by S. Burke
Abdul-Saboor, like these other men, was toughened by poverty and war. They rode the animals hard during the Buzkashi, whipping them as often as necessary to break through the defending crowd of horsemen and acquire the toughened calf carcass now much preferred to the traditional goat.
The calf carcass was soaked in water for a good day before the sport began, beheaded and limbs cut up to the top joint. The animals were often disembowelled and filled with sand to make the weight heavier for these horsemen to carry; the riders were forbidden by the rules of the sport to put the carcass across the animal. They were forced to carry the carcass in one hand as they slipped to the side of their mount. Riding hard and fast and using the whips carried in their own mouths, they would beat at their opposition often as they spurred their mount toward the ultimate goal; the ‘Circle of Justice’ where the animal carcass would be dropped and the goal celebrated.
The Buzkashi was an honoured tradition. Abdul-Saboor considered himself blessed to be a Chapandraz in a sport dating back to Genghis Khan and some said even before that time. It had been banned in the country for a while, but much to the great pleasure of the wealthy owners of the horses and their Chapandraz riders, Buzkashi was again the most favoured sport. Each Friday they would ride whilst the spectators gambled heavily, enjoyed red-dyed boiled eggs and the aromatic joints of hashish handed freely throughout the crowds.
A foreigner’s eyes would blink in surprise at the ages of these men. Stocky and well-muscled, it was said the best of the best were close to fifty years in age. Experiencing extreme poverty in their youth, and a love of horses, these things combined to make them victorious. The money and luxury showered on the leading Chapandraz was a prize to be sought.
It was almost time to return to the spring training and grazing grounds. The last of the snow had melted and the new shoots of grass were now breaching the ground. No trees here, shade was a rarity, the high walls of the canyons on either side afforded them some small relief as the days grew warmer.
These were proud men. When the early spring came they would sit around the low burning fires and exchange stories of their successes, joking and lying about their skills to all those present. The horses grazed in a low brush corral, the spring weather allowing them access to fresh young grass. Only here on the slopes of the Hindu Kush were such grasses to be found. They grazed and rested, then trained and rested again, ready to be taken over the rough trails back to the outskirts of Mazir-I-Sharif where their fate would be decided by their owners.
Abdul-Saboor and his team were considered amongst the best. He would never allow anyone but himself and his two sons to accompany the horses to the spring grounds. His training methods were a secret he prized; his sons would learn them from him, he alone would show them.
He looked at the sky and made his decision; one more week, and then they would move the animals to higher ground. The terrain was far too hazardous for vehicles; they would do what had been done for centuries past and make the journey on horseback.
Chapter 43
Arizona
The women were exhausted, hot and dirty. One of them was more than a little fired up. Being female didn’t offer them additional comforts here.
Clara was ready to explode. The lack of sleep and the heat all added to her already nasty mood.
“Sit down, for God’s sake will you? You irritate me when you pace around like that.” Sheila glanced at the woman she was talking to with more than a little venom in her sapphire eyes.
“Oh, pardon me. Heaven forbid that I should irritate the CO’s little favourite.”
Sheila smiled at the comment. She was his favourite. The accusation needed no more than a smug smile as a response.
“You make me sick,” Clara said.
“I could make you a whole lot sicker.”
The comment was delivered matter-of-factly, yet Clara stopped mid-stride. She knew that Sheila meant every word. She also knew it was not merely a boast, simply a statement of fact. Sheila was the deadliest bitch in creation to Clara’s way of thinking. She had once fooled herself into thinking that she would be top bitch in this little team. That thought had almost gotten her killed, and the woman in the room with her would have done it with no hesitation whatsoever if so ordered.
Clara sat after pulling a cold can of coke from the refrigerator and mixing it with three parts rum.
“Pour me one of those,” said Sheila.
It was a mark of fear more than respect that caused Clara to obey without question. She would have to learn to watch herself more carefully with Sheila. The one reason they had been able to work as a team thus far was that Clara recognized Sheila was the dominant bitch. She was deadly and capable of killing her without blinking.
It was more than a little unnerving looking at Sheila’s face; Clara was the only one who appeared surprised after the facial surgery. Now, she and Sheila could easily be mistaken for identical twins, the height difference simply altered by Clara wearing slightly higher heels. Their body frames were identical, both with broad shoulders and narrow waists, their hips flaring out just a little to create a slender, inviting and very feminine torso. Clara had also required a slight breast augmentation to give her the C cup Sheila had.
It shook Clara when, after the bruising and swelling dissipated, she gazed into the mirror the surgeon handed her. Except for the eye colouring, it was Sheila’s face she saw.
Clara’s eyes were deep brown; Sheila’s were like chips of ice. Colour contacts made them almost interchangeable. Clara could kill on command; she merely didn’t enjoy it as much as her team mate.
Their weapons’ training was completed, although both practiced daily in the indoor range. Unarmed combat was simple and they excelled at it. However, it was the other training Sheila had shone in. She impressed her trainers to such a degree that one of them asked to be removed from the sessions; her pupil had become a real threat.
Sheila ate it up. The dominatrix routines, the sadistic torture, the fetish satisfaction, the brutal breaking down of the chosen subject’s willpower until that subject became hers to command at will. She outshone her instructors and the CO was pleased. Clara suspected he and Sheila were in fact pleasing each other, but she had no proof and even if she did, she would be dead shortly after making it known.
The two men on the team were afraid of Sheila, and wary of Clara, the three of them well aware that Sheila was to be placed in control of them when they left the Arizona complex.
They had been told nothing more than they were a specialized squad, they would be given orders delivered through Sheila and would act on those orders without question. The rewards were huge, the money a lure they couldn’t resist, and the pleasure each of them took in killing was pure bonus.
Sheila thought it clever; the way they were recruited was devious and wonderfully cunning. She smiled again as she remembered the morning she received the good-looking visitor.
Her attempts at joining the agencies that defended the United States both internally and externally had failed. Apparently, her ‘temperament’ was unsuited to their requirements.
She had been resting in a sanatorium after the tragic death of her parents in an ‘accident’. The accident caused her to have a breakdown and she was under psychiatric care.
The man hadn’t knocked before entering her private room. He walked in confidently and took a chair at the side of her bed.
“Good morning, Miss Harrington,” he said.
”It’s improving,” she responded, flirting with her eyes.
“I have a proposition to make you.”
“Lovely, I haven’t been propositioned yet this morning.” She smiled at him.
“You recently attempted to join several of our fine institutions. I would like to offer you the opportunity to join a more- shall we say, select group. Interested?”
“How did you know about my attempts to gain employment?”
“That’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
“I’m sorry I wasted your time.” The man stood and walked towards the doorway.
“Wait! Tell me more!”
“You will be well compensated.”
“I’m already extremely wealthy. What do I call you? You already appear to know a good many things about me. So what is your name?”
“You can call me Holliday.”
“Just Holliday?”
“Yes.”
“You have my attention, tell me more about this … select group.”
“You will receive airline tickets and hotel booking information by courier tomorrow. You are here at your own instigation, so signing yourself out is not a problem. Should you meet any difficulty in that regard, my number is on this card.”
She took it from his hand.
“Wait,” she said as he again turned to leave. “I need more information.”
“You will either be on the flight, or you won’t, Miss Harrington. Any information you require will be handled at your point of destination. I bid you good morning.” Holliday walked from the room.
Sheila had taken the flight.
Four others denied service in similar noble enterprises were each visited by the man known to them only as Holliday. They had all accepted his ‘proposition’.
Chapter 44
Present Day
The Allworth Home
Lana and Frank sat contentedly after their evening meal, watching an old movie on their brand new plasma large screen TV. They were like a pair of kids at a movie and the appropriate popcorn and other munchies sat on the coffee table in front of them.
The movie ended and they prepared to go to bed. Lana then remembered the magazine cover. That girl? She glanced at the time. It can wait till morning.
FBI Task Force
“Nigel? Any word from Trish?” Mike asked.
“Nothing. I checked with the other members of the team and the uniformed boys, no-one’s seen or heard from her. I’m getting concerned,” replied Nigel.
“Me too. I can understand she needed some personal time out after Ted’s murder, but she is way too professional to have just gone off somewhere unannounced.”
“Well, she was under a great deal of stress, and Ted Prendergast’s death hit her hard. Give it another day or so. She’s sure to be in contact by Wednesday. The funeral is Thursday, right?”
“Yeah, she will be back for that. Surely.” Mike didn’t sound convinced.
Nigel was more than a little worried. Had he pushed her too far?
Trish had one mighty hangover. She had never been a big drinker, but she more than made up for that recently. Oh, shit. What am I doing? Mike and Nigel will both be worried.
Picking up the hotel phone, she punched in Mike’s number, but hung up before it connected. “No, I need to see his face when I tell him about the Hamersley’s car, and more importantly that damned Porsche.” The pale face in the mirror gazed back at her. “Shit, now I’m talking to myself!”
She had a shower, changed into a fresh blouse and the jeans she had worn for the past two days. The shower helped clear her head. She would have breakfast at the roadside diner outside town, and then head on back. This information was crucial, but the taint from what she and Nigel had discussed hung in her conscious thoughts.
Was Mike dirty? Surely she would have seen some inkling of that in all these years of working together. Something, anything? Her gut instincts said, no, no he’s a good man. But was she fit to make that call, given that she had been in love with the man even before her marriage fell apart?
Damn it, I don’t know what to do or who to believe any more. One more day, I need more time to think. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ll speak to Mike afterwards.
Having made her decision she walked downstairs and into the bar area, bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and a six pack of beer. The strip mall had all she needed by way of snack food. She had breakfast at the diner and then jumped in the car. A drive in the open countryside would help steady her.
Lana Allworth woke early- that damned picture was bothering her. She prided herself on her memory for faces and places; she had seen that woman’s face before, but where?
Frank was snoring away as usual, so she climbed out of bed quietly and made her way to the kitchen. Her bag hung in the hall where she’d left it. She removed the magazine and studied the beautiful face on the cover again. She knew she wouldn’t have met the woman- they didn’t move in those illustrious circles- but that face was too familiar. She was irritated with herself.
Frank often laughed at her when she had a memory on the tip of her tongue. Often she would wake early and announce to herself the name of an actor or a place they’d been arguing about.
She was seldom wrong. It’ll come to me, always does. With that less than satisfactory thought she began preparing breakfast.
Frank finished the last of his coffee and idly flipped through the magazine sitting on the table. Damned if I know why women read these things. He closed the magazine, and looked at the besotted face of the Governor of New York as he gazed at the beautiful woman he held in his arms, not the sort of face you’d forget in a hurry.
“Lana, have we met this woman?” he asked, holding out the magazine.
“Oh, Frank, you know her too? It’s been bugging me since yesterday. I know that face, but where from?” Lana replied, somewhat relieved that she wasn’t alone in recognizing the woman.
“Damned if I know, but I know I’ve seen her before. It’ll come to me.” He looked at his watch. “Time I headed off, honey. I’ll see you tonight. Do you want me to pick anything up in town?”
“Hmm … what? Oh, no we’re good. I got just what we needed in, no point stocking the larder if we are going away for three months. Don’t forget you are dropping the dogs over at Lennie’s tonight. I’ll see you later.” She reached up and gave him a farewell hug, somewhat distracted.
Frank smiled and shook his head. She’s gonna drive herself nuts trying to remember that face.
Lunchtime came and went and Lana Allworth had almost completed her chores for the morning. She dusted the living room, and was almost done when she glanced up at the wonderful images of her and Frank poor Quentin Hamersley did.
“That’s it!” She put down the duster and headed outside to the storage area in the garage. The boxes with the charcoal and pencil drawings Quentin did were there somewhere. A couple of boxes had been in the trunk of the car when they’d purchased it- it was older stuff as she recalled, pencil sketches of folks Quinn knew before he had moved to town.
“Damn, I hope Frank didn’t put them out in the trash.” But she knew better, he wouldn’t show disrespect to the memory of the dead man by doing that.
Pulling out two boxes, she rifled through the contents. “Damn it! Not the right ones.” She went through another box, getting more frustrated by the minute; the last box sat tempting her and, with fingers crossed mentally she went through the sketchbooks. “Ah … there you are! I knew I’d seen that face.”
The pencil image was of a beautiful young woman, her eyes closed in sleep, and she appeared to be silhouetted in moonlight, with dark hair spread out across a pillow. Quentin had signed and dated it as always, and the letter ‘S’ was scrolled in the corner. Lana looked again at the date.
I know that date, why? November 16. Maybe it’s somebody’s birthday.
There were two more sketches of the same woman. In one she sat out on their front porch with what looked to be a beer bottle in her hand. She was laughing and her hair was swept back as if the wind had caught it. In the other picture she perched on the bonnet of a fancy looking car. Lana would have to ask Frank what it was, she was hopeless with anything mechanical.
A sigh of satisfaction escaped; she was happy to have been right. She’d ask Frank tonight about the date, and the car.
She flipped through the pages; so sad, he was talented. She gazed at a drawing he did of himself and three other young men, all in some sort of uniform. All good looking lads. Quentin must
have been in a branch of the military at some stage. She’d ask Frank, that’s the sort of information men share with other men. She wondered if Agent Clayton had seen these, as the young woman didn’t appear to know he sketched till she mentioned it.
The sketches may be important. She made the decision to discuss it with Frank over supper.
Chapter 45
Deployment
Operation Pale Horse
Alpha team
Quentin checked his face in the mirror for the hundredth time since the surgery, and a stranger looked back at him. He barely recognized himself, except for his eye colour and skin. The changes were radical, but he knew they needed to be. The order to stop shaving had been in effect for three weeks, his beard itched and his hair needed cutting, but orders were orders. This was not the time or place to be having second thoughts.
He glanced again at the unfamiliar clothing laid out on his bunk. He wasn’t certain where the drop zone was, but the clothes indicated it sure as hell wouldn’t be Kansas.
Quentin began thinking about the training, but shut his mind on it. He had been compliant with every order, unhesitatingly, but admitted to himself and no one else that he didn’t like what he had become. Yet the excitement and anticipation of executing orders pumped through his veins.
It was time to stop reflecting; nothing could be changed or gained by doing so. The orders were clear. They would be dropped in eighteen miles from the area in which they would engage their targets. The animals were meant to be there waiting to be hit with whatever the hell it was in those casings.
No human contact was to be made. The guardians of their equine targets were to be watched and left alone. If discovered, the orders were to terminate those who came upon them, and the bodies taken to the extraction zone. No prisoners.