by Ty Patterson
‘They’ll kill me,’ he cried.
‘I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me.’ Zeb was unmoved.
He twisted the knife deeper. The guard passed out.
Zeb emptied a nearby water can over him. Dispassionate, his face stony.
He was dealing with parasites. They deserved no mercy.
The gunman coughed and spluttered. His eyes flickered open and he moaned when Zeb came into view. His version of Hell.
Fifteen minutes later, he had drawn a crude map on the ground.
Mohammed’s men would float their drugs on rubber rafts in the Panj River, as it flowed through a valley to the east of where they were by about twenty miles.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. We use that place. Another gang uses it, too. It is rocky. No one goes there.’
Which is why they use it .
‘What are you doing?’ the guard asked fearfully when he drew out his Glock.
‘What does it look like?’
He shot the two men in the legs, took their cells and left them in the field.
‘We’ll die here,’ the Taliban man cried.
‘I hope,’ he said, as he drove away without a second thought.
One of the cells rang when the captives were a long way behind him.
‘Sangar?’ a voice bellowed when he took the call. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Sangar will die soon. So will his friend.’
‘Who are you?’ the voice asked after a moment.
‘Shaitan.’ The devil.
He tossed the phones out of the window and drove on.
He had a date with a river.
Chapter Thirty-One
Zeb drove through the village where he had attacked the guards.
Sharwala, an old-timer, told him its name.
He bought food. Filled his cans and bottles with water.
‘Going far?’
‘To Keshem,’ he said, wiping his face with his shemagh. ‘I am from an aid agency. We have our office there.’
‘In that vehicle?’ the shopkeeper’s speech showed the gap in his teeth as he pointed to dents on the Jeep.
‘Accident,’ Zeb laughed. ‘You know how drivers are in this region.’
That started the old man going. He was still talking of accidents and rash drivers when Zeb left him.
He’ll remember a man from a charity, if any Taliban question him. In a green or grey vehicle, heading to Keshem.
Which isn’t where I am headed .
Zeb drew back to the market carefully, staying watchful. There could be shooters looking for him.
However, other than an occasional truck, he encountered no traffic.
He went beyond the bazaar, to the bridge and Panji Poyon and then followed the river east.
It twisted and turned, sometimes a blue ribbon, sometimes muddy, as it flowed down from the mountain ranges. He was going uphill, along narrow tracks that it appeared only goats navigated.
Occasionally, he had to go off-road, which made him smile mirthlessly, because there was no paved road.
He circled large boulders and mud slides.
A goat herder waved him to a halt as his animals crossed. The boy, barely out of school, looked at him curiously and bestowed a toothy grin on him when Zeb gave him a tin of beans.
‘One more hour,’ he said, when Zeb asked him for directions. ‘Road, very bad.’
‘You, fighter?’ he asked as he tried to open the can.
Zeb slit the tin for him and handed it back.
‘No. Charity worker. Going to the villages in the mountains.’
‘Mudslide,’ the boy nodded. ‘Many people died. No food.’
‘That’s why I am going. To check out routes. You see many fighters? How safe is it?’
‘Fighters everywhere,’ the boy shrugged. ‘They cross river. Poppy. Drugs. Stay out of their way. Don’t look at them. You’ll be okay.’
Zeb questioned him further, but he didn’t know any more. Or wasn’t willing to tell.
He started off again. Two pm. He wanted to reach the drug crossing by four. It was between Pashar on the Afghan side and Dashtijum on the Tajik side. Malek’s man had told him there would be landmarks.
A steep cliff, this side of the river. Which by itself was meaningless, since there was no lack of cliffs.
However, on top of the cliff was a solitary tree that had weathered the winds and harsh nature. Gnarled and twisted, it was the only green on the slope.
Zeb missed it the first time. He was so intent on driving, as his wheels hugged the edge of the drop, that he didn’t see it. The trail wound around the cliff and stopped dropping.
He jumped out of his vehicle when he was at the bottom of the valley and was uncapping his water can when he spotted the tree.
He cursed, drank hastily, reversed and climbed back again and then returned, because there was no place there to hide his vehicle.
From the valley to the cliff was an hour’s hike, with his equipment slowing him down.
He walked the same trail on which he had arrived and then cut across the mountain, going to the river.
Then he spotted the crossing.
He was a hundred yards above the river, on an animal trail. Sori was only twenty miles behind him, but three hours away by vehicle.
Below him, the river ran brown and sluggish, thirty feet wide. Rocks, mud and a steep drop on his side.
A gravel bank marked by two trees and then cliffs, on the Tajik side.
Inhospitable terrain. Which is why the smugglers use it.
Traffickers on the other side retrieved the drugs and transported them to the Pamir Highway, which was ten miles away from the crossing.
The highway, the second-highest international road route in the world, started in Mazari Sharif in Afghanistan, far away to his west and ended in Osh, in Kyrgyzstan. It cut through two other countries, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan and skirted the border with China.
It had been dubbed the drugs highway, because it was the route through which traffickers moved their product from Afghanistan to Europe.
It was paved in some places, while in many others it was just mud and rubble, beaten down by the passage of vehicles. Snowfall, avalanches, mudslides and accidents disrupted it.
‘Perfect,’ Zeb mused aloud.
No American or coalition force would be able to stem the flow of drugs in that region.
The rugged country beat them before they could even start.
He slithered down the cliff, falling a few times on loose soil. There was no elegance, no stealth to his movements. He was sure he was the only armed man for a couple of miles. In such wilderness he felt he was the only human around.
He straightened when he got to the bottom of the cliff and walked to the water’s edge. The river was slow-moving. He tossed in a pebble and, judging by the sound and the ripples it made, he figured it was several feet deep.
Five pm. Light enough to see faint tracks. He looked back toward the cliff and now spotted a barely discernible trail that came off the one he had been driving on.
He searched the cliff for a suitable hide. Rejected several spots. They were either on a slope or had no cover.
His eyes lingered on a boulder that had fallen off the cliff, close to its craggy wall. He went over and inspected it. Narrow opening from the front, but when he crouched behind it, he found it gave a great view. Wide angle of fire. The crossing was a hundred and fifty yards away.
He looked up.
The vehicle trail was thirty feet away. To his left. The opening offered good cover, but left him vulnerable if the Taliban posted men high above.
He climbed up again and, after a long search, found a spot that was similar. A mudslide had bunched several rocks together near the face of the cliff.
They had crawl space between them. The track he had driven on was behind, the trail to the river was still to his left, but there was ample cover. There was no danger of any hostile shooter being at higher ground.
He settled down, the McMillan on its stand, with its scope. HK beside him. Mags, water, binos. He was ready.
It was time to send Atash Mohammed a message.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The traffickers came just after seven pm. It was dark, but they drove in with easy familiarity.
Zeb heard their engines long before he saw them.
Six stabs of light swung across the cliff and the sky. Which meant three vehicles.
No movement on the other side of the bank. The river lay still. Waiting.
Tires slid on loose rocks and pebbles. Gripped. The arrivals passed so close to him that he could smell diesel and rubber.
He lay unmoving, becoming one with the cliff, using the corners of his eyes to watch.
Jeeps. Or some kind of four-by-fours .
They stopped at the river. Still no one on the other side.
Do the traffickers cross it themselves ?
He didn’t have to wait long for his question to be answered.
It was as clear as daylight through his scope.
Men jumped out of the vehicles. Seven armed men. Taliban. They fanned out, some watching the cliff, some the river, others the activity.
A few eyes came his way, but he wasn’t spotted.
Eight men unloaded the contents of the vehicles.
Several sacks; he lost count after fifteen. Then they reached deeper into their rides and brought out some tires. They strung them together and plopped them on the water.
Bound the sacks together. Five men waded in and started pushing the makeshift raft.
They went deeper into the water until they were swimming, two men on one side, three on the other.
The gunmen and three traffickers stood on the bank, shouting instructions.
No lowered voices. Who was there to hear them?
Zeb waited till the transport was in the middle of the Panj and then he made his move.
He fired two rounds above the gunmen.
Killing wasn’t the objective. He wanted to drive them away.
Reaction was instantaneous.
The gunmen scattered. Dove away. Returned fire, blindly. The traffickers started screaming. Gesticulating. Passing mixed messages to the men in the river.
‘Go on.’
‘Return.’
The swimmers stopped.
Zeb helped them make a decision by firing into the raft.
A gunman started running up the cliff.
He fired into the man’s thigh. The shooter fell and rolled down the cliff.
Several shots came his way, most of them going wide, because none of the Taliban had identified where he was.
‘ Come back ,’ he yelled at the traffickers.
He fired more rounds in the water and on the raft.
That decided it for them.
‘ Don’t shoot .’
One of them shouted back and the five men started paddling furiously. Toward the vehicles.
His warning had exposed him, however.
The Taliban rushed up the cliff, concentrating their fire at the rocks. Splitting up.
He had the high ground, though. He had visibility. He had cover and several mags.
He blinked when a chip grazed his forehead.
Put his eye back to the scope. Triggered smoothly.
A chest shot. A gunman went down. A head shot. Another shooter fell.
The survivors ran furiously, the sound of their panting reaching him.
Zeb wasn’t planning to kill all of them. But the way they ran … Determined.
He saw the flaw in his plan.
There’s a blind spot beneath me, where the cliff curves inwards . The hitters could take cover and could then climb sideways, flanking him.
He threw caution to the wind.
Triggered rapidly until five Taliban fell.
All return fire stopped.
He waited. The gunmen could be faking. He scoped them. No movement.
On the river, the eight traffickers stood huddled. The five from the river had their arms around their bodies. Shivering.
Two men reached to the raft. Started pulling it.
He fired into the water. They jumped back.
‘Drive away,’ he ordered them.
They stood, uncertain, whispering among themselves.
He fired a burst at their feet.
They jumped and ran to the vehicles.
One smuggler was braver than the rest. Or more foolhardy.
He darted back to the raft.
Zeb shot him in the leg.
‘Take him with you,’ he commanded the others. ‘Don’t try any more tricks. Drive away and you will live.’
Three men jumped out, swearing and cursing. They grabbed their fallen trafficker and hauled him to a vehicle.
The rides turned around, engines groaning at the steep climb. Zeb scoped them, making sure no one jumped off again until they disappeared over the cliff.
He waited till their sounds had faded.
Waited for silence to blanket the river again.
He rose cautiously after several minutes.
His HK in his right hand. NVG over his face.
Got down the cliff.
No chance of being silent. There was too much gravel.
He slithered a few times, reaching out with his left hand for support, keeping his weapon trained on the fallen men.
None of them moved.
He got to even ground, HK raised, before he moved forward.
The two men closest to him were lying sprawled, face down.
He prodded them. No response. Turned them over. They were dead.
He was turning when his radar, his sixth sense, pinged furiously.
He whipped his head around.
Two shadows. Rising out of the ground. Six feet away. Springing at him.
‘Get him,’ one man cried out in Dari.
He saw the shine of a weapon.
No time to bring his HK up.
He straightened his body. Brought his left elbow up.
Deflected a rising barrel. Slammed the pointed end into the man’s throat. The man’s breath burst out like a pricked balloon. He screamed.
It cut short when Zeb shoved him in the path of the second shooter, who had his weapon to his shoulder.
The AK chattered. Rounds slammed into the Taliban man, who twitched and collapsed on top of the surviving gunman.
Zeb pounced. His boot crushed the gunman’s wrist. The weapon fell away but the man wasn’t done.
He twisted. Heaved away the dead weight on his body and, when his hands were free, thrust up savagely with a blade.
Snarling. Lips pulled back. Eyes savage.
Zeb jumped back, the knife slashing, tearing his perahaan.
He followed its swing. Grabbed the hand in a lock. Twisted furiously. A screech rent the air. Then a gargle, when Zeb crushed his chest with a knee.
He punched the Taliban man with a blow to his throat. Crouched over him until all breath, all life, had left the man’s body.
He straightened, panting, shaking his head at himself in anger.
I should have shot the men .
He checked them again.
Seven shooters. All dead.
He went to the river and waded in. Retrieved the raft and brought it to the shore.
Twenty-five sacks. He turned on his flashlight. All of them had a brand. That of Mohammed’s traffickers.
He cut the sacks loose and then frowned.
Only five of them contained powder.
He checked rapidly. The remaining felt like … stones?
He freed one and ripped it open.
Yeah. Stones. They were rough, misshapen, colored red and blue.
He sat back on his heels.
Stones?
It came to him.
They were gems. Lapis lazuli, the blue ones and rubies, the red ones.
Twenty bags of precious and semi-precious stones; only five bags of heroin.
He closed his ey
es, thinking back to the discussion with Kilmer in the coffee shop in DC. It felt like a million years away, on a different planet.
He pictured the dossier in his mind. There was something in there ….
He rocked back on his heels when his memory flooded with recollection.
Badakshan was famous not just for poppy and heroin. It also had mineral resources. Precious gems.
The largest mine was not far from Sori. On the next cliff.
The night was chilly, but Zeb was well covered. Several layers underneath his dress. His armor as well and yet he suddenly felt cold.
Now it makes sense .
Why Mohammed let the world believe the Delta operators were alive.
Because he wants to protect the mine. A coalition attack could destroy it.
But isn’t it government-owned?
How does that matter? He’s probably bought the officials. Or has taken it over and the authorities aren’t reporting its capture.
He’s smuggling not only heroin, but gems, too. The gems give him better profit. He won’t involve the drug traffickers in them.
A gust of anger filled him.
He ripped the sacks containing stones, tore them open, and flung their contents in the river.
He removed the heroin sacks and kicked the raft into the river.
He brought out a marker from a pocket and turned a dead fighter on his belly.
He scrawled a single word on the man’s clothing.
Sher.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Who is this Sher ? Where is he?’ Atash Mohammed’s eyes were furious. Veins bulged on his forehead and neck.
Tucker and Bykov didn’t answer. Neither did his men.
They were at their rendezvous near Keshem. He, along with a vehicle full of fighters, the American Colonel and the Russian.
Bykov chewed on a straw lazily, his eyes blank, as he watched the terrorist pace.
‘What happened to the gems?’
‘Gone!’ Mohammed flung his hands. ‘Heroin’s gone, too.’
‘He left any money? He likes to splash it.’
‘No. Where is he?’ he turned furiously on Tucker. ‘You said you would find him.’
‘We haven’t,’ the American said, unperturbed. ‘We are looking for Sher and also, this Carter.’
‘Seven of my men. He killed them. Just like that. The traffickers said he spoke Dari. With a Badakshan accent. They didn’t see him. Only heard him.’
‘He was hiding in the cliff?’ Bykov cocked his head.
‘Yes. Like a coward.’ He kicked the ground savagely.