What Lies Within Page 2

  Biting back tears, Kyla nodded again. She watched as the young man bolted toward the phone. Then she let herself look down at Annot’s white face.

  What if they couldn’t get here in time? What if it was already too late? What if Annot was—

  No! Kyla squeezed her eyes shut. There was only one thing her stunned mind could take in, a single fact it could grasp.

  One person. One person had caused it all. The anger. The danger. Annot getting shot.

  Annot dying …

  Don’t even think that!

  “I’m sorry.” Kyla’s remorse weighted her like a sodden cloak, bending her, breaking her. “Oh, Annot, I’m so sorry.”

  Her sister’s eyes opened. Her fingers closed over Kyla’s. Forgiveness drifted on pained gasps. “Not … your fault.”

  But Kyla knew different. Her sister was dying. Before her eyes. In her arms. And there was no doubt in Kyla’s mind.

  It was all her fault.

  ONE

  “Don’t seek God in temples. He is close to you. He is within you … Surrender to Him and you will rise above happiness and unhappiness.”

  LEO NIKOLAEVICH TOLSTOY

  “Here I sit in sackcloth. I have surrendered, and I sit in the dust.”

  JOB 16:15

  Death was waiting. Staff sergeant Rafael Murphy didn’t have to see Death to know he was there. He could feel him. Feel the icy fingers inching up his spine. The disquiet shivering beneath his Kevlar. The heaviness in his chest, like a claymore aching to go off.

  Back off. You’re not getting my guys …

  He glanced over his shoulder. He could have sworn the DZ was still in sight, but all that met his searching gaze was the fog cloaking them. The Huey had no sooner dropped them than the blasted fog moved in. Like it was waiting for them.

  It took a little longer for the sand to start up.

  When Rafe was a kid, he used to go to the Oregon Dunes with his buddies. When the wind picked up, the tiny grains whipped and stung like needles. So when he heard the stories about Iraq sandstorms, he wasn’t worried. He’d been through sandstorms before.

  Wrong.

  The storms at home could be fierce, but these storms … They were flat evil. Roiling, roaring clouds that rose out of nowhere; monsters that traveled as fast as sixty mph, billowing down on everything in their paths. Like ravenous demons, they engulfed the world, turning the brightest day into hazy black night. As if that weren’t freaky enough, there were times when the storm reached out and snatched the sun’s light, absorbing and diffusing it until everything was tinged orange or red.

  Blood red.

  Iraq sandstorms weren’t just nature flexing its muscles. They were living entities, bent on destruction.

  At least the storm that met them today was a baby. Just enough to blend with the fog and limit their vision. That wasn’t good, but it was better than it could have been. At least he could see a little—thirty meters or so. About a third of a football field away.

  It wasn’t great, but Rafe would take it.

  He turned his eyes to the front, snugging his M4A1 assault rifle just a fraction closer. The Pride’s mission was clear. Secure the area around a small town north of An Nasiriyah. Battalions were already on their way and would be moving on the town at 0 Dark 30.

  It was 1600 hours now, which gave his team about two hours before dark. So far they’d had limited contact. One group of civilians passing by. A large group. Moving en masse.

  That’s when Death first spoke to Rafe. Whispered a low, rattling chuckle in his ear.

  Sure, civilians often left town in twos or threes, but all together? That said one thing: “See ya later. Enjoy the ambush.”

  He and his team eyed the group of men, women, and children as they went by, watching … waiting … but nothing happened. The fleeing civilians made their way past, bowing their covered heads against the increasingly wind-whipped sand.

  That they passed without incident should have eased Rafe’s tension. Instead, it amped it up a notch.

  “So what?” Death’s mockery was deep and jagged. “So those civilians weren’t the ambush. Doesn’t mean there isn’t one waiting for you up there, just behind the curtain of fog and sand—”

  “This don’t feel right.”

  The voice in his headset drew Rafe’s attention to the left. So his ATL felt it too. No surprise there. Rashidi’s instincts were as honed as his fighting skills, making him the perfect assistant team leader for the Pride. Rafe opened his mouth to reply, but a low southern drawl beat him to the draw.

  “What is with this sand?”

  “S’matter, Thales? You don’t have sand in Gaw-gia?”

  “Stuff it, Monroe.”

  Rafe’s fingers tightened on his weapon. “Okay, Pride, can the chatter.”

  “C’mon, Asadi. How we supposed to secure the area when we cain’t see spit? I cain’t see a dang thi—”

  “City at twelve o’clock, Asadi.”

  Leave it to Jesse Green to be focused on the task at hand. The guy was as grounded as any Marine Rafe ever met. Sure enough, about fifty meters ahead, buildings took shape.

  The team tightened up as they moved into the city. They walked down the debris-scattered dirt road, scanning the buildings lining the road. The city might as well be a ghost town for all the activity they found there.

  “Ghost town. How appropriate.”

  Rafe shook off the dark voice taunting him—until he noticed the street suddenly narrowed. Buildings seemed to spring up out of nowhere, looming over them left and right. Debris and abandoned cars—perfect booby traps—lay scattered all around. And Rafe knew.

  This was it. What he’d been dreading.

  He opened his mouth to warn the Pride when dust kicked up around his feet.

  “Contact!”

  Rafe turned at Jesse’s yell, looking up, and flinched as something sang through the air from above. Bullets. It was raining bullets. “They’re on top of the buildings!”

  Through the fog Rafe saw the hazy forms. How many he didn’t know. Nor could he tell who was shooting and who wasn’t.

  “Ah, the rules of engagement. Hard to comply now, wouldn’t you say?”

  Rafe’s teeth clenched. Shut up. Shut up before I shut you up!

  But again, Death was right. Soldiers in the U.S. military could only fire on those they knew were firing on them. That meant waiting for a muzzle flash in the fog.

  And that would be too late.

  Images flooded his mind. His men, bloodied, broken, dead eyes wide as their limp bodies were dragged through the streets by hooting Iraqis—

  No! The Pride was not going down here. “Suppression fire! Thales, call for support!”

  Moving into a tight three-sixty of defense, the team peppered the top edges of the buildings on either side, sending their attackers diving for cover as they made their way back out of the city.

  Rafe heard Thales radioing in, yelling out their location. But he knew, as the others had to, as their grim features attested, that there wasn’t time for support to reach them.

  They were in a kill zone.

  The street, the walls, everything channeled the enemy fire. The abandoned cars around them offered no cover; they were probably booby trapped. All their attackers had to do was keep shooting. Eventually, if Rafe and his team stayed there, they’d go down.

  They had to get out of this on their own.

  “Move out! Back the way we came!”

  Still firing, Rafe looked behind them, measuring the distance. Ninety meters to safety. The hardest target to hit was a moving target, so—

  “Move!”

  His men responded without hesitation. Eighty meters to go. Sixty. Forty. Yelling and gunfire all around. Deafening. Bullets hitting walls, bricks, sending chips flying like tiny daggers.

  Twenty meters. Ten! They were going to make it. Just a few more feet—

  The searing pain came out of nowhere, exploding in Rafe’s knee and hip.

  Everyt
hing shifted to slow motion. Rafe looked down. Saw, as though it were some perverse scene on TV, the bullets pierce flesh, driving deep, shattering bone. As he fell, he watched the red gush forth. Soak his cammies. Seep into the ground, flowing across the desert, ballooning until everything was angry red—the color of his heartbeat.

  “Man down! Man down!”

  Rashidi’s cry echoed around him. Rafe clawed at the ground and screamed, as much in anger as pain. Screamed and screamed again—

  “God!” The cry ripped from Rafe’s gut, echoing in the darkness of his room as he sat bolt upright.

  Images shimmered behind his lids. Swirling sand and fog faded into muted darkness. The debris-littered street morphed, then settled into more benign shapes. A dresser. Bedside table. Lamp.

  Muzzle flashes glittered and died. Became the first rays of daylight streaming in through his bedroom window.

  Home.

  He was home.

  It was a dream. Again. The same dream that had tormented him for nearly four years.

  Breathe. Memories can’t hurt you. He threw back the covers, moved to slide out of bed, and winced. Yeah. Memories may not hurt, but torn tissue and muscle, damaged bone …

  That hurt. All the time.

  Rafe leaned forward, listening. No sounds from the other room. Good. He didn’t wake Tarik this time. He hated disturbing the boy’s sleep with his nightmares.

  The ache in his leg worsened, and with a deep sigh, he turned to the ruby eyes watching him. “Mornin’, fella. Ready for another day?” He lifted the cane beside his bed, letting his fingers trail across the silver lion’s head handle. A farewell gift from his unit. A lion for the lion, they’d said.

  Since their team was known as the Pride, it only seemed fitting they called him Asadi. Swahili for “lion.” Which was cool. Shoot, it beat what they’d started to call him.

  The image of that night sprang to life, and he closed his eyes. Now this memory he’d take.

  As clear as if it were happening again, the night sky darkened overhead. Rafe and his team, bivouacked after an especially grueling day of training, sat around the fire, absorbing its warmth. Jesse Green, Rafe’s assistant communicator, and David Thales, the primary communicator, sat there, MREs in hand, studying their sergeant.

  “You’re something else, sir.”

  Rafe wasn’t sure who Jesse Green was talking to, but one look at the misplaced surfer told Rafe the comment was directed at him. Even if Green’s sun-bleached hair hadn’t given away his L.A. roots, his lanky swimmer’s build would have.

  “He’s right, Sarge. You somethin’ else.” David Thales looked like he’d been born in cammies. The southerner stood six foot four, was solid muscle, and lacked only one thing: a neck. First time Rafe saw the one-time star of his high school and college football teams, he hadn’t been too sure Thales could move with the stealth they’d need on their missions. But years of bow hunting had made the kid as silent as a heart attack. And equally deadly. Good thing his small-town southern upbringing made him bona fide nice.

  Rafe trailed his gaze from Thales to Green. “I’m nothing special.”

  “Gotta say I agree with them, Sarge.” Pride shone in Rashidi Martin’s dark eyes. “Like the motto says”—he jerked his chin toward the Force Recon tattoo on his coffee-colored upper arm—“ ‘Swift. Silent. Deadly.’ That’s you, Staff Sergeant.” He glanced at Thales and Green. “Oo-rah?”

  Agreement sounded swift, certain. “Oo-rah!”

  Thales stretched his tree-trunk legs in front of him. “Never seen no one move like you, Staff Sergeant. You remind me of somethin’—” He pursed his lips, then a big grin broke across his broad face. “I got it. I was out huntin’ one weekend with my pappy and gran’pappy. We was sittin’ around the campfire one evenin’, jus’ like this. ’Cept it weren’t quite dark. And it weren’t in Iraq. Anyways, the dogs was secured, an’ we was just sittin’ and drinkin’ coffee.” He leaned back. “Man … I loved being out there like tha—”

  “What are you talking about, boy?”

  Rafe eyed Kevin Monroe. His dark hair blended into the night, but that pasty midwesterner skin glowed like a beacon. At just this side of twenty-three, Monroe claimed the spot of youngest unit member. Pure farm boy from the heartland of America. “You saying the staff sergeant looks like coffee?”

  Jesse Green pushed his boonie hat back off his forehead and hooted. “Naw, man. He’s sayin’ he looks like one of the dogs.”

  “No sir!” Thales’s spine stiffened. “I ain’t sayin’ that at all, Staff Sergeant, sir.”

  Rafe didn’t even try to respond. Didn’t need to. His team was doing just fine without him.

  “Well, what are you saying?” Kevin Monroe might not be as tall as Thales, but he boasted an equally powerful build. “I swear, Thales. Does everyone from the South take this long to spit something out?”

  Thales’s jaw tightened. One thing you did not do was impugn the South. Not in this man’s presence. “Look, farm boy, just ’cuz you puke out words without givin’ ’em a thought—”

  “What?” Thunder settled on Monroe’s bushy brow and he started to rise.

  Rafe’s muscles tensed, but he needn’t have worried.

  “Sièntate, Monroe.” Tom Sabada’s quiet command stopped Kevin cold. No threat in the words, but there didn’t need to be. Everyone in the Pride knew there was one team member none of them could take. Not even Rafe.

  Thomas Sabada.

  The man hailed from a blip on the map called Glorieta, New Mexico. Grew up in the mountains, where, as Sabada liked to say, the air was thin and tested your will. He learned to hunt and track with the best of them, which made him an effective point man. Nobody Rafe would rather have responsible for early detection of the enemy.

  Rafe watched as Monroe eyed Sabada. The farm boy had the Hispanic by a good four inches—six foot two to Sabada’s five foot ten—and probably fifty pounds. To a bystander, there was little about Sabada to make Monroe stand down. Until you met the man’s eyes. Then you knew: here was a force to be reckoned with.

  Sabada was a 7th Dan in Taekwondo, which earned him the title Master. Only thing that kept him from being an 8th Dan, a Grandmaster, was his age. You had to be at least forty-four to advance to the 8th Dan; Sabada was only thirty-eight.

  Monroe did as Sabada commanded, and Sabada nodded at Thales. “Go on.”

  “Anyhow, there we were, sittin’ and drinkin’ coffee—”

  “Have mercy.”

  “—when the dogs started making a ruckus. Whinin’ and pacin’. We hollered at ’em, but they wouldn’t let up, so my granddaddy told me to go check on ’em. An’ there it was.”

  Jesse Green was hooked. He leaned forward, that fresh face alive with curiosity. “There what was?”

  “A cougar. Florida panther. Just walked outta the woods and right by us, slick as you please. The way that thing moved”—Thales rested those massive forearms on the weapon hanging across his chest—“whooee! All smooth and relaxed, but with those muscles and teeth, well, you knew it could be on you in a second and you’d be in a world of hurt.”

  “A puma.” Sabada eyed Rafe. “Si, I can see that.”

  “Mountain lion, huh?” Green’s teeth shone white in the dimming light. “We should call you Simba, Staff Sergeant.”

  Great. Nothing said dangerous like a Disney-character nickname.

  “No.” They all turned to Rashidi. “Not Simba. Asadi.”

  Thales frowned. “Asadi? Whatssat mean?”

  “It’s my mother’s native tongue. Swahili. It means lion.”

  Thales leaned back and gave the name a test drive. “Asadi.” His crooked grin broke out. “I like it.”

  “Who cares what you like, redneck.” At least Monroe’s jibe was friendly this time. “Question is, does the staff sarge like it?”

  Five pairs of eyes peered at Rafe through the growing darkness.

  “What do you say, jefe?” Sabada chewed the toothpick. “Work for you?�
��

  Rafe studied the faces of his men, men he’d come to trust without hesitation during the year and a half they’d been together. “Yeah.” He allowed a slow nod. “Works for me.”

  Works for me …

  Words so full of confidence. Of the certainty that the day, and the next and the next, would be his. Rafe sighed and lifted his cane, caressing the exquisite silver lion’s head with his thumb. Light from the lamp beside his bed caught the ruby eyes, making them glitter.

  Works for me …

  “Some lion I am now, eh, compa?” He set the cane down, leaned on it, and stood. “You know what happens to crippled lions in the wild, don’t you? They die.”

  He’d almost done that.

  But you didn’t.

  Rafe pressed his lips together. No, he didn’t. He wasn’t sure why, what he was still here for. Of course, others had their ideas … his sister, his team, and the one childhood friend who’d stuck with him.

  That friend in particular was sure why Rafe was still there. At the thought of her, his gaze drifted to the computer desk next to his bed. Working the stiffness out of his gait, he made his way to the chair and plopped down.

  Two quick clicks of the mouse, and his e-mail was open. Sure enough, a message from AngelEyes was there, waiting for him. He opened it up, his grin spreading as he read.

  To: Asadi

  Fr: AngelEyes

  Subject: Something special’s coming

  Rafe, I woke up this morning thinking of you. God just plunked you down in my heart, so I’ve been praying. And as I did so, I had the coolest feeling. Can’t explain it other than to say this:

  Something’s coming.

  Something great.

  Don’t know what God has in store for you, but I’m betting it has to do with YKW.

  Rafe’s grin spread. YKW: You Know Who. This girl was so funny.

  Talked with YKW yesterday. Busy, as always. But something was … off. Can’t explain that either. Just know things aren’t quite right.

  Rafe frowned at that, unease stirring in his gut. Not quite right … What did that mean? Maybe he should try to find out. Maybe.

  I know you said she hasn’t been around lately and you’re worried. But Rafa, she’s in God’s hands. As are you. And I know, my friend, that He’s in control. So don’t let things get to you, okay? Just relax and let Him lead. His timing is perfect. Don’t ever doubt it. Hey, look at me! If He can bring such beauty out of my life, you KNOW he can do a number with yours. ’Cuz you’re a great guy. And you may not like to admit it, but your heart is for Him.