fight.”
“Me?”
Nostrils flaring, Dean took a step back. “One more time and I’m yanking you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. God help me, I know.” Dean hauled in a steadying breath. “I don’t get it. You run around with some chip on your shoulder, looking for a fight. Looking for someone to glance at you crossways. What is this? Ego?”
“I want respect!”
“Then earn it! Those guys in there, they’re nineteen. You’re twenty-eight and a freakin’ hero. Special Forces.” He slapped Hawk’s arm with their unit patch on it. “Raptor team. And so help me, if you don’t soldier up and act like you earned that, I’ll rip it off you.”
Hawk’s smirk vanished. “You’re kidding, right?”
“You have to be above the fray, better than the best!”
“It was just a scuffle.”
“Yeah, but you have those scuffles every time you enter the USO or a bar. I’m not sure what’s happening with you, but you need to get it together.” Dean’s secure sat phone rang. He nailed Hawk with a look he hoped warned him not to press his luck then turned as he lifted the phone. “Watters.” He stomped away before he said or did something he regretted.
“Captain Watters, Pete Zarrick.”
Dean slowed, turning away from the congestion of foot traffic back toward the air-conditioned tent that had been his home for the last few months. It took a split second for him to get his bearings on the caller. Which was why his heart rapid-fired for another second before he could answer. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who I am, Captain?”
His heart beat a little harder as he stepped off the path and turned a circle. “I do, sir.”
What on earth?
His number was secure. Only Burnett, SOCOM, and his team had it.
“Then I need you to listen very carefully. I have two concerns right now, son. Do you know what they are?”
Confusion peppered Dean, but the biggest question was why. Why was he having this conversation with one of the fiercest, toughest generals to serve as commander of the coalition forces? A general now retired. “I’d imagine one of them is your daughter. Sir.”
“You would be right, Captain.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure I understand …”
“Zahrah said you tried to talk to her when she was in the hospital.”
“Sir. You know I cannot discuss this.”
“Bull! I wouldn’t have this number if I wasn’t cleared to talk to you.”
Dean didn’t like being bullied. And he didn’t like being cornered. As ticked as he was, he knew chain of command. Knew this guy could string him up with a flick of his little finger. “I’m listening, sir.”
“Zahrah is coming back to talk to you.”
Lifting his hand in question—why would the man’s daughter need her father to inform him of this?—Dean turned another circle. Met Falcon’s curious gaze. Shot him a wicked scowl that drew the Italian closer. “Very good, sir.”
“My daughter is a brilliant young woman with a good heart.”
And your point is?
“Good to know, sir.”
“Don’t you get on your high horse with me, you piece of—” A huff. Another huff. A clank in the background. “Zahrah might need protection she doesn’t know she needs.”
Falcon gave him a questioning look.
Dean shrugged. “Sir?”
“Read her file, son.”
“Already have, sir. Twice.”
“And how many times have you stared at her picture?”
Heat spread down Dean’s neck. “What you are insinuating, sir?”
“You know very well because if you’d paid attention to her file and not her pretty face, you’d know why I’m calling.”
Haidary Residence, Mazar-e Sharif
29 May—0700 Hours
Mission impossible. Small white cup in hand, Zahrah paused and muttered, “Whether or not I choose to accept it.” When the general spoke, the general
spoke
.
Voices skittered through the narrow hall and drew closer.
She dumped back the last of her tea, washed her cup, then lifted her messenger bag. She swallowed the thick knot
“Me?”
Nostrils flaring, Dean took a step back. “One more time and I’m yanking you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know. God help me, I know.” Dean hauled in a steadying breath. “I don’t get it. You run around with some chip on your shoulder, looking for a fight. Looking for someone to glance at you crossways. What is this? Ego?”
“I want respect!”
“Then earn it! Those guys in there, they’re nineteen. You’re twenty-eight and a freakin’ hero. Special Forces.” He slapped Hawk’s arm with their unit patch on it. “Raptor team. And so help me, if you don’t soldier up and act like you earned that, I’ll rip it off you.”
Hawk’s smirk vanished. “You’re kidding, right?”
“You have to be above the fray, better than the best!”
“It was just a scuffle.”
“Yeah, but you have those scuffles every time you enter the USO or a bar. I’m not sure what’s happening with you, but you need to get it together.” Dean’s secure sat phone rang. He nailed Hawk with a look he hoped warned him not to press his luck then turned as he lifted the phone. “Watters.” He stomped away before he said or did something he regretted.
“Captain Watters, Pete Zarrick.”
Dean slowed, turning away from the congestion of foot traffic back toward the air-conditioned tent that had been his home for the last few months. It took a split second for him to get his bearings on the caller. Which was why his heart rapid-fired for another second before he could answer. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who I am, Captain?”
His heart beat a little harder as he stepped off the path and turned a circle. “I do, sir.”
What on earth?
His number was secure. Only Burnett, SOCOM, and his team had it.
“Then I need you to listen very carefully. I have two concerns right now, son. Do you know what they are?”
Confusion peppered Dean, but the biggest question was why. Why was he having this conversation with one of the fiercest, toughest generals to serve as commander of the coalition forces? A general now retired. “I’d imagine one of them is your daughter. Sir.”
“You would be right, Captain.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure I understand …”
“Zahrah said you tried to talk to her when she was in the hospital.”
“Sir. You know I cannot discuss this.”
“Bull! I wouldn’t have this number if I wasn’t cleared to talk to you.”
Dean didn’t like being bullied. And he didn’t like being cornered. As ticked as he was, he knew chain of command. Knew this guy could string him up with a flick of his little finger. “I’m listening, sir.”
“Zahrah is coming back to talk to you.”
Lifting his hand in question—why would the man’s daughter need her father to inform him of this?—Dean turned another circle. Met Falcon’s curious gaze. Shot him a wicked scowl that drew the Italian closer. “Very good, sir.”
“My daughter is a brilliant young woman with a good heart.”
And your point is?
“Good to know, sir.”
“Don’t you get on your high horse with me, you piece of—” A huff. Another huff. A clank in the background. “Zahrah might need protection she doesn’t know she needs.”
Falcon gave him a questioning look.
Dean shrugged. “Sir?”
“Read her file, son.”
“Already have, sir. Twice.”
“And how many times have you stared at her picture?”
Heat spread down Dean’s neck. “What you are insinuating, sir?”
“You know very well because if you’d paid attention to her file and not her pretty face, you’d know why I’m calling.”
Haidary Residence, Mazar-e Sharif
29 May—0700 Hours
Mission impossible. Small white cup in hand, Zahrah paused and muttered, “Whether or not I choose to accept it.” When the general spoke, the general
spoke
.
Voices skittered through the narrow hall and drew closer.
She dumped back the last of her tea, washed her cup, then lifted her messenger bag. She swallowed the thick knot
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