by Ty Patterson
‘You didn’t hear?’
‘I was too far.’
Zeb wasn’t interested in Malek. Rehmin’s appearance was a distraction.
Or, maybe not. Mohammed will be on high alert once he hears a new buyer has turned up, asking for him by name. I can let all the traffickers know I’m in the market. That will allay his suspicion.
‘I am a buyer.’
‘You?’ Rehmin’s eyes widened. He looked searchingly at the man in front of him.
Zeb knew he was trying to piece together this revelation, along with the incident on the highway.
‘You didn’t say that before.’
‘You take me for a fool?’ Zeb snapped. ‘How was I to know who you were? You think I go around asking every armed man if he is selling drugs?’
‘What happened to Jamil? He never turned up. We searched for him but didn’t find him.’
‘Jamil’s dead. I don’t like people who stop me for no reason. Or those who follow me.’
Rehmin blanched. His lips worked. He opened his mouth to protest.
‘You were going to follow me. See if you could capture me,’ Zeb cut him off.
‘No— I—’
‘I think I will kill you. Yes, that’s best,’ Zeb decided.
‘Nooo. I will leave. I will not say anything about you,’ Rehmin babbled, cowering as Zeb approached.
‘I can’t trust you. You followed me. That shows you don’t mean good.’
‘You can. I will do anything you say. Let me live, please,’ Rehmin fell to his knees, sobbing.
Zeb straightened his Glock and aimed it at the escort.
‘ Please! ’ he screamed.
‘You carry a gun, an AK.’
‘Huh?’ the captive raised his tear-stricken face, not understanding.
‘You have a gun.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have used it?’
His face paled. He didn’t answer.
‘You have killed with it?’ The Glock moved threateningly.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Then why are you so scared of dying? If you can kill others, you should accept you, too, will die. At the end of someone’s gun.’
‘Let me live, please. I won’t kill anyone again.’
Zeb made a show of reconsidering.
He knelt beside Rehmin and grabbed him by his hair.
‘Tell Malek this: I am a buyer. If he has good-quality material and lots of it, I will consider. Tell him I could have killed you. I could have killed those eight other men, too. I didn’t. I am a trader. Not a killer. But if anyone comes after me, I will retaliate. Got me?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The escort nodded jerkily. ‘How will we contact you?’
‘I am new to the area,’ Zeb said. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘There’s a general store in Raghi,’ Rehmin straightened, wiping his eyes, his confidence returning now that he knew he would live. ‘You know where that village is?’
‘Yes. The general store. The owner, he is part of you?’
‘Him?’ Rehmin managed a derisive snort. ‘All he wants to do is sell his business and escape this place. He is a coward, but he passes messages.’
‘He knows you are Taliban?’
Malek’s man looked at him, perplexed.
‘Everyone knows we are Taliban.’
‘Okay. You leave your message at the store when you have a sample. I will set up a place to meet.’
‘We can meet at the market.’
‘We won’t.’
Zeb shot him in the thigh and left him writhing on the ground.
He was building an image of a ruthless trader.
‘I could have killed you,’ he yelled above Rehmin’s wailing.
‘Tell Malek, if he comes with a gun in his hand, I will kill him.’
Chapter Twenty
Zeb made a second attempt to go to Sori that night.
He reached his hideout in the evening and rested for an hour. When the sun sank, he drove to the woods, the same place where Quincy and Travis had crashed their getaway vehicle.
He arranged fallen branches on the Jeep and concealed it from view.
Then set out.
Sori was just five miles away as the crow flies.
On the ground it was a different story. Twelve miles from where he was, even ground or a slight slope for six miles and then the steepness began.
Zeb planned to approach the village from behind, where he had seen houses perched on an edge. There was a sharp drop at that point that met a steep slope.
His idea was to climb that cliff.
He jogged at an even pace. Raghi was to his left and behind. There wasn’t much cover, but the night was dark and moonless. He flitted from shadow to shadow, breathing evenly.
Six miles covered in ninety minutes.
A light film of sweat as he took on the steeper climb. More bushes and trees. Still no traffic.
If he squinted his eyes, he could just make out a thin line to his right, far away, paler than the rest of the surroundings. The road to Sori.
He took a break after two miles. Uncapped his water canteen. Leaned against the trunk of a tree and was swallowing when he heard the distinctive sound of a hawk and a spit.
He didn’t move. He calculated.
The sound had come from behind him. Which meant in the direction he was heading, because his back was to the village.
Fifty yards away. Maybe sixty.
He waited, breathing easily, willing his chi to become one with the tree and the night.
A murmur. A subdued laugh.
To his left and behind. Which would be to his right and ahead, if he was facing the village.
Badakhshan at night, in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t the place for an evening stroll. Raghi was far behind. Sori was well ahead.
Hostiles. No other explanation came to mind.
How many and why were they there?
He snatched a quick glance around the trunk and saw nothing but darkness.
He got to his belly and started crawling slowly.
Once he was in the open, he glassed with his nightscope.
Nothing, and then … there, two men.
Standing idly. The distinctive shape of weapons over their shoulders.
One of them hawked and spat again.
Bad tradecraft, but then, why would they suspect anyone was out in the night?
Raghi was full of informers who would have alerted them to any attacking force.
Nope, these two seemed to be part of a routine patrol.
Zeb thought of going past them. They didn’t suspect he was there.
Or he could have taken them out with his HK, but he wanted answers.
He crawled slowly, his body making no more sound than that of a panther in the jungle.
‘That whore—she was good,’ one man chuckled.
‘Yes. We should go again. She was—’
He broke off in a gasp, the whites of his eyes showing, when a shadow appeared in front of them.
‘Who … what?’
Zeb sank his Benchmade in his throat. Withdrew it swiftly, turned it around in his palm in a practiced move and whipped its hilt across the forehead of the other, before their minds had even grasped who he was or had assessed the threat.
Abdul and Nazir.
He learned their names from the survivor, Nazir.
Routine patrol. He had suspected correctly.
Atash Mohammed had instituted the measure a year back. It was one reason why Chick Roderick’s team had been spotted that fateful night.
‘Why didn’t you see me?’
Nazir hesitated and then yelled hoarsely when Zeb’s thumb dug into his neck.
‘No threat. We weren’t looking for anyone,’ he gasped. ‘That time we knew the Americans were in the village. Are you American?’ he craned his head to look at Zeb. Groaned when a blow smashed between his eyes.
‘Do I look like one? Or sound like one?’ Zeb hissed in anger.
Nazir
shook his head weakly. ‘No … who are you?’
Zeb thought fast. He had already killed Abdul. If he killed Nazir too, Mohammed would know there was someone out there. He would increase the patrols. Maybe even disappear into the caves.
Zeb had to come up with an answer that sounded plausible. That wouldn’t make the terrorist feel threatened.
‘You remember that woman Mohammed and his men raped? Earlier this year. Were you there?’
Nazir squirmed, his eyes large. ‘Zubina? Nazneen in Mashhad? Or …’
He choked out a cry when Zeb smashed his head to the ground.
It was an easy guess to make. That the terrorists would rape women, but the way Nazir reeled off their names … I should finish him , he thought savagely.
‘Nazneen,’ his rage bubbled out. ‘I am her brother.’
Mohammed wouldn’t worry about a sibling thirsting for revenge. He might even take pride in that. He would see it as a sign of his manliness. Molested so many women that one brother came after him.
The captive moaned in fright. ‘Not me. I didn’t … I wasn’t …’ he pleaded. ‘We didn’t know she had a brother.’
‘No one knew. I ran away when I was young. What you did to her. Raped her in front of the village and then killed her. I should finish you right now. Next to Abdul. Let the vultures eat your body.’
‘No …’ the sound came out muffled, against Zeb’s palm thrust over Nazir’s mouth. The guard wet his trousers. ‘Please. I will do anything. I didn’t take part.’
‘You watched.’
‘I had no choice,’ the prisoner begged. ‘What else could I do?’
He was pliant. Eager. Ripe for questioning.
Zeb began.
The sentry confirmed what was in the intel report. That Atash Mohammed had twenty people around him, in Sori. There were passages to caves and tunnels in the village, but Nazir didn’t know where they were.
‘I don’t go to the village,’ the words spilled out of him fast. ‘I live here. They send food to me. I relay information to them through my phone.’ He glanced down toward his pocket, at the device.
He didn’t know where the prisoners were held, either. He hadn’t seen them. Yes, they were in the village. He knew that much. His fellow terrorists spoke of them often.
Zeb sat back on his heels and considered the broken man in front of him.
‘I will let you live.’
A string of words flew out of the guard, thanking him.
‘Tell Mohammed I am coming. Dalir, Nazneen’s brother,’ he said sternly. ‘He will die slowly. I will drag him to Mashhad and kill him in front of everyone.’
‘I will,’ Nazir nodded hard. He would say anything to escape alive. ‘But you are just one man,’ he dared to say.
‘I am a brother.’
Nazir shrank, and thanked Allah that he was left alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘What’s his name?’ Atash Mohammed paced the room in his house in Sori.
Five men behind him, armed but relaxed. They were in their stronghold. Nothing to be worried about.
In front of the terrorist was a bearded messenger who was relaying Nazir’s information. The courier was responsible for carrying food and rations to the two sentries on the slope.
’Dalir. Her brother.’
Mohammed stroked his beard, his eyes distant. He was remembering the way the woman had felt under him.
‘He said he will kill me in Mashhad?’ his eyes glinted.
‘That’s what he told Nazir.’
The warlord chuckled. His men sniggered along with him. One demented man against the most dangerous terrorist in the region. It wasn’t worthy of a full-blown laugh.
‘How does he look like?’
‘It was dark, agha. Nazir could not see well. Bearded. Dark eyes. Dark perahaan. He couldn’t see any other features.’
‘We’ll sweep Mashhad, agha,’ one of his guards said. ‘We’ll get him.’
‘No. It will show we are afraid. Let him try. He will get nowhere. Anyone seen this Sher again?’
Heads shook. No sightings of the buyer who had accosted the terrorist’s men in the bazaar.
‘We can leave a message for him at the general store,’ a guard offered.
Mohammed waved him to silence, impatiently. He knew that. He wasn’t ready to make contact, yet.
This buyer had come from nowhere. He knew of the bazaar. He had taken down the warlord’s men, single-handedly. And had then flung a huge sum of money on the ground.
The terrorist leader had made enquiries. The traffickers he worked with hadn’t heard of Sher. London was a big market for their product. There were several gangs there and it was plausible that one of them had sent a buyer, to cut the middle men out.
It was also possible that Sher was an American operative, setting up a trap for Mohammed.
The terrorist was less inclined to believe that, however. Americans and Europeans stuck out in Badakshan. Even if they were undercover. They might speak the language, but they just couldn’t blend in.
No, he was reasonably sure this buyer was genuine. Mohammed was intrigued. Cash buyers were rare. Many buyers traded weapons for drugs.
Cash would be good. It would set him up for the future. For those glorious plans he had.
‘Any strangers in Raghi or Mir Darreh, or any other villages?’
‘No, agha. There’s Akmal Rahman. He has returned.’
‘I heard that.’
‘He is interested in buying a store.’
Mohammed frowned. ‘Why did he leave London to come here?’
‘Some say he wants to invest in the poppy business.’
‘Everyone wants to get a piece of that,’ the warlord said sourly. ‘He’s not Sher?’
‘No, agha. We checked him out. The two men are different. Rahman lives in his family home.’
‘Keep looking for Sher and Dalir,’ Mohammed ordered and moved on to discuss logistics for the big event.
‘What of Nazir, agha?’ a guard asked when they had finished.
‘Kill him,’ the warlord said indifferently. ‘I don’t like failures. Two of them allowed Dalir to overpower them … No, wait.’ He thought. ‘He saw Dalir. Let him live. He might recognize him, if that brother tries again. Send a replacement for Abdul and set up a watch from the cliffs.’
Zeb had aborted his Sori attempt that night and the next day hung around in the village as Rahman.
He wandered up and down the street, making sure Bidar saw him talking to various shopkeepers.
He knew his various covers would be checked out by the terrorists.
Sher. They’ll be hunting hard for that dude. They’ll never find him.
He sipped tea and chatted idly with the old men. They talked of terrorists, poppy and the war. He wasn’t surprised that the sentiment was against the coalition forces.
‘First the Russians, now the Americans and British,’ an old-timer snorted. ‘This is our country. They have no right to be here.’
Zeb refrained from pointing out that if the country hadn’t harbored killers, the foreign forces wouldn’t be there.
He headed back to the Rahman house when night fell and was preparing to leave from the rear, to his Jeep, when someone knocked.
His Glock appeared as if conjured from thin air. He concealed himself in the shadows.
‘Rahman?’
It was Bidar.
‘Rahman, are you there?’
‘Come in. The door’s open.’
He moved swiftly to occupy another position.
The door opened and the storekeeper entered.
He was alone.
‘Close the door.’
Bidar Humayun closed the door and peered uncertainly in the darkness.
‘Where are you?’
He startled when Zeb appeared next to him, Glock hidden.
‘Why all this secrecy?’
‘My uncle has many enemies,’ Zeb told him.
It was true and the an
swer satisfied the visitor.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked, when Bidar fidgeted.
‘Your offer. Is it still available?’
‘Why?’ Zeb drew back. ‘You didn’t seem very keen.’
‘Things have changed.’
‘What?’ Zeb asked, instantly alert, keeping his voice casual.
‘Did you hear of what happened in the bazaar?’
‘What bazaar?’
‘You want to get into the poppy business, and you haven’t heard of the bazaar?’ Bidar shook his head in wonder.
‘I didn’t say anything about poppy. All of you assumed that.’
‘Why else would you be here?’ the young man exclaimed irritably.
Zeb kept quiet. Let him make his assumptions. It will further my cover.
‘The bazaar is on an island in the Panj River. You know where that is?’ the storekeeper asked sharply.
‘Yes. I have been driving around.’
‘If you follow the river and drive west, you’ll see the island. You can’t miss it. There’s a concrete wall on it.’
‘What happens there?’
‘There’s a bazaar each week. For people from all around to come and trade.’
‘So?’
Bidar shook his head at Zeb’s ignorance.
‘The Taliban escort their traffickers. Who bring samples, for prospective buyers.’
‘I still don’t see what’s changed your mind.’
The storekeeper lowered his voice and leaned towards Zeb. ‘There was a new buyer at the last market. Sher, he called himself. He threw thousands of dollars in the air. He wants to trade directly with the big sellers. Which is Atash Mohammed and his people.’
Bidar’s brows drew together. ‘Say, this buyer, he’s from London, too. You have heard of him?’
‘No. London’s a big place. Millions of people and when people say London, they often mean Britain. Which is a big country.’
Bidar nodded. ‘Things are going to change here. If Sher strikes an alliance with Mohammed, the other gangs aren’t going to like it. I see more violence coming. Which is why I want out. Is your offer still open?’
‘Yes. I spoke to other storekeepers, but they are taking their time. I want to move fast.’
They negotiated long into the night, Zeb playing along. Funds weren’t a problem. Kilmer had given him an ample sum for his mission. On top of that, he had his own resources.
They agreed on a figure, finally and hugged, to seal the deal.