by Tracy Brody
“Eyes on al-Shehri. We’re rolling.” Lundgren lifted his M-4 from the hook on the wall.
Eyes on! Seriously? Tony’s heart pounded against his ribs like the thud of mortar fire. His body went onto autopilot. The laptop rocked on his lap as he began to rise, then sat again. He quickly pulled the headset back on.
“You love kids,” his mom continued without missing a beat. “You’re both still—”
“Mom, I gotta go.”
“You said you weren’t going out until tonight. Anthony Salvatore Vincenti, are you trying to get out of this conversation? Because I know how—”
“The team’s going out on patrol. I’ll talk—”
“What for? Is something wrong?” Her pitch rose and facial features scrunched together in worry.
“It’s just a routine patrol.” He stared right at the computer screen and lied to his mother.
His mother’s eyebrows arched, the left higher than the right in the piercing manner she’d perfected raising four kids.
He didn’t flinch or let his gaze deviate from the screen.
She made the sign of the cross, then leaned closer to the screen. “I’m headed to the market. I’ll stop by St. Benedict’s to light a candle and say a prayer for you.”
Busted. He never could fool his mother’s bullshit detector. Though she probably caught his reaction when Lundgren passed on the news that could make his week, if not his deployment.
“Thanks.” He and his team could use the extra prayers, even to patron saints, about this mission. Father, forgive me for lying to my mom. “Give my love to Pop and the family. I’ll talk to you next week and see you soon.”
That made her smile and the wrinkles on her forehead disappear. “Be safe. Email me later so I know you’re okay.”
“We’ll be fine. I gotta go.”
“Routine patrol, huh?” Lincoln Porter grinned at him and pulled on his Kevlar vest.
Tony shook his head. Not exactly routine. If they nabbed al-Shehri, the guru of recruiting suicide bombers, it would be like getting extra cheese and double meat toppings on a deep-dish pizza. However, there were a lot of things family were better off not knowing.
“How good’s the intel on this?” he asked Lundgren.
“A local told a patrol team from the 173rd he saw al-Shehri going into a home this morning. At least that’s what they got out of the translation. I wouldn’t bet a month’s pay on it.”
Tony wouldn’t either. They were oh-for-three when it came to translators they shared with another unit.
The first translator had actually been good. Good enough to get shot in a drive-by assassination. The second stopped showing up, likely after he was threatened by insurgents. The third “translator” fired off one shot, hitting Rozanski in the vest, before the team took him down.
Lundgren spoke Pashto better than their translators spoke English, and Tony couldn’t think of anyone he trusted more. Well, he could think of one linguist he trusted would have their backs, but he doubted Angel—FBI Special Agent Angela Hoffman—knew Pashto. Besides, her being here could be a major distraction to the guys on the team, him most of all.
Time to gear up, load up on ammo, and pray this intel proved reliable and didn’t send them into an ambush. Then it’d be time for the strike team to live up to their name and deliver bad karma to deserving jihadists.
Tony held on to the door handle as the caravan of Humvees bumped down a pothole-rutted street. Outside the vehicle, a sandstorm raged. It sounded like rain as it beat against the metal and glass, only instead of water, the wipers swept aside the grains, and an eerie red glow reflected off the blowing sand and distorted the already shitty visibility.
The vehicle braked to a stop in front of the wall of a family compound. Tony’s pulse rate jumped as if someone floored his heart’s gas pedal.
They’d been down this street on routine patrols at least a handful of times. This evening was different. A thousand mini shocks of electricity danced on the surface of his body at the possibility of nabbing Samir al-Shehri.
He and the team poured out of the vehicles onto the narrow street. The sand swirled to infiltrate his uniform’s neck and sleeves. With his gloved hand, he pulled the shemagh scarf higher to cover his nose. He never thought a sandstorm would be good for something. But the storm kept the locals hunkered down inside their mud-walled homes.
Still, he scanned what he could see of the residential street. Only flat rooftops peaked over the high walls which protected the homes.
Tony didn’t let the forsaken streets lull him into an overconfident state. Not here. Not ever in Afghanistan. Just because he didn’t see anyone didn’t mean an enemy sniper wasn’t there watching. Or waiting.
The team fell into place behind an eight-foot-high wall near a locked metal gate. Porter shifted his M4 Carbine rifle to his back. Tony and Lundgren clasped hands on each other’s forearms. Porter placed one foot on their arms, and they boosted him up. He peered into the compound before he swung his leg over the ledge. Within seconds, he gave the all-clear signal.
They boosted Juan Dominguez up next. He kept an eye out while Porter dropped to the ground on the other side. Metal grated against metal when Porter unlocked the gate for the team to enter the compound.
Time to start this party. Two of the team guarded the entrance, another pair took Dita, the team’s working dog, and headed toward the back courtyard.
Tony sprinted across the barren space to the side of the residence with Porter, Lundgren, and Dominguez. They edged their way to the main door.
The compound walls decreased the amount of blowing sand enough to improve visibility by a few feet. Dust rolled in waves along the base of the house. It drummed against the surrounding walls, masking most of the noise they made.
The mud house had a metal door. Solid metal, not a sheet of corrugated or scrap metal. Hardly standard Afghan construction. Major red flag. The fight-or-flight instinct hit and pumped adrenaline through his veins. No brainer. Fight.
He’d do his part to stop one more zealot from persuading kids to strap on bombs. Who the hell decided being a martyr got you a shitload of virgins in heaven? Gimme a freakin’ break. Sounds more like hell. He’d take a woman with experience any day.
Lundgren tried the knob. No go. He nodded to Porter, who opened his ordnance pack.
Porter made a loop of detcord and taped it to the wall near the door. For the tighter quarters, Tony pulled his Kimber .45 from the holster on his protective vest. After Porter inserted a blasting cap into the C4, the team stepped clear of the blast zone.
Tony turned his face away. The vibration rocked his body though the earpieces of his communication headset muffled the explosive crack when the charge detonated. A poof of smoke mixed with the sand in the air. They ducked through the large opening into the house, weapons raised.
He tugged the scarf below his chin and pulled his dusty goggles from his face. Sand drifted downward. He licked rough grains from his chapped lips.
The pungent aromas of fresh herbs hung heavy in the air.
Dinnertime. Somebody’s home.
Lundgren and Dominguez veered to the right. Tony followed his nose. Porter trailed him through the doorway to their left. A few steps in, a shadow appeared on the floor of the narrow hallway.
His gaze shot upward, and his weapon tracked with his eyes. Dark gray fabric billowed into the hallway. A figure fully covered in a burqa emerged. Definitely not al-Sheri, but his heart rate yo-yoed when the woman squawked and came to a complete stop. He held his index finger to his lips and aimed his weapon away from her chest.
She hobbled a step toward them on a crutch carved out of a branch. Her gravelly voice fussed at them in rapid Pashto. He couldn’t make out all of what she said, but the tone and the gnarled finger she waved clearly conveyed her Get-the-hell-out-of-my-home! message.
He advanced, trying to force the old woman back into the kitchen. Except she refused to budge. “Move,” he growled through clenched teeth an
d resorted to waving his pistol to direct her.
She rattled off a fresh litany of complaints, something about American troops and invasions. Behind him, Porter cleared his throat, probably to keep from laughing at the diminutive menace.
Damn, she reminded him of his Nonna Sofia. Stubborn cuss. Rules of engagement dictated the only way he could touch her was if she was in danger or presented a physical threat. Her smacking the back of his legs with her stick probably didn’t qualify. Just as reprisal wasn’t an option when Nonna’s cane accompanied a swift reminder to behave like a good Catholic boy.
A noise came from the next room. Tony surged forward. Using his body as a shield, he spun the woman and lifted her out of the potential line of fire.
Her crutch clattered to the floor. Thin arms and legs flailed at him and Porter, who surged past them. A heel smashed him in the shin. He reared his head back to avoid the clawed hand that reached back to scratch out his eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” he said in Pashto. He couldn’t protect her and cover Porter, but he didn’t dare release her. She didn’t weigh half of what he bench-pressed, but holding on to her was like trying to cuddle a feral cat.
Covered head to toe in the burqa, she could be hiding something. Something other than the ragged fingernails that raked over his cheek. He didn’t need a mirror to know she drew blood.
She jabbered louder while Porter searched the kitchen. People in the house next door probably heard her since she was louder than them blasting a hole in the home’s wall.
He shifted her slight figure and held her to his side and backed into the kitchen. With no viable options, other than to flex cuff her, which he couldn’t bring himself to do—at least yet—he dragged the kitchen’s high wooden worktable to the doorway and deposited her in the hallway. He wedged the table in the doorframe to keep her out while he joined the hunt.
Heat radiated from the brick oven to his right. Loaves of bread sat on a rough-hewn shelf along the wall. Four loaves. The hairs on the edge of his scalp bristled. Porter made eye contact, then nodded to the pair of floor-length, crimson curtains that separated the kitchen from another room, likely the communal dining room.
Porter pointed, then held up one finger.
Please, let it be al-Shehri. Tony would take him dead or alive. Preferably alive to see what information they could garner from him, but …
He indicated for Porter to go low.
Behind him, the woman yammered away. Her pitch rose higher, making it more difficult to decipher her words. Just as Porter whipped back the curtain, Tony translated her last phrase.
Don’t lay a hand on her.
Her?
Oh, shit!
Too late, he realized he was wrong.
His world shifted to slow motion, and he shoved Porter aside as steaming meat and vegetables flew at them. Hot droplets of broth splattered his face. Food bounced off his body to the wooden floor, some landing on his boots.
Great! “Whoa. Whoa. Wh-oa!” he warned a petite figure clad in a blue burqa.
The barely teenage girl clutched a pot with its remaining contents, ready to launch a second round.
He shifted out of firing stance and raised both hands in a surrender gesture. He searched for the right words in Pashto. “You should save what’s left of your dinner.”
In the back corner of the room, a young boy crouched. His patterned taqiyah cap slipped to the side of his head as the child pointed at Tony. His other hand covered his mouth while he laughed.
Tony chuckled along. “I look funny, huh?” He waved a hand down the length of his torso where bits of herbs and onion clung to his uniform.
The boy laughed harder when Tony plucked some dark green leaves and strips of onion from his arm. When the girl lowered the pot from side-armed pitching position, Tony snatched it from her hands. Defenseless, she fled around the low dining table to the corner where she huddled next to the boy.
The room had two small windows high in the wall. Wooden flaps covered the openings, but sand still blew in through the cracks. There wasn’t another entrance to the room. It made as good a place as any to corral the house’s occupants while his team cleared the compound in their search for al-Shehri.
“Watch them while I get the old lady,” he ordered Porter.
His mouth watered like Pavlov’s dog as he set the pot down next to the brick oven. The food smelled better than anything the cook at their forward operating base had served in the past five months, but he resisted taking even a bite since most of the family’s dinner was on the floor. Besides, he’d bet money the old woman watched his every move. Probably gave him the evil eye from behind the veil, too.
The woman stooped over the table. She released her grip and put a hand against the doorframe for support when he grabbed the table by the edge.
Tony pulled the table back into the room. When she didn’t move, he edged around her and retrieved the fallen crutch from the floor. An age-spotted hand snatched it away. She tucked the rag-wrapped top under her arm and limped toward the eating area without any prodding.
“Did he touch you?” The woman’s voice crackled with angst.
“Yes,” the girl replied. A single, soft-spoken word in Pashto. A flat out lie.
“Wait a damn min—”
Whack!
The top of the crutch made direct contact with his nose. He felt the all too familiar pain.
“Fu—” he choked back the string of expletives about to pour out of his mouth. White spots of light obscured his vision. Bent over, one hand braced above his knee, he rode out the wave of nausea. He opened his mouth to breathe as blood dripped onto the floor.
Porter grabbed the crutch from the woman before she could strike again.
“Don’t do it,” he ordered before Porter could snap the confiscated crutch in half. “But keep it out of her reach!”
She wanted to protect the young girl’s virtue, but he didn’t deserve a broken nose. Well, there were plenty of other things he might deserve a beating for, but he hadn’t laid a finger on the girl. Damn. A low growl rumbled in his throat.
Porter placed the crutch on top of the brick oven, then dug in a side pocket of his pants. Tony took the offered sterile gauze pads. He rolled one up and stuffed it in his nostril to staunch the blood dripping down his face. Over the communications headset, Lundgren requested status updates.
“We’ve got three non-hostiles contained at our position,” Porter reported.
Non-hostiles, my ass. Tony glared at the old woman while he gingerly touched his nose to determine the damage before it swelled more.
He felt the bump left from the first break in a high school football game. The second break came from a hand-to-hand combat exercise after he made it through Selection and into Special Forces. Those were both stories he could live down; they might even enhance his image. But conked in the face by a gimpy old lady? Hell, this was beyond embarrassing.
Minutes later, more of the Bad Karma team crowded into the kitchen.
“What the hell happened to you?” Dominguez was the first to take in the bloody scratches, gauze protruding from his nose, and damp patches on his uniform.
Chief Lundgren’s eyebrows rose at his appearance.
“Don’t ask.” Tony prayed that Porter would keep his mouth shut. His teammates flanked a man in a flowing white perahan tunban over black pants. His hands were flex-cuffed behind his back. It made the throbbing pain worthwhile—until the prisoner faced him. The universe sucked his flash of enthusiasm into a black hole.
“No sign of al-Shehri, and he’s not talking.” Lundgren shifted his gaze back to their prisoner. A muscle in Lundgren’s cheek twitched. “Got a teen in the back bedroom. He’s not talking either—because he’s in no condition to. Chemical burns on his arms, chest, and face. Wounds are infected. Dad here was praying for him but won’t let us take the boy to the base for treatment. Grant’s cleaning and dressing the burns, but …” The grim set of Lundgren’s mouth and shake of his
head conveyed paragraphs of information, ending ominously.
Silence settled around them. Tony cast a glance at the shrouded woman, her arms wrapped around the children. He wanted al-Shehri. He wanted people like this family to not live in fear of al-Qaeda or American troops. He wanted to go home without losing more buddies in gunfights or to freakin’ IEDs or mortar attacks.
Tony dug in his pants pocket and pulled out a pack of candy. He caught Lundgren’s eye and jerked his head to the kid. “Let me have the picture.” The idea tumbled out. “Translate for me?”
Lundgren handed over a picture of al-Shehri. “You’re going to have to get your nose fixed this time.” His expression issued a challenge.
Tony gave a resigned nod. He signaled for Dominguez to keep the prisoner out of sight before he approached the trio in the dining room.
He motioned to the boy, but the old woman held him to her side. Tony pulled off his gloves to unwrap the candy, then popped a purple disk into his mouth.
The boy slipped from the woman’s grasp and darted to his side, smiling expectantly. Tony handed the rest of the candy to the bright-eyed boy, who turned and spoke to the burqa-clad females, then flashed a gap-toothed grin at the men.
Lundgren snickered. “He told his grandmother not to be scared of you. Thinks you’re funny.” His gaze roved over Tony’s disheveled appearance in concurrence.
While tall, dark, toned, and dangerous drew women to him for one reason, kids saw right through him. They knew they had no reason to be afraid of him. He was Uncle Tony.
He squatted, getting on the kid’s level. The boy opened his hand, offering to share the candy. Tony took another piece. The time seemed right, so he showed the picture of al-Shehri to the boy.
The kid’s eyes doubled in size. The hand shoveling more candy into his mouth froze.
“He was here?” Lundgren asked in Pashto.
The boy’s head bobbed in slow motion.
“He’s gone now?”
This time the boy nodded more vigorously, and his features relaxed slightly.
“When did he leave?” Lundgren probed over the chatter of the grandmother. One of his signature stares intimidated her to go silent.