granite. “I don’t think so. It’s one thing to ask us to do our job with accurate intel, but to ask us to grope around in hostile territory not knowing what intel is accurate—”
“I understand your concerns.”
Fire blazed through Russo’s dark eyes. “Do you? Because last I recall, you sat here in—”
“Falcon.” Watters stepped forward.
Heart thudding at the disrespectful tenor of Russo’s words, Lance stared. “You’d be wise to listen to your captain. And to trust me. I can’t tell you what I’m working on just yet, but you can be sure I won’t be sending you out on fool’s errands. Terrorists have taken enough of our boys.”
Lips tight, he glared at the newly minted WO1 for a few long seconds then threaded his hands through his coat sleeves. “I’d be real careful of the accusations you throw around in your anger and zeal to protect your men. Remember, Russo—they’re my men, too.”
Lance lifted his briefcase, reminding himself to breathe. “If you gentlemen will excuse me…”
Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan
19 December—1120 Hours
Dread coiled in the pit of Fekiria’s stomach as Captain Dean entered the apartment she shared—at least for one more day—with her cousin Zahrah. Had Sergeant Brian told him she was at the club? Had he seen her at the base? She tried to meet the tall captain’s gaze. When she did, he gave her an acknowledging nod and hello but swiftly turned his attention to Zahrah. And his expression changed. Radically. The terse intensity that oozed out of the elite soldier softened as a small smile tugged at his clean-shaven face.
And though Fekiria hated to admit it, he looked handsome in his dress uniform.
“What’s happening?” Concern filled Zahrah’s question as she led him to the tan sofa.
“I have to head out for a week or two.”
“Or two?” Zahrah’s disappointment couldn’t be hidden, but she weathered the news well, all the same.
Fekiria worked on layering the baklava, her cousin’s favorite treat, as the two talked and she listened in.
Zahrah had always been strong. Brave. Fearless. Hands in her lap, she put on that tough exterior. “I will pray for you.”
Captain Dean smiled. “Thank you.” When he reached over and took Zahrah’s hand, Fekiria ducked. Spread honey over the thin pastry and added another layer.
Even as Zahrah had lain in the hospital seven months ago with her hair butchered, Captain Dean had been there. Watched over her. Hovered. He wasn’t an emotional person, but having seen him on several occasions, Fekiria noted the tenderness with which he approached her cousin. Zahrah still bore telltale scars of her captivity but none more than the ragged one on her cheekbone that turned bright pink every time she saw Captain Dean.
Nobody had ever treated Fekiria that way. And probably never would. She had too much fire in her belly.
“What’s wrong?” Zahrah touched the side of his face. “You look upset.”
He nodded. “One of my guys was in a fight.”
Fekiria’s hands slowed, remembering the incident at the club. Remembering Sergeant Brian.
“Is he okay?” Zahrah asked.
“Yeah—busted rib.” He sighed heavily then shrugged. “Can’t figure him out. He’s facing disciplinary action but won’t tell me what happened.” Captain Dean rubbed his fingers over his knuckles, as if kneading dough.
“Is it that serious?”
Setting aside the first batch, Fekiria listened closely, her mouth dry. Sergeant Brian was getting in trouble? Because of her. But—he’d kept her secret.
Please have kept my secret
.
He nodded, his head dipping a little lower with the admission. “I don’t want to put him out, but…”
“Put him out?”
Zahrah’s head snapped up and her brown eyes met Fekiria’s—and only then did Fekiria realize she’d actually spoken the question.
“Forgive me,” Fekiria said, tucking her chin. She glanced at the baklava, but all she could see was Sergeant Brian’s face. The
“I understand your concerns.”
Fire blazed through Russo’s dark eyes. “Do you? Because last I recall, you sat here in—”
“Falcon.” Watters stepped forward.
Heart thudding at the disrespectful tenor of Russo’s words, Lance stared. “You’d be wise to listen to your captain. And to trust me. I can’t tell you what I’m working on just yet, but you can be sure I won’t be sending you out on fool’s errands. Terrorists have taken enough of our boys.”
Lips tight, he glared at the newly minted WO1 for a few long seconds then threaded his hands through his coat sleeves. “I’d be real careful of the accusations you throw around in your anger and zeal to protect your men. Remember, Russo—they’re my men, too.”
Lance lifted his briefcase, reminding himself to breathe. “If you gentlemen will excuse me…”
Mazar-e Sharif, Afghanistan
19 December—1120 Hours
Dread coiled in the pit of Fekiria’s stomach as Captain Dean entered the apartment she shared—at least for one more day—with her cousin Zahrah. Had Sergeant Brian told him she was at the club? Had he seen her at the base? She tried to meet the tall captain’s gaze. When she did, he gave her an acknowledging nod and hello but swiftly turned his attention to Zahrah. And his expression changed. Radically. The terse intensity that oozed out of the elite soldier softened as a small smile tugged at his clean-shaven face.
And though Fekiria hated to admit it, he looked handsome in his dress uniform.
“What’s happening?” Concern filled Zahrah’s question as she led him to the tan sofa.
“I have to head out for a week or two.”
“Or two?” Zahrah’s disappointment couldn’t be hidden, but she weathered the news well, all the same.
Fekiria worked on layering the baklava, her cousin’s favorite treat, as the two talked and she listened in.
Zahrah had always been strong. Brave. Fearless. Hands in her lap, she put on that tough exterior. “I will pray for you.”
Captain Dean smiled. “Thank you.” When he reached over and took Zahrah’s hand, Fekiria ducked. Spread honey over the thin pastry and added another layer.
Even as Zahrah had lain in the hospital seven months ago with her hair butchered, Captain Dean had been there. Watched over her. Hovered. He wasn’t an emotional person, but having seen him on several occasions, Fekiria noted the tenderness with which he approached her cousin. Zahrah still bore telltale scars of her captivity but none more than the ragged one on her cheekbone that turned bright pink every time she saw Captain Dean.
Nobody had ever treated Fekiria that way. And probably never would. She had too much fire in her belly.
“What’s wrong?” Zahrah touched the side of his face. “You look upset.”
He nodded. “One of my guys was in a fight.”
Fekiria’s hands slowed, remembering the incident at the club. Remembering Sergeant Brian.
“Is he okay?” Zahrah asked.
“Yeah—busted rib.” He sighed heavily then shrugged. “Can’t figure him out. He’s facing disciplinary action but won’t tell me what happened.” Captain Dean rubbed his fingers over his knuckles, as if kneading dough.
“Is it that serious?”
Setting aside the first batch, Fekiria listened closely, her mouth dry. Sergeant Brian was getting in trouble? Because of her. But—he’d kept her secret.
Please have kept my secret
.
He nodded, his head dipping a little lower with the admission. “I don’t want to put him out, but…”
“Put him out?”
Zahrah’s head snapped up and her brown eyes met Fekiria’s—and only then did Fekiria realize she’d actually spoken the question.
“Forgive me,” Fekiria said, tucking her chin. She glanced at the baklava, but all she could see was Sergeant Brian’s face. The
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