Talon: Combat Tracking Team (A Breed Apart) (28 page)

“Let’s do it.” Watters pointed to two men. “Java, Pops, stay here with coms and maintain contact with base. Watch that feed from Aerial Two. We’ve got air support ready just in case.”

Heart in her throat, Aspen realized this could be her first real op. And her last.

She fell into step behind Timbrel, the captain, and Candyman as they scurried down the stairs. Rock and dust dribbled around them as they moved. Behind her, she heard Cardinal and the other two members of the team—Rocket and Scrip—bringing up the rear. They buttonhooked out of the stairwell and hurried to a rear room.

Two beat-up Jeeps waited.

The doors flung open. Aspen held out her arm and showed her palm to Talon. “Talon, hup! Hup!” He leapt into the back, then she guided him over the seat into the rear.

“Hey.”

The voice, so deep and masculine, drew her around. Cardinal stood close.

“Listen,” he said, craning down, “don’t trust your eyes out there.”

She frowned. “Don’t…what?”

“Trust your instincts”—he nodded to the rear—“and that trained warrior. Understood?”

Okay. Sure. That sounded good, but…“Why?”

“Because eyes are deceiving.”

“Let’s move!” Watters’s bark carried across the makeshift garage.

They left through the rear of the building and jounced onto a side road that pushed through two buildings in a narrow alley.
Just breathe
.
Things are fine
. Even if she was sitting in a Jeep in Djibouti with a team of trained warriors and a man who was, legally, her husband.

Dane leaned forward, a hand clutching the seat. “How many in this village?”

“At least fifty, sixty skinnies,” Watterboy called over his shoulder. The open window made the keffiyeh around his neck flap like crazy.

They talked up numbers and locals and warlords and terrorists.

Aspen’s ears were going numb, and her back, thanks to the Kevlar vest, felt like a warming plate for hamburgers. With each jolt on the axles from the pothole-riddled roads, Aspen felt the heat rubbing her shoulder raw where the vest met flesh.

With the heat at 105, she would have to closely monitor Talon. She glanced back to him and found him panting. Thankfully, Timbrel had known to bring water for Talon. The others seemed oblivious to the needs of the working dog. They wanted him to work yet didn’t know how to properly prep for the op. She dug a bottle of water out of the kit bag and reached over the seat. She uncapped it and drizzled some into his mouth. He smiled at her, his eyes nearly squeezed shut in thanks, then returned to panting.

Easing back into the seat, she tossed the empty bottle in the bag and sat back. Dane was still talking, laughing. He had the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. She’d noticed that the first time they met. It’d made her like him, like his smile. It was that, somehow, that told her she didn’t have to fear him, even though there were times so unnerving she wanted to run away.

He’d been all business this morning and, well, even last night, when she’d made a fool out of herself. He hadn’t exactly laughed at her, but it was close.
“not interested.”

Why?

That was a stupid question. Aspen pushed her gaze out the window, watching the heartbreaking poverty as it slid by. And wasn’t that just the way the world worked? People were starving here, dying of diseases easily cured in America, and the world just slid right on by. She’d known there were places like this, but being here, seeing it, experiencing it firsthand…she really had no clue how bad things could be for a people.

Was Austin out there somewhere? Walking among them? Did anyone know him? He’d stand out. Granted, there was a hefty French population, since this had been one of their territories, but Caucasians were still the minority here. As were Christians.

Laughter drew her attention back.

Dane slapped Candyman’s shoulder. Something akin to jealousy squirmed through her stomach. She wasn’t jealous of Candyman. That’d be crazy. But that he got Dane to laugh…a real laugh, a nice laugh, with his slightly chiseled jaw and that dark dusting of stubble…

“But this man? Is fine. With a capital F
.”

Aspen tucked her chin as Brittain’s words slipped through the hot Djibouti sun and straight into her heart. Yeah, her friend had been right. He was fine, though the word Aspen would’ve chosen started with an
h—hunky—or
a
g—gorgeous
.

“I’m not interested…”
His words resounded like a gong against her pining.

Aspen pushed straight in the seat and shoved off the silliness. The Jeep jounced as it turned onto a strip of dirt that had ruts instead of lane markers. Nausea swirled as she saw the conditions—homes built with corrugated boxes, lean-tos draped with fabric and wobbly steel. That had to be hot during the day. But it’d provide shelter at night.

Beside her came a small whoosh, drawing her attention to the side.

Blue eyes made her stomach squirm. A grim expression stole through his normally stoic face. “This is one experience that never fades, no matter how long you’re gone or how many times you see it.”

Humanitarian, too? Aspen eyed him. With the headgear and camos, his features seemed amplified, stronger. And natural. “How long were you in the Army?”

“Not long enough.” He winked. “And too long on the other hand.” The Jeep slowed and pulled to the side of the road.

Aspen peered through the front windshield as another vehicle bounded ahead. Only when she saw the uniforms did she remember Watterboy had said they were going in as a welfare mission—and that vehicle must have the medical staff.

A few more minutes delivered them into a village of four, maybe five huts, but dozens of people. Skin darkened by the sun and glistening with sweat, they were vibrant in their multicolored garb. Beyond the front bumper a cluster of Djiboutians stood with a handful of soldiers. “National Army?” But the vast majority of the soldiers were white.

Dane leaned forward. Said something to Watters she couldn’t hear, then climbed out of the truck. “Stay,” he said in a sharp tone.

“Bravo, Nightingale One this is Alpha One,” Watters spoke into his coms. “Contact with French Army. Unknown intentions. Hold position.” With that, Watters stepped into the heat. His body still protected by the armored door, he rested his hand on his leg-holstered Glock.

Talon shifted up, his head appearing over the seat as he panted almost in her ear. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re French.” The snarl in Candyman’s words made her hesitate.

“That’s bad…why?”

“Don’t you find the fact they’re here when we show up a mighty big coincidence?” He huffed. “This stinks. Get ready to fight.”

    Nineteen    

I
f it smelled like a trap and looked like a trap…

Fingers itching for the weapon holstered at his leg, Cardinal took in the scene. Though twenty or more villagers huddled in the background, it was the fear on their faces that warned him. Cardinal stood in front of the Jeep, praying he shielded Aspen from view. He wanted her presence made known when he deemed it safe. He scanned the foreign nationals.

Next to the captain stood a man with no rank. Interesting.

“Hello.” Watters said, as he came to the front. “Is there a problem here, Captain?” He seemed as tense as Cardinal felt. Scanning, checking, assessing—just like a good Special Forces soldier.

“No problem,” came the slick-accented reply. “We are visiting the villages.”

“Fancy that.” Watters brought his gaze to the captain. “So are we.”

He waved to the secondary vehicle. Doors opened. Dirt crunched beneath boots. “Our doctors are here on a welfare check and visit.”

“The generosity of the Americans is astounding.” The captain shifted to the man on his right.
“as tu obtenu ce que tu voulais?”

Mentally, Cardinal went on alert. Physically, he kept his posture detached, curious. Hand on his weapon, the other on his hip, he waited for the response from the one who stood a few inches shorter.

Only a quick nod served as the man’s reply.

“Il semble que tes craintes n’étaient pas fondées. Ils sont aussi aveugles qu’ils sont stupides. Très bien. Je vous laisse à votre mission de miséricorde
,
les américains.”

Blind as we are stupid? And what unfounded fears are they hiding?
But he had to play it cool. Play it off. With a quick look to Watters, who shrugged, Cardinal cocked his head. “Come again?” he asked.

The captain held his gaze for a few seconds longer than was necessary. “Forgive me.”

Cardinal would if the request had been sincere.

“I forget myself.” The captain didn’t lie well. “We were just leaving. Enjoy your day, and stay hydrated.” With that he waved to the men, who hustled toward a truck. The French soldiers climbed into the back.

At least, he heard them doing that. But Cardinal honed in on the captain’s little minion, who ducked his head and looked into the Jeep.

Adrenaline buzzed through Cardinal’s veins.

Barking erupted. The Jeep rocked. Inside, he heard Aspen giving commands to Talon, who whimpered, turned a circle, barked once more, then obeyed the command, but tension rippled through the Lab’s coat.

Aspen turned back to Cardinal, and their gazes locked. He went to the door and crouched. “What happened?”

“I have no idea. That soldier looked in here, and Talon just came unglued.” She swallowed, her cheeks flushed by the heat. “What did they say? Talon must’ve smelled or noticed something—were they aggressive?”

The rattle of a diesel clapped out conversation. Cardinal watched as the French made their hasty exit. Just like the French, though—quick to leave. “No, but that’s the problem.”

“We clear?” Watters called.

Looking over the top of the Jeep, Cardinal hesitated. The French wouldn’t have hung around if they had rigged something. Wouldn’t have let their faces be seen when an IED along the road would’ve taken out the Americans in a cleaner, hands-off situation. But something large and unsettling wafted on the hot winds. “Let’s get this done and get out of here.”

“So, it’s safe?”

“It’s never safe.” The French were talking about something, and the stiff-necked response of the minion bothered him. And the words the captain spoke—something was off. But they had a job to do, and they’d better get under way.