Raptor 6 (16 page)

“SCIF,” Hawk whispered, eyes wide.

Dean nodded, his gaze on another door. He pointed to the table. “Photos.” He signaled to Knight to follow him as he moved to the next door. Angling toward it, he listened. A strange thrum oozed from the space beyond.

He sent Harrier to secure the first door, then once it was closed, Dean and Hawk breached the second. Hustling right, he pied out to ensure there was no threat. The night vision’s green illumination marked squares atop dozens of tables.

Hawk’s curse, though a whisper, carried like a rocket and echoed the tightening in Dean’s gut. A dozen or more SCIFs-in-a-box stared back. Dean hurried toward the closest one, traced its outline. Verified it. Then … His gloved finger found a hole. Heart thundering, he rushed to the next. Another hole in the side of the box.

Hawk caught on. Saw the same thing.

Drill holes.

Ticked, Dean stared at the room. At the representation of a lethal, imminent threat against the American military. Those drills holes meant someone was hacking. But it also meant that amateurs weren’t doing this. Drill holes meant someone knew the DOD’s largest network for transmission of classified information was tamperproof. If they tried to remove the outer casing, the box would pretty much render it useless. Self-destruct.

Hawk hissed more curses. “Do you know what this means?”

This … this … if they broke the code, so to speak, the entire American military could be taken down. Every mission compromised. Every operative endangered.

Get out. Get out. Now!

“D’you get pictures?”

Hawk nodded.

“Clear out.”

“We can’t leave these!”

“No choice,” Dean ground out. He keyed his mic again. “Mockingbird, this is Raptor Six.”

Static crackled in his ear. “You are not cleared for chatter.”

“Copy that. We need Glory One and three packages at our location in ten.”

“Negative, Raptor Six,” the response finally came. “You are ordered
not
to engage and clear out.”

Rapid footsteps silenced Dean as he turned toward the noise. Hawk and Knight slipped up alongside the door. Dean joined them. They couldn’t engage. Knock the guy out then run like crazy. The steps were getting louder. In the seconds before the man would appear, Dean darted through options: killing the guy would raise alarms. So would knocking him out.

Again—no choice. Optimal success would include escaping without the man knowing they’d been here. Second runner-up would be exiting without the man being able to raise an alarm, though when he came to or was found unconscious, they’d know someone had been there.

“Psst!”

He shot a glance to his three. Hawk stood by an open window, waving him that way.

Dean sprinted and, with more stealth and grace than he’d ever thought he possessed, threw himself through the window. He rolled through the landing. Came up, hearing the slight scrape of the window as it closed. On a knee and shielded, he covered Hawk, Harrier, and Knight as they bolted out of the compound.

Camp Marmal, Mazar-e Sharif
02 June—1023 Hours

A
rmed with information and a really ticked-off attitude, General Lance Burnett stalked into the command office of General Ramsey.

Peering over his glasses, the sixty-something man continued scribbling on a stack of papers. “How d’you like life in the desert, General?”

“Hate it,” Lance admitted. “But I like being where my men are and where intelligence isn’t lost in translation.” He let the insinuation hang in the air. Ramsey hadn’t gotten to this station by missing innuendos.

Ramsey tossed his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “I’m still trying to figure out how you ended up with a black-ops team.”

Lance shrugged. “Why not? You have spooks.”

The man’s face was a wall of granite—but a dark shade that colored his expression. “What do you want, Lance?”

“You know what I want to know.”

“Maybe there’s a reason you don’t know.”

“I deserve an explanation on this, since I have more clearance than you.”

Leaning forward, Ramsey, a man who stood no more than five-eight and had a mound of grayish-white hair, folded his hands. “Clearance doesn’t fight wars. Soldiers, sailors, airmen—”

“I don’t need a lecture.”

“You need something. You’ve sent your men into hostile territory without being fully informed.”

“Ah, there again is that information I’m missing. The reason I haven’t been informed—care to enlighten me?”

“All you had to do was ask.”

“Ask what? Your permission to send my men where they needed to go?” Lance’s blood pressure boiled. “You’re messing with lives, thousands of them.”

Ramsey said nothing. Did nothing.

“There are a dozen SCIFs out there—”

“I’m late for a meeting.” Standing, Ramsey lifted his head cover. “Good day, General Burnett.”

Lance shoved to his feet. “Son of a biscuit box!” He stormed out of the command office and stalked down the hall after the general. “If one more man gets hurt, I swear on my mother’s grave, you’ll answer for this.”

Ramsey stilled. Turned. “There is
no
danger.” His gaze slid around the open room where a half-dozen desks cluttered the space. Wide-eyed grunts pretended not to hear the exchange. “There are things you don’t know. Never will.” His lips tightened. “And let’s remember that
I
am in command of efforts in this country. Go back to the Potomac and push some paper.”

Lance drew up beside the general. “A dozen secure computers with drill holes and you’re going to sit there and say there’s no danger?”

Ramsey hesitated, uncertainty lurking in his muddy eyes. “They saw them?”

Could strangulation under duress be expunged from his record?

“Actually set eyes on the boxes?”

“Haven’t you been listening?”

Pivoting, Ramsey said, “Come with me.”

Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province Afghanistan
03 June—1408 Hours

Arms folded, Dean stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, watching the interrogation in the middle of the warehouse. The fully bearded Afghan sat with his hands cuffed to the chair and legs secured. A cut on the man’s cheek looked fresh. “Where’d he come from?”

The prisoner’s muscles and whimpers trembled.

Sal glanced at him, dark eyes ripe with conviction. “The village we visited.”

Dean snapped his gaze to his friend.

“Apparently, the boxes were more lost than originally thought. They sent in a team, extracted him, and blew the place sky high.”

With a snort, Dean shook his head.
So much for “do not engage.”

Dampness thickened the air, left over from the early morning rain. A bright light shone in the man’s face, glinting off the sweat from the humidity.

“Where did the boxes come from?” an interrogation agent asked.

“I know nothing,” the man muttered, not lifting his head. Bloody spittle dribbled down his chin.

Dean sighed. They’d been at it for an hour. The interviewer clearly planned to wear the guy down through exhaustion and redundancy.

“I know you were there, know you saw things—”

“No. They kept me outside. Would not allow me in the building.”

“What building?”

Skittish eyes bounced to the questioner.

The interrogator chuckled. “See? Guilt shows in your eyes. You do know what I want.” He leaned forward. “There were what, fifty men in that compound?”

“Seventy,” the suspect countered.

Game over. He’d given information without realizing it, which meant the beginning of the end. They’d worn him down. If the guy would cooperate that easily, this shouldn’t take much longer. Though Dean could think of a thousand other things more entertaining, he stayed. And though this setting smothered him with some seriously bad memories, he wanted to know everything this man knew. He was the enemy. Playing ball with an even greater, shrewder enemy. Secretly, Dean wanted to be the one to hunt down whoever had done this. Whoever was trying to dismantle the military and kill his brothers in arms.

“Seventy,” the questioner said nodding. “And you do not think I can snatch your family just as easily?”

“We will kill your family!”

Dean could still hear the words they shouted at him as they drove a burning iron into his shoulder again. The pain had been so great, he went numb. The thing of it was, the threat they tried against his family didn’t work. He didn’t have family. They’d left him, every last one of them. One way or another.

This line of dialogue always made Dean’s gut knot. They had to get information and time was short, but the threat against innocents didn’t sit well with him. Then again, some family members were more notorious and dangerous than the men being interrogated.

“Please.” The man shook his head. “I don’t know what you want.”

“You do.” The interrogator lifted a small instrument.

Dean tensed. Lowered his arms, hands balling. Fiery pain sliced through his back. Nausea roiled.

Wide, frantic eyes bounced around the room, searching for a sympathetic soul. “I don’t know him. I haven’t seen him.”

“A name then.”

The man whimpered.

“A name!”

“They will kill me!”

Sadly, the man was already a dead man no matter what he did or didn’t say. Nobody would trust him again. Especially not the kind of people involved in an intricate plan like this.

“You are already a dead man to them.” The interviewer’s words bounced off Dean’s thoughts. “If you help us, we will get you and your family to safety.”

The man’s head came up. “My family? America?”

“It depends on your information.”

“Zmaray. That is all I know.”

Dean straightened.
Zmaray
. That was one of their months, right?

“The fifth month of the Afghan calendar,” the questioner said. “Is something going to happen then?”

“I do not know.” Wild, black, stringy hair trembled as the man shook his head. “I tell you everything. I only work as guard to make sure it stay safe in compound.”

“You’re lying to us!” The questioner had to apply pressure. Zmaray was a cheat word. As ineffective as saying “a black-bearded man” in this region. And with that pressure came ugly things.

Dean wasn’t going to watch. He’d been in that chair once before. He’d been the captive. Been tortured. Beaten. Left for dead. Had the scars to prove it. He wasn’t going to relive it through this man.

He punched open the door and stepped into the light drizzle. With a long exhale, he stood, regaining his bearings as he slid on his head cover. Stretching his neck, he shoved off the memories of captivity. The smothering pain. Felt the fire fresh on his back that melted his flesh, scarred his back.

Rolling his shoulders, Dean stepped onto the gravel path and headed to the USO building. He sat at one of the telephone terminals, phone in hand, before he realized what he was doing.
It won’t do any good. She won’t talk to you
.

The number connected. Rang. Rang again. Three times. Four.

“Hello?” a masculine voice barked.

Dean hesitated.

“Hello? Who is this? Do you know what time it is?”

Everything primal in Dean rose up. “This is Desi’s phone, so why don’t you tell me who you are.”

The man cursed him.

“Where’s Desi? I’m her brother.”

“She ain’t got no brother!”

The line went dead. Dean considered calling back. He hadn’t been a part of her life since they were split up and put into foster care. He’d tracked her down just before entering Basic. Young and stupid, with a head full of idealistic familial passion, he thought she’d be elated to see him. Cry and hug him or something. He didn’t know what he expected, but finding her with more track marks than the subway and aiming a gun at him wasn’t it. That and the way she flipped him off and drove away.

Roughing a hand over his stubble, he sighed. Why did he even try?

He knew why. It didn’t make sense, but he’d wanted a connection. To prove the “no-family” thing wrong.

But it wasn’t. Never would be. He’d be alone. Always.