Page 2 of Delta Mission (Alpha Tactical Ops)

Five women and two small children huddled in one corner of the mud-walled shelter.

It was impossible to tell the ages of the women because their eyes were the only part of their faces that weren’t covered by a patterned veil.

They bunched together on tattered cushions scattered onto dirt that had probably been compacted by a century of bare feet.

A fire crackled in the opposite corner, spewing smoke into a blackened chamber behind it. Over the fire was a large cast-iron pot with something that looked like goat stew. The smell was somehow both delicious and repugnant.

I holstered my Glock, forced a smile, and speaking in Dari Persian, I introduced myself, explained that we weren’t there to hurt them, and asked where everyone else was.

One woman gripped a large metal spoon in her knobby fingers and didn’t seem to notice the drips falling onto her burqa.

Maybe she planned to use the utensil as a weapon.

That wouldn’t surprise me. Since I’d become a DEA agent, not much surprised me, especially as my work had taken me to some of the poorest and deadliest countries in the world.

I asked if they lived in this village, but the women and children all stared at me with wide eyes as if they were absolutely terrified, except one woman in a pale green scarf.

Her deep wrinkles convinced me she was older than the rest of the women.

Her deadly glare had my nerves on edge, telling me to watch her.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to kill me.

In my line of business, it wouldn’t be the last.

Being hated by drug offenders came with the territory of being a DEA agent.

I’d had two substantial busts on my resume.

One was sheer luck. The other was after months of hard work.

If this one came through, it could make the record books and better still, it would make a significant dent in the illicit drug trade.

But that was all conjecture.

I needed this bust to happen first.

Outside the only window of the hut, Channing watched me. If his eyes were daggers, he would have cut my head clean off.

Resisting the urge to flash him the bird, I turned my attention to the women, and in a calm voice, asked where the men were.

I spoke the question in three languages.

The women and children in this village likely didn’t have any education .

. . other than how to follow orders, how to breed, and how to survive off land that was some of the most desolate in the world.

“I’ll watch Goodspeed. You men check those fucking huts again.” Channing barked the order. “Look for trapdoors and keep your eyes on a swivel.”

“Yes, Captain,” the soldiers answered in unison and marched away.

Channing shuddered. Probably with rage over the waste of time—and me.

Drawing on that rage, I squatted in front of the woman whose glare could carve stone and spoke to her in Dari Persian. Her eyes narrowed to pinpricks as she gave a slight head shake, indicating she didn’t understand my question. I was certain she did. I’d heard the women whispering as I strode in.

I was fluent in six languages, two were the official languages of Afghanistan. My language skills had helped forge my DEA career, but I didn’t just want to be the intermediary between us and the bad guys. I wanted to be at the forefront of an operation that took down the bad guys.

Illicit drugs ruined lives. My sister’s life had been a pathetic mess since she’d pushed that first heroin needle into her vein after she’d found her husband in bed with their kid’s nanny. I was too late for her, but I still had to do something.

Trying to establish a line of communication, I asked how old the two kids were, but other than blinking eyes, they were all statues.

I shifted my gaze to the woman in the pale blue headscarf, who was still holding the spoon. She gave the slightest of head shakes. If I hadn’t been looking right at her, I would have missed it.

Was she trying to convey something?

Is she Blue Hawk?

I hadn’t heard from Blue Hawk, the woman who gave me the tip-off for months. Could this woman be her?

I was tempted to switch to another language, Pashto, but I didn’t need to. These women knew what I was saying.

Were they terrified by me and my team?

Or were they terrified by what would happen after we left?

Either way, they knew something.

I needed leverage to get them talking.

They all wore black burqas, and their different colored scarves were the only way to distinguish them. I gazed at the three women seated at the back, but they snapped their attention downward.

Scanning the room, I searched for something of interest. But there was nothing. Not even a table and chairs, or plates and cutlery. This was not a home; this was a kitchen. And barely even that.

Is it a front?

The fire blazed, yet the liquid in the enormous pot wasn’t bubbling.

It wasn’t hot enough! Meaning it had only just been put on the flames.

Three patterned rugs hung on the walls in a rudimentary attempt at decoration. Or they were hiding secret doorways.

I marched to the nearest one and yanked it aside.

It revealed nothing but a mud wall.

Behind the woman with the pale blue scarf hung another rug. Keeping one eye on her, I pushed past a child, but the woman grabbed my wrist.

I glared at her, and she shook her head, no longer being discreet.

Shouts erupted from outside. I peered through the open doorway but didn’t see anyone in the empty street. The soldiers may have finished searching the rest of the village.

Desperation crawled through me like ants.

After what had happened in Colombia, I’d worked so fucking hard to prove myself. But none of that would matter. I would never recover from this failure.

I shifted my attention to the woman in the green scarf. Her killer glare intensified. “Where are the drugs?”

She narrowed her gaze.

A squeaking noise interrupted the silence.

The woman with the spoon jerked a fraction. “No. No. It’s Abdul-Aziz. He’s back early.”

She spoke in Dari Persian.

The older woman snapped her gaze to the woman with the spoon. Her blue scarf shifted as she shook her head, and the terror in her eyes increased. The squeaking sound grew louder.

“Hey, you! Stop!” Channing yelled.

I crossed the room and ducked below the window. Inching up, I was just in time to see Channing run down the narrow gap between the two buildings opposite, chasing a man in a light blue tunic. The local man fired a gun wildly over his shoulder, but Channing didn’t even slow down.

A young shirtless boy on a tricycle watched them go and didn’t seem at all worried about getting hit by a bullet.

Trent stood next to the Hummer that he’d traveled to the village in, also watching Channing.

I couldn’t see any other soldiers. Or locals.

A loud crack split through the air.

Trent flew backward, slammed into the Hummer, and slumped to the dirt.

His head kinked to a ghastly angle. His eyes were wide. Blood plastered the side of his face and neck.

Jesus, he’s dead. Shit. Shit. Shit!

Ducking down, I glanced across the room.

Three women and the kids were gone.

What the hell!

The woman in the green scarf launched to her feet and shrieking, she charged at me with a knife.