Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (2 page)

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
25 March—1705 Hours

F
ire ruptured the black veil of night. A pillar of orange and yellow roared upward, thirty meters, leaving a trail of smoke, ash, and debris in its wake. Metal groaned and heaved, collapsing in exhausted defeat. Screams ripped the air, their primal howl propelling him across Kandahar Airfield.

Warrant Officer Salvatore “Falcon” Russo sprinted with every ounce of strength he had toward the burning inferno that had been the U.S. Army’s Communications-Electronics Command building. The very building that held the key to unearthing the mole and those responsible for the attacks against the U.S. military’s super-secure network.

Gunfire popped amid the crackling growl of the blaze. Behind him the thud of boots reassured him that Raptor team was hot on his heels.

He shoved past a group of soldiers and airmen ogling the scene. Irritation skidded through him.

“Stop staring and start helping!” he shouted and kept moving toward the garish scene.

Hastily abandoned vehicles, debris, and moaning victims turned the parking lot into an obstacle course. Sal navigated through it, gaze locked on the facility. Injured stumbled from sections not yet fully consumed by the fire or decimated by the initial blast. A soldier hustled from amid the flames, his arm hooked around another soldier.

“What’s the sitrep?” Sal asked.

After helping the woman to the ground, her hands bloodied an angry red, the man straightened, his ash-smudged face shaded with shock as he studied the burning structure. “Uh… not good.” He swiped a hand along his forehead, leaving a dark streak. Blood. “Probably ten or twenty still… inside… inside our area. I d–don’t know about the other.” He swayed.

Eamon “Titanis” Straider appeared behind him, catching the guy by the shoulders and easing him down. “Careful, mate. You took a blow to the head.” The Australian SAS corporal knelt over the man, cradling his head as the man relaxed on the ground.

Sal pivoted, gauging the best way to help. He spotted a fire tech grabbing some gear from a water tanker and rushed over to him. “What can I do?”

“Stay out of the way! It’s too hot. The building’s unstable.”

“But there are people in there.”

“Our men are on scene. If you go in there, that’s just one more body we’re digging out later.” Three sets of firefighters struggled against the blaze that felt angry and personal.

Turning away, Sal bit back his frustration. Able to help yet unable to help. A shriek of pain drew his attention to the field of injured. Triage. Ambulances loaded wounded. He heard medics talking about sending some off base to the NATO hospital because they were quickly maxing out medical capabilities here.

Across the base, a chopper descended as an ambulance raced toward it. Para-jumpers—PJs—were responsible for providing emergency and life-saving services to airmen, soldiers, and civilians in both peacetime and combat environments.

Captain Dean Watters jogged toward him with a thrust of his chin, asking without words what was happening.

“They don’t—”

A loud cracking mingled with a tinkling sound that snapped Sal’s gaze toward the building. Near the fully engulfed area, a chair clattered across the ground. Sal looked to the window, which was now shattered. A man teetered precariously on the sharp glass, trying to haul himself free.

He stumbled.

Sal launched himself toward the injured airman. Even before he reached him, the bloody situation knotted Sal’s gut. Amputation by explosive. Below the knee, the guy’s leg was missing. Blood pooled around the guy’s stump.

On his knees, Sal ripped out his combat application tourniquet.

“Hey,” Dean shouted. “We’ve got an Alpha over here!” He bent over the man. “Stay with us. Okay?”

The airman groaned.

“I’m going to check on him,” Dean said, pointing to another person laid out a few yards away.

Sal continued working, sliding the C-A-T up around the guy’s leg, tightening the strap, and securing it back on itself, blocking out the sticky warmth coating his hands now. He then used the free winder and tightened it until the blood flow slowed. With a hemorrhaging loss like this, it didn’t surprise him that the flow didn’t completely stop. He tugged off his belt and used it as a secondary tourniquet.

The airman let out a feral howl then bit down and arched his back. He slumped like a limp rag with a pitiful moan.

“Hey,” Sal said, checking for more injuries. “Where are you hurting?”

Only another low moan.

“Hey.” Sal shook his shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“J-Jason.”

“All right, Jason. Tell me where you’re hurting.”

“Everywhere… my leg.” Jason rolled his head side to side, now whimpering. “Give me something and knock me out, man.”

That was exactly what they didn’t want. Had to keep him conscious till the PJs or medical staff took over. “What happened, Jason? Do you know?”

Boots pounded toward them.

“Jason, can you tell me what happened?”

The airman whimpered. “Blue on Green… blue. One of… ours—” His eyes rolled.

“Jason! Hey!”

Two PJs moved in with a stretcher, and Sal backed away to let them do their job and get Jason to the hospital within the golden hour. He glanced at his hands then wiped the blood on his tac pants. Not the most sanitary method, but in combat situations, time was against them.

He squatted before the woman. “Hey, where are you hurting?”

She sighed, tears trickling down her cheeks, marking dark rivulets against her skin. She shook her head. More tears sped down.

Shock.

“Hey.” Sal touched her shoulder then let his hand slide down her arm to surreptitiously assess her for injuries and a blood check. “What’s your name?”

Unblinking, she stared at the building.

Sal cut into her line of sight. But she still wasn’t seeing him.

“She injured?”

Depended on the definition of
injured
. Some wounds weren’t visible—the notorious kind that inflicted more trauma on the mind than the body. Sal looked up at Mitchell “Harrier” Black, Raptor’s medic, and shook his head. “Shock.”

Harrier moved on.

A clipped, incessant crackling—not hard like the fire, but softer—sifted through the chaotic night to Sal’s awareness. The woman’s moans pulled his attention back. He wrapped his arms around hers and tried to draw her up. “Let’s move you to safety.” Away from the gruesome scene.

The staccato noise broke into his awareness again. This time louder. More insistent.

Sal glanced over his shoulder. Twenty feet away, he spotted Sergeant Grant Knight running after his military working dog, Ddrake, an impressive German shepherd who worked off-lead. Ddrake vanished around the side of the CECOM building.

Suddenly Knight pulled up straight. Drew his weapon and aimed in the direction his dog had vanished.

Knight and Ddrake needed backup. With one last look to the woman, Sal touched her shoulder. “Move to the fence.” He pointed her toward safety then took off toward the MWD/handler team.

“On your knees, on your knees,” Knight shouted, his weapon trained on someone. “Now or I will give my dog the command to take you.”

In a wide arc, Sal rounded the corner, pulling his M4 up. There, not more than fifteen feet away, a man wearing an Afghan National Army uniform stood in a standoff, half poised to run.

Sal took a bead on the hostile. “What’s going on?” he asked Knight, backing him up.

“Ddrake hit on him.” Knight hadn’t relaxed. “He’s PEDD. Something’s wrong.”

Patrol Explosives Detection Dog. That meant Ddrake detected the scent of explosives on this man. Or a similar chemical scent.

A secondary hit? Sal tightened his shoulders. Considering the burning building beside them…

“Blue on Green…”
Jason’s earlier words speared his mind. The code for attacks on American troops by their trained allies, the ANA. Like this man in front of them.

His heart shoved into his throat. “Down! Down on your knees, hands up,” Sal shouted in Pashto, Dari, then Farsi.

The man reached for something.

Sal couldn’t wait any longer. Couldn’t risk another attack. He coiled his finger against the trigger.

“No shoot,” the man shouted, thrusting his hands in the air.

No way he’d relax. Not now and end up in a billion pieces. “Hands!” Sal inched closer.

The man pitched forward, a tiny explosion ripping through his chest.

“Shooter! Taking fire!”

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
25 March—1735 Hours

Suffocating and fierce, a wave of heat roiled across her shoulders.

Lieutenant Cassandra Walker cried out and pressed lower to the cement floor, living her childhood nightmares of dying in a fire. She coughed against the thick smoke clogging her lungs. Might as well have sandpaper in her eyes—the ash rubbed and burned, forcing her to blink rapidly. She tried to see. Futile against the blanket of smoke. The inferno seemed to have a demonic presence, pursuing her as she sought escape.

Eyes closed, she let her fingers direct her as she probed the floor, which was still a bit cool. She crawled forward, listening not to the thundering panic of her own pulse but to the howl of the fire and the cackle of the flames. As if they mocked her. She’d rushed over here away from
him
. Away from the searing truth Sal had thrown at her. Right into this scalding nightmare.

“Nothing needs to be said. You know what you did. So do I… I never want to hear anything from you again…”

She pushed forward, but her fingers grazed the warmed surface of a filing cabinet. Scrambling around it, she kept moving. Had to get out. A few more paces and she hit a wall. Fear morphed into panic as a deep groaning vibrated against the floor.

Cassie hesitated, listening. Daring to look up. Like some Hollywood CGI image, the roof glowed beneath the power of the flames. A center section bowed inward.
Oh snap
. Her stomach dropped as the ceiling seemed to grope for her.

She threw herself to the side, struggling to remember the layout. Where the doors were. Where the exits had been located.
C’mon—you got here because of your wits. Now, use them!

Whoosh!
The beam’s impact blasted hot air across her face. Fanned the flames, which rushed up the walls, surrounding her.

She scrabbled backward.

Thumped into something. She glanced down, but the thick black smoke proved an impenetrable barrier. Fingers tracking across the—hands! Someone’s hands. “Hey!” she shouted—inhaling a lungful of smoke. A coughing fit wracked her. She doubled over, leaning to the person’s chest. She shook them and shifted around. Something thumped against her hand. Instinctively, her fingers coiled around it. A water bottle!

Grabbing it, she started untucking her shirt. Ripped a stretch off. Doused it with water and tied it around her face. It’d buy her a little time.

She bent to the person again. “Hey,” she said, more carefully this time, nearly pressing her nose to theirs.

Only then did she register the eyes. The brown eyes. The
dead
brown eyes.

With a cry, she clambered backward. Lowered her face to the floor, fighting back a pitiful sob.
God, I gave this to You back then. Will I never live it down?
She’d hoped to talk to him, at least ask his forgiveness, but Sal wouldn’t talk to her. Now, she’d die with his anger following her into the grave?

“Walker,” came a distant voice.

She lifted her head. Where had that come from? “Here!”

A form swam amid the smoke, on all fours.

She didn’t care who it was. As long as it was someone. Someone
alive
.

When the familiar face solidified, Cassie froze. “What are
you
doing?” It was ludicrous to look around. But she did. “You
can’t
be here.”

He hooked her arm around his shoulder and held her wrist as he guided her to the right, away from the dead body.

Exhaustion and smoke inhalation weighted her limbs. “If they see you—”

“Don’t talk.”

She let her head lob against his shoulder, surprised to find him wearing a fire-resistant jacket. Where had he gotten that from? Though it felt like an eternity, they finally navigated into a hall that had less smoke. When he lessened his hold, she stumbled.

His grip tightened, hoisting her up. Twenty feet ahead, she could barely make out a door. Oh! And above—an exit sign. Her heart leapt. Almost there! Almost able to feel the cool breeze on her face. Filling her lungs. She shot him a look as he reanchored his arm around her waist. He nodded. Took a step.

A steel joist crashed through the ceiling, delivering a greedy stream of fire.

Pain spiked through Cassie’s temple. Blazed across her shoulder, followed by a trail of strange warmth. She felt herself falling backward. Thrust out a hand to steady herself, but only met hot air. She landed with a soft thud against him. He grunted but was already coming back up.

On her feet, she followed his lead, clambering over the hot joist. An electrical wire hissed and popped at them like an angry copperhead.