Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  ‘We don’t have that much time,’ Tucker snarled.

  ‘Hire more people from Raghi and Mir Darreh,’ Mohammed said. ‘So far you have used only your people. Take the villagers. They will not suspect anything. All they’ll see is the extra earnings.’

  ‘You have got an exact date?’ Bykov frowned, running the Taliban leader’s idea through his mind.

  ‘No,’ Tucker replied. ‘Not yet, but it will happen in two weeks. You need to release my men before that.’

  ‘It will happen,’ Mohammed waved airily.

  ‘Mohammed,’ the American said coldly, ‘this is non-negotiable.’

  ‘I said it will happen.’

  Tucker stared at him until the Taliban leader looked away.

  ‘What about the route?’ he asked the Russian, eyes still on Mohammed.

  ‘The Panj River. We will float the crates on rafts.’

  ‘Why not the bridge?’

  ‘If there’s an attack in two weeks, the bridge will not be safe. It will be inspected.’

  The Panj River forms a large part of the Afghanistan–Tajikistan border. Nearly a thousand miles long, it meanders through steep cliffs and valleys, with the occasional village perched on its banks.

  The U.S. had funded the bridge at Panji Poyon, which spanned the river and offered a road link between the two countries.

  The bridge was a key drug-trafficking route due to corrupt officials and poor infrastructure.

  Resourceful drug traffickers also moved their contraband on the river. They bundled sacks on rafts made of inflated tires and cast them from the Afghan side of the river.

  On the Tajik side, their people hauled the drugs in and transported them onward.

  ‘I told you of the attack only now,’ Tucker regarded him suspiciously.

  ‘I always have a backup plan,’ Bykov said, smiling disarmingly.

  The Russian was a former Spetsnaz operator. He was lean, his angular face giving him a sinister look. He was an old Afghan hand who had once described himself as a bird of prey.

  ‘We survive,’ Bykov had explained, hard angles on his face. ‘Everyone thinks Russians came to conquer Afghanistan, and failed. Me? I came to pick this country apart.’

  They discussed plans and logistics and then broke up.

  The American was the first to leave.

  ‘You have to keep your word. Release his men,’ the Russian said, watching Tucker’s dust fade. ‘Treat him with more respect. He can be a dangerous enemy.’

  ‘Pah, I can kill him whenever I want. What will the Americans do?’ Mohammed fingered his AK.

  ‘Release his men. Or he and I will hunt you down ourselves,’ Bykov let the steel in him show and went to his ride without another word.

  The Taliban leader glared at his back and made a crude gesture.

  ‘What will we do about the prisoners?’ one of his men asked when they were on their way.

  ‘Release more pictures. Other than that, nothing,’ he growled. ‘There is nothing to be done.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Zeb realized his folly, half an hour after he set off for Sori.

  He was in his Jeep, in his misshapen ears and nose guise. He had attached the sign of an aid organization to its sides and had changed its plates.

  The route to the mountain village was treacherous, turning to dirt track some distance from Raghi. Initially it was easy going. Then the steep slope began.

  ‘Can I take this to the top?’ he shouted at a goat herder over the noise of the engine.

  ‘Yes, but very dangerous. Are you going to Sori?’

  ‘Just exploring. Our food convoy will be coming and I need to see if we can drive.’

  ‘The road goes to the village but stops outside. Steep cliffs. Many vehicles have slipped and fallen. Trucks cannot go there. Many people ride on donkeys and horses.’

  Zeb thanked him and continued driving, meeting no one else.

  The air turned rarefied. He stopped often to let the engine cool. Raghi had long disappeared from sight. Just the track ahead of him. Cliffs or slopes to his sides.

  He turned a steep corner and stopped suddenly. Checked that his shemagh was covering his face.

  It was.

  Because Sori was visible in the distance. Standing proudly on the edge of the mountain, stone and adobe houses clinging to its side, defying gravity.

  Now, he could see why the approach to the village was so dangerous for any attacking force.

  Any approaching vehicle, any convoy, would be visible from the village.

  Terrorists can spot any arrival. They’ll have enough time to escape to their tunnels and caves.

  He would have to reconsider. Think of another way to get to the village.

  He started turning back and nearly rolled off the cliff.

  The road didn’t allow any turns. He would have to drive in reverse until he got to the bottom of the valley.

  Three hours later, he was on level ground. He was sure he had been spotted from the village. He climbed out and checked that his vehicle had no distinguishing marks.

  It hadn’t. Its green had faded, and from a distance, it would look grey. In any case, grey or green Jeeps were commonly used by aid agencies. The signage he had attached was that of an organization that was very active in Badakshan.

  His shemagh had hidden his face.

  They won’t recognize me. They could check on the vehicle, but the plates are legit.

  As night fell, he opened a can of food and decided he would have to take a different route to Sori.

  Visiting the village is important. I need to be sure the prisoners are there. As long as Mohammed doesn’t feel threatened, it’s likely he won’t move them elsewhere. I need to have eyes-on, however .

  He licked his fork clean, washed it from a bottle of water and stowed away his gear.

  Drugs bazaar. I’ll go there tomorrow.

  The bazaar was just that. A place to trade. For villagers to buy shoes, clothing, fruit, anything that they needed in their lives.

  What made it unique was its location: in the middle of the Panj River, on an island. Access to it was via a bridge, at each end of which were border controls. The bazaar was surrounded by concrete walls so that no one could see from the outside what transpired inside.

  The river was a two-hour drive from Raghi, according to the map. But it took three hours for Zeb the next day, as he navigated bumpy and near-invisible tracks.

  He was in his drug smuggler guise, shemagh over face, nose and ears sticking out against the fabric, HK close at hand and armored vest beneath his perahaan. The Jeep bore another set of plates that he had stolen from a vehicle as he came from Kabul.

  He cold-eyed anyone who gave him a second look. It was all about image.

  At the border, he didn’t show any papers. He slid dollars into sweaty palms and parted the opening in his shirt to show his Glock.

  ‘You haven’t seen me. You’ll forget me,’ he stated.

  The officials nodded quickly as the currency disappeared into their pockets.

  Zeb was alert as he crossed the bridge on foot. No vehicle traffic was allowed on the island.

  No one looked like a terrorist. Men and women, accompanied by the occasional child, thronged towards the gate.

  Once inside the compound, he stood to one side and took everything in: stalls that sold clothing, footwear, jewelry, precious stones.

  Zeb shook his head when a hawker approached him, brightly colored scarves in one hand.

  His attention was on the gems.

  Badakhshan’s got lapis lazuli, emerald and ruby mines. Gold, too. Some of them government- owned, many operated by corrupt officials or traffickers .

  He wasn’t here for the gems, though.

  He drifted through the market, bought a cup of tea from a vendor and walked and watched.

  At the far end of the compound was a concrete hut. Not in direct view. One had to circle the rows of stalls and go past an elevated stage to approach it.
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  No foot traffic.

  The reason was obvious as he got closer.

  Four men stood in front of the entrance. Bearded, like the majority of the men in the country. Dark clothing. Anonymous-looking in most respects, but for the AKs slung over their shoulders. In plain sight for all to see. Conveying a message.

  Stay away.

  Zeb approached them, lowering his shemagh to expose more of his face. Tossed the cup away. Heard it splinter. Didn’t look around. Pinning the men with his eyes. Seeing the way they tightened.

  One stepped forward, his hand raised to halt the newcomer’s advance.

  ‘Market’s behind you,’ he spoke roughly, in Dari.

  ‘I know,’ Zeb said, equally abrupt. ‘I am here for the other market.’

  ‘No other market.’

  ‘Heroin.’

  At which the man reached for his gun.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The man reached behind. Started bringing his weapon to the front. Snarling. The other guards, if that’s what they were, acting similarly.

  Zeb was four feet away. Still coming. No change in pace or expression. No fear.

  Four against one. AKs against Glocks. He had elite training and experience, however. He could read a situation like a book.

  For instance, the men were standing too close to one another. They were thinking they could scare the stranger away.

  Lead Man’s left hand was now gripping the AK, bringing it to the front, while his right was sliding down.

  Zeb used the weapon’s momentum. He grabbed the barrel. Yanked it upwards and smashed it in the man’s face. A howl of agony burst out.

  Cut short when Zeb slammed the man against his companions.

  They staggered back. One fell. AK Man’s lips were bloody. He was swearing. He was searching for his weapon when Zeb kicked him in the groin and slashed savagely with the barrel of his Glock, which had appeared as if by magic in his hand and cut the forehead of a second man.

  He stepped back, his gun covering them. At that distance, the bore of his weapon would look like a large, dark tunnel to the fallen men.

  ‘Throw away your weapons.’

  The AKs fell with a clatter.

  ‘You don’t know—’ Lead Man started.

  He screamed when Zeb smashed his teeth with his Glock.

  ‘I know,’ said Zeb, controlled, emotionless. Image . ‘I know exactly what happens in that hut. Traffickers bring their samples. Buyers check them out. Deals are agreed. You …’

  He snorted contemptuously. ‘You are just guards. Low-level Taliban fighters belonging to some warlord’s gang. Your job is to keep people like me away. Who’s inside?’

  He had guessed that the hut was empty.

  Otherwise they would have had more guards. Cast a wider perimeter.

  ‘No one,’ Lead Man confirmed through broken lips. His breath whistled through his nose as he tried to stem the bleeding.

  ‘Whose men are you?’

  The guards stiffened. Looked at one another warily.

  ‘Hafiz? Kalan? Malek? Or Mohammed?’

  He grinned wolfishly when they tightened at the last name.

  ‘Atash Mohammed. He’s planning a big sale?’

  No answer. If looks could burn, Zeb would have been reduced to ashes.

  He reached inside his shirt. They flinched and then their eyes widened when he drew out a wad of bills.

  Dollars.

  He flung them on the men.

  The bills fluttered to the ground, several of them settling on the men, who eyed them in disbelief.

  ‘That’s five thousand, there. Keep it. Take it back. I don’t care. Tell Mohammed there’s a new buyer. Me, I am from London. From a very large gang. I want the best material. Lots of it.’

  ‘He doesn’t sell,’ Lead Man swallowed, his eyes riveted on the bills. Another man swore softly at the inadvertent admission that they belonged to the warlord’s gang.

  ‘I know,’ Zeb said curtly. ‘He protects the drugs, though. I want him to guarantee the quality, quantity and safety. Personally.’

  ‘We don’t do business with strangers,’ another guard said, summoning his courage.

  ‘You want money. I have it.’

  ‘Who are you? He’s right. We don’t do business with people we don’t know.’

  ‘Call me Sher,’ Zeb removed the scarf from his face, letting them have a good look. Then he whipped his Glock across Lead Man’s face, leaving him howling, blood covering his face.

  ‘You know me now.’

  He gathered their AKs and left swiftly. Market-goers shrank back as he walked through them, giving him a wide berth.

  The border officials blinked lazily and asked no questions. Zeb might be new to the rolls of their paymasters, but his money was just as good.

  Zeb picked up a tail on the drive back.

  He was going as fast as he could, wanting to put distance between him and the market.

  Hanging around wasn’t a good move. If Mohammed’s traffickers were arriving with samples, then his shooters would be coming, too. In full strength .

  Those guards, they were just taking over the hut. The warlords and their traffickers probably have some arrangement among themselves. Taking turns to display their drugs.

  He could have merged with the market crowd and followed the terrorists as they left.

  They would be alert.

  He shook his head unconsciously.

  No. It was better to draw Mohammed out. And in any case, he planned to check out Sori and Mir Darreh as well.

  The glint in his mirror, like a reflection from a windshield, alerted him.

  Too far behind to make out. The track he was driving on was dusty and plumes of dirt rose behind him.

  He slowed down, imperceptibly.

  No vehicles ahead of him. Just the ruts in the ground as he drove past fields and valleys and occasional climbs up slopes.

  The pursuing vehicle came into view after a bend.

  It looked to be another Jeep.

  Grey.

  He couldn’t make out who was inside.

  Must be someone returning from the market.

  Still, it couldn’t hurt to check the vehicle out, find out whether it really was following him.

  He deviated from the route he’d planned, which would have taken him back to his hideout on the outskirts of Raghi.

  Instead, he took a fork in the track and proceeded towards the highway, ten miles away.

  The vehicle followed.

  Ahead of him, in about three miles, was a small village on the edge of fields.

  He hit the gas and tore forward.

  The other vehicle fell back, but continued.

  One mile to the village.

  The pursuer was still behind.

  Ambush him.

  The village approached rapidly and then he was driving through it, men and animals scattering from his path.

  Similar layout to Raghi, but much smaller. One big street, through which he drove and smaller lanes cutting from it.

  At the end of the street was a larger building. A school.

  He drove out, checked his mirror and reversed carefully.

  The cloud of dust hung over the exit he had taken. He revved slowly and edged behind the building until it shielded him. A few heads craned out of holes in the walls. Curious. They withdrew quickly when he raised his HK and thrust it out of the window.

  In that part of the world, innocents minded their own business. Stayed clear of those who carried weapons.

  The follower would assume he’d left the village.

  I hope.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Zeb didn’t have to wait long.

  The sound of an engine alerted him. Then the vehicle raced into sight. A Toyota SUV, not a Jeep. A lot of miles under its hood, but still good.

  It raced past, but not before Zeb got a glimpse of its occupant.

  One man. Alone. Hunched over the wheel, his eyes locked ahead.

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p; Zeb’s ride surged forward. The village fell behind.

  The SUV in front.

  The man craning his head back, alarm and surprise on his face.

  Zeb rammed his vehicle, his Jeep crushing the Toyota’s rear door. Sent the vehicle spinning around as the driver lost control.

  Zeb followed its turn, aware that the driver was reaching for something.

  He crashed into the driver-side door. Buckled it.

  The Toyota stalled.

  He leaped out, slid over the hood and fired a round through the Toyota’s window.

  ‘ Don’t shoot! ’ the man screamed from inside, his hands rising.

  Zeb stepped down and gestured with his gun.

  The driver looked at him fearfully, dazed from the impact and reached for the door with shaking hands.

  ‘You come out with a gun, you are dead,’ Zeb warned him.

  ‘No gun,’ the driver moaned, and fell out of the SUV.

  He got to his feet shakily and stood trembling against his vehicle.

  Zeb squinted. He looked familiar.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Behrooz Rehmin,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘I was with Jamil. Malek has ordered everyone to be on the lookout for you. You are to be captured and brought to him.’

  Zeb remembered.

  Rehmin had been one of the nine men, along with the terrorist, who had accosted him as he was driving to Raghi after he had rescued the farmers.

  ‘You found some clothes.’

  Rehmin lowered his head, his face flushing in shame.

  ‘Where did you see me?’

  ‘The market,’ the captive whispered. ‘I saw you come in. I hid. I saw what you did to those guards.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘I am Malek’s scout escort,’ a tinge of pride in his voice.

  A scout brought drug samples to buyers. He was the drug trafficker’s man. An escort was a hitter who accompanied the scout. The Taliban didn’t traffic in drugs directly. They did everything else. Provide protection, extort tax. Control the farmers and often, seize the farms.

  ‘Those guards told me it was Mohammed’s turn at the hut.’

  ‘Yes, but if the buyers agree to a deal, I could have approached him.’

  ‘Mohammed wouldn’t have liked that.’

  ‘Malek, he isn’t scared of Mohammed,’ Rehmin boasted. ‘Why were you there? Who are you?’