Taking Fire Page 7

  Her knees felt like so much jelly as his tongue slowly traced her lower lip, explored the corner of her mouth and slid deeper, finding her tongue. Suddenly, Khat felt a bolt of white-hot heat clench in her channel, and it was almost painful in its swift contraction. A whimper escaped her.

  They were out of time. Two Apaches thundered high overhead, guard dogs to protect the Medevac when it landed. They would be on the lookout for enemy. Mike regretfully eased his mouth from hers, breathing unevenly, staring hard down into her drowsy-looking eyes. Her lips were glistening, slightly swollen from the power of his kiss. He released Khat but kept his hand lightly on her shoulder. She looked bewildered as she stared up at him. There was burning arousal in her dark eyes. He’d felt her innocent response in their kiss, sweet and unsure with him. Her slender fingers tightened against his shoulder.

  He framed her face with his hand, leaning close, inches between them. “Listen to me, Khat. I’ve got your back. You call me anytime you need help. All right?”

  His guttural growl sifted through her shaking body. Khat had never been kissed like this. She felt weak, hot and needy. All from one kiss! The palm of his hand was rough against her cheek. She saw the hunter’s intensity in his slitted eyes, heard the growl in his low voice. He meant it. Barely able to nod, she couldn’t find her voice, so shocked by his molten kiss. So many emotions were running through her, some good, some terrifying monsters from her past, that she felt a lump form in her throat as she rested against his tall, strong body. Mike exuded an animal-like protection toward her, as if she had just been claimed as his mate. There was an overwhelming sense that she was his woman. She could feel it.

  Mike was taken aback as he saw tears form in her eyes, slide silently down her cheeks. He felt their warmth slide beneath his palm, dampening his flesh. He used his thumb to push the tears away from the high slope of her cheek. The sound of the Black Hawk grew closer. A minute out, maybe. Damn! Frustrated, he could read her eyes like windows into her soul, seeing desire mingling with terror, and he couldn’t translate all of what was going on within Khat. Fear of him? Impossible! She could have stepped away from him at any point. She could have refused to kiss him. But she was here, standing before him, her face a map of how she was feeling inwardly toward him. Her lower lip trembled, and she looked away, shame in her expression.

  “Khat,” he growled, gently forcing her to hold his gaze, “this isn’t over, Angel. Not by a long shot. I’m going to find you. Do you hear me? And when I do, you aren’t walking away from me again. I want to get to know you.”

  Khat closed her eyes, giving a bare nod of her head, his hand trapping her against him. She could hear the Black Hawk’s arrival, the blades puncturing the night air. Pulling away from him, she quickly wiped her eyes, turned and put on her NVGs. Her heart was in utter turmoil, torn, hurting and wanting Mike all at the same time. Compressing her lips, she picked up his ruck and walked to the edge of the bushes and trees.

  The Black Hawk landed. Trying to clear her blown senses, shake off the shock of his unexpected kiss, Khat crouched and then started her run toward the helo. Dust and dirt kicked up, eighty mile an hour gusts created by the rotors. She saw the door slide open, and one aircrew chief hopped out. Giving him the ruck, she stepped aside.

  Tarik was right behind her. He saw Khat remain crouched, quickly moving away, fading into the dust clouds raised by the helo. The crew chief took his M-4, and Mike grabbed the frame of the door, hauling himself inside the cabin. He was going home, and it was the last place he wanted to go right now. As the combat medic guided him to a litter, he sat down, not wanting to lie down. He traded his Kevlar helmet for another helmet, pulling it on, in instant communications with the four men on board.

  “I’m good to go,” he growled. “Thanks for picking me up. Let’s exfil…”

  In seconds, the Black Hawk broke gravity with the earth and quickly turned, heading out over the open, empty desert plain. It picked up speed and altitude swiftly, the twin engines roaring, shaking the helo with rhythmic vibrations. Mike felt suddenly sad. And happy. It was a mix. He’d wanted to kiss Khat ever since he’d become conscious. And she’d liked his kiss. She’d responded to him. He had known there was something special between them; invisible, but raw, alive and heated.

  His hand curled into a fist, and he focused on the combat medic who was asking him a lot of medical questions. He’d have to go to the dispensary, get the arm x-rayed and go through the medical system. Once done, he’d be expected to see the chief of the platoon come tomorrow morning. He’d go back to his tent in the SEAL section of Camp Bravo, climb into his cot and sleep. If he could…

  *

  KHAT BLINKED BACK the hot tears that continued to fall. She quickly ran back to the wadi to where the horses were tied. The sound of the Black Hawk and guard dog Apaches would draw any enemies who were around. She would be in danger. Leaping up on Zorah, she used her calf, not the reins, to turn the mare around. She tied the rope to Mina’s halter on the back of her saddle. They would slowly pick their way out of the wadi and up to another goat trail. Khat never took the same route twice.

  In a village where she posed as a nurse, the Taliban had caught and tortured her. Khat savagely shoved down those memories. She had to ride through the night and remain alert for her enemy. Once on a safer trail, her mind revolved back to that capture. She’d been holding medical clinics for a year with great success; gathering intel from the villagers and giving it to her handler in J-bad. The villages along the border were grateful for her riding in on her horse, a packhorse in tow with medical supplies for the men, women and children.

  Her cover was solid because her father had been born in the village of Dur Babba, and she was his daughter, part of the Shinwari Tribe.

  The days of being held, questioned and tortured by Sangar Khogani, chief of the Hill tribe, had changed her life forever. And if not for the village women who risked their own lives to save hers, she wouldn’t be here today. The week they’d hid her in a nearby cave, her back a mass of bloody strips of flesh, had passed in a semiconscious, feverish daze.

  It was weeks later, septic and near death, that one woman villager had walked ten miles into an American forward operating base, asking for help, that Khat was rescued. And it was when she was hospitalized at Bagram, that the terror of nearly dying, the flay that had stripped her flesh from her body, had welled up through her. Khat understood her soul was fractured by the capture and subsequent torture interrogation. She had shut down her violent emotions, stuffed them into a deep, dark hole within herself. As she lay in the hospital recuperating, she became emotionally numb to everything. A robot of sorts, her Afghan blood thirsting for revenge against the Hill tribe for what they did to her and her people.

  The past four years, Khat had left a trail of blood, and she never blinked when killing a Hill tribesman. They’d murdered so many of her people over the years. They had raped Shinwari women, girls and boys. They murdered their husbands, sons and brothers. She stood between her tribe and Sangar Khogani’s Hill tribe.

  It hurt to feel those violent emotions once again, reliving them all, and Khat hated it. Mike’s kiss, his care, ripped the lid off that dark, wounded place within her. She understood he didn’t know what he’d done to her. His intent had been pure and unselfish because she could still feel his strong mouth curved against her own, giving to her, not taking anything away from her.

  Rubbing her cheek, the tears continuing to flow, Khat couldn’t stop them. Mike had unknowingly released all the demons from her past, but he’d also released her as a woman from a dormant state, too.

  Wiping her cheeks dry as she rode, the horse moving silently down the narrow, rock-strewn goat path, the mountain’s giant shadow covering them from the thin moonlight, Khat didn’t want to remember that time. Mike’s kiss had been completely unexpected. He’d blindsided her and yet, she felt no anger over what he’d done. After all, she’d been a willing participant. She could have said no. She could have step
ped away. But she didn’t. Why? Why?

  The goat path curved. In another mile, she would be home to her pool cave. Her mind was spewing out memories of her torture at the hands of the Taliban.

  The Marine Corps had sent her home to recover. Her parents had been horrified over the extent of her wounds; her back and shoulders flayed by a whip, the metal tips tearing up her tender flesh, forever marking her.

  Her father, Jaleel Shinwari, was a civil engineer who had moved from Dur Babba precisely because the village was closest to the violent, aggressive Hill tribe. He had moved to San Diego, California. There, her mother, Glenna, met and married him. Khat was the result of that union, half Afghan, half American.

  It was hard enough to deal with the torture for Khat, but her father nearly went insane because of what had happened to her. He was Afghan and believed in an eye for an eye. He wanted revenge, but was helpless to make it happen, so his anger had turned toward her.

  Recovering at the San Diego Naval Hospital, Khat had enough to deal with. He’d gotten into an argument with her mother at her bedside one day, saying that her life was ruined, that no man would ever look at her again. Jaleel wanted her to marry, to give him grandchildren, carry on their proud Afghan lineage to the next generation. His words were just as deeply scarring and life changing to Khat as being whipped by the Taliban.

  She was damaged goods, he’d cried, pacing the room, filled with anger and helplessness. No man would want her once he saw her scarred body. She was ugly. Her mother had heatedly argued otherwise, but on that day, something fragile and beautiful to her as a woman had died.

  Now, by the time she arrived back at the cave, Khat felt shattered inwardly once more. Only in a very different way. She’d gone through the motions of caring for her horses, watering and feeding them. It was nearly 0200 in the morning. Her hands trembled as she made herself some tea. Just the custom of making it calmed her somewhat.

  Only this time, Mike wasn’t here with her.

  Drawing in a ragged breath, Khat closed her eyes, waiting for the water to boil. He was larger than life. He was a man. And somehow, he’d slipped into her closed heart. Khat didn’t know how it had happened or why. But it had. The cave seemed sterile without his presence.

  As she sat on the sleeping bag, her back against the cave wall, mug in her hand, Khat swallowed hard. Tears were just at the periphery of her eyes, her heart and mind in utter turmoil. Nothing could change. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to change the trajectory of her life because of his one kiss. But Mike’s guttural challenge to her, that he’d find her, that he wouldn’t allow her to walk away as he had this time, scared Khat. And it called to her, a whisper in the halls of her shattered heart.

  His kiss had awakened her from a deep sleep of ignoring herself as a woman with a rich palette of emotions, of normal human needs and desires. His mouth had been like a key opening up the treasured awareness of her own body, igniting it into bright, burning life once more. He’d uncaged her yearnings she’d had before this had happened. Before that, she’d always known that someday, she’d meet a man who would hold her heart gently between his hands, respect her, love her. Khat had dreams and hopes. And yes, she’d wanted children by this man and to live happily ever after.

  Mouth twisting, Khat stared into the gloom of the other cave in front of where she sat. She had been so young and naive, in her early twenties, so filled with idealistic dreams, hopes and desires. And it had all come to a crashing, violent end when she was twenty-four.

  Lifting her gaze to the ceiling, hot tears stung her eyes. Khat was helpless to stop them this time. She’d stopped crying the day her torture began. Tonight, after Mike’s kiss, she cried long and hard. When she doused the light of the lantern, Khat lay on the sleeping bag Mike had used. It gave her comfort, and she could still smell his masculine scent in the fabric. It was as if he were still here.

  Closing her eyes, feeling sleep pulling at her, Khat realized that she wanted to see Mike again, too. His kiss had made her aware of just how lonely she really was. The cave was now a symbol of a different sort for her. Before, it had been safety, hiding from her pain. It served as a buffer, an isolation, so that she didn’t have to live again, only exist.

  Tears slipped from her eyes, warm and trailing down her face. To acknowledge all of this was too much for Khat to accept. Five years had hardened her resolve; her focus was on her people, not herself. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make. Sometimes, Khat understood, her personal needs, whatever they were, were quietly tucked away for the good of others. And it had to remain that way.

  *

  “SO, WHO THE HELL is she, Mac?” Mike asked Chief John McCutcheon.

  He sat in the office with the man who held the daily reins of Delta Platoon. Mike had awakened early the morning after arriving at Camp Bravo, sat with Mac, as they all called him, and told him the entire story.

  The chief was forty, had been a SEAL since he was eighteen, was married and had two grown sons. His wife, Pamela, was a schoolteacher in San Diego.

  Mac rubbed his black scruffy beard and scowled. He sat with all the notes that Tarik had written down. “Black ops, for sure.” He pulled his laptop over and entered a password to get into the top secret network of SEALs and other agencies, like the CIA, Army Delta operators, Army Special Forces and Marine Force Recons utilized. Pulling up a map of their area, thirty miles between Bravo and the Pakistan border, he clicked on Marine Force Recons. It would show where teams or single operators, who were snipers, were presently located.

  For safety reasons, all assets out in the Hindu Kush, no matter what black ops group it was, were updated out of Bagram four times a day. When identified as a friendly, it meant air assets or other black ops groups in the same area would not shoot each other by mistake, thinking they were the enemy. Mac stared at the map, zeroing in on where Tarik had been picked up.

  “Come over here,” he said, gesturing for him to pull up a chair and sit next to him. “Look at the area where your team was.” He pointed to the enlarged map.

  Mike came over, turned the chair around, sat down, his arms across the top of it. The doctor had put an old-fashioned plaster cast on his lower left arm. It was a nuisance. Looking at where Mac placed his finger, he scowled. “That’s the area,” he muttered. He saw no red dot that indicated a friendly operator in the area. “Why the hell wouldn’t she be marked as a friendly?”

  “Could be deep ops, but still, someone has to know her whereabouts.”

  “Can you try typing in Boulder and Archangel? See if you get a hit?”

  Mac moved to another program and typed in “Boulder.” Nothing came up. He typed in “Archangel.” Immediately, a box with big red letters said “Access Denied.” Below it was a request for a password, which Mac didn’t know. “I can’t get any more intel on this code name.”

  Staring at the box, Tarik cursed softly. “What about a workaround? Go to the Marine Force Recon network?”

  Mac nodded and moved over to it. He typed in “Archangel.” The same box appeared again. “Look, you have to get a ride to Bagram today because the doctor said that arm has to be given an MRI.” Mac studied him. “Why don’t you get over to SEAL HQ? They’ve got intelligence officers over there. Talk to them. See if you can find out anything on this woman.”

  Growling, Mike stood up. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Thanks, Mac.”

  Tarik walked out of the small office and headed down the passageway to the big room where the SEALs gathered. A number of his team was there, drinking coffee and talking to the other men. He frowned and left the building, going to his tent to get his kit, his rifle and then head over to Ops.

  The morning sky was pale, the sun barely edging the mountains surrounding the forward operating base. It was cold even in June at eight thousand feet. He broke into a trot to warm up. His mind, and if he was honest, his heart, were never far from Khat. Kissing her had been the most right thing in his world, and Mike didn’t regret it.

  As he kitte
d up, hauled the ruck onto his right shoulder, clipping his M-4 rifle onto the harness across his chest, images of Khat filled his thoughts. Mike was glad to have the time to do some serious investigation to try and find out more about her. He knew the SEALs had a staff of men and women who did nothing but intel. As soon as he got done going through the medical gauntlet, he’d get over to the SEAL HQ. It was the main go-to place for anything black-ops-wise going on in this country.

  *

  LIEUTENANT ADDISON SINCLAIRE sat listening to Mike Tarik’s tale of rescue. She had a small office at SEAL HQ. Writing down the specifics, she saw the stubborn glint in the petty officer’s eyes when he told her he wanted to know who this black ops woman was. Mike sat with her at her desk. She had a large PC screen, easy to see and read.

  Mike liked Addison the moment he met her. She was a petite blonde with sharp-looking blue eyes. Like the rest of SEAL HQ, she was a navy intel officer and wore SEAL cammies. Sinclaire was part of an eight-thousand-person force who supported the two thousand SEALs who took the fight to the enemy. He had a cup of coffee nearby as he watched her take the information and start her hunt.

  “Hmm,” Addy said, “getting nothing on this gal. I’m going over to the Marine Corps net.”

  Mike watched her hit “Access Denied” on everything. Frustrated, he said, “What about tapping into personnel files? Try her first name? See if something pops up?”

  “Good idea,” the intel officer murmured, switching screens. “C-A-T?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing. What about Cathy or Cathleen? It’s probably a shortening of her original name.”

  Nodding, Mike watched her type them in. A number of Cathleens came up, but every lead showed a woman marine, her MOS or skill, her rate or rank and none of them were presently deployed to Afghanistan.