eyes tight. They’d send someone else after her. If he didn’t go, another A-team would be tapped. And that’s better for her. Better for her chances of survival.

But that wouldn’t happen till they discovered her whereabouts. And that might be the day after never. It’d taken them ten years to find bin Laden.

Double Z doesn’t have ten days
.

Trapped … just like that day in the built-in hamper with smelly socks and underwear.

Boom! Boom!

Dean flinched and jerked straight, locking away that memory. Served no one no good. No good.
No. Good
. He saw movement to his right and snapped in that direction. General Z-Day Zarrick stood there. Hands in his pockets, waiting.

Dean shook his head, glad he’d put Zahrah’s picture back already.

“Where’d you get the picture of her?”

On his feet, Dean slid his baseball cap on, determined not to talk to this man. He shouldered enough blame on his own. He didn’t need the deuce-and-a-half that Zarrick wanted to load him down with. He started for the door.

“What can I say to convince you to go in, bring her back?”

Dean slowed. Stopped. “She’s better off without me.”

“What kind of cockamamy line is that?” Zarrick stood next to him with amazing swiftness. “This a pity party? I thought you were a better soldier than that.”

Dean gave a cockeyed nod. The general had just proved his point.

“You sorry piece—she’d be ashamed of you!”

The sword sliced through the last remnant of resolve Dean had.

“You don’t deserve that praise my girl threw around about you.” Zarrick pivoted. Shoved aside a nearby chair. Cursed.