Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  Swung the wheel furiously to his left and drove off the road, thanking his luck that he was on hard ground. Less likelihood of a dust trail giving him away.

  Calculated. Two miles separated him from the Taliban men. He kept an eye on the horizon as he accelerated the vehicle. The dip in the ground shielding him from view.

  Glancing at his cell phone frequently, checking the two dots on it.

  The trucks were still there but what about the SUV?

  No plume in the air. Hopefully it was still there.

  Only one way to find out.

  He was going at the truck stop from the side. The sun was on him.

  He stopped when he was a mile away.

  Checked his left.

  He couldn’t see the road. He was hidden by that same curve in the slope.

  Grabbed his HK, his cell, binos and sprinted.

  Legs pumping furiously. Weapon in his right hand, held easily. Eyes narrowed, senses alert.

  Eight hundred yards became seven.

  The ground started inclining upwards.

  He dropped to his belly and started crawling. Blinked rapidly to flick sweat away from his eyelids.

  Slowed as he neared the edge of the dip.

  Put the binos up cautiously, just the lenses, over the curve of the ground.

  Carl Zeiss lenses, ground to perfection, offering eight times magnification, got to work.

  He scanned, found the vehicles and the grouping of men and steadied the binos.

  He recognized the drivers and the men in the trucks. Searched to their right.

  There.

  The white man, talking animatedly to someone.

  Zeb couldn’t see his face. The man had his head bent, nodding. He studied the body language of the other men.

  The Taliban men stood a few paces away from the white man and the bearded man.

  Deference.

  That’s the Russian and Atash Mohammed.

  After what felt like interminable minutes, he got his answer.

  The bearded man straightened. Clapped the white man on his shoulder. Headed to the SUV.

  For one moment, his face was turned to Zeb.

  Atash Mohammed!

  His eyes fierce, his beard thick, striding like he owned the world.

  Five men followed him, one of them getting into the driver’s seat.

  The warlord climbed next to the driver, another gunman beside him.

  The white man joined the three at the back.

  Seven men in the SUV. It was crowded. It sank on its wheels. Smoke streamed from its tail as it started heading to the dirt track.

  Zeb watched until it hit the road and turned left. Towards Dushanbe.

  He checked the trucks. They were still at the stop, their occupants in no hurry.

  He sprinted back to his Toyota.

  Lowered his trousers to his knees and taped the explosives’ triggers to his outside thighs.

  Fastened his trousers again, concealing the devices.

  His fingers would reach the buttons if he stood straight, his hands to his sides.

  They were his insurance policy.

  A few moments later he, too, was on the road.

  The SUV was no longer in sight, but that was okay.

  He knew it would be ahead and when he rolled down a slope, it was there, light shining off its sides, dust swirling around it as it raced.

  Less than half a mile away from him.

  It was time to strike.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Zeb reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed his helmet and put it on. He was one man against seven. He would need all the protection he could get.

  He jammed several mags in his pockets. The crate behind him had an M82 Barrett. However, the HK was a better weapon for what he was planning.

  He stomped on the gas and the Toyota leaped forward.

  He rolled his window down. Dust rushed in.

  He breathed easily. He could die in the next few moments. A little dirt in his lungs wouldn’t be the cause of his death.

  The cold flooded him, a familiar feeling. Welcomed. As was the grey fog filling his mind.

  Nothing existed except the SUV ahead of him.

  Which he was nearing.

  The Taliban vehicle appeared to be more powerful than his, but it was carrying a heavy load.

  A face turned towards the rear window as he neared.

  The gunman said something over his shoulder.

  Another face appeared beside his.

  Zeb kept closing in.

  The SUV’s door opened a crack. A gunman poked his head out and stared.

  He took in Zeb’s helmeted face. Turned, shouted something. Movement from inside. The barrel of an AK appeared. The hitter pushed the door open wider in an attempt to aim his weapon.

  Which was what Zeb wanted.

  His left hand moved without conscious thought.

  The HK’s barrel thrust out of the window. It was on auto-mode, a full magazine slapped into it. He depressed the trigger and sprayed the rear of the SUV.

  Steel-penetrating rounds flew out with a muzzle velocity of two thousand, five hundred and ninety-two feet per second.

  Less than a hundred feet separated the two vehicles.

  The SUV’s door buckled under the impact of the rounds. Its rear window shattered. The gunman’s head burst, and his body slid down, dragged behind the vehicle, and rolled away.

  Zeb swerved. Drew the HK in. Changed magazines in seconds and resumed firing. Another long burst.

  The terrorists were trapped.

  They were bunched together. They could either fire back, for which they had to show themselves, or go faster in their SUV.

  There was returning fire.

  Zeb ducked as his windshield shattered. A round punched through the door and whistled in front of his belly before thudding into the right door.

  He continued firing, wheeling his Toyota behind and to the right, reducing the angle of incoming fire.

  Three magazines emptied. Two more bodies flopped out. More by luck than by design, but all he had to do was point his weapon at the gaping hole that was the shattered rear window and press the trigger.

  The Taliban hitters who had tried to shoot back from the rear had caught the brunt of his attack.

  Their fellow passengers had shoved their bodies out, taking care not to expose themselves.

  They weren’t giving up, however.

  The SUV driver continued trying to race away, while two AK barrels appeared through the hole and let loose at Zeb.

  A shard of glass whipped across his face, leaving a graze on his cheek.

  Another buried itself over an eyebrow. Blood started trickling down the side of his face.

  He wiped it away with his right hand, hardly feeling the pain. That would come later.

  Right now, he was cold and empty, feeding off the fury banked in him.

  The SUV turned hard to the left. It got off the road and sped through open ground, even as several AKs chattered from inside, simultaneously.

  Zeb twisted and turned his wheel, making sure not to offer a stationary target, his rounds making holes in the sides of the enemy’s vehicle.

  The Taliban’s SUV was old. Zeb wasn’t using ordinary armor-piercing rounds. They were heavily customized bullets that a gunsmith in Virginia made for him, exclusively.

  His Toyota wasn’t in any better shape, however and it had perforations, too.

  But Zeb had the advantage that his constant swerving offered a limited target. On top of that, the SUV was a sluggish mover and it was filled to its capacity. Chances were high that rounds piercing it would hit human flesh.

  An angry face loomed in the front side window: the Taliban man next to Mohammed. His mouth opened in a snarl.

  He thrust his body out, his AK curving down, rounds scything the sky, heading towards Zeb, who jammed the brakes and brought the Toyota to a squealing halt.

  Zeb’s first burst went wide.

  The se
cond burst riddled the gunman.

  Zeb stomped on the accelerator.

  His Toyota stalled and gave up on him.

  He tried again.

  No luck.

  The Taliban gunman took advantage. Concentrated fire burst towards him. Rounds pinged off the roof and screamed through the broken window. One round grazed his neck, but it came the closest of any of them, because he had moved the instant his vehicle had stalled.

  He scrambled to his right, kicked open the passenger door, dropped to the ground and looked up from beneath the Toyota.

  The SUV was racing away as fast as the driver could make it, rolling drunkenly on its wheels. Now two hundred feet away.

  Zeb brought his HK to his shoulder. Took aim.

  At the bottom cycle of his breathing, he fired.

  The right rear tire blew out.

  A breath. A fraction of an inch to his left.

  Trigger break.

  Another tire blew out.

  The SUV slowed and when he shot a front tire, it stopped.

  Its engine whined as the driver coaxed it to move. It rolled forward a few feet, but the terrain wasn’t friendly. It stuck.

  Four down. Three inside.

  Mohammed, the white man and the driver .

  No movement from within the SUV.

  They’ll figure out their options . Try to spring a trap on me.

  A head peered above a window and disappeared when Zeb snapped a shot.

  He could riddle the vehicle with rounds, use the Barrett to punch large holes in it, but vengeance drove him.

  Mohammed needs to die in front of me .

  He figured the warlord would try to deceive him.

  The gunman would open fire, while Mohammed and the white man would circle around.

  Zeb decided to give them the opportunity.

  He knew his plan was foolhardy. It broke every operational discipline but the memory of the three Delta operatives in the valley burned in him.

  He crawled out from underneath the vehicle, crouched and resumed firing at the SUV even as he ran toward it.

  No straight lines. Unpredictable twists and turns.

  Gouts of earth flew in the air as a lone weapon fired from within the SUV.

  He was sure it wasn’t Mohammed or the white man who was attacking.

  They’ll work on their trap .

  He concentrated his rounds at the front of the vehicle, changing magazines on the move, his HK barking in a continuous stream, drowning out the AK’s response until it fell silent.

  Zeb was fifty feet away. To the front of the SUV, approaching it from the passenger side.

  All he could see was a blood-splattered body sprawled on the front seat and darkness inside.

  He rushed forward, presenting as narrow a target as possible, and crossed the front.

  No rounds came his way.

  He was at the driver’s side.

  Better view of the inside.

  The dead Taliban shooter in the front. What looked like bodies in the rear.

  Are they dead?

  Then the trap was sprung.

  Chapter Fifty

  He felt the motion behind him before he heard it.

  He was turning, ducking, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  Something like a steel hammer struck him in the head. Brought him to his knees. A hand went under his chin and yanked his helmet away.

  His HK went flying when a brutal kick landed in his ribs.

  Before he could react, an arm went around his neck and dragged him upright, choking him.

  Something hard pressed against his right temple.

  A gun.

  His vision swam. He almost blacked out from the force of the blows and the choke hold around his throat.

  A figure appeared in front of him. Wavy, blurred, initially.

  He blinked rapidly as it sharpened.

  Atash Mohammed stood in front of him, his lips twisted in contempt.

  How?

  He twisted sideways to look at his captor, caught a fleeting glance at his profile before the gun smashed into his temple.

  ‘Americans. You are so arrogant. You think you alone are intelligent.’ Mohammed played with a knife, its sharp edge winking in the light.

  ‘We, that’s Bykov behind you. My partner. Russian. Tucker, he was my partner too. You remember him? Poor man,’ the terrorist clicked his tongue in pity, ‘he was caught between his greed and his American principles. He had to die. You understand, don’t you? You should have died, too, that day. Never mind. You’ll die today. Here. No one will know where your body is.’

  He ran a finger on the knife’s edge and held it up to show the thin streak of blood.

  ‘How, you must be wondering. How did we trick you? You had us. Your gun,’ he shook his head in admiration, ‘was shooting holes in us.’

  ‘It was Bykov’s idea. Those two bodies you saw falling out? They were us. He was sure you wouldn’t pay attention to us when we fell out. Your American principles … you wouldn’t crush us with your vehicle or shoot us. It worked.’

  He chuckled as the Russian tightened his hold on Zeb.

  Mohammed came closer and thrust the point of his blade at Zeb’s left eye.

  Zeb leaned back instinctively, but there was no give in Bykov.

  ‘Scared. Like all Americans. You talk a lot. When you are behind your guns.’

  ‘You are any better?’ Zeb goaded him. ‘Let me see how much you talk when I am free. You won’t take that risk, will you? You are a coward, Mohammed. You hide behind women—’

  The terrorist whipped his knife across Zeb’s forehead, its tip cutting his skin lightly.

  He laughed when Zeb’s breath caught in his throat.

  ‘No. It is not a death cut. I want to take my time with you. I want to hear you scream.’

  He jabbed at Zeb’s chest, his eyes widening when the blade struck the armor.

  ‘Remove it,’ he told the Russian, who shook his head.

  ‘We don’t have time. Finish him. We have to be in Dushanbe before it gets late.’

  ‘ You’ll do as I say ,’ Mohammed screamed and thrust the knife at Zeb’s left shoulder above the edge of the armor.

  ‘I—’ he panted, delight in his eyes at Zeb’s tortured groan. He pulled back the knife and stared at the blood coating it. ‘—will take as much time as I—’

  The knife came fast, this time going for Zeb’s right shoulder.

  Now!

  Zeb let his weight fall on the arm around his neck. Felt it squeeze in him, cutting off his air.

  He compartmentalized it. Ignored the searing burn in his left shoulder and the steady flow of blood from his forehead. Separated the pain from what he had to do.

  Let his upper body sag.

  Bunched his knees together and brought them up.

  His legs pistoned out like a rocket. They caught Mohammed flush in the chest and sent him hurtling back several feet away.

  The terrorist sprawled to the ground. Dazed.

  He shouted in anger and humiliation. Got to his feet and rushed toward Zeb, knife thrust forward.

  ‘Kill him,’ said Bykov, the arm around Zeb’s neck loosening a fraction.

  Mohammed will go for my throat .

  Movement in front of him, behind the terrorist.

  The trucks. They lumbered into view, slowing down as the drivers took in the scene.

  Bykov shifted behind Zeb. He had seen the vehicles.

  Mohammed didn’t turn. He didn’t waver.

  He came on, his mouth working, cursing, swearing.

  Four feet away.

  Then three feet.

  Zeb met his eyes. His fingers reached for his thighs.

  Searched desperately. Found the triggers.

  Jabbed hard.

  A moment of nothing happening, other than Mohammed coming closer to him, breathing harshly and Bykov’s grip relaxing and moving away from Zeb’s neck.

  The trucks exploded. A burst of sound that carried far.r />
  Bykov jerked. A sound of surprise escaped him.

  The gun against Zeb’s temple moved away involuntarily.

  Mohammed faltered. His head started turning toward the source of the blast.

  His knife started dropping, but his momentum kept carrying him towards Zeb.

  In Zeb’s world, a fraction of a second determined life and death.

  He acted.

  His left hand slapped away the approaching knife.

  It continued moving upwards.

  His right hand flashed up as well.

  It grabbed Bykov’s gun hand.

  Brought it forward, his wrist clamping in a vice-like grip around Bykov’s, turning and twisting until the barrel was pointing straight ahead.

  Zeb’s left hand came up.

  Fitted around Bykov’s curled fingers.

  Zeb’s forefinger crushing the Russian’s trigger finger.

  Mohammed’s head turning back towards his captive.

  His eyes widening in surprise and fear.

  Bykov reacting behind Zeb.

  Snarling, trying to release his hand.

  His left hand drawing back to pound Zeb.

  Too late.

  Zeb squeezed the Russian’s trigger finger.

  The round smashed into Atash Mohammed.

  Another squeeze.

  Mohammed’s body jerked under the impact.

  Bykov’s fist connected with Zeb’s neck.

  He shuddered under the impact, but he didn’t release his hands. They still gripped Bykov’s gun hand. His finger forced the Russian’s to squeeze the trigger again.

  The next two bullets went wide.

  The subsequent one caught Mohammed in the neck.

  The terrorist started to fall.

  Zeb heaved on the gun arm, twisting it, ignoring the blows raining on him, erasing everything from his mind but Atash Mohammed and the gun.

  He kept forcing the trigger, darkness filling him as the terrorist’s body shuddered under the impact of the rounds, until the gun clicked on empty.

  He twisted around, his left elbow rising to smash Bykov in the face.

  Right hand still not releasing the Russian’s arm.

  Ducking and whirling, gripping the hand, now the captor turned captive, Bykov struggling to release himself.

  Until his shoulder dislocated.

  His scream choked off when the concrete-like edge of Zeb’s left hand smashed into his neck.

  Zeb pounded him until the Russian’s body sagged.

  He released it, letting it flop to the ground.