by Ty Patterson
He brought his knee up and met a thigh as hard as a rock. No luck there.
The knife was heading straight at his throat.
He kicked desperately, caught the attacker’s ankle. Made him lose balance.
The blade sank into his shoulder.
Zeb welcomed it. The searing burning fueled his fury. It gave him the advantage because, for that one moment, as breath hung in the air, the Taliban man was tipped against him.
Zeb slammed his forehead against the man’s nose, which split, his scream rending the air.
The man’s body loosened. His grip on the knife eased.
Zeb shoved him back.
The Taliban man surged forward, the bloodied knife rushing back.
There was the narrowest space for Zeb to maneuver in.
He dropped his shoulders. Crouched and brought his hands up. Grabbed the knife wrist and slammed it against the wall over his right shoulder.
Fire raced through him as his left shoulder protested.
He ignored it.
Brought his left hand up, grabbed the neck of the Taliban killer and drove his head against the wall.
Once, twice and thrice, until the fighter went limp and dropped to the floor.
Zeb took a breath, rushed over to Bidar and cut his binding.
‘They were planning to kill me,’ the storekeeper sobbed. ‘Outside. To send a message to the villagers but they were going to torture me first. They were asking me where you were.’
Zeb didn’t answer. He ripped the young man’s shirt and kept his face expressionless as he saw the cuts on the shoulder and chest.
He explored the house and returned with a cloth dipped in water.
He cleaned the wounds and sighed in relief. ‘They aren’t deep. Go to the nearest doctor. He will help you.’
‘No one will help me,’ Bidar trembled. ‘Everyone saw the Taliban come, drag me inside. Not one person came to help.’
‘Then it’s time for you to go.’
Chapter Forty-Three
‘Go?’ Bidar repeated. ‘Where?’
‘To Kabul. Or wherever you want to go. Your life here is finished.’
Zeb went to the other room. Grabbed a bag. Stuffed Bidar’s clothes in them and thrust them at him.
‘Where’s the money I gave you?’
‘Beneath that wardrobe in the other room.’
Zeb returned with the bills. Put them in the bag.
‘Right now?’ the storekeeper asked uncertainly.
‘Yes. Is there a rear exit?’
‘No. Why?’
Zeb prowled and found a window that looked into a side alley. Just a hole, no bars, large enough for a full-grown body to wriggle through.
He went cautiously to the front. No one on the street.
‘Let’s go through there,’ he pointed at the window.
‘Why?’
‘Do it,’ he used his command voice.
The storekeeper hustled, levered himself up and squeezed through the opening.
He caught the HK that Zeb tossed out and helped him down.
They ran silently through the back streets until they were outside Raghi.
‘Where?’
‘Follow me.’
Zeb kept up their punishing run until they reached the Jeep.
He gestured silently.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the highway. Change your clothes. Grab a lift from a passing vehicle. Spin a story and go away.’
The young man was silent as Zeb drove quickly. He was still in shock, his mind grappling with the rapid turn of events.
He gathered himself after a while and looked behind, at the crate in the back.
‘They said you are American. Zeb Carter.’
‘Yes,’ Zeb removed the false nose and ears.
‘You aren’t Akmal?’ the grocer took the rubbery appendages and inspected them.
‘No.’
‘You speak the local language so well. With the right accent.’
Zeb didn’t reply.
‘They said you are a soldier.’
‘Kind of.’
‘You came to kill Mohammed?’
‘Now, I intend to.’
‘You came to save those soldiers?’
‘Yes, but they are dead. Mohammed killed them.’
Bidar pointed at his shoulder. ‘You are bleeding.’
‘I will be okay.’
‘You could have left me there. You didn’t have to return, to save me.’
‘Yes.’
‘No villager came to help me.’
‘They are scared. They have their lives to live.’
Dusk turned to dark. Zeb stopped for a water break. Mountains shadowy and distant behind them.
‘Mohammed’s smuggling gems?’
Bidar nodded, water trickling down his chin. ‘Not many people know it. I know because many villagers went to work in the mines. They talk in front of me. The other gangs, they are still into poppy. Mohammed’s, they move heroin too, but more and more gems. They cut off the drug smugglers. No need for them. Mohammed’s developed his own network for distribution.’
Zeb was struck again by the total hold the terrorists had. They do everything right in the open and no one, the Afghan government, or my people, can do anything.
‘That mine,’ Zeb nodded in the direction of the mountains. ‘It is government-owned.’
‘So what?’ Bidar said bitterly. ‘I heard there was a Russian who was helping Mohammed. The two were working together. Stealing gems. Sending it across the river.’
He swirled water in his mouth and spat. ‘It will end, though. In two days.’
Zeb jerked his head up.
‘Why?’
‘I heard the villagers speaking. They have nearly finished the main vein. They have been asked not to return after two days.’
Tucker’s two fingers. He meant two days.
‘You heard everything. You didn’t tell the police or any soldier?’
Bidar climbed inside the Jeep before answering. ‘You know what happened to my parents. What they would have done to me if you hadn’t returned. You said the villagers were scared. I, too, was frightened.’
Zeb drove past Keshem and towards the next village, fifteen miles away.
He stopped at the edge of the highway, giving the man company as they waited for a vehicle to approach.
‘That man in Sori that day,’ Bidar said after a while. ‘I think it was Mohammed.’
‘Hmm,’ Zeb replied noncommittally, still trying to figure out what would happen in two days.
‘You saw him yesterday. Why didn’t you kill him?’ Bidar asked sharply.
‘I should have. I had the chance today, too. I couldn’t. He moved fast. When you go to Kabul, go to any American or coalition officer you see. Tell them that you heard Colonel Jesse Tucker was killed by Mohammed. Tell them some story, how you know. His body is there. His and his men. In that other valley.’
Bidar looked towards the mountain range and shivered.
‘I will.’
‘I will find a way to go to London,’ he said determinedly. ‘I have had enough of killing and war.’
London.
‘How does Atash Mohammed speak English? Very well, too.’
Bidar looked at him curiously.
‘You don’t know?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking if I did.’
Bidar snorted in amusement. ‘I thought you Americans knew everything. He is from London.’
Zeb stilled.
‘What?’
‘He was born there. His grandfather was an imam in a London mosque. His family returned when he was young.’
Tucker said Mohammed was going.
Going to London?
Chapter Forty-Four
Zeb waited with Bidar until they saw a pair of headlights in the distance.
He caught the storekeeper by the sleeve when he started to move.
‘Wait. Let it come nearer.’
&
nbsp; It turned out to be a truck, its engines straining as the vehicle labored across the dips and rises of the road.
‘It sounds old. I don’t think the Taliban will use that kind of vehicle. Stand on the road and wave it down. I will be in the darkness. In case you need help.’
Bidar asked no questions. He stuck his hand out and waited patiently for the driver to spot him.
The truck changed gears. Started slowing and came to a halt a few feet from the storekeeper.
‘What’s wrong?’ the driver stuck his head out.
Zeb went behind the vehicle quickly. It was open at the back. Empty.
He ghosted to the side to overhear Bidar telling the driver he needed a lift.
They haggled over a price, agreed and the storekeeper started climbing in.
He paused for a moment, looked in Zeb’s direction and nodded.
The truck’s lights receded into the distance, but Zeb made no move to leave.
He settled himself on the Jeep’s hood and removed his shirt.
Cleaned himself up with his water canteen and bound himself tightly with a strip of cloth.
It was a flesh wound. Deep but it didn’t seem to have torn any muscle or ligament.
He would be okay. He had been through worse injuries.
He was thinking of Mohammed’s next moves even as he worked.
Assume he’s going to London. When and where will he cross?
Tucker said with . He’s going with a shipment? In two days?
There was only one way to be sure. Ask Mohammed, which wasn’t possible.
I could go try to capture one of his men and interrogate him.
Will Mohammed change his plans now that he knows I am out there somewhere, hunting him?
Zeb looked at the star-dotted sky.
Nope. I wouldn’t if I was in his place. My plans would factor in any attack. There would be no reason to change them.
What if I told the coalition or American forces?
That wouldn’t work, either. If Tucker was helping him, there could be others. Besides, he has informers in all the villages. They would tell him of troop movements.
And that was why he wouldn’t tell anyone of the warlord’s possible escape to London.
For one, he wasn’t sure. The other reason was the leak at Kilmer’s end.
The colonel had given him several missions. If he wanted to betray me, he would have done so long back.
Nope, the traitor was someone else. Zeb could speculate all he could, but in the end, it didn’t matter.
Find Mohammed. Kill him.
That was all that mattered.
He drove out. Back to Raghi, a plan shaping in his mind.
He would have to find another vehicle. The Jeep was too conspicuous.
Once he got a new ride, he would go to the mine.
He didn’t go to the mine immediately, the next day.
Instead, he drove to the bazaar.
He went early to avoid traffic and arrived before ten am.
He parked where he previously had, in the wide lot that was nothing more than an expanse of ground, beaten down by the weight and tracks of vehicles.
He unloaded his crate, grabbed all his gear and hiked a mile back to where there was cover in the form of a few bushes. The dirt track was to his right.
Straight ahead, two miles away, was the river and the island on it.
He shoved his equipment underneath the bushes, exchanged his HK for one of the AKs he had grabbed from the terrorists, changed into rust-colored clothing.
If anyone recognized him, it would be as Akmal Rahman.
He waited until the parking lot started filling up. He watched through his binoculars. A truck parked next to his Jeep. The driver lumbered out and stretched. Didn’t glance at his ride. Another truck appeared. Boxed his vehicle and then a smaller one appeared.
It looked like a Ford. Small, compact. Zeb made a note of where it parked and left his hide.
He walked to the bridge, paid the guards and went to the bazaar.
Hung around until it was crowded and then made his way to the samples hut.
The inevitable gunmen were there. Three of them. Rough-looking, their arrogant stance keeping away people.
These won’t be Mohammed’s men. He won’t risk a sale so close to whatever he is planning .
Zeb drank several cups of tea. Bought a pair of shoes he would never use. Some trinkets, ‘for my woman,’ he said shyly at the gap-toothed woman, and whiled the time away.
The prospective buyers appeared. Four of them. They strode directly to the hut. The guards stopped them, words were spoken and they disappeared inside with two Taliban men.
Zeb hurried out to the parking lot and checked out the vehicles. The Ford was still there, as was a Toyota and a Nissan.
The Toyota looked good. Black, dented and scratched. No Taliban markings on its plate. The right age, too. It wouldn’t have sophisticated electronics inside.
He looked around. No one was paying him any attention.
He tried the door. Unlocked. In that part of the world, locking was rare.
No keys, but that wasn’t a problem.
He slashed beneath the dash and hot-wired it. No one came running to him.
He transferred his equipment quickly and drove the stolen vehicle away.
Parked off-road, well away from curious eyes, under the cover of trees and went back to the market.
Sighed in relief when the negotiations were still going on. Waited till evening fell, when the buyers emerged and strode out.
The Taliban left like they owned the world.
It would come crashing down on them when Zeb rammed his Toyota into their vehicle.
Chapter Forty-Five
It was easy to follow the gunmen. They didn’t take any precautions when they left the bazaar.
Their vehicle was a Soviet discard, olive-green paint, sturdy wheels.
Zeb followed them at a distance, and when they were in the middle of nowhere, on the track to Keshem, no other vehicles around, he accelerated and smashed into them from behind.
He leaped out even before the vehicles had stopped moving. Raced down the right, keeping a distance.
A head popped out. Exploded, when Zeb shot it on the run.
‘Get out,’ he commanded the two men inside, who were furious, one of them carrying a gash on his forehead.
‘You know who we are?’ Gash growled. ‘You know who you killed?’
Zeb shot him in the shoulder, ‘Keep talking if you want to die.’
Gash fell back, hand clutching his bleeding shoulder, moaning softly.
The other man had raised his hands quickly. He was alert, his eyes wary.
He’s the danger man. He’s too cool.
‘Get out.’ Zeb motioned with his AK.
‘Who are you?’ Cool asked him.
‘Get out,’ Zeb repeated, ‘I won’t ask again.’
Doesn’t look like they recognize Akmal Rahman .
‘This way,’ Zeb pointed to the left door. ‘If you come out with any weapons, I will kill you.’
Gash swore and cursed as he clambered out clumsily.
Cool followed. There was one moment when his fellow gunman covered him. He made his move then.
He shoved Gash toward Zeb. Reached behind him. Came around with an AK, spitting fire in a wide arc.
Zeb sidestepped the oncoming hitter easily. Clubbed him with the stock of his AK. Dove to the ground in one continuous motion, rounds flying above him.
He shot Cool in both thighs and rolled quickly as the gunman tried to lower his weapon.
He lunged forward, thrust the hostile’s weapon away, and body-slammed him against the vehicle.
Zeb tied both men to their vehicle, hands outstretched and secured to the roof, legs to the wheels.
‘Malek will kill you.’
Zeb grinned. That saved one question.
He brought out his Benchmade and jammed it into Gash’s thigh, just near his groin.
‘What’s happening in two days?’
Gash spilled everything he knew, despite his partner’s remonstrations. Cool lasted longer, but he, too, confessed in the end.
They didn’t know what exactly would go down in two days. Abdul Malek had ordered them to stay away from all border crossings.
Especially from the bridge.
‘Bridge? The Panji Poyon one?’
‘Yes,’ Cool groaned. ‘No one was to go near it.’
‘Did he say why?’
The Taliban man shook his head listlessly.
‘We think it’s an important shipment. So important that Malek didn’t tell us.’
‘Night or day?’
Cool shook his head and groaned at the motion.
‘Don’t know. Malek asked us to stay away all day. Twenty-four hours.’
‘Which gang’s shipment is going?’
Cool coughed and spat blood. He was badly injured but still had it in him to retort.
‘Who do you think? There’s only one warlord who can make others obey. Atash Mohammed.’
Zeb didn’t kill them. He left them where they were, bound to their vehicle, on a dusty road that disappeared into the plains and mountains of Badakshan.
The Taliban gunmen had confirmed what Tucker had attempted to tell him.
That Mohammed was leaving the country. Most likely with a large shipment of gems.
What remained to be answered was when exactly and where.
It was a large country. The warlord could cross the river at any point.
Or he could be audacious and cross the bridge in broad daylight.
Zeb brought his vehicle to a sudden stop.
Audacious. Broad daylight .
The words swirled in him.
He liked it.
He thought that was what Mohammed would do.
He’d get a kick out of it.
Everyone looking for him and he’ll be bold as brass, crossing the bridge.
A gut feeling wasn’t enough, however.
Zeb headed to the mine.
He reached the outskirts of Raghi as the sun was setting. Drove ahead, toward the hillside on which the mine was located.
There was a well-maintained road that curved up, but he didn’t take that.
There would be guards. Probably Taliban fighters and he was sure every one of them would be on the lookout for him, in his Sher or Akmal disguise.
He grabbed his backpack and strapped it alongside his HK.
He would have to hike.
Which turned out to be easier than the hikes to the neighboring cliffs, because the miners had cleared the hill of rocks and boulders to prevent any rock- or mudslides.