Free Taking Fire by Cindy Gerard

barely hauling himself inside before it took off again.
    Bridgedale looked him over as Bobby gripped the M4 rifle Gomez handed him. “You sure you’re up for action?”
    â€œWhen am I not?” He got Leavens’s attention and gave him directions to al-Attar’s nest from there. “Look for a market flying a blue banner.”
    Then he sat back, breathed deep, and hoped they would get to al-Attar in time. He’d worked the bastard for months, worked him hard, taken a helluva lot of chances. He wanted to close the deal. He did not want some team of ninja assholes doing it for him. He wanted al-Attar in custody, and he wanted to be the one who put him there. Wanted him to know that he’d been played and who had played him.
    â€œGot a bad feeling we’ve already lost him,” Bridgedale said into the darkness of the Hummer.
    â€œWhich is going to royally screw up my day,” Bobby muttered, and cupped a palm to his aching jaw. “Whoever those guys are, they weren’t playing patty-cake.”
    A few moments later, within three blocks of the compound, a monster flash of light electrified the sky ahead of them. The driver slammed on the brakes and asked God to save him.
    The blast that followed rocked the Humvee, as pieces of adobe and wood and glass rained down on them like Vesuvius spitting fiery rocks over Pompeii.
    â€œSonofabitch!” Bobby pounded his fist on the back of the shotgun seat. “Son. Of. A. Bitch,” he repeated in total defeat, as smoke and flames boiled up from the ground where al-Attar’s compound used to be.
    The blast had destroyed any opportunity to gather intelligence for analysis—documents, hard drives, whatever. Bridgedale ordered the small convoy to turn around and head back toward base. There was no point in going farther.
    Whatever was left of al-Attar would have to be scooped up with a shovel, along with all the other debris.

9

    â€œBetter have Hutchinson take a look at your jaw,” Bridgedale advised Bobby after they’d all finished the debriefing.
    â€œI’m fine,” Bobby assured him. “Just need some shut-eye.” His ears would be ringing for a week from the explosion.
    He sat in the chair after everyone else had filed out of the room.
    â€œYou got something you need to say?” Bridgedale asked, watching Bobby carefully.
    He hoped not. He hoped to hell he had nothing to say that his boss would want to hear.
    â€œAbout who did it? Or why they let you go?” Bridgedale pushed.
    They’d already hashed this over at the debriefing, and, like a lot of bombings that took place in Afghanistan, in the end all they had was speculation.
    Taliban warlords bent on retribution for al-Attar’s betrayal? Al-Qaeda unhappy when they’d found out he was helping the Americans? Al-Attar’s competition wanting him out of the picture so they could get a bigger cut and wanting to keep Bobby alive so they could make deals with him?
    But none of those explanations washed. He was still stuck with the disaster’s biggest damn question: Why had they let him go?
    He looked up at Bridgedale, who held his gaze, and finally shook his head.
    â€œYou have no ideas?”
    â€œNot one.”
    Then he walked out of the briefing room, hoping he hadn’t just lied. Because if what he feared was true, he wasn’t certain he could live with the guilt.
    *   *   *
    One of the guys gave him a ride to Talia’s hotel. The sun was almost up, and a few merchants were starting to set up their shops on the sidewalk by the time he got there. His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep; his jaw throbbed. Above all, a tight knot of dread clutched his chest as he sprinted up the stairs to Talia’s room.
    For a long moment, he stood outside her door, hoping like hell he was wrong. He really didn’t want to believe the worst. Not of her, and sure as hell not of himself—that she’d taken