Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (5 page)

“Of course.” Sajjan waved a dismissive hand. “Is that not what I am doing here, building the first skyscraper in Kandahar? Bringing industry and money to the city that gave birth to the Taliban? What else would you have me do?”

Aamir leaned forward. “Talk to your sources. Find out who is behind this.”

“
My
sources?” Sajjan feigned ignorance. “Aamir, you give me too much credit. My sources are business and money—”

“I trust that you will do what is possible to help our country.” Aamir stood, straightening his
khet
. “Please, we must. For peace. As Allah wills it.”

“Of course.” As if that saying sanctioned whatever the individual said. Surely he did not expect Sajjan to believe this was for peace, for Allah.

Aamir swallowed. Gave a shaky smile then started for the door. “I knew I could count on you, Sajjan. You are faithful. Just as your father.”

A twinge of anger spat through Sajjan’s veins at the mention of his father, a tactic designed to play on his sympathies. He squelched the thought of slamming this impudent man through the walls. Instead he guaranteed the man’s removal from his home by following Aamir out. After their good-byes, he wandered back to the living area, his mind heavy with the implications of the imam’s words. His insistence of Sajjan’s help.

Across the marble floor, a flicker of movement stilled him.

Dressed in an Army tactical shirt and pants that hid his prosthesis, Nina’s son-in-law sat on the sofa, elbows propped on his knees, fingers threaded. Intelligence lurked behind those pale green eyes. Tony held his gaze for a second then looked down.

Ah. “You heard.”

Tony shrugged. “He’s not exactly quiet.”

With a sigh and bob of his head, Sajjan sat opposite the young man who’d entered his life like a storm and hadn’t let up. But today, right now—the taut lips. The intensity. “You’re angry.”

“Absolutely. That attack”—he pointed to the south with flared nostrils—“was against
my
brothers.” His lip curled as he thumped a hand on his chest. “And that man knows something about it.”

Sajjan rubbed his well-trimmed beard, thinking. “Yes, I believe he does.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Sajjan considered the young man. At least twenty years his junior but with no less fervor or willingness to play the intelligence game. “Me?” He gave a cockeyed nod, smiling at Tony VanAllen. “I’m going to recruit help.”

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
25 March—1930 Hours

R
ich. As sole heir of his father’s fortune, which had a net worth of over two billion dollars, Eamon Straider grew up lacking nothing. Except meaning.

Powerful. Primed and prepped to walk in the shoes of his father, who served as prime minister of Australia, commissioned by the governorgeneral.

War hero. With his own Australian SAS team, he’d earned two Victoria Crosses, which was why he’d tattooed one over his heart. He loved the joint special forces, working with foreign elite warriors like himself. And he had a special place for certain Americans, especially those with Raptor, but his loyalty would never waver from his homeland.

He’d attained every single goal he’d set for himself, save one: marriage. Being a warrior didn’t lend itself well to building a family and being a part of the family. But if his father could do it, perhaps Eamon could. Someday.

He strode toward the JSOC building carrying the heavy burden of bad news. Captain Watters had offered to deliver the news, but they both knew that Eamon had developed… something with Lieutenant Hastings. He should be the one to convey the tragic news.

Inside, he made his way toward the general’s office, noting the lone lamp light burning at the end of the hall. That would be her desk. He held straight and didn’t let himself falter.

A strange, strong odor stung the air. It smelled like antiseptic. He glanced around. Was someone cleaning?

“Oh.”

Eamon pivoted toward the soft voice. His gut tightened, but this time for a different reason.

Lieutenant Brie Hastings stood there in uniform, the ACUs doing nothing to camouflage her figure. But it was her smile, those soft blue eyes, that had him paying more attention than he should. Especially now.

He finally noticed the red around her eyes. And the way she rubbed and folded her hands quickly. That was what he smelled. Antiseptic. But the stink of it was strong. How much had she used?

“I—I couldn’t get the blood off.” Her voice pitched as she went to her desk and dropped into her chair. “Did you… see him? Is he…?”

The way her voice cracked again, her eyes pleading with him, broke his resolve. He eased toward the chair at the corner of her desk. Sat on the edge. Looked at his boots. Couldn’t…

“He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

Swallowing, he met her gaze. Gave a curt nod. “The bullet nicked a main artery. Lodged in his heart. There… there wasn’t anything they could do.”

Her chin quivered as her eyes drifted away, filling with tears. “He’s gone.” A shudder pulled her straight. The grief and brokenness vanished in a strange wave of resolve as Brie pushed to her feet. “Excuse me. I have to contact Command.”

“Hey—”

“They need to know right away that he’s gone.”

“Brie,” Eamon said, taking long strides to catch up with her fast pace down the hall. “Brie, wait.” He caught her arm. Tugged her around.

“Please.” Her word squeaked into a whisper as her blue orbs flicked to his chest.

A wall of protective instincts rose up in him as awareness muddied the waters. Her athletic build still seemed dwarfed when they stood close. He touched her shoulder. “Brie, it’s okay to grieve.”

A tear broke free. Spilled down her tawny cheek. She shook it away. “No, it’s not.” She met his gaze, strength she’d mustered from somewhere deep filling her features.

Eamon angled in, concerned. “He—”

“I can’t.” Vulnerability skated across her pretty face. “Not now.” She drew in another shaky breath, her hands trembling. “I have to…”

“Brie.”

She cupped a hand over her mouth as a sob escaped.

Eamon’s arms went around her shoulders, tugging her close, but she went rigid. Though she let out a few choked sobs, she kept that tight control in place before finally stepping out of his hold.

She gave a nod-shake. “Sorry. Thank you. I…” She looked down the hall. “Oh no.” Her brow twisted into a knot. “His wife…”

“No, leave that for the Army.”

“But she’s his wife! She should know he’s gone.”

“Yes. And she will. But if you call her—who will be there to hold her as she comes to grips with his death? Let’s leave that to special services to make sure someone is there to help her through this.”

She gave a curt nod. “Of course. You’re right.” Brie swallowed. “That’s why you came to me.”

True. He’d known of Brie’s special relationship with the general and didn’t want her to find out alone. Or by anyone else. “He was like a father to you, so—”

“Yes.” Determination flitted into her eyes. “Yes, he is”—she shook her head—”
was
. Which is why I need to honor him by pushing on, finding his murderer.”

Eamon inched closer, itching to hold her. Make everything right. She was tough, strong, determined, and focused. There was a reason Burnett had her as his aide, and it was the same reason that had drawn Eamon into her net, too.

Shoulders squared, hair in that meticulous bun, Brie nodded. “Thank you, Titanis.” She sighed. “I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” He tucked away his misplaced thoughts. The ones that had him feeling like a scolded schoolboy. A billion dollars, a yacht, a powerful father, an outstanding military service record. But the one area he desperately wanted to succeed… instead, he walked into a landmine field of rejection.

CHAPTER 4

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
26 March—1300 Hours

G
rief was the vicious enemy of progress.

Sal sat in the squeaky chair at his desk, elbows on his knees. Head down. Barely visible from his position, the office down the hall sat ominously closed up. It seemed to epitomize death with the way it alone sat darkened when all other lights glowed and tinkled.

When Burnett was around, the door was open and more than just the lights glowed. Hope. Progress. Sal lowered his gaze, remembering the general. Remembering his caustic wit that could be easily taken as mean. But to those who knew him, he was a balls-to-the-walls kind of guy. Gut it up and get it done. He didn’t put up with crap, and he didn’t dish it out either. With Lance Burnett came solid, honest, hardworking ethics. Sal had lost an anchor in life. He knew if he got off center, the general would yank his butt back in line. Give him what for and tell him to straighten up or ship out.

Now he was gone. Murdered on a tragic, deadly night. Right in front of his own soldiers. Right out his office door, practically.

“Who do you think will replace him?” Hawk asked, boots propped on the legs of his chair and head against the wall.

Sal leaned back with a heavy sigh. He didn’t even want to think about that. Denial did nothing except prevent forward momentum, yet the idea of facing new brass, new leadership, when they needed to nail this terrorist who’d attacked Raptor and Kandahar Airfield… “Just better be someone good.”

“Hooah.” Hawk dropped forward in the chair, noticeably changed since his trek through the snow-riddled mountains. He had settled into himself, and Sal somehow felt the loudmouthed guy earned some respect and space. “Someone who knows what’s going on.”

“They will.” Quiet and firm, Dean’s words pulled Sal’s gaze to where the captain sat, face awash in the blue haze of his computer screen.

“What’re you reading?” Sal asked.

“Reports from the attack.”

Sal glanced at his own desk, at the files stacked up. He’d gone through them a couple of times already, looking for anything that provided a tip on the deadly attack against CECOM. Found nothing. “What about the prisoner?” He could put a little of his frustration to rest by introducing his fists to the guy’s face.

Dean yawned as he slumped back and checked his watch. “Should have an answer by fourteen hundred.”

“We should’ve already had
immediate
access.” Sal pushed to his feet. “Why did Ramsey stall us anyway?”

“DIA’s interviewing him.”

Interviewing. That was a nice word for what actually happened in those meetings.

“Let’s hope it’s an aggressive talk,” Hawk said with a gleam, one that matched what Sal felt.

And that scared him to be this keyed up. This ready to cram a rocket down someone’s gullet.

The front door swung inward, throwing bright afternoon light across the Command building. In stormed a bevy of brass—more than one might see at a range. Sal straightened, giving respect to the officers who streamed in.

“Captain,” General Ramsey stepped from behind a colonel and extended a hand to Dean. He was a good ten to fifteen years younger than Burnett and had a truckload of intensity about him. Probably why he was balding and gray.

“What is that smell?” Hawk muttered, his gaze flicking to the newcomers hanging near the door. SEALs—squids. Riordan. Schmidt—the one who’d fought Hawk at the hookah bar. And a handful of others.

Sal gave Hawk a warning look to keep the tone neutral with officers on deck. But when he turned, Cassie had joined the group. He hated himself for thinking it, but he’d been hoping that she’d vanish with Burnett gone.

“Captain, if we could have a word with you and your team.” Ramsey moved toward the briefing room without waiting for a reply, the officers and squids following him like a wake of rotten fish.

“Guess we’re about to get answers,” Hawk muttered as he sidled up to Dean and Sal.

Harrier, Titanis, and Knight were with them now, too.

“This feels wrong.” Sal couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how hard he tried.

“Keep it calm,” Dean said, giving everyone a firm look. “Discuss later. Just hear them out.”

“Who keeps bringing the stale fish into the house?” Hawk complained as he made his way into the room, shouldering past the SEALs and taking a seat.