Page 21 of Whisper
Haddad pulled out each item one by one. “Your headset and radio, extra ammo—” Kris already had his 9mm strapped to his thigh. “—compass, beacon, maps of all our areas of operations marked with escape routes, sleep sack, poncho liner, night scope, day scope, flashlight, backup flashlight, GPS, spare batteries, more spare batteries, and more batteries. And everything else you brought.”
His clothes were squished in the bottom, next to a paperback he’d picked up in Germany and his all-weather CIA laptop. “Will two million in cash fit?” He still had one of the duffels under his control. For the moment, it was at the embassy, locked in the ambassador’s safe.
Haddad stared at him. “We talking in ones or in hundreds?”
“Twenties and hundreds.”
Shrugging, Haddad pointed to the bottom of the ruck. “In between the flashlights, maybe?” He grinned. “We should be able to make it all fit.” He shoved everything back and stuffed the ruck closed. “Here, try it on.”
The pack was definitely heavier than before. A radio antenna stuck out over one of his shoulders now. His sleeping bag pushed his head forward. He stumbled under the weight as he hefted it on his shoulders, but managed to get the pack settled.
It felt like he was carrying an elephant on his back. If he took a step, he’d collapse.
Haddad stared at him. “Good?”
“Yeah.” Kris tried to smile. His eyeballs were going to pop out of his skull if he breathed too deeply.
He probably weighed one-third of what Haddad did. Haddad’s biceps bulged out of his long-sleeved undershirt like he was a professional NFL linebacker. His chest was solid muscle, tapering down to a trim waist. Next to him, Kris wasn’t a twink, he was a twig. He was a matchstick, and the ruck was going to snap him in half.
But Haddad smiled at him again, that small, tight smile.
Kris’s knees weakened, and not from the load.
Shit. He was fucked.
Haddad was gorgeous. He’d recognized that immediately. Someone would have to be blind to not see Haddad’s good looks. Bronze skin, a wide face, sweeping cheekbones, a jawline chiseled from granite. He was impressively built, with sculpted muscles that screamed of hours spent in the gym, training his body to perfection.
But, there was more, too. There was depth in his dark eyes, something that viewed the world unflinchingly. And something deeper. Something that seemed to tug at Kris, a force that made him want to fall into David Haddad. He had a presence, a pull, and it worked on every bone in Kris’s body. Haddad had his own gravity well, and Kris was a shooting star, brushing too close to his orbit.
No, he couldn’t go there.
Part of him felt like he was falling already, flying at the speed of light right at Haddad.
God, he was fucked. So fucked. He was here to fight a war. Avenge the people who had died, whom he’d let die. Try to fix, somehow, everything he’d done wrong, everything he’d let happen. Not crush on a Special Forces soldier. The Army frowned on men like him, anyway.Don’t Ask, Don’t Tellwas the rule of law. Anyone in the military who was as gay as he was had to keep their mouth firmly shut.
That wasn’t his style. And it didn’t seem like Haddad’s, either.
“Let’s get this off you.” Haddad helped him slough off the pack, taking the weight easily in one hand. It had to weigh at least seventy pounds. He tried to hide the deep breath he took, the way he rolled his shoulders. They felt like he’d ripped them off and tried to shove them back into their sockets the wrong way.
Pain wasn’t sexy. Struggling wasn’t sexy, either. He had to carry his weight. Not fall behind or slow the team down. He’d sworn he would shove George and Ryan’s skepticism in their faces, rub their snide looks in his success. He’d sworn he would do the right thing, dedicate everything he had to the mission, to revenge.
He wouldn’t have time for crushing on Haddad.
He’d broken out in a light sweat hefting the pack, but now that it was off, the frigid Tashkent wind chilled him to the bone. He shivered, shoving his hands back in his black jacket and tucking his face into his wool scarf.
Haddad pulled out a beanie from his cargo pants. “Here. This will help.”
Kris frowned. His hair was his best feature. He’d actually been able to style it that morning. Maybe the last morning for a long, long time. He wanted to enjoy the feeling.
“Your hair is very stylish.” Haddad winked. “But I promise you. You’re going to want this. It’s only going to get colder.”
Cheeks burning, Kris took the beanie.
Tashkent, Uzbekistan
September 22, 2001
The weather cleared overnight. At daybreak, Kris, George, and the rest of the CIA team left the embassy, heading back to Tashkent airport. Derek, their pilot, had stayed behind, bunking with the Special Forces team.
