Pet for Christmas

by Rachelle Ayala

Windows at both sides of the shack allowed its occupants to see anyone coming up the trail or from the mountainside. Tyler propped his rifles against the window and removed the stinky scarf from his nose and mouth.

  He broke out the canteen and took a sip, then opened the pack of food. It contained pieces of dried jerky, naan, and packets of tea. Tyler chewed off a piece of meat and handed some to the puppy, who wagged his tail as he wolfed it down in one gulp.

  “Sorry, bud, we have to save the food.” Tyler tossed him another piece before pushing it back into the pack. He rifled through the backpack to see what else the man carried.

  Cigarettes. What luck. The man would have a lighter, too. Tyler unzipped a compartment and found not only a lighter, but a cell phone.

  His pulse sped as he pushed the power button. The phone flickered into its boot sequence. Come on, come on. He begged the phone to hurry up. The carrier was not one he recognized, and thankfully the phone wasn’t locked. He hit the “dial” icon and entered the international prefix followed by Kelly’s phone number. Please, please, please be there. He waited for the ring tone.

  Shit. The phone flashed low battery and powered off.

  Tyler dug through the pack and found a charger. Problem was, where could he charge this thing? The walls were made of mud and stone and there was no electrical drop outside.

  Thud. The sound of a footfall had Tyler lifting his face right into the barrel of a Kalashnikov assault rifle.

  Chapter Nine

  ~ Kelly ~

  I have to hold it together. Just have to. I’m a mother, I have another baby on the way, and I have a demanding job. I refuse to give into tears. I must be strong. This can’t be real. Tyler is okay. Everything is a big misunderstanding. He’s only lost his cell phone.

  But then, why the FBI visit?

  My phone rings and I grab it.

  “Hello? Tyler? Tyler?”

  There’s no answer and the call ends. It’s a long string of numbers, and I gasp when I recognize the +93 country code of Afghanistan. It has to be Tyler.

  I hit redial, but the phone connects to voicemail immediately. I leave one.

  “Tyler, this is Kelly. Please let me know what’s going on. Where are you? Text me or call as soon as you can.”

  Now what? I hate to call the FBI, but they did tell me that if I hear from him I should let them know. Tyler would be safer in US hands, and they didn’t say he’d done anything, only asked about his mental status.

  Maybe he had a breakdown and was arrested by the Afghanistan police force. What if they’re holding him and not turning him over to the US? I can’t even fathom the conditions of the prisons there, and being an American war veteran would get him tortured or harassed by both prisoners and guards.

  Oh, Tyler. Was that you? God, please, please, please keep Tyler safe. Please.

  My hands shaking, I jot the phone number down and call Jim Chambers, the FBI contact person.

  I’m surprised when he answers, although a little groggy.

  “Mr. Chambers, I’m sorry to disturb you.” I try to calm my breathing enough to speak.

  “Not at all, what do you have?”

  “Just now, someone tried to call me from Afghanistan. It cut off before I could find out who, and when I redialed, it went to voicemail.”

  He sucks in an audible breath. “Did you leave a message?”

  “Yes, I said I was Kelly and wanted Tyler to call me and text to let me know what’s going on.”

  “You have the number?”

  “Yes.” I give it to him.

  “Interesting, and I take it this is not Tyler’s number.”

  “No. I don’t recognize it except it flashed the Afghanistan country code with the little flag icon on the side.”

  “Good job. We’ll look into it.”

  “Can you tell me when you find Tyler? If he’s okay?” I have to appeal to his human side. “Promise me you’ll let me know first thing.”

  “Of course we will.” His tone sounds anything but reassuring. “We’re going to get a bead on that number. If they call again, keep them talking as long as you can.”

  “Sure.” I swallow a big lump. “Are you saying it’s not Tyler?”

  “I’m running the number right now to see who it’s registered to. It could be anyone, but most likely it’s not attached to a subscriber. Most phones there use prepaid SIM cards. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “It’s at least a sign, right? Why would anyone there call me unless it was either Tyler or someone he knows?” I refuse to give up hope. “This means he’s alive.”

  “We never said he was otherwise.” Mr. Chambers coughs. “Thanks for calling. Make sure to let us know anything else you can think of. It goes without saying that you should not talk to anyone about these developments. This is highly sensitive and a matter of national security.”

  “Of course I won’t. All I care about is Tyler and his safety. I would never do anything to compromise it.”

  “Just a reminder. Don’t talk to your mother or sister, and obviously not to friends or the press.”

  “Yes, I got it. Can you please call me if you find out anything? I’m so worried about him. You know he’s the father of my baby, and I need him back in one piece. I love him.”

  I’m not usually so liberal with my feelings, but I need to impress upon this government bureaucrat that we’re humans here. Tyler is my family. He’s the man I’ve committed my life to, and I want this guy to know someone cares and loves Tyler.

  “Of course, Miss Kennedy. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.” He hangs up after we say goodbye.

  There’s no way I can go back to sleep. The clock says two in the morning, meaning it’s two-thirty in the afternoon in Afghanistan. Wherever he is, he tried to get in touch with me. Either he himself or through someone else.

  I step out to the balcony of my apartment in the Sunset district of San Francisco. Since I’m now working for the SEC in enforcement, I was able to move to a more upscale apartment than the hole I lived in with Bree before.

  Clear skies are rare, but tonight, I can see the moon. Is this a sign? Does Tyler look at the moon and think about me? Tears rim my eyes and a drop trickles down my face. I wish I could bounce a message off the moon to him, from my heart to his.

  Whatever is going on, I want you back, and I’ll help you through it. If you want to come back, I’m here. If you want me, I’m yours. Wherever you go, I’ll be your anchor and port of call. Please, dear God, please bring my Tyler home so I can hold him close in my heart. I love him so much.

  ~ Tyler ~

  Tyler slowly raised his hands. He was outnumbered with at least three muzzles pointing at him. The men had their faces and heads covered, but their eyes were dark brown and menacing. Taliban? Or Afghan special ops? Whoever they were, they didn’t look friendly.

  “Chechen,” Tyler said, hoping it would give him breathing space.

  The lead man said something and swept his rifle, signaling Tyler to lie on the floor. Okay, they obviously didn’t want him dead, because they would have killed him already if they did. But at the same time, if he resisted, they would not hesitate maiming him.

  Back before he met Kelly, he wouldn’t have cared. Now, things were different. She would never leave him, especially if he was injured. She’d stay even if he became a burden to her. And then there were Bree and the baby.

  Slowly, Tyler lay himself on his stomach with his hands stretched out.

  One of the men grabbed his wrists roughly and tied his hands together, then butted his knee over Tyler’s back.

  They spoke to each other in Pashto, most likely, and there seemed to be a disagreement. The only words he could understand were “ferengi” meaning foreigner and “American.”

  A pair of rough hands lifted Tyler’s head and ripped off his head scarf. Another man pushed a teenage boy toward him, asking him a question.

  “Arman?” Tyler gasped. “What’s going on?”

 
Instead of responding to Tyler, Arman gestured and nodded while answering the man who seemed to be the leader.

  Tyler tried to catch Arman’s eyes, but the boy kept his face averted. He was then told to pick up Tyler’s things, because he stooped to the ground and gathered up the canteen, dead cell phone, charger, and food packet, stuffing them into the pack.

  What had happened to Arman? Had he been captured too? Tyler would wait for an opportunity to speak to him in private. He didn’t want his captors to think he knew Arman or compromise Arman’s position. Later, he’d catch the boy alone and find out what was going on.

  The man with his knee on Tyler grunted a command and pulled Tyler to his feet. He pushed Tyler in front of him toward the door of the small shack. They were taking him somewhere, and for now, he had to go with them until he found an opportunity to escape.

  In single file, with a guard behind him poking him every so often with the tip of the rifle, Tyler trudged with the men into the rocky section. They must have been hidden behind one of the boulder walls.

  He’d been careless, only scanning the field and the road behind him. Careless and too excited over finding the phone.

  Had Kelly gotten a missed call? Oh, God, he hoped so.

  How worried she must be that he hadn’t spoken to her for days. She had sounded like she wanted to break up with him the last time she called, saying she wanted to talk to him after he returned. Had she reached the limit of how much she could take?

  It’s not fair to dump your shit on her and Bree. It’s better if she finds another man, someone more stable and supportive.

  Yet his heart ached at a life without Kelly. The man behind him poked his back as he stumbled onto his knees.

  Shoot me now and get it over with. Tyler bowed his head. I’m sorry, Kelly. I’m sorry, Bree.

  The man uttered a loud command and kicked him. Tyler got up, haltingly. Hiking the steep trail littered with large rocks wasn’t easy with his hands tied behind his back. But he wasn’t a quitter. Never.

  Mannings never quit, and this Manning is never going to quit as long as Kelly and Bree are alive.

  He hiked into the mountains that jutted against the clearest, bluest sky—one made in a dream. Stark beauty so high above the endless, gray and punishing land.

  Chapter Ten

  ~ Kelly ~

  The days go by toward Christmas, and not only has Dylan not been able to give me an update, his visa to go to Afghanistan was denied by the State Department. All of this, the loss of contact with the compound, and the missing delivery trucks, has been miraculously kept from the media.

  San Francisco and the rest of America go blissfully toward Christmas while my world falls apart. Mr. Chambers, who wants to be called Jim, gives me updates every night, but so far, all they know is the company the phone is registered at and where it was purchased—at an open air market. I’ve been calling and leaving messages, but Jim says no one has powered up the phone. Which is not good. Not good at all.

  My heart is on overdrive, pounding and pounding, and my blood pressure’s too high to be safe. My doctor’s worried, but I can’t tell her the details either, so she believes my relationship is on the rocks—which it might be. The thought flits through my mind that Tyler might have disappeared on purpose. Would he do that to me? To Bree?

  I take a deep breath, not letting my mind go there. No, Tyler was too honorable to do that. He has to be okay. There are no reports of ransom or demands from any of the terrorist groups. I’m sure the FBI’s not telling me the whole story, but right now, they’re my only source of information. I must hope for the best and keep praying.

  Every day, I kiss Bree good morning, holding her a little longer than I used to, then feed her breakfast and send her off to school. I go to work and go through the motions of catching crooks trying to cheat the stock market. It sounds more exciting than it actually is, a lot of data analysis and looking for strange trading patterns, correlating stock movements and relationships between accounts. No one there has a clue what I’m going through, and I keep a good game face on during the day.

  My mom and sister know something’s up, and I can’t help the worry and concern coming from them. As far as I can share, Tyler is missing and Warspring has lost contact with the sports camp. There’s no news of any disaster happening—no earthquakes, fire, or military action, so the best I can believe is that Tyler might be confined in a mental hospital for treatment of his post traumatic stress disorder or in a mental state where he is unable to let anyone know his identity.

  I wait in the line in front of Bree’s school to pick her up. There are a few parents I say “hi” and chat with, usually about the school, programs, and our kids, so I put on a smile and greet them while the kids file out of school.

  “Mama,” Bree says, handing me her schoolbag. “Can I open my advent calendar? They gave it to us a day late, so I get to eat two pieces of chocolate today instead of one.”

  “It’s ‘may I open,’” I correct her. “The answer is yes, but after dinner.”

  “Can we go to the pound and see if the puppy I like is still there?” She tugs at my sleeve as we walk toward the car.

  “Sweetheart, I know you told us you wanted a puppy for Christmas, but not this year.” I unlock the car, clenching my teeth in case she decides to melt down. “You’re old enough to understand that we can’t take care of a dog right now.”

  “Can I ask Santa instead?” She climbs into her car seat and buckles the straps. “I mean, may I ask Santa?”

  “Of course you may.” I tighten the straps, heartened that she’s speaking so rationally. At the same time, how is Santa going to overrule the situation we’re in? I can’t even think about getting a dog when I’ve a baby coming in February and Tyler missing, in who knows what condition.

  “Can we go now?” she demands. “I want to ask Santa at the mall where I found Papa.”

  Well, that’s a change. She’s back to acknowledging Tyler as her father. Of course, we’ve been praying for him, but since I don’t want Bree to be worried, I’ve told her he’s on a secret mission and will be back for Christmas.

  Chills grip my insides at the real possibility he may never come back. Live a normal life. Make Bree’s Christmas the best ever. Don’t borrow trouble. He’ll be okay. God is giving us an expected ending. Thoughts of peace, not evil.

  I start up the car and look over my shoulder at her. “Sure, why not? Just don’t be sad if it’s not the same Santa.”

  “What do you mean not the same Santa?” Bree’s voice sails high-pitched and surprised. “There’s only one Santa, and we better catch him while he’s in San Francisco.”

  Oh, right. We haven’t told Bree Santa’s not real yet.

  Pasting on a cheerful smile, I pull away from the curb. “Then we better get there before his reindeer come and take him away.”

  “Yay! I know Santa will give me what I want.” Bree clasps her hands together and her cheeks flush pink. “Can I also ask him something for my baby brother?”

  “Of course. That’s awfully nice of you.”

  “Santa can give him his own papa, so I can have mine.” She bounces in her car seat.

  Ugh. What am I going to say to that? We’re in too good of a mood for me to tell her she has to share. When Tyler returns, we’ll talk about this again. I swallow a big lump in my throat. He has to come back. He just has to.

  ~ Tyler ~

  Tyler’s shoulder joints ached, and he was unable to get comfortable, whether sitting or lying on the dirt floor. His wrists were sore from the ties binding his hands, and he desperately needed to go to the bathroom.

  It was still early in the morning of another day that promised to be spent in aimless wandering. He cracked open his eyes at the men lying next to their guns in the one room house, which was nothing more than a set of walls made of stone and mud that kept the breeze out enough for an indoor fire. Tiny windows ventilated the structure, and the roof was made of sticks and branches and would definitely
leak.

  He and his captors had been marching for so many days, he’d lost track. Apparently, they were just as worn out as he, since their snores rumbled through the night. One of the men sat on guard near the doorway with his AK-47 across his lap. Arman, who was apparently the son of the leader, was huddled in a sleeping bag next to his father.

  Tyler stared at the boy’s sleeping form. He’d tried everything to get the boy to speak to him away from the others, but Arman would only talk to him when requested to translate. He would never meet his eye, and it didn’t seem as if he harbored a single friendly thought toward him. Of course he was always watched by his father or one of the others.

  Asleep, the twelve-year-old boy looked as innocent as any other child. His father made him wash his face, brush his teeth, and comb his hair. He even wore clean clothes. Whoever these guys were, they were able to commandeer supplies: food, clothes, and water from the few villagers or houses they passed. Just like the Taliban.

  Rays of sunlight crept into the darkened shack as dawn broke outside. Arman’s father woke with a grunt and kicked the guy next to him—a skinny, sad sack kind of man Tyler nicknamed Stork.

  Stork grunted and shook a thick, heavy-set guy, the Jailer, who was in charge of watching Tyler. The commotion woke Arman as Stork took his place by the door, allowing the guard, a fellow with bad teeth, Can-Opener, to stretch his legs and go outside.

  Arman yawned and stretched, rubbing his eye. For a few moments before he woke, he still resembled the boy who had been Tyler’s shadow, translating for him and bringing him tea and trays of food back at the Sports Center.

  Jailer scratched his balls and glared at Tyler, commanding him to get up. It was time for his bathroom break, and the worst of it was that he had to squat like a woman. They refused to untie his hands, knowing he was a warrior. It sucked that Stork unzipped and zipped him while Jailer held a gun to his head. He had to suck it up. It would be worse to die in such a humiliating position.

  Pre-dawn prayer was next, even though the sun had already risen. The motley group of men removed their headscarves and spread them on the ground. They bowed west, probably facing Mecca, and went through their chants.