by Ty Patterson
Just before he fell asleep, another thought struck him.
Maybe I should be a drug smuggler as well. Demand to work only with the source, Atash Mohammed. No middle men.
He liked it. He would splash money. That would get him attention and word would reach Mohammed and hopefully draw him out. Getting the terrorist to come to him was preferable.
He pulled a thin blanket over himself and snuggled deeper into his seat.
The thrumming of engines woke him.
Two am, the dial on the dash told him.
Zeb was parked in a thicket well away from any roads, or whatever passed for them.
No houses around.
The sound came closer.
He reached behind and grabbed the weapons that he had removed from the box, once out of Kabul.
A McMillan TAC 338, sniper rifle, an HK and his Glocks. He swiftly strapped the handguns to holsters on his thighs.
Stuffed mags in his pockets, took a helmet and climbed out of the vehicle.
He went into the thicket, away from the noise, which was now very close. Found a small depression in the ground, just behind a bush and settled there. One hundred and fifty yards away from his vehicle.
The TAC went to his shoulder, its Night Force Mil Dot scope to his eye and he waited.
Two vehicles came roaring. Soviet-style armored carriers, their lights cutting tunnels through the darkness. They followed the same nonexistent route he had taken.
They squealed to a stop when the beams fell on his Jeep.
An engine revved and one of the vehicles moved to the front of his, boxing it in.
Silence for a moment, then four men spilled out: two from the front, two from the rear, weapons trained on the Jeep.
All armed. All long-bearded, in loose robes.
‘Come out!’ one man ordered in Farsi, his voice carrying clearly through the night.
He repeated the command in Pashtun when no reply came.
He went forward cautiously and peered through the window.
Straightened, when he saw the front was empty. He went to the rear and looked inside.
‘No one inside,’ he called out.
More armed men jumped out of the vehicles.
Six in all. Two drivers stayed inside, smoking, by the looks of the red dots glowing near their mouths.
Eight men.
He couldn’t see inside the vehicles. There could be more.
‘There’s something in the back,’ a gunman exclaimed.
The bulk of the arrivals crowded at the rear while two men watched, their weapons in front of them.
‘Break it open,’ a tall man said, heavier than the rest. He seemed to be in charge, because the others slammed the butts of their weapons against the door and broke through the lock.
Hands reached inside and pulled out the crate.
They nearly dropped it from the weight.
‘What’s inside?’ the leader asked.
Three men shook the crate and listened.
‘Weapons?’ one of them said, hopefully. ‘There are no markings.’
‘Open it.’
The crate didn’t give. It was designed for extreme handling.
‘Put it in my vehicle,’ Tall Man said impatiently and shaded his eyes as he looked in the darkness.
His face was lit by the headlights. Zeb’s finger caressed the trigger. He didn’t know who the men were, but he didn’t like them.
Four men carried the crate to the vehicle behind the Jeep, while the commander spoke softly with other men.
They nodded, split and went to the vehicles.
Zeb’s lips tightened when they returned, dragging one man from each vehicle.
The prisoners were bound and gagged. They shook their heads furiously and dragged their heels on the ground, their desperation and fear showing clearly in the lights. Both men bearded, straggly haired, in dirty clothing.
Tall Man raised his weapon.
‘Let’s kill them here and dump their bodies in this Jeep.’
Chapter Ten
Zeb scoped the captured men. Neither of them was the Delta operatives.
They thrashed on the ground and tried to roll away desperately.
Rifle stocks were slammed into their backs, and they groaned loudly.
‘Do it. We were thinking of dumping them somewhere anyway. This way, the Jeep’s owner will be suspected.’
Tall Man kicked one of the prisoners in his head. He took aim and Tall Man’s head exploded.
Shocked silence for a moment. The killers watched his body fall.
Then hands reached for guns.
The armed men yelled and dove away. Shots sprayed in the dark, many of them going above Zeb’s head.
He had the advantage of darkness and surprise.
He made quick use of it.
He worked methodically, picking off the men as they sought cover, some trying to jump inside their vehicles, others ducking around it, changing mags without conscious thought.
The drivers started their machines. Dust flew in the air as wheels scrabbled for purchase.
The next moment, both vehicles went spinning when Zeb shattered their windscreens and took the wheelmen out.
A cry from behind a vehicle. A leg sticking out. Zeb fired. A body flopped into view and twisted spasmodically when Zeb emptied his mag into it.
He slapped in a new mag and waited.
Eight men down in thirty seconds. The strangers had no chance. Zeb had used the terrain and the vehicles against them.
Still, he waited. Any of the men could be playing dead.
Time ticked. The Earth continued hurtling in space, silently, indifferent to the activities of its residents.
The two vehicles were stuck in dirt, their wheels spinning uselessly.
Half an hour. Then an hour.
A moan. One of the prisoners, who raised himself up and looked around wildly.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted in the dark. ‘Help us.’
Zeb didn’t reply.
He took in the entire scene. The Night Force tracked behind the vehicles, to the route they had taken.
Nothing moved. No lights pierced the darkness.
He got up silently, slinging the McMillan behind his back, a Glock coming to his hand and approached the vehicles.
He went to the left one cautiously, gun held in front, alert for the slightest move.
The driver was dead.
As were the strangers around the vehicle.
Same story at the second.
He was conscious of the prisoners staring at him. He didn’t look in their direction.
He bent over the fallen men and snapped their pictures with his phone and only then did he turn to the captured men.
‘Who are you?’ one man’s lips worked, his eyes wide in fear.
‘Who are you ?’ Zeb asked back, in Dari.
‘We are farmers,’ the prisoner tried to stand and flopped back when the Glock moved. ‘I am Nawid Ghani. He’s Parwiz Noor. We are from Badgozar.’
‘It is one hour away from Keshem,’ the second prisoner said, finding his voice. He shivered in the cold and propped himself up with difficulty.
‘Who are they?’
Both men gaped at him. They had come close to dying and yet that one question stunned them.
‘You don’t know?’
Zeb waited.
‘They are Abdul Malek’s men.’
One of the Taliban warlords in Badakshan. Second largest gang after Mohammed’s. Big hand in drug smuggling , Zeb recalled, from his intel dossier.
‘What is his name?’ he asked, pointing to Tall Man.
‘Mujitaba,’ the prisoner spoke fearfully. ‘He was Malek’s enforcer.’
‘Why were they planning to kill you?’
‘We refused to grow poppy.’
Chapter Eleven
Zeb considered them in silence. The farmers became agitated. They talked, interrupting each other, telling him everything he needed to know.
<
br /> Mujitaba had been warning them for several weeks: grow poppy or die.
They had refused. The rest of their village had succumbed to the terrorists’ wishes, but not them. They were both single, had nothing to lose. They didn’t heed the enforcer who then swooped on them that evening and grabbed them when they were returning from their fields.
‘Where was he taking you?’ Zeb asked, turning the story over in his mind.
‘To Raghi,’ Noor replied, ‘To kill us in front of the village.’
‘Why did he change his mind?’
‘Raghi is Atash Mohammed’s region. Mujitaba started having second thoughts. He called Malek, who agreed. They didn’t want to risk a confrontation.’
Zeb drew out his Benchmade and sliced their bindings. He helped them up and gave them his canteen.
The men drank gratefully and wiped their mouths on their sleeves.
‘Who are you, agha?’
Agha . Sir.
‘It’s best you don’t know,’ he told them, and went to the vehicles. Some Soviet make, leftovers from the Russian occupation.
He turned off their engines and kicked out their lights.
He went to the one that held his crate and dragged it out.
The farmers rushed to help him, and the three of them loaded it back into his Jeep.
He returned to the killers’ rides and looked at the sacks and boxes in them.
‘What’s in them?’
‘Opium,’ Noor replied. ‘They were taking it to their factory in the mountains.’
Zeb hefted one sack. There seemed to be fifty kilograms in the two vehicles.
At his gesture, Noor and Ghani worked with him and moved the drugs to his vehicle.
They looked at him uncertainly when he climbed in.
‘Get in the back,’ he told them.
They jumped in eagerly, thanking him.
‘I will drop you off on the road. You can make your way back?’
‘Yes, agha,’ Noor bobbed his head.
‘Returning to your village could be dangerous.’
‘We will go south, agha,’ Ghani said.
‘Your fields?’
The farmers shrugged indifferently. ‘They will still be there when we return.’
‘Who are you, agha? American?’
‘What do you think?’
Ghani shook his head decisively. ‘No American can speak like you. Or looks like you. You are with the police?’
Zeb hid a smile and continued driving.
The night was still and the road a dark ribbon when he reached it.
The farmers climbed out and came to his window.
‘What will you do with that?’ Noor pointed to the rear.
‘Start a war.’
Zeb left tarmac half an hour after leaving the farmers and, as dawn broke out, took dusty tracks to a stream.
He freshened up, made himself a hot drink, and as it went down, inspected the confiscated drugs.
Each sack or carton had a label on it. A red mark that had no meaning to him.
Probably Malek’s sign .
Zeb knew many of the Taliban outfits and the drug runners had their own symbols. The traffickers marked their consignments with their brands so that everyone in the supply and delivery chain knew who had to be paid.
He dug a hole in the ground, underneath a tree and buried most of the loot. Made a note of the coordinates and swept the ground with a branch to erase his tracks.
He kept just a carton and dirty sack in the Jeep and covered the narcotics and his weapons with a tarp.
The sun was shining when he headed out.
It was bright when two vehicles came up from behind, fast, and overtook him.
Chapter Twelve
Twenty miles from Raghi , he thought absent-mindedly, fingering the Glock underneath his perahaan.
One vehicle cut around sharply and blocked his way.
The other cut his escape from behind.
Armed men jumped out from both vehicles.
All similarly garbed. Loose, dark, clothing. Bearded. Hawk-like eyes.
AKs in their hands, trained on Zeb.
A squat man gestured at him to come out.
Zeb climbed out.
Ten to one, the men facing him. Not good odds.
He had only his two Glocks on him.
The HK was in the leg space in the next seat. Out of sight, but not within easy reach, either.
‘Nice Jeep,’ Squat Man said in Dari. No friendliness in his eyes as they flicked their eyes over Zeb and his vehicle. ‘We need to search it.’
‘No one touches my Jeep,’ Zeb told him quietly.
Squat Man’s head rocked around to him. His brows drew together.
‘I am not asking,’ he grated, coming closer, his eyes boring holes. ‘Someone stole something from us. We are searching for it.’
‘I am telling you.’ No give. No hesitation. Matching stare for stare. Aware that the interrogator was less than two feet away, the rest of the hostiles close by. ‘No one comes near my vehicle.’
‘Do you know who we are?’ Squat Man looked incredulous. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, with nine armed men ganging up on a stranger and this man wasn’t intimidated.
‘Taliban?’
A cool wind blew and stirred their clothing.
Squat Man’s eyes sharpened.
‘You know what that means? We own this country.’
‘You don’t own me.’
Zeb was calculating distances and angles. And trying to gauge response times.
There was a slight relaxing in the gunmen. They had the advantage of numbers. Squat Man seemed to be their leader, and he had the situation well in hand.
It looked like the stranger they had surrounded was heading to a nasty end. It didn’t seem to bother them.
One gunman hawked and spat. Another shifted his weight, when Zeb struck.
He sprang forward, right hand darting through the opening in his perahaan.
Clasping the Glock and drawing it out smoothly in a move that defied eyesight.
The handgun winked in the sunlight and then its muzzle was pressed against Squat Man’s neck.
Zeb turned him around roughly, the terrorist now in front of him, covering him. His Jeep behind him. The nine gunmen, now in a loose semi-circle, froze.
Then they acted. Several yelled in anger, raising their AKs.
Zeb shot, his round tearing off Squat Man’s right ear.
‘You move, he dies.’
‘Don’t shoot,’ the leader screamed.
He didn’t clarify who he was addressing, but his warning worked. His men stood where they were. Wary, watchful, but they didn’t fire.
‘What’s your name?’ Zeb shoved his barrel deeper in his captive’s neck.
‘Jamil.’ Squat Man struggled to break free, panting loudly.
He roared in agony when Zeb’s Glock ground his ear.
‘Full name.’
‘Khalid Jamil,’ he cried.
‘Which Taliban group?’
‘Abdul Malek. He will kill you.’
Four hours since I killed those other terrorists. Hardly any traffic on the road. How did they find me so fast?
And then he mentally slapped his forehead.
Cell phones.
He hadn’t bothered to search the dead men.
These dudes probably called Mujitaba, and came searching when he didn’t answer .
‘You were searching every vehicle on the road?’
‘Yes,’ Jamil panted. ‘Now Malek will come. We said, “We will arrive by eleven.” It is already twelve. He doesn’t like waiting—’
He howled when Zeb chopped him across the temple.
‘Drop your guns,’ he ordered the terrorists.
They didn’t react.
‘Do it,’ Jamil yelled, when Zeb gouged his eye.
Nine AKs dropped to the ground.
‘Strip.’
They looked uncomprehendingly at him and then at thei
r leader.
‘You heard me,’ Zeb told them coldly. ‘Remove your clothing.’
‘YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO US,’ one gunman burst out.
Zeb shot him in the forehead and trained his Glock on the others.
Jamil gasped. He stopped struggling. His men were stupefied. They watched their comrade’s body flop to the ground.
‘ NOW! ’
Their trousers dropped. Their shirts followed. Rage and shame on their faces as they faced Zeb.
‘Run,’ he told them.
They started shuffling slowly and then burst into a sprint when he fired at their feet.
‘What about me?’ Jamil began struggling when they were specks in the distance.
Zeb slammed his head against the Jeep’s roof.
‘I have some questions for you and then you will die.’
Chapter Thirteen
Abdul Malek didn’t have the Delta operatives,
Khalid Jamil said, sobbing as he answered. He was pegged to the ground, under the sun, naked.
Zeb hadn’t tortured him. He didn’t need to. It seemed the terrorist was like numerous other killers: vicious and cold-blooded when he had a gun in his hand and when he was with his gang. A coward when he was defenseless and alone.
Zeb’s choice of the stripping tactic was deliberate. It took away the killers’ self-respect and with it, their power.
Jamil started babbling as soon as Zeb had him tied to the ground.
No, he said. Malek had no hand in Chick, Bud and Kelly’s capture.
Yes, he confirmed. Atash Mohammed still had them.
How did he know?
His eyes squinted in bewilderment.
Atash Mohammed was Taliban, as was Malek. Sure, they had their own gangs, but they shared intel about American and coalition forces.
Sori , he choked out when Zeb leaned over him. As far as he knew, the American soldiers were still in that village.
What of Mohammed? Zeb asked him.
Mohammed? He was the most prominent Taliban commander in the region. There were a few others. Malek, he was number two, then there were Yawar Hafiz and Mir Kalan. All of them had their own tribal gangs, but Mohammed’s was the largest and he worked directly with the Kabul commanders.
‘Where is he?’ Zeb asked impatiently. He knew the other names. Kilmer’s file was extensive.
‘Sori,’ Jamil whimpered.
‘Where in Sori?’
Jamil didn’t know. He swore on his mother and on his father. He didn’t know. It wasn’t as if Mohammed broadcast his movements and his address.