by Ty Patterson
Tucker wore a bland expression. Yeah. As if you’re so brave, hiding in that village, fleeing to the tunnels.
He said nothing.
‘He disrupted Hafiz’s sample display in the bazaar. Grabbed the product. He has put word out. He wants more product. Good quality. At the cheapest price.’
The Russian snorted. Everyone wanted good and cheap.
‘Could he be Carter?’
Mohammed stopped. Tucker straightened.
‘I can’t see how,’ the American said uneasily. ‘There’s no sign of Carter.’
‘You’re sure he’s in the country?’
‘Positive. My source is never mistaken.’
‘No sign of him but this man, Sher, turns up. No one knows where he is from …’
‘London.’ The warlord interrupted. ‘He told my people in the bazaar. He is from that city.’
‘He doesn’t look like Carter,’ Tucker protested.
‘Pah!’ Mohammed waved his hand impatiently. ‘That means nothing. You should know. Your people have disguises.’
‘If he could find out about that crossing …’ Bykov started.
‘He could disrupt our main shipment and my plans,’ Mohammed completed.
‘He said he’s a buyer?’ The Russian had a faraway look in his eyes.
‘That’s what he said. What’s on your mind?’ the terrorist asked impatiently.
‘And he wants to deal only with you?’
‘He said that too.’
‘Then set up a meeting. Sell him product.’ Bykov’s grin was wolfish, his eyes that of a predator.
The subject of their discussion was sleeping.
Zeb was still on the cliff, by the Panj River. In a different hide. When the sun rose, he woke and stretched.
He was higher up, almost at the top of the cliff, in a narrow, cave-like depression.
His sleep had been uninterrupted. No Taliban. No vehicles. No river crossing.
He walked out of his shelter and used his binos.
The river was as placid as ever. The raft was not in sight. The bodies lay where they were.
Hafiz’s man said there’s a consignment every fourth night. I could hang around … nope.
It was highly unlikely the Taliban would use that spot again for the crossing, he realized.
The coalition attack was just eight days away. He couldn’t waste time. He had to take out Mohammed. But he had to get to him first.
I’ll go to the bridge today .
A lot of drugs moved across the bridge, too. It was a more expensive route, because officials had to be bribed. It was also dangerous, because Afghan police, along with DEA, could swoop in and inspect the vehicles.
Still, some warlords used the road route to move a small percentage of their product.
I’ll hit some shipments.
How will I know, though? Which vehicles are carrying product?
The answer came to him when his HK clanked against a rock.
There will be armed men. That will be a giveaway.
But they need not be Mohammed’s men. they could be another gang.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll hit it.
The news will reach Mohammed .
Pressure.
It was all about applying it continuously. Until something broke.
Or someone.
Mohammed Atash.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Zeb took three hours to get to the bridge. Driving down the slope while keeping watch for terrorists made for slow going and the sun was right above, a pale disc, when he neared the river crossing.
He parked at a distance and leaned against his vehicle, watching.
Traffic wasn’t like it was in a big city. A truck rumbled through once an hour. Smaller vehicles crossed more frequently.
Three armed soldiers were positioned at the entrance to the bridge. One was sitting in a wooden chair, his eyes closed, rocking. Two others leaned against the concrete support, talking casually.
A truck approached. None of them looked its way.
Zeb shook his head in disgust.
No wonder traffickers took to the road. With that level of security, smuggling drugs was a low-risk business.
He opened a can of food and dug into it with his Benchmade.
A car stopped, its driver seemingly asking for directions. The two guards approached it and, after a lot of arm waving, sent it on its way.
Another truck and this time the guards straightened. All three of them.
Zeb stopped chewing.
One of them went to the middle of the bridge and raised his hand in the universal gesture.
The vehicle rolled to a stop.
The driver leaned out and yelled. He got an earful in return.
He jumped out and went to the rear, sulkily. He lowered the gate and gestured.
Something green.
Vegetables?
The guards were satisfied. The driver swore as he slammed the rear shut, climbed inside the cab, thrust a hand out and flipped them off.
Action on the Panji Poyon bridge.
Zeb’s mirth died.
Why did they stop this vehicle and not the others?
Maybe they know who the previous ones belonged to?
He climbed into his Jeep and checked his messages. Several from Kilmer, all asking him to abort and return. Missed calls as well.
He ignored them. He rested for an hour and, when the sun turned orange, walked to the bridge.
AK on his back. Several mags in his pockets, and the Glocks, concealed by his clothing, strapped to his chest.
The guards didn’t pay him any attention until he was a few feet away.
They stopped talking. Eyed his weapon.
‘Who are you?’ the oldest of them asked. He was clean-shaven, hair greying, short, his teeth blackened by tobacco consumption.
‘How do you know which vehicles to let pass?’
‘Who are you?’ the soldier repeated. His men became alert.
‘I am Sher.’
No expression on their faces.
Then a dawning recognition. The older man looked at his men. They looked back at him. None of them knew how to respond.
‘We have heard of you,’ the leader bobbed his head, at last.
‘Good. I need you to disappear for a few hours. Before that, tell me how I can recognize Mohammed’s vehicles.’
‘Who do you think we are?’ the soldier blustered.
Zeb waved a roll of bills in the air.
‘Someone who wants this.’
‘We don’t … we can’t …’ His words trailed off when Zeb started counting them. Three pairs of eyes grew wide when a bill blew through the air. A guard made an instinctive move to go after it. Curbed himself.
‘You have heard of me,’ said Zeb, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. ‘You know what I have done and can do. You can do this the easy way. Take this. Tell me and go away. Or the hard way. Where I kill two of you and torture the third.’
Stunned silence.
Then outrage. Didn’t Zeb know who they were dealing with? They were Afghan officers. They didn’t take to threats. They could call the—
‘Who will you call?’
That stumped the leader. His mouth worked. No words came out. Zeb let fly another bill in the air.
‘I don’t have much time,’ Zeb snapped. ‘I have to kill you or give you money. Decide fast.’
‘Mohammed doesn’t run drugs,’ the leader said, making a last attempt to resist.
‘I know that,’ Zeb glared at him. ‘The traffickers he protects. They do. How do you know which are the smugglers’ vehicles?’
‘They’ll kill us.’
‘They won’t. Not if they find you tied. You hide the money somewhere. I bind your hands and legs and, in the morning, someone will find you.’
Zeb caught the gleam in their eyes. They lowered their voices and murmured softly.
‘We want … a hundred dollars. Each.’ The leader deman
ded.
Zeb gave them three hundred each.
Their hands trembled as they fingered the currency. One of them sniffed at it.
‘It’s genuine?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Sher never deals in fake,’ Zeb sneered.
‘Their vehicles have their brand. On the license plate,’ the leader explained. ‘That’s how we know.’
‘Won’t everyone know?’
‘They use those plates only for the bridge crossing. They change them once they are away.’
‘Can you draw the brands?’
They patted their chests and pockets. One guard came out with a scrap of paper. Another drew out a pen.
They drew the signs of the four major gangs, who were led by Mohammed, Malek, Hafiz, and Kalan.
The elder soldier licked his lips nervously.
‘What?’
‘Mohammed. They are not shipping today.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Zeb paused.
‘What about the others?’
‘Kalan is.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They send a messenger. No messenger, no shipment.’
Kalan’s shipment will do. The message will get back to Mohammed.
‘What time?’
‘They don’t tell us. It is usually at night.’
‘I need a uniform.’
‘Take mine,’ one of them said eagerly.
It was a tight fit, but he needed it just for the night.
Their eyes flicked over his weapons.
‘If you tell anyone … I will kill you,’ he said, eyeing them coldly.
The leader shivered. ‘We won’t.’
Zeb secured their wrists and legs and pushed them away from the bridge.
‘It will be cold,’ he cautioned them, as they huddled against the concrete bulwark, not visible from the road.
‘For three hundred dollars, we will bear it,’ a guard grinned.
Zeb sat in the wooden chair. The bridge was well lit and had a ramp at its mouth. Vehicles had to slow down as they reached it. It gave him ample time to check their plates.
He memorized the four signs and stuffed the scrap into his pocket.
A few cars passed. None of their occupants looked his way. Furniture. Guards were just that. Not worthy of a second glance.
A truck rumbled past when it was nine pm.
No sign on its plate.
Its driver waved. He waved in return.
He craned his head over the bulwark. The guards were pressed close to one another. The one who had given up his uniform was in the middle. All of them asleep.
The vehicle arrived at just after eleven pm, its engine growling as it eased up the ramp.
Red sign in the corner.
Zeb pushed off the chair.
Walked casually to the center of the bridge.
Three men inside the cab, including the driver. All bearded.
He lifted his hand.
The truck slowed. Its lights flashed.
He didn’t move.
‘Fool!’ the driver stuck his head out. ‘Don’t you know whose truck this is?’
Zeb didn’t respond.
The vehicle stopped.
The three men got off. Furious. None of them armed.
‘Are you new?’ the driver shouted.
‘Yes,’ Zeb replied calmly. ‘I need to inspect the vehicle. What’s in it?’
‘ Inspect? ’ a burly man roared. ‘You will not touch the vehicle. Kalim? Zubaid? ’
Two men came from the rear of the vehicle. Both wearing AKs.
How many more of them?
‘Only two?’ Zeb scoffed.
‘There’s Pasha,’ Burly growled as a third gunman appeared. ‘Three men. Our protection. You are new. That’s why you don’t know how we work. We have already paid the guards.’
‘I am the guard. No one’s paid me.’
Pasha was the tallest. He shouldered his way through. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘This fool stopped us,’ Burly told him. ‘He’s new. He doesn’t know the rules.’
‘Where are the others?’ Pasha looked Zeb up and down. ‘There are three guards here usually.’
‘I replaced them. Orders. From Faizabad.’
‘No one told you anything?’ black eyes narrowing.
‘I was told to inspect vehicles crossing the bridge.’
‘Who sent you?’ Burly asked aggressively. ‘Was it—’
‘ No names !’ Pasha cut him off. He turned to Zeb. ‘We have arrangements. Let us go. You will be rewarded.’
‘What’s in the truck?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘Is it heroin?’
Pasha turned ugly. His shoulder thrust forward. The AK on it caught the light. ‘You don’t need to know. You are just a guard. Let us go. We will pay you. Here …’
He drew out a several Afghanis and threw them at Zeb. ‘Take those. And step away.’
‘No.’
‘No?’ the gunman reared back in astonishment.
It was a word the Taliban heard rarely.
His fist bunched. It swung.
Zeb leaped into action.
He moved swiftly, catching the arm in mid-motion. Twisting it around savagely, yanking it, dislocating Pasha’s shoulder.
The gunman screamed in the night.
His fellow shooters started reacting. Hands reached for their AKs. The smugglers hustled out of the way.
Zeb kicked Pasha in the groin. Flung him toward the other shooters, who jumped out of the way. That lost them time.
Zeb triggered. His first round buried itself in one gunman’s shoulder.
Someone fired, a bullet slapped the wind high above his head, and whistled into the night. A second shooter went down, clutching his leg, when Zeb shot him.
Two hitters out of action. Pasha, groaning and retching.
Three smugglers frozen, mouths open.
Zeb swung the stock of his rifle and bludgeoned the Taliban men to unconsciousness.
‘Show me what’s inside,’ he told the driver, his breath even, misting in the cold.
The driver nodded dumbly. He turned. His passengers followed him.
Zeb kept behind them, keeping enough distance.
The smugglers didn’t try anything, however.
Burly lowered the gate. The driver raised the shutter.
Sacks inside.
‘Remove them,’ Zeb ordered.
Burly climbed inside and started tossing them out.
Grain. More grain.
The eighth sack was smaller. White powder in it. As had the ninth, tenth and eleventh.
Ten sacks in total. Ten kilos hidden among the other sacks.
‘Put them back.’
‘You just asked me to remove them.’
‘Now, put them back.’
Burly grumbled, but tossed the sacks inside, his men helping him.
‘Come with me.’
Zeb took the three men to the front of the truck. The Taliban men were still out.
He pointed to the far end of the bridge.
‘Start walking.’
‘What?’
Zeb slammed the AK’s butt in Burly’s belly.
His breath whooshed out as he doubled over.
‘Go. Next time I will shoot.’
The driver and the other smuggler grabbed Burly, and the three men broke into a shambling trot.
‘You will die for this,’ the driver snarled.
‘I won’t but many of you will. Tell Kalan it was Sher who took his drugs.’
They stopped and stared at him.
‘Yes, I am Sher. I want to trade with Atash Mohammed. Only he can give me the quantity I want. I will deal with him directly. And as long as he refuses to trade, I will harass all of you.’
He fired at their feet and sent them fleeing.
Zeb waited till they were out of sight. Checked the Taliban men, who lay unmoving. He picked up their AKs and tossed them into
the river.
The guards were awake.
‘You killed them?’ the leader asked him.
‘No. What about you? It will become colder.’
‘The money will keep us warm.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Atash Mohammed wasn’t speaking. He paced sometimes. At other times he stopped and glared at Bykov and Tucker, as if it was their fault.
‘Kalan,’ he choked out, finally. ‘That small, miserable piece of shit. He insulted me. His man. He said because I wasn’t dealing with this Sher, all of them were suffering. He said it was my problem. He told me to deal with it. Kalan. That insect ordered me .’
He ground his teeth, his face red. Looked for something to vent his anger on. There wasn’t anything.
He cursed long and loud, went out of the house and spat.
Bykov winked at Tucker. The terrorist had arrived at their meeting in a rage. He had come close to both of them and had stared them down.
His anger had risen when the colonel stepped back and cupped his face.
‘You’ve got bad breath, man. Say what you want from a distance.’
The Russian had chuckled. Which enraged the Taliban leader even more.
Mohammed returned, looking calmer.
‘We need to kill him. I don’t care whether he is a genuine buyer or not. He has to go.’
‘Did you leave a message for him? At Humayun’s place?’ Bykov asked him.
Mohammed’s mouth opened and closed in answer.
‘You haven’t?’ the Russian grated. ‘You come here, shout and rant and yet you didn’t do what we agreed. Set up the meeting. We will capture him. Then decide what to do with him.’
Mohammed whirled on his heels and swept out of the house.
‘You trust him?’ Tucker asked Bykov.
‘Trust?’ the former Spetsnaz man chuckled mirthlessly. ‘We have come together for profit. Not trust. We will do our parts not because we like each other—we don’t—but because we want to become filthy rich.’
He side-eyed the American. ‘You, my friend, are taking the biggest risk of all. The minister, Mohammed, I … in this country, no one is clean. But you! You are betraying your country. Your men.’
The colonel’s jaws clamped shut. His eyes turned flinty. ‘I have my reasons.’
Bykov nodded. ‘We all find reasons when we are faced with easy money. We rationalize, we—’
He stopped when Tucker rounded on him. He held his hands up in surrender. They stood in silence for a moment.
‘He’s evil,’ Bykov said, at last.