Pet for Christmas

by Rachelle Ayala

  Which was a pipe dream at the moment since every man except for him and Arman had their AK-47s within easy reach, whether propped on the wall behind them, or lying on the side of their cushion.

  Tyler let himself enjoy the feast. The mutton and chicken were delicious, and his glass was kept full of sweetened green tea. Between Stork offering him more food and Jailer plying him with sweets and tea, Tyler gorged himself, not knowing when his next good meal would come. Things would be perfect if he could get Arman to let him use the cell phone. The rattling of a ceiling fan above them proved this house had electricity.

  After a final round of sweets and sugared tea, which explained the bad teeth of most of the men, the Taliban took leave of Arman’s father. The rest of the gang retired to the courtyard, dragging out camp beds to lounge on. Arman held the backpack possessively and joined them. He rifled through the pocket with the cell phone and found the cigarettes.

  The men let out a joyous whoop while Arman passed out the cigarettes. Unfortunately, Jailer and Stork marched Tyler at gunpoint into a small, windowless room and shoved him inside. Whatever was going on, he was still their prisoner. A captured American soldier seemed to be a highly esteemed prize. What if the Taliban waited until everyone was asleep and came back to grab him?

  Thankful that his hands were not bound, Tyler explored the tiny cell and found a pile of dirty wool blankets. With nothing to do, he closed his eyes and asked God to let Kelly know he was alive and well.

  Somehow, alone in this cell without the company of his captors, loneliness crept over him and wrapped around his heart. The deaths of the boys and staff at the Sports Center hung over him like a heavy, oppressive shroud. His heart ached for the parents who’d had to dig through the rubble to find their children, and he pictured their hatred of him when the Taliban blamed the truck bomb on him and his supplies.

  He should have stayed in California with Kelly. He should have been satisfied to speak to veterans and sports teams and raise money. But deep inside, he knew he had to come back. It was as if the land was calling to him with its blood—the blood he’d bled for it and the blood he’d shed. Calling to him to make things right.

  As he drifted off, another voice called to him. Kelly and Bree, two bright and shining faces with angel’s voices, high and sweet, promising a future he’d never dared hope for. Warmth and love, and puppy dog kisses. Candy canes and teddy bears and cuddly blankets. Sissy stuff, the warrior in him insisted. But the man in him reached for them. What could be better than love?

  In his dream, he lay at the edge of death, his cold bloody fingers welded to a rifle, blood gushing from his heart. His last words spilling from his silent lips, “Mannings never give up. Kelly and Bree, I promise to love you forever.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  ~ Kelly ~

  The trading desks are blowing up over the surprise earnings miss by Shopahol, one of the companies I’m monitoring. What glues me to the screen is the shorting of Shopahol stock earlier this week—a sign of insider trading.

  I’m fielding a call from my boss while running data analyses through the spreadsheets when my cell phone rings. Bree had complained about a sore throat this morning, but I had used up all my sick days for baby appointments.

  “I have to call you back,” I say to my boss. “My daycare could be calling.”

  I extract my phone from my purse, and my heart freezes. It’s the number from Afghanistan. Sweat pops from every pore of my forehead, and I tap the answer button. It could be Tyler.

  “Hello? This is Kelly.”

  “Hi, I’m Arman. I’m not supposed to call you, but I listened to your messages.”

  “Is Tyler okay? Have you seen him?” My hands are shaking so hard I’m afraid to drop the phone or accidentally touch the end call button.

  “He’s okay.”

  “Where is he? What happened?” I have to keep this kid on the the line. Hopefully the FBI is tracing the call this very moment.

  “My father rescued Tyler, but now, the Taliban know where we are.”

  “Do you need help? Can you tell me where you are?”

  “I’m home with my family.”

  “Where’s home?” I’m fumbling on my desk for a pen. “I can send help.”

  “No, you can’t. My father will be mad if you send the Americans. I’m only calling to let you know Tyler is alive.”

  “Thank you. Will your father protect Tyler? Will he be safe?”

  “Yes. He’s safe with my father. I gotta go.”

  “Please, don’t hang up. Can you tell me what happened? Was there an explosion?”

  “Yes, and the Taliban are blaming Tyler. They want to pay my father to take him, but my father says they can’t pay as much as the Americans.”

  A cold bucket of ice slams over me, and my stomach lurches. “Pay? How much?”

  “I heard them when they were smoking. They offered fifty US dollars.”

  “How much does your father want?” My throat is tight, and I fight to keep my voice audible.

  “I don’t know, but I gotta go. They don’t know I have a phone. They’re still looking for a phone so they can call the Americans.”

  “Don’t let them have it.” I’ll say anything to keep him on the line. “Wouldn’t your father be proud if you could get the money? We can pay more than fifty dollars. How much do you need?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy pauses. “Wait, I have an idea. My father needs a diamond ring. How much are those?”

  “A diamond ring? How large?” This is strange. Is his father trying to get engaged? I thought men in those parts of the world gave sheep, goats, or cattle as bride prices.

  “Large enough so my mother will come back.” There’s a catch in the boy’s voice. “She left two years ago.”

  From the sound of his voice which hadn’t deepened yet, he couldn’t be much older than twelve or thirteen. My heart softens for him. Tyler told me Arman was his translator. I had no idea he was that young.

  “Do you know where she went? Do you have her telephone number?” I avoid the curious glance of my officemate who’s listening in. Jumping from my chair, I head toward the restroom. Jim had said I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened.

  “She went to Australia,” Arman replies. “My father says she’ll come back if he offers a ring. He says white women want rings, not cattle and sheep.”

  That’s right. Tyler mentioned his assistant had a British mother. Maybe she could help.

  “What’s her name? I can call her and ask her to go back to your father. I’m a white woman, too. I’m sure she’ll listen to me.”

  “Will you? Her name is Elizabeth.” The child’s voice squeaks and he clears his throat.

  This isn’t much to go on.

  “Age, birthdate?” I need as much as I can get to google her. This is the best lead I have so far.

  “I don’t know.” Arman sounds despondent. “Is it easy to find people in Australia?”

  “Yes, of course.” Sheesh, I’m making it sound like Australia is next door to California and as small as a one traffic light town. “Do you have a picture of her?”

  “No.”

  “How about one of you? If I have a picture of you, I can send it to her and she can see it and know your father wants to give her a ring.”

  “No picture.”

  Dang it. He has a cell phone and it hopefully has a camera.

  “What kind of phone do you have? Does it have a camera on it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not supposed to have a phone.”

  “Ask Tyler to help you. He can take a picture of you and then text it to me. I’m sure your mother would be happy to see you.”

  “Really?” The boy’s voice lifts, disbelieving. “Even though I’m a bad boy?”

  “Oh, Arman, you’re not bad. Let me tell you a secret. All mothers love their boys and girls whether they are good or bad. I’m sure she misses you and she wants to see your picture. When you speak to Tyler, please tell him that his
little girl, Bree, loves him and misses him.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  Sounds of men talking can be heard, and there’s a shuffling sound before the phone cuts off.

  I scroll through my photos and text a picture of Bree at a pet rescue event hugging a black Labradoodle, adding a message. Bree loves and misses you. She wants her daddy.

  My heart pounding, I wait for a reply, but of course, Arman probably hasn’t rushed to Tyler to show him the message. Besides, am I lying? Does Bree really want Tyler? Or did she ask Santa to help her find her real father?

  ~ Tyler ~

  Some time later, in the dark of the night, the door to the cell opened with a loud bang, jolting Tyler from his sleep. Two men rushed in, barking at him to get up. Their voices were tight with urgency.

  Tyler was on his feet. He hadn’t unlaced his boots, and he always slept in his clothes, so all he had to do was grab his head and neck scarves—the best defense against flies, dust, and sunburn.

  Jailer grabbed Tyler’s wrists, but Can-Opener yanked the tie away, yelling the Pashto word for ‘no.’

  Arman’s father appeared, wearing black clothes with coils of ammunition belts wrapped around him.

  “Come,” he uttered a command in English.

  “Where are we going?” Tyler asked.

  Arman’s father grunted and led him down a dark corridor. Even though the ceiling fans were running, no electric lights were turned on, likely for security purposes.

  A dozen men were lined up in the courtyard, each armed with AK-47s. They shoved Tyler against a wall and ordered him to sit.

  “Wait,” Tyler said, in case anyone understood English. “Are we under attack? Or are we going on a raid?”

  “Taliban come,” Arman’s father said. “We go.”

  “I thought they were just here for dinner. What’s going on?”

  “There’s not just one Taliban,” Arman said, stepping forward into the moonlight. “The men from our tribe said the big Mullah is paying big money for you. We got you first, so we should get the money, not them.”

  “Whoa, wait. You mean to tell me your father’s going to hand me over to this big cheese mullah?”

  “He was, but I told him the Americans will pay more.” Arman’s eyes glinted like flint in the moonlight.

  Tyler’s jaw dropped, and he bent to get in the boy’s face. “You’re ransoming me? Am I not your friend? Have I not treated you well? Did I not save you from the explosion?”

  Shouts erupted around them and rough hands pulled Tyler away from Arman. Jailer shot Can-Opener a pointed look and grabbed the ties. He wrapped them around Tyler’s wrists and kneed him in the back, shoving him onto the ground.

  A shot was fired into the air, quieting everyone. Arman’s father gave orders, and the men took their positions in a double file and exited the courtyard.

  Arman looped a rifle over his shoulder and nudged Tyler. “I am the son of the chief. You must learn our ways if you wish to survive.”

  “Sure, what happened to me being your guest? You also work for me at the Sports Center.”

  “You’re my prisoner now,” Arman said. “Don’t worry. We’re negotiating for your release.”

  “With who?”

  Arman’s gaze shifted to his father who was talking on a cell phone. “I spoke to a woman named Kelly.”

  Tyler’s breath sizzled between his teeth and hope ached in his chest. “Kelly. How is she?”

  “She wants a picture of me, but my father took the phone.”

  “Is she well? Did she say?”

  Arman shrugged. “She says she can get more than fifty dollars.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I told her you’re being treated well.”

  Thank God. Tyler let out a breath and closed his eyes. Thank God. At least Kelly knew he was alive and well. Hopefully she was holding up well, too, especially with the baby and the pregnancy. He said a prayer for her while trying to listen in on Arman’s father’s conversation which had to be taking place with a translator on the other side.

  A hail of gunfire crackled sharply from the hills overlooking the house. Arman’s father stuffed the phone in his pockets and barked orders at Can-Opener and Jailer.

  “We have to go,” Arman said. “My little brothers and sisters are in the house. We can’t let the Taliban attack, and they will come here if they think you’re here.”

  “Then maybe you should let me go.”

  “We can’t.” Arman grabbed his AK-47 and looped it over his shoulder. He definitely was not the vulnerable little boy huddled inside the tunnel only a few days ago. This long march among gun-toting men had hardened him, and he was, after all, his father’s son.

  His hands tied behind his back, Tyler was prodded out of the courtyard and down a dark path lit only by the moon. There were no streetlights, and no one used a flashlight. It would be dangerous and attract attention. Instead, the Afghans were able to creep silently up and down the steep mountain trails with the skill of mountain goats, disappearing into the shadows to shoot at intruders.

  Sporadic gunfire rattled in the hills behind them, but it was half-hearted, since it was hard to find targets in the dark. Tyler groped his way up the side of a sheer wall of rock toward a ridge line. The snow capped peaks of the Hindu Kush mountains glistened eerily in the pale light of the moon.

  They marched and climbed for hours before arriving at an abandoned outpost consisting of a few structures carved into the face of a cliff. The temperature had dropped drastically overnight, and while Tyler sat on the dirt floor, Arman and Stork gathered twigs.

  Arman’s father played with the phone and chuckled, showing something to Can-Opener and Jailer.

  “Can I see that?” Tyler asked. “Is there anyone you want to call?”

  “No.” Arman’s father grunted. He tapped his fingers over the face of the phone while smiling. Again, he showed something to the other two and they laughed.

  Could Kelly be texting them, thinking he was Tyler? But then, he supposedly didn’t know English, unless he had Tyler tricked. Duh. Of course he knew English. If Arman’s mother was British, he had to have communicated with her.

  “I might be able to help,” Tyler said. “If you let me use the phone, I can get you money.”

  “No phone.” Arman’s father put the phone in his pocket. “Sleep.”

  The phone rang. Tyler’s heart knocked against his rib cage and sweat ringed his neck. Kelly was so close. Even with his hands bound, he could probably take on the three men. They’d gone lax staring at the phone. He’d kick their rifles off the side of the mountain and fight them hand to hand. He was an Army Ranger. He could even swim with his hands and feet tied.

  Arman’s father answered the phone and launched into a tirade in Pashto. It was not Kelly. Too bad the men always sounded like they were arguing. A few words sounding like numbers were spoken and repeated.

  The call ended, and soon after, Arman and Stork returned with the firewood. The men settled for the night, and since it was cold, they slept like sardines, huddled together in the tiny stone hut.

  A tiny wet nose touched the side of his cheek, but when Tyler opened his eyes, no one was there other than the snoring men.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ~ Kelly ~

  Christmas is three weeks away, and my mother is already pulling out the decorations. I’m running late this morning because I have to drop Bree at her place. Her sore throat has turned into a cough, and she’s running a slight fever.

  “Have you heard from Tyler yet?” my mother asks as soon as she comes out of the kitchen.

  “Not yet, but we’re hopeful.” I can’t tell her about the phone call. Immediately after Arman hung up, I called Jim, and he said they had captured the entire conversation. They already had a dossier full of information about Arman Tarakai and his father Mahmoud. They were able to pinpoint his position and plan an extraction.

  “That’s better than before. You look happier.” Mother kisses m
e and pats my hand. “You have time for coffee?”

  “Not really. I have to meet Dylan before work.” I place Bree’s backpack in the coat closet.

  “Does he know more? Have they heard from anyone else at the Sports Center?”

  “It’s all confidential, Mom, but the good news is they have evidence Tyler is alive.”

  “Oh, thank God.” My mother clasps her hands together. “Our entire church is praying nonstop.”

  “So am I, and I appreciate it so much.” I blink back tears at the way everyone is pulling together for me and Tyler.

  “I’m praying too,” Bree says. “And I’m helping my baby brother pray.”

  “I’m sure God is listening.” My mother pats her head. “Why don’t you draw a picture of what you’re praying for?”

  “Okay.” Bree hugs my legs. She’s really been sweet these days, not mentioning the dog or bugging me about when Tyler will come home. The only difference is that she says her prayers in silence, bowing her head and moving her cute little lips.

  “I gotta go.” I give her a kiss and hug her tight, rubbing her back. “I can’t wait to see your picture.”

  “It’s going to be a big picture. I need a big piece of paper.” She breaks away and skips to the guest bedroom. I’m glad she’s being spared the constant worry that weighs over me. These days, I can barely force myself to eat, and there’s a stone over my heart continually. I startle at every sound and if the phone rings, I practically fall apart.

  “You take as much time as you need,” my mom calls after her. “She can always spend the night here with me.”

  “I know that, and I want her to have a normal Christmas. A fun one.”

  “We all do. Mind if I take her Christmas shopping?” My mother lowers her voice. “I can swing by and ask the Santa what Bree asked for while she rides the train.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to pry. She’s growing up and I should respect her privacy.”

  “I’m sure she misses Tyler,” Mother reassures me.

  “I hope so.” I press my hand over my abdomen as the baby kicks. “Dylan’s trying to get me a visa to Afghanistan so I can be there when Tyler’s released.”