Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  He tried to release it. Was clumsy and the gun slid down the slope in a clatter.

  Move!

  Zeb scrabbled fast, reaching to his left, gripping openings and finding cracks. Crawling across the face of the cliff, as far from the sound as he could, going horizontal.

  Five feet. Ten feet.

  Perspiration bathing his face. Peering up continually and then he stopped and hugged the cliff. Because two heads had appeared at the top, from the spot where he had climbed down.

  The Taliban men played flashlights as they talked.

  Zeb didn’t dare move. He prayed that his HK wasn’t visible to them.

  The light played to their left and to the right. His left.

  It was a careless survey.

  If they had been looking, they would have seen his dark outline against the pale rock.

  They didn’t and then he realized their eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light.

  ‘Just some falling rock.’ He heard the words in the night and they disappeared.

  He didn’t sigh in relief.

  Instead, he thrust his hands down, found nooks and crannies and swung his body down.

  Every now and then, he looked up. No more men appeared.

  When he was ten feet above level ground, he let go. He landed heavily, panting and stood for a moment to regroup.

  It was then that he heard it.

  A rustling behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Glock came out in an instant. He threw himself to the side of the cliff, whirling around.

  No gunman.

  The sky was lightening, enough for him to remove the goggles and use his naked eyes.

  There was a shallow depression where he had landed, but it deepened into a crevasse and disappeared behind a bend.

  He followed it cautiously and got down to his belly when he neared the turn.

  He saw nothing but a narrow valley, a crack between the cliffs, and a large rocky formation that ran for hundreds of yards.

  The sound came from inside the crevasse, which was dark and forbidding.

  He drew out his flashlight and proceeded cautiously, squeezing his body into the narrow entrance.

  Rock and patches of ground. No human and certainly no hostile presence.

  The valley—if it could be called that—turned some more, and then he caught a distinct odor.

  The smell of death.

  Zeb climbed over a wedge and dropped to the ground again.

  The stench was strong. He wrapped his shemagh around his face and went forward.

  Another turn. Another climb across a fallen boulder.

  A streak. His Glock almost fired.

  Then he relaxed. It was a fox.

  It was what the animal had been feeding on that shocked him.

  A human carcass.

  And there wasn’t just one, but several, lying in a random pattern on the ground.

  He stopped, drew out his phone and made a note of the coordinates.

  Stuck the device to his vest and turned on its video.

  The gun went back to his holster.

  Won’t be needing it.

  Drew closer.

  Twenty bodies , he counted.

  Sixteen males. Four female.

  Rotting, half-eaten by scavengers, but their heads and large portions of their torsos were sufficiently intact for him to see that they had been shot. Some in the head, some in the neck, a few in the chest. Most of them, multiple times.

  He glanced up and thought he could see a grisly trail as the bodies had fallen down the cliff. Clothing. Dark gashes where blood had dried.

  All of them were Afghans. Male, some young, some old. The women were all young.

  He stepped carefully, taking care not to stomp on anybody.

  It’s the least I can do , he thought bleakly.

  Checked to see if his camera was recording.

  It was.

  His earlier tally was wrong, he found out.

  There were twenty-eight bodies.

  Some of them had fallen on others.

  He moved them so that he could capture their faces.

  A glint of metal underneath a body.

  He dragged off the one on top, and time seemed to stand still.

  It was a male.

  Bearded, like the others.

  Shot, like the others.

  Savaged, but not so much, because the body was buried under others.

  His flashlight was powerful and steady as its beam illuminated the dead man’s face.

  Chick Roderick.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Zeb sagged against rock. Its sharp edges gouged into his butt and thighs. He didn’t notice.

  All he could see were the Delta team leader’s blank eyes.

  He remained in shock for some time; he didn’t know how long.

  A beep from his phone alerted him that it was running low.

  That roused him.

  He cleared the surrounding bodies and videoed the operator from all angles.

  Went to the other bodies and dislodged them.

  Bud and Kelly were there, too.

  Not now , he told himself, aware of the darkness growing inside him.

  There would be a time and place for rage and bitterness. It wasn’t in that narrow crevasse.

  He recorded the other operatives too, and then searched for their dog tags. Cut them loose and pocketed them.

  Retrieving the bodies wasn’t an option.

  Burying them wasn’t, either. He had no equipment to dig graves.

  Have to leave them here.

  He covered them with torn pieces of clothing.

  Arranged all the available rocks to restrict the entry of scavengers and then he left, hoping, wishing he would come across some Taliban. The mental state he was in, he would make short work of them and would fling their bodies into the open.

  No one crossed his path.

  He found his HK, intact and seemingly undamaged but for scratches.

  He slung it across his shoulder and started his return, blindly.

  The animal part of him took over. It sought cover and shadow and ensured there was no direct line of sight from the cliff tops.

  All that was unconscious, muscle memory and training taking over.

  His thoughts were with the dead men, their tags on him.

  The darkness in his mind receded when he drew closer to his Jeep.

  It was still in the woods, but in a different location.

  He waited, finally letting go of his rage, letting the cold in him return.

  Cold was good. Cold helped in better decision-making. Cold was for vengeance.

  He stepped out when he was sure there were no hostiles.

  Climbed inside and plugged in his phone.

  Turned on his sat phone and sent a message to Kilmer.

  Guests declined their invite . He attached the video and the coordinates of the location. He hoped Kilmer would arrange for their bodies to be recovered.

  He put back his equipment, removed the fake nose and ears, and dressed again in Akmal Rahman’s clothing.

  Hiked back to Raghi, where he went to the family home.

  He took a bath in cold water, wiped himself dry and went to the café, where he had a piece of bread and a hot beverage allowing normalcy to surround him.

  It didn’t do anything for the emptiness inside him.

  He was on autopilot as the server smiled at him and chattered.

  He didn’t remember what the questions were, nor was he conscious of how he responded. But evidently it seemed to satisfy the Afghan, who went away beaming.

  Zeb lingered in the shop for what felt like hours.

  The village woke to life. Store owners opened their shops and swept the yards in front of their establishments.

  Bidar arrived. He grunted a greeting and tossed a basket to Zeb. The two worked in silence until the shop was ready for business.

  ‘Good day at Sori,’ Bidar said, wiping sweat from his
face. ‘They must have been lacking provisions. The villagers bought a lot from us.’

  ‘I’ll be away for a few days,’ Zeb said as he withdrew a thick envelope from an inside pocket. ‘Kabul. I need to settle a few matters.’

  ‘What’s in this?’ the storekeeper fingered the packet without opening it.

  ‘Your payment. As we agreed.’

  ‘All of it? Upfront?’ Bidar asked, astonished.

  ‘Yes, count it.’

  ‘I trust you … is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You look different.’

  I feel different.

  ‘That encounter at the village,’ Zeb forced a smile. ‘First time I came across the Taliban. It scared me.’

  ‘You’ll see more of them as you settle here,’ the young man said, a dark look crossing his face. He pocketed the envelope and went inside the store, Zeb following. ‘Take no sides. Pay them tax and don’t be a snitch. Those are the rules for surviving here.’

  ‘I’ll follow them.’

  ‘I’ll leave in a few days, once you return.’ He turned in the dim light, his face serious. ‘Akmal, you don’t know how much this means to me.’

  ‘I do.’ Zeb meant it. He had started over in his life. More than once.

  Bidar hugged him and patted him on the back.

  A message from Kilmer was waiting for him at his Jeep.

  I’ll talk to the catering team.

  Zeb knew what that meant. Kilmer would let the American forces in Bagram and Kandahar know about the Delta operatives. A recovery team would be sent when possible.

  The venue’s decorated badly, he typed. Which meant that the terrain was inhospitable.

  It looked like the colonel was awake because the reply came swiftly.

  Got it. Let’s cancel the party. No point in proceeding.

  Zeb’s fingers hovered over the buttons. He knew his response. He was thinking of how best to express it.

  I’ll let the other guests know.

  No need. They’ll understand, Kilmer messaged promptly.

  It’s courtesy, Zeb wrote back, knowing the officer would understand.

  The sat phone buzzed. Number hidden.

  Zeb didn’t answer, letting it vibrate.

  He knew what he would do.

  He had come to Badakshan to rescue the Delta operatives.

  He would go home only after killing Atash Mohammed.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I could go back to Sori , Zeb thought as he drove the Jeep in his Sher disguise.

  He was heading to the island bazaar to see if Mohammed’s men were around.

  Having seen the village, it’ll be difficult to find Mohammed. I don’t know if that man I saw was the warlord.

  No, he would have to draw the terrorist out and that meant the return of Sher, the buyer.

  At the same time, I’ll hit these Taliban wherever I find them. I’ll stir trouble between Malek and Mohammed. Do anything I can … and Mohammed will come hunting.

  Badakshan was large. Big enough for him to operate like a guerrilla fighter. He had to act fast, however.

  Nine days left before the coalition attack .

  The bazaar was bustling when he arrived. He surveyed it for a while, standing behind a group of old men who talked of weather and crops.

  No armed men were visible.

  He went deeper inside, past the stage, his senses sharpening when he spotted two men in front of the hut.

  Both armed. Neither of them was from his previous encounter.

  He approached them boldly, noting the way they stiffened and looked at each other.

  He lowered his shemagh so they could see his face.

  ‘Whose men are you?’ he asked them roughly.

  ‘Who are you? Get out,’ one of them replied. Equally rudely.

  ‘I am Sher. You’ve heard of me?’

  They shifted on their feet, looking uneasy. They had.

  ‘Whose men are you?’

  ‘Go away.’ The speaker summoned his courage and took a step forward, his hands clutching his AK.

  Zeb backhanded him. A blow that looked casual but carried the full force of his body.

  The Taliban man collapsed like a sack. His weapon clattered to hard concrete.

  ‘Whose men are you?’ Zeb repeated emotionlessly, drilling the second man with his eyes.

  ‘Hafiz,’ the gunman said, and licked his lips.

  ‘You have buyers coming?’

  A nod.

  Zeb picked up the fallen man’s AK and shoved the standing guard towards the hut.

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘You can’t …’

  Zeb slapped his face. The guard staggered. His face turned red. He grabbed his weapon, but collapsed when Zeb’s fist landed in his belly.

  Zeb grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside the hut.

  A small bare room. No furniture other than a table draped with a cloth.

  He uncovered it. Plastic baggies.

  He picked one up randomly and saw a red sign on it.

  ‘That’s Hafiz’s brand?’

  The guard struggled, his face turning purple from the collar biting his throat.

  Zeb shook him savagely.

  ‘Yes …’ he croaked.

  ‘Do you have any product? Or just the samples?’

  The guard’s eyes darted to a corner.

  A plastic sack against the wall that Zeb had missed earlier. A quarter kilo, he assessed.

  He withdrew bills from a pocket and made a show of counting them.

  ‘Five hundred dollars,’ he said and flung them carelessly in the air. ‘That’s the going rate for a quarter kilo, right?’

  The guard didn’t reply. His eyes bulged as they followed the notes fluttering to the ground.

  Zeb threw him against the wall and relieved him of his weapon.

  ‘Tell Hafiz I have taken his product. I want more. I will deal with whoever can supply me fifty kilos at the best rate. In person. I will pay cash.’

  He grabbed the sack, kicked the guard outside and strode away rapidly.

  A few spectators had gathered in the distance. They scattered at his approach, casting furtive glances.

  Once outside the market, he drew his shemagh and burst into a run.

  He turned and twisted randomly. No one followed him.

  No one at his Jeep, which was parked between two trucks.

  He glanced about swiftly. No driver in sight.

  He tossed the AKs and the sack in the rear. Brought out a screwdriver and exchanged number plates with the nearest truck.

  He got inside his vehicle and swiftly changed into a green outfit. Got rid of the prosthetics. Grabbed a black and white shemagh and stepped out.

  Those from Sori would recognize him as Akmal and it was as the soon-to-be grocer that he returned to the bazaar.

  He wasn’t finished with the guards.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Taliban men were inside the hut. Zeb leaned against the concrete stage and drank tea, watching its entrance.

  He wasn’t worried about the gunmen spotting him. It was common for Afghans to look openly at anything, anyone, that interested them.

  ‘What’s in that hut?’ he asked a vendor.

  ‘Danger,’ the man replied and spat tobacco juice.

  An hour later the guards emerged, one of them holding a cell to his ear. He nodded rapidly, his face downcast, as he and his companion made their way out of the market.

  The two men swore at anyone who was in their way. The visitors jumped out of their way. One woman, who stood her ground and yelled at them, got slapped and was left with bleeding lips.

  Zeb followed discreetly as they passed out of the market, spoke briefly to the border guards and headed to where their vehicle was parked.

  It was a truck, not far from where his own Jeep stood.

  He reversed out of his space and fell behind the cloud of exhaust emitted by their vehicle.

  They
went away from the Panj River, towards Sori initially, but then detoured in Keshem’s direction, following a barely visible track.

  Just their two vehicles on the road.

  They might notice me. Call for reinforcements .

  He kept watch.

  They drove through a village, the same one where he had captured Rehmin and when they had crossed it, he made his move.

  He sped up, flashed his lights and when the truck didn’t give way, sounded his horn.

  A face appeared in its mirror. A hand waved him down impatiently.

  He kept going.

  It rumbled on.

  He grabbed an AK and fired at the mirror.

  A stray round shattered it.

  The truck veered sharply to the left. Beyond the track was a ditch.

  The driver oversteered. Tried to compensate, but weight and momentum were against him.

  The truck toppled as if in slow motion, its occupants jumping out just in time.

  Zeb halted, jumped out, and, before the dazed men could recover, knocked them out.

  He drove away from the village and stopped when he came to a valley. Nothing but a few vegetable fields to his left.

  He went off the road and drove inside the growth.

  Stopped, hauled the men out of his vehicle and threw them to the ground and began questioning them.

  The guards resisted initially. They might be low-level shooters, but they were still savage.

  He slashed their thighs with his Benchmade. When he pricked one man’s eyebrow, the man finally broke.

  ‘Every fourth night,’ he groaned. ‘One gang ships product over the river. There’s one shipment tonight.’

  ‘Drug traffickers?’

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ the other barked in anger. He howled when Zeb broke his teeth.

  ‘You were saying?’ he turned to the first guard.

  ‘Yes, drug traffickers.’

  ‘Not Taliban?’

  ‘Our men are there to help them. Protect them.’

  ‘Whose turn is it tonight?’

  The terrorist swallowed. He looked sick. He flicked his eyes to his left, to his friend, for help.

  No help there. The man was unconscious.

  He licked his lips. ‘I don’t know.’

  His scream rent the air when the blade dug into his shoulder.

  ‘Mohammed,’ he gasped. ‘Atash Mohammed’s, his traffickers. We agree dates between ourselves.’

  ‘Will he be there?’

  ‘No Taliban leader is present. They send men like us. Fighters.’

  ‘Where?’