Page 2 of Near Miss

The men who made up his civilian security teams in Kabul were all former military and well-trained. It was his job to guarantee they had the procedures, weapons, and protective gear to ensure their safety and the safety of the contractors working on LAI’s development projects.

He bloody well intended to make sure no one died on his watch again.

Once inside the terminal, he set his watch for fourteen forty-three local time, checked his mobile for service, and tapped out a series of numbers.

“You made it.” Ryder Montague’s proper English accent came over the line.

Lachlan’s shoulders loosened a fraction at the sound of his security team leader’s voice. Ryder had been part of his SAS troop, a corporal with an aristocratic background who’d fought hard to earn the respect of his teammates. Lachlan had jumped to hire him as soon as he’d learned Ryder planned to leave the British Army. “Aye, you here?”

“I’m ten minutes out. We need to talk. Alone.”

Lachlan’s grip on his phone tightened at the uncharacteristic note of tension in Ryder’s voice. He glanced around at the other arriving passengers as they milled around him. “We’ll talk on the way to the compound.”

Thirty minutes later, he’d made it through customs. The headache spawned on his first flight from Dulles to Dubai returned to pound behind his eyes. He dry-swallowed some ibuprofen and exited the terminal into the diplomatic area. The bright afternoon sun made him squint and aggravated his headache. He donned his polarized glecks and scanned his surroundings, spying Ryder’s tall, broad-shouldered figure and chestnut brown hair heading toward him in jeans and a black hooded jacket.

The other man acknowledged Lachlan with a brief tilt of his head. Nicknamed “Clark Kent” by the men of A squadron for his resemblance to the British actor who’d played Superman, Ryder had a quiet reserve and understated strength Lachlan found reassuring.

He clapped his team leader on the shoulder. “Mate.”

Ryder’s brilliant blue eyes met his. The Englishman hadn’t liked his nickname in the SAS, and Lachlan made sure never to use it. Still, it beat the derogatory names Ryder suffered through during selection because of his posh background. He’d earned the respect of his teammates with his sheer tenacity, closed mouth, and skills in combat.

Those skills had been tested in the crosshairs of Nadia Haider’s AK-47 when she’d chosen to die rather than surrender. Ryder had almost become another death on Lachlan’s conscience.

Ryder lifted his hand, wordlessly offering to carry Lachlan’s duffel. “How was your trip?”

Lachlan declined with a polite shake of his head. “Same as always—long.”

He followed his team leader to the NATO-controlled section of the airport, where guards protected vehicles used by foreign military and civilian contractors. When they reached Ryder’s modified black Chevy Tahoe, Lachlan tossed his bag in the back and settled into the passenger seat. He opened the glove box and took out the Glock 19 Ryder kept handy. The polymer frame warmed in his palm as he balanced the weapon on his thigh.

The five-kilometer drive from the airport to the city center—and the secure compound that housed LAI personnel in Kabul—consisted of a multilane highway partitioned by trees and low, concrete barriers. As they drew closer to the city center, the traffic increased, as did the density of buildings lining the road. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks.

Lachlan scrutinized their surroundings for anything that looked out of place or caused a blip on his internal radar. He’d learned from experience to recognize the signs of an impending Taliban attack—a sudden traffic jam, where someone on foot or a motorbike could attach a sticky bomb to a stopped vehicle. A pickup or sedan driven by a lone, visibly nervous male near a target building or convoy.

Given the rise of attacks by Afghan soldiers on allied soldiers in so-calledgreen-on-blueincidents, he wasn’t even sure he trusted the men in Afghan military uniforms sporting assault rifles who cruised the streets in pickups mounted with fifty-caliber machine guns.

“What do you need to tell me?” he asked Ryder, referring back to their conversation on the phone shortly after his arrival.

“Josh has been leaving the compound when he’s off duty. Alone. He leaves no itinerary of his whereabouts and doesn’t bring his work-issued mobile with him.”

“Burkette’s a fucking team leader,” Lachlan growled, “he should know better than to violate security protocols. It’s a bad example to set for the rest of the men when he could be abducted or killed.”

“His men don’t care for him, but no one’s accused him of not doing his job.” Ryder’s shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. “We don’t socialize in our downtime. He keeps to himself.”

“And you don’t find that odd?” Lachlan had worked with soldiers of all types, from the loud and fun-loving to the quiet, keep-to-themselves ones, like Ryder. But in an environment like Kabul, where the only safe place to relax was within the compound walls, even the most antisocial men tended to seek the company of others for a drink or conversation.

Ryder gave another shrug. “There’s something else.” He passed through their compound’s security checkpoint, pulled into the Tahoe’s designated space, and killed the motor. “I spoke with Gilly yesterday. He heard a rumor about Khan.”

Lachlan’s pulse ticked up at the news. Mohammed Razul Khan was unfinished business. Khan played whatever side of the war benefited him personally at any given moment. He’d had access to government intelligence that allowed his son, Razul Sharif, and Nadia to bait the trap Lachlan had willingly led his men into, but the warlord’s deep connections to members of the national government made him untouchable.

For now.

If Khan’s status ever changed, Lachlan would volunteer for the mission to take the warlord out himself. Like he had the bastard’s Taliban son.

“Arrange a meeting with Gilly.” If he were to ferret out any credible information on Khan’s activities, his former SAS teammate, currently stationed in Kabul with his detachment training Afghan special forces, would be the one to point him in the right direction.

“I already did. He’ll be here tomorrow, around twelve hundred. I’ve notified security to let him in.” Ryder’s gaze stayed fixed on the Tahoe’s dashboard.

The temperature outside continued to drop, leaching residual heat from the SUV. Traces of snow drifted in the air. When Ryder made no move to exit the vehicle, Lachlan tensed, then steeled himself.

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