Pet for Christmas

by Rachelle Ayala

  Bullets ricocheted and died down, followed by shouting of insults.

  “It’s the Taliban,” Arman said. “They’re looking for you.”

  A spike of ice shot through Tyler’s heart. “Then who are you? Who’s your father? I thought you guys were the Taliban.”

  Arman snickered. “We’re not all mujahideen, or terrorists like you Americans call us.”

  “Then why do you have me tied up? Where are you taking me?”

  “Shhh …” Arman chopped with his hand, hissing. “Quiet. They’re asking my father why they saw a white man with his hands tied.”

  “How do I know they’re not sent to rescue me? Maybe I should jump out and run for it.”

  “You’ll die. My father’s chief of our clan. That house down there is our home. Even the Taliban respect him here.” Arman’s voice grew hard as stone.

  “What do you want with me? I only want to go home. Will your father help?”

  “Yes, but first, we need something from you.”

  A sharp muzzle poked Tyler’s back, and Can-Opener barked an order, most likely telling him or Arman to be quiet.

  The yelling between the men continued, with the voices of the other group getting closer.

  Can-Opener jerked Tyler to his feet and unsheathed a knife. Arman’s eyes grew big and round, and his face paled.

  Adrenaline swarmed Tyler’s veins, and his heart galloped to escape his chest. They weren’t going to kill him without a fight.

  Can-Opener yanked Tyler’s wrists so hard his shoulders almost popped. The bands were cut, and Tyler flexed his wrists and stared at the man.

  Can-Opener gritted his teeth and spat out harsh words.

  “He said to pretend you’re with us and not a prisoner. The Taliban leader wants to talk to you.”

  “Can’t your father tell him to go away?” Tyler asked.

  “You don’t understand,” Arman said. “My father invited them to our house for dinner. He’s killing a goat tonight. Come, let’s go.”

  “Dinner? Why?” Tyler couldn’t comprehend how men who had been shooting at each other minutes ago would have dinner together.

  “It’s customary here to be hospitable. Don’t worry. They are our guests. They won’t be shooting.”

  How could Tyler wrap his head around this concept? Except it was the way of the mountains here. The Taliban and every other armed band of insurgents in these regions could not survive without the aid and abetting of the villages. Whether by bribery, extortion, protection, tribal loyalty, or national pride, the various insurgents and villagers were bound together by tradition and ancient customs reaching back thousands of years. At least this was what he’d been taught before he deployed.

  “Let’s go to my home,” Arman said, picking up his gun and Tyler’s backpack.

  “Here, let me carry that.” Tyler reached for it. If he could get his hands on the phone and the charger, he could call for help.

  “No, it’s mine now. Spoils of war, but you can carry my gun.” Arman threw the AK-47 at him, then turned his back on Tyler.

  Wow. So, the kid knew he wasn’t going to mow him down. This was a big game of chicken. Were the men coming up the path Taliban or another faction? Whoever they were, Arman’s father was playing a dangerous game, one Tyler, as an American, did not understand.

  Out here, alliances shifted with the blowing dust. Twice already, the group had had to duck and hide at the presence of other groups of armed men. Whatever was going on, it seemed they distrusted each other yet pretended to be hospitable and unafraid.

  Dinner tonight was going to be very interesting.

  Chapter Twelve

  ~ Kelly ~

  I’m frustrated that Bree isn’t telling me what she asked of Santa. It saddens me that she’s still pining after a father she doesn’t know, all because of my wrong and hasty choices—first with the artificial insemination and then allowing Tyler into our lives when he’s full of unresolved issues and problems. She’s too young to understand why he’s not here. Perhaps she thinks he left because of her.

  She’d already felt guilty that first night when the FBI came over, and she thought her prayers had caused Tyler to die, forcing me to lie to her about Tyler’s supposed secret mission.

  My stomach and heart clench in unison. He could be dead, but I refuse, absolutely refuse, to believe it until they have a body. No. No. It can’t be.

  He called me, or someone who knew my number called. There had to be a reason for that call. It’s not random.

  I walk out to the balcony and stare at the moon. It’s a misty night, and the soft, white moonlight bathes a sleeping city with serenity. If only I can believe that Tyler sleeps under a peaceful moon, that he is making his way back to me.

  Closing my eyes, I imagine Tyler on a mountainside, resting and praying. No matter how bad his PTSD gets, I pray he has a quiet place in his mind to rest and recuperate, a retreat from the demons that plague him, a sense of peace and love.

  My cell phone rings and I glance at the Caller ID. It’s Mr. Chambers with his nightly update. It’s sort of become routine, a call before going to bed to tell me they have no news.

  Yet, my heart still leaps and I scramble to answer. “Jim. Hi, any news?”

  “Dylan and I are outside your door.” His voice is grim and low.

  The bottom drops from my heart and I bend over, groaning. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Kelly, are you okay?” He sounds concerned, but I know it’s just his professional demeanor. “Please, open the door.”

  “Sure.” I stumble from the balcony and clutch my abdomen. Please, please, relax. The last thing I need is to go into labor. It’s too early.

  Dylan steps in first and wraps me into his arms.

  “No, no. Something bad’s happened to Tyler.” I collapse against him. This visit deep into the night could only mean bad news.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Dylan says. “But we have to tell you the possibilities.”

  “I can’t lose him. I can’t. I love him so much.” My breath is choked and I squeeze my eyelids tight. “I can’t lose him.”

  Dylan leads me to the couch. “You’re not going to lose him. You won’t. Tyler’s strong. He might have gotten out. He might still be out there.”

  “Wait, wait.” I hold up my hand. I can’t fall apart without hearing the details. “Please, start from the beginning.”

  “I’ll brief her,” Jim says, staring at his notebook. “We have visual contact with the compound. It was blown up by a VBIED, Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device.”

  “Truck bomb,” Dylan clarifies.

  I clamp my hand over my mouth. Listen. Listen. Don’t interrupt.

  “There were no traces of Tyler among the bodies,” Jim continues. “The Taliban took control of the compound after the explosion. They pulled bodies out of the rubble, as well as survivors. Neither Tyler, nor his translator, a twelve-year-old boy named Arman Tarakai, have been found.”

  “That’s good, right?” I grasp at Dylan’s shirt. “It means he’s still out there somewhere.”

  “Yes, that’s what we’re hoping.” Dylan cups my hand and rubs it. “I was able to talk on the phone with a former employee. He claims he saw the boy alive after the explosion.”

  “Did the boy say anything?”

  “Not to him, but he says Arman skips prayer and brings Tyler his breakfast. The rest of the people go from prayer to the cafeteria where the greatest damage occurred.”

  My throat closes with a huge lump. “People died. Children died. How could this happen? Why did they bomb the sports compound? It’s not a military target.”

  Dylan’s body stiffens, and he shoots a glance at Jim, who wipes his forehead.

  “There’s more. Tell me,” I demand. No time to waste beating around the bush. “What is it?”

  Jim purses his lips and folds his hands. “The witness says Tyler rigged the explosives and blew up the cafeteria.”

  “That’s a lie.”
I shoot from the couch and launch myself at Jim. “Tyler would never do something like this.”

  He fends me off, but I grab his lapels and stare into his eyes. “Don’t try to pin this on Tyler. He didn’t do this.”

  “We’re still investigating.” Jim grabs my wrists and disengages. “We didn’t have to tell you any of this.”

  Dylan clasps my shoulders and pulls me back on the couch. “Kelly, you have to calm down.”

  “I don’t know if I can take this anymore. Why are they blaming Tyler?”

  “We’re not saying he did it,” Jim explains. “But last Christmas, he attacked a little boy at a Christmas pageant. He has flashbacks that are so real to him that he acts on them. Not just dreams in his mind.”

  “Every flashback Tyler has had, he’s been protecting someone. Not attacking.” I look at Dylan for support. “Tell him. Tyler’s a protector. He cares about the children. He went there to give them a better life.”

  Dylan spreads his hands. “I don’t believe Tyler did any of the things he’s accused of, but the Afghan authorities unfortunately do. They have him on a most-wanted list and if they capture him, they could send him to prison without a trial.”

  “He’ll never survive prison. They’ll torture and kill him because he’s an American soldier. What can we do?” I grip my hair and flop myself against the back of the couch.

  “This is where you come in,” Jim says, leaning forward. He opens a folder and pulls out several sheets of paper. “The State Department, the FBI, and even the President are aware of the ramifications of an American aid worker accused of blowing up civilians.”

  “He didn’t do it. You have to believe me.” I stare back at him to show him I’m not afraid of any of them.

  “Evidence has been destroyed,” Jim says. “He will not get a fair trial. The Taliban are also looking for him. He’s got a lot of people upset with him.”

  “And you believe the Taliban?” I jut my chin at him. “You losers believe them over Tyler? An American hero? Awarded the Medal of Honor? A guy who went back there to heal the country, to give them hope for the future?”

  “We’re only looking at the facts …” He holds up his hand to ward off my retort. “I mean, what was communicated to us.”

  “Well, look harder. Where would Tyler have gotten the explosives? How did he pay off a suicide bomber to drive the truck? Were there any food or supplies in the truck? I find it suspicious that the center director quit before Tyler arrived. I bet he had something to do with it. What sickens me is the children who died. Certainly, it’s in the interest of the government and the President to prove Tyler, an American veteran, did not do this heinous deed.”

  “You’re correct there. This could blow up our tenuous position in Afghanistan. The Middle East is already a powder keg, and if word gets out, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “So, what do you need me for?” I’ve finally accepted that they weren’t here to tell me news, but to get something out of me. When it came to government interests, no one was important. If they could have let Tyler take the rap without consequences, they would have already. But it wasn’t of national interest to do that. Not at all.

  “We want you to sign a waiver, an authorization that the US government, as well as the international security forces or private contractors, can take any measures warranted to extract Tyler Manning from Afghanistan. If we have to bring him to justice, we want to do it in our military court. We want you to swear to secrecy of this entire operation, and we will not tolerate any leaks. Dylan has already signed.”

  My entire insides turn into a molten cauldron of pain. In other words, Tyler could be killed in the operation, or the government could determine what was best, not for Tyler, but for national interest.

  “Do I have a choice?” I stare at Dylan.

  His face is stiff and his eyes are watery. “Not much of one. If you don’t sign, you won’t be apprised of what happens.”

  Bile erupts in my throat and I clutch my neck. Oh, God. Tell me what to do. Can I put my trust in them to save Tyler?

  The verse, Jeremiah 17:7, flashes through my mind. Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is.

  I bend my head and hold my face in my hands, forcing myself to breathe in and out. The baby is strangely quiet, as if this moment is too important for him to disturb me. I wait for the peace of God to flow over me, to trust in Him, but it’s not easy. Maybe I won’t ever know if what I’m doing is right or not. But if I have to trust someone, I choose God.

  Raising my head, I reach for the pen. “Yes, I’ll sign, and I’ll trust in God to bring him back.”

  ~ Tyler ~

  Jailer glared at Tyler, clearly disgruntled that Arman’s father had decided to let Tyler carry a loaded weapon. He pushed Tyler onto the trail ahead of him. Instead of shouldering his gun, he held it pointed at Tyler’s back.

  The rest of the group didn’t seem to mind. Stork even hung at Tyler’s side whenever the path allowed it, and pointed out bushes, rocks, and the sky, making comments Tyler couldn’t understand.

  The bearded Taliban members wore all black clothes and they alternated with Arman’s father’s men. Their sneakers were knockoffs from the major brands and enabled them to traverse the narrow, winding, and rocky path with ease. The one thing they had in common, unlike Arman’s band, was a disciplined walk, clean clothes, and a glower of intense hatred directed at Tyler.

  At the same time, they deferred to Arman’s father, making conversation and debating in that loud way men get when they feared nothing. Out here, if they weren’t shooting at each other, no one was taking potshots at them, at least so Tyler hoped.

  Conversation flowed between the two groups, and other than the gun pointed at Tyler’s back, they could have passed for hikers out on a holiday trek.

  Their destination was a two-story house at the edge of fields full of waving green stalks. A brightly decorated truck covered with bells and bling sat on the road that ended in a courtyard. Across from the colorful truck was a well where the men gathered, setting their guns down. Chickens scratched in the yard and the bleating and odor of goats hung everywhere.

  Can-Opener pumped water into a trough, and everyone gathered around to wash their faces and hands. Tyler watched in amusement as two small boys chased each other around the yard. One jumped into the trough and splashed water at the other. Because of the presence of the men, no women came out to scold them, so the two rascals rolled and tumbled in the dust, dirtying their clothes. A scrawny dog scratched itself and yawned, his tongue long and curly, as if the presence of strangers in the courtyard were of no concern.

  Too bad his Little Brownie was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, he’d found food and shelter. Unfortunately, in Afghanistan, dogs were not considered pets. They were either strays or working shepherds and guard dogs.

  Tyler took the opportunity to wash his face and clean his wounds. His wrists were ulcerated from being tied in dirty rags and his elbows were scraped from falling.

  Arman’s father came up to him with one of the Taliban, presumably the leader. He was a black bearded man with one eye in a permanent squint.

  He spoke a few sharp words, fixing his good eye on Tyler, the hatred diluted by a superior and knowing smirk.

  “He wants to know if you’re well,” Arman translated.

  Why would he care if his aim was to capture, torture, and kill him, then display his body on the internet?

  “I’m very well.” Tyler nodded in a respectful manner. He certainly wasn’t going to cause Arman’s father to lose face, and besides, he was seriously outgunned. The Afghanis seemed to be concerned with manners and cordiality, and if it worked to keep him alive one more minute, then so be it.

  “That is good,” the man replied. “You tell your leaders we are civilized men. We pray. We do not drink alcohol, and we keep order in this country.”

  Tyler nodded and asked Arman, “Who do these men think I am?”

  “American soldi
er. My father captured you,” Arman replied, but his father shot him a look when he said ‘father.’

  Apparently he understood some English. Tyler would have to be more careful. Meanwhile, the Taliban leader’s mouth elongated into a narrow grin before he sneered and said a few words.

  “He says he welcomes you to Afghanistan. Now that you’re here, you’ll learn about our ways. Don’t forget who we are,” Arman filled Tyler in.

  Meanwhile, his father barked a few orders, and the men filed into the foyer of a fairly luxurious house. The stone tiled floor was clean and covered by a multicolored rug intricately designed in a geometric fashion. One thing about the Afghanis, they seemed to love color and dazzling decorations, quite a contrast to the drab and barren hillsides and deserts they inhabited. Even their burkhas were bright turquoise blue, not black like in other Arab countries.

  Obviously, the women would not be eating with them. In fact, no women showed themselves, although Tyler could hear them behind the walls, along with pots banging.

  “Welcome to my house,” Arman’s father said. “You and these religious men are my guests tonight. We’re celebrating with a feast.”

  Tyler didn’t want to be rude and ask what the occasion was. Obviously, Arman’s father was a man of some importance and having this many guests was viewed as befitting his status.

  He took a seat on a long flat cushion placed on the floor, sitting crossed legged, in front of a leather mat that served as a table. Serving boys brought out pots of tea, platters of rice, naan, and stew. Even though he was seated between Jailer and Stork, his usual companions, Tyler was grateful for the surprise feast and the freedom to use his own hands to feed himself.

  Arman didn’t bother translating most of the conversations unless something was directed at Tyler. It didn’t make sense why the Taliban leader wanted to know about his family, how many wives he had, children, parents, when he would just as soon march him outside and kill him. Not that Tyler would allow it. He’d rather die than surrender. He’d bide his time and effect an escape. That was objective number one. If one weren’t possible, he’d die and take them all with him.