He retreated into the darkness and pressed his back against the rubble wall.
The two insurgents argued outside the hole. One looked down while the other pulled up the rope.
Shit. Tyler hadn’t expected them to leave him here to die. What happened to their machismo?
The argument stopped and one of the men descended the rope. He was clearly the subordinate one because the fellow at the top kept giving instructions to which he grunted with annoyance under his breath.
Tyler unsheathed his knife as the man jumped off the rope. Before the man had a chance to spin around, he pounced on him and slit his throat.
Shots rattled and splatted sharp rock and dirt at Tyler, but he retreated into the cave, leaving the body of the man he’d killed.
The man up top pulled a grenade from his shoulder pack and shook his hand to show it to Tyler. His white teeth gleamed from his bearded face as he made a slow motion pantomime of pulling the pin.
He shouted angry words and dangled the rope. It was obvious that he wanted to capture Tyler, possibly to take credit, and he was threatening to blow him up if he didn’t climb up the rope.
No way. Tyler wasn’t going to end up a headless corpse on display in some jihad video. Not happening.
Tyler reached out from his hiding place and yanked the dead man’s leg, dragging him toward him to use as a shield. He lifted the bloody body and slid underneath it. Sure, bullets could pierce the body and hit Tyler, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for the asshole up top. If he wanted to take Tyler prisoner, he’d have to come down and get him.
The man up top yelled sharply, probably slinging curse words. He emptied an entire magazine into the pit. The earth crumbled and a deluge of rocks and dirt tumbled over them, burying Tyler under the dead man’s body.
Chapter Seven
~ Kelly ~
A strident knocking raps at the front door of my mother’s apartment while we’re having dinner.
“Are you expecting anyone?” my sister Ella asks my mother as she gets up from the table.
“No, Cam’s spending the day with his grandson.” Mother wipes her hands on her apron. “I’m not seeing him until church on Sunday. I wonder what’s up.”
“I’ll get it.” Ella spares my mother who suffers from joint pain, and me, big and pregnant, from getting up from the table. It can’t be her boyfriend, Jaden, a soccer goalie for UC Berkeley, since they’re traveling to Sunday’s NCAA playoffs in Los Angeles.
“Don’t open the door for just anyone,” Mother reminds her.
I chuckle under my breath. Last year, when we met Tyler, Mother was the friendly one inviting him in to be her handyman. He was a homeless vet, but a former football player who had quit his million dollar contract to fight the war against terrorism. My heart softens at the thought of how much he sacrificed to keep civilians like me and Bree safe half a world away.
Bree’s playing with her food, obviously bored, so I pour her a cup of milk and ask her to drink it.
Ella pushes open the kitchen door. “Kelly, they want to talk to you.”
“Who?”
Little lines crease between her eyebrows, and she blinks too rapidly. “FBI.”
“FBI?” My heart launches into overdrive. It might have something to do with the manipulation of Shopahol stock. “Can’t they wait until Monday? It’s not like the market’s open on the weekend.”
“I don’t think it’s about your work.” Ella wrings her hands. “Dylan Jewell’s with them.”
“Dylan?” My gut wrenches, and I cover my mouth. Dylan is Tyler’s boss at Warspring International. “Is Tyler dead? Oh no, did something happen to him?”
No woman who loves a military man ever wants a visit from government officials. Ever.
I clutch my throat and spring after my sister while my mother takes Bree’s hand and asks her if she wants another serving of dessert.
My heart feels like lead as I enter the living room. Four men in suits, not uniforms, sit on the couch while Dylan stands next to the fireplace, staring at the family picture we took before Tyler left for Afghanistan.
“Is Tyler okay? What happened to him?” I rush to Dylan, ignoring an officer who asks if I’m Kelly Kennedy. “Tell me he’s okay.”
“We don’t know …” Dylan’s usually hearty voice is flat. He takes my arm and rubs my hand. “We lost contact.”
The blood drains from my head, and my womb contracts at the same time. He can’t be gone. Can’t. But what about my nightmare? There’s no guarantee. None.
Pain shoots through my abdomen, and I double over while my heart shatters into a million fragments. I gasp for air, but my chest is tight, and I’m dimly aware of gentle, but firm hands, helping me to the couch.
“I suggest you come back later,” Dylan says to the men as he lifts my feet onto the sofa. “Let me talk to her first.”
“No, we must question her. This is a matter of national security.”
“She has a high-risk pregnancy.” My sister arranges a pillow under my head. “Ask me any questions you have.”
“Actually, Miss, we’re going to have to ask you and anyone else in this apartment to leave, or Miss Kennedy has to come with us.”
“Seriously?” Ella says. “Tell us what happened to Tyler first. My sister can’t answer any questions without knowing.”
“The problem is, we don’t know,” the man who appears to be the leader says.
Meanwhile, two other men go through the kitchen doorway, and another man walks down the hall to clear the bedrooms.
I clasp my sister’s arm. “Please, Ella, take Mom and Bree for a walk or something.”
“Sure. Good idea. I’ll get you some water first.” Ella walks to the kitchen. Behind the door, the agents are speaking to my mother who’s probably holding onto Bree.
I rest and drink water, trying to calm my out of control heartbeat as Ella, my mother, and Bree put on their shoes and jackets to go for a walk. They’re telling Bree it’s practice for when she has a puppy. Oh, what I’d give if my only problem was whether to walk a dog or not.
After they leave, Dylan takes my empty water glass and puts it on the coffee table. “Are you okay? Can you answer their questions?”
“Yes, I will, if it helps find Tyler. Please tell me what you know. I can take it.” I call on my training as an investment banker and SEC enforcement agent to calm my voice into a businesslike tone. No need to be the weak one here. Fortunately, the baby is still moving around, so I sit up and make eye contact with the leader.
He introduces himself as Jim Chambers. Basically, they lost contact with Tyler Friday morning in Afghanistan around the time the supply truck was supposed to have arrived. By the way their eyes shift toward one another, I get the distinct feeling they’re leaving out something important.
“Have you spoken to anyone at the center?” I ask Dylan directly once the agents finish briefing me.
“No, but I’m flying to Kabul tonight to check it out for myself. I’ve called Farik, the former director, but he tells me nothing is wrong. Believe me, I’ll let you know as soon as I find something.” Dylan seems sincere, and I know he’s an honest man, but he’s way too naïve when dealing with government agents. From where I’m sitting, they’re letting him entertain the idea of a fact finding trip when it’s the last thing they’ll allow.
My fears are confirmed when Mr. Chambers takes out a notepad and clears his throat. “We’ve told you what we know. Now we need your help. In your opinion, how is Captain Manning recovering from his post traumatic stress disorder? Please describe any plans he had for going to Afghanistan and why he wanted to work with pre-teen and teenage boys.”
Great. The way they’re making it sound, either Tyler’s a pervert, or he’s trying to recruit his own fighters. I explain the sports program and what’s in his heart, to give the boys of Afghanistan a chance to yearn for a better life and vent their energy into healthy sports competition, but I can tell I’m not getting through to them.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dylan props me up by my elbow, his deep blue eyes warm and concerned.
“Of course I am.” It’s not like I have a choice when government agents want to search my apartment. “I’m glad you’re here. You’ll let me know what you find out?”
Dylan puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “I’m just as worried as you are. I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I refuse to fall apart in front of the agents. They’re just doing their jobs. They suspect Tyler of some heinous activity. This means he’s probably not dead. If he were dead, they wouldn’t be asking me these questions. Something must have happened at the compound, and they seem to be in interrogation mode, not condolence mode.
I cling to this hope as I walk with the agents to their SUV.
~ Tyler ~
After the dust settled, Tyler shoved the dead man off him. The man who had been shooting at him had fallen into the pit and was lying on a pile of rocks, his head bent in an unnatural angle. His shooting into the cavern had caused the ground to sink into the hole.
Tyler checked the man for a pulse, finding none. Good. This way he wouldn’t have to kill a man who couldn’t fight back. Time was of the essence because the shooting would attract attention, and Tyler had to get away.
He stripped the man, whose body was still warm, of his clothes. He was a large fellow for a Pashtun, and since he held some sort of command, his clothes were in better shape than the man whose throat Tyler had slit.
He was also a goldmine of weapons. Quickly, Tyler tore off his own bloody clothes and pulled on the commander’s thermal underwear, covering it with khaki pants and some kind of military shirt, probably stolen off the back of an American GI. The name tag had been obscured, but he had no time to examine it. On top of it all, Tyler draped the traditional Afghan salwar kameez tunic and loose pants.
At least he had two canteens of water, a parcel of food, two AK-47s, ammunition, and a backpack. After checking his headscarf was in place, Tyler grabbed the rope and pulled himself out of the hole.
Puffs of smoke and the reports of gunfire could be heard from the direction of the compound. Hopefully, the Taliban were under attack, and this would provide a distraction from their search for him. If what Arman said were true, Tyler was a wanted man, possibly by both sides. He scanned the direction of the ridge. He had no choice but to track Arman and find him. The kid was the only witness who could exonerate him.
Tyler pulled a black headscarf around his face, covering his nose and mouth. It stunk of garlic, body odor, and sulfur, but if anyone met him on the road, they’d think he was a Chechen fighter on his way to meet with the mujahideen.
A little brown ball of fur scampered from behind a dry bush, wagging his tail and greeting Tyler. He bent and picked up the puppy. His heart softened and he hugged the dog. Thoughts of Bree, Kelly, and home flooded his mind. He didn’t belong here in Afghanistan and neither did the puppy.
“There’s no life for you here, Little Brownie. If we get out of here alive, I’ve got a little girl who’ll love you to pieces.”
Chapter Eight
~ Kelly ~
“Ahhhhhh!” Bree’s screams rouse me from my troubled sleeplessness. I glance at the bedside clock. It’s three in the morning, and I’m in the double bed in my apartment. Not that I can sleep. I’ve been drifting in and out of bad dreams, my heart pounding like a thousand marching men and my throat dry.
Bree screams again, and I’m on my feet, rushing to her room. Our apartment is small with only two tiny bedrooms and a paper thin wall.
“Sweetie, what is it?”
Bree sits up in her bed, stiff, her eyes wide open. Sweat dampens her nose, and her fists are clenched.
I bend over her and hug her. “Mama’s here. Go back to sleep.”
“Papa’s dead.” She grabs onto my nightgown. “I’ll never get a puppy now.”
A hollow ache gnaws behind my solar plexus. I’ve been praying continually for Tyler. He can’t be dead. If he were dead, they wouldn’t have gone through his things, looking for evidence of wrongdoing.
“No, no, sweetie.” I rub Bree’s back. “Papa’s coming home. I know he is.”
Why am I lying? Not only did the government agents confiscate all of Tyler’s electronic devices, they had also asked for his toothbrush and hair samples. The only reason for that is to extract his DNA. It could be for evidence against him, or maybe to find him, like a trail of blood. He’s not dead.
“But Mama, I prayed to God and … and …” Bree’s shoulders shake as she sobs. She doesn’t have to finish. I well remember what Ella had told me, that Bree had prayed and asked God to find her real father because she thought Tyler was a fake—one that she had asked Santa for last year.
“And God will bring Papa back. He will.” I lie down on Bree’s bed and tuck her into my arms. “God knows best.”
“I’m a bad girl. I made Tyler die when I asked God for my real papa.”
“No, you didn’t.” I rock her in my arms. “God doesn’t do what you ask if it’s not in His will. He always does what’s best. And you know what? Tyler’s your real father because he’s going to adopt you, just like you want to adopt a puppy from the pound.”
“Really?” Bree rubs her tears on my nightgown. “Will Tyler still want me? I’m a bad girl.”
“You’re a good girl, and he wants you no matter what.”
“But why? He didn’t give my sperm.”
I wonder who’s been talking to her about sperm donation.
“Some other man helped him give your sperm so Tyler can be your real father.”
“Like sharing? Did the other man share his sperm?”
“Yes, something like that. Let’s put our hands together and pray for Papa to come home.”
“Okay.” She clasps her hands together and closes her eyes real tight.
“Dear God, I want Tyler to be my real Papa and give me a sperm. I don’t want to share with a stranger. Make mine purple sparkly with a long silver tail.”
Somewhere at school, she must have been shown a picture of a sperm cell. I’m not going to go into detail with her right now. I just want Tyler back, and so does Bree, apparently.
I give Bree a kiss. “Ready to go back to sleep?”
She nods and hugs her pink teddy bear, closing her eyes.
I’m tempted to stay in bed with her, but I need to check my phone and browse the internet for news. Except in the rural areas of Afghanistan, where clean water is an issue, who would be tweeting about a little known community center?
I try the hashtags for Warspring and NGO Afghanistan but come up empty. I browse to Warspring’s website, but all they have are generic mission statements, pictures of happy children, and no details of locations and addresses.
Why is my phone silent? Why hasn’t Dylan texted?
Because he’s still on the way. And Tyler will text me as soon as he can. He just has to be in an area with a signal or get his phone charged. He loves me. I love him, and God loves all of us. God always does what’s best.
My eyes aching and bleary, I take my Bible from the nightstand and read verses and paragraphs, not really paying attention, just reading words as my heart pounds and pounds. I don’t know how long I read, but when I stop, it’s at this comforting promise: Jeremiah 29:11 For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.
~ Tyler ~
Tyler jogged up the dusty trail toward the ridgeline. There was no tree cover, and he hoped he wouldn’t be spotted. What if the Taliban thought him to be a deserter, running away from the fight?
Once he crossed over the ridge, he shaded his eyes to study the brown valley below surrounded by miles and miles o
f desolate gray hills. There was no sign of fields, a house, or even a tiny hut, and the spindly trees along the trail provided scant coverage. Tyler would be a sitting duck should someone spy him walking down below.
“What do you think?” Tyler asked the dog. “Did Arman come this way, or did he double back to the compound?”
Woof. Woof.
The dog wagged his tail at him, not giving him a definite answer. Arman was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he’d gone into the wilderness or was on his way home.
Tyler set off at a fast pace. The sooner he cleared the valley and climbed into the hills, the better cover he’d have. The trail, if it could be called a trail, was full of jutting rocks and ruts. Tyler crossed the valley and ascended the first set of hills. He let the puppy down and picked up a stick to help with the wobbly rocks. Could Arman truly have come this way? As far as Tyler could tell, he was going east, and east was Pakistan, although quite a distance away. In between lay various tribal homelands and local chieftains, some allied with the Taliban, others holding onto autonomy, despite the central government, in other words, a lawless region.
Onwards he trudged. After the hill section, the terrain flattened into a plateau with a few spots of greenery. A mud-brick structure squatted on one of the flat areas, but there were no signs of animals or people. Even the birds were quiet and the only sound was that of the wind rustling the dried bushes and blowing the dust in circles.
Tyler set the puppy down, figuring he could nose out Arman if he were hiding inside, but Little Brownie trotted around sniffing the bushes and rocks and lifting his leg to mark his territory.
Tyler circled the shack and came at it from the side facing the hill. Sneaking beneath the window line, he peered into an open doorway. Nothing. The place was obviously either abandoned, or a waystation for farmers or herders to stop and spend the night. There was no furniture, and a center pole held up a partial roof made of intertwined twigs. Remnants of a campfire sat on the dirt floor.
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