This is a story of Sergeant Carlos “Chuck” McCrary, a Mexican-American Green Beret, and his team of soldiers who risk their lives to save two thousand Afghan townspeople they have never even met. Chuck and his fellow Special Forces soldiers live the motto: “We own the night.” They set off in the darkness to defeat the Taliban and break the blockade. But when the soldiers of the Triple Seven don their night vision goggles and show up in the dark hours to liberate the village, they are surprised and outnumbered by an ambush of heavily-armed Taliban terrorists.
The soldiers of Team Triple Seven must fight for their lives, or the villagers won’t be the only ones the Taliban wipe out.
A preview of
I’m No Hero
Chapter 1
Operational Detachment Alpha 777
Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion
7th Special Forces Group (Airborne), Team 7
Mountains of Central Afghanistan, June 2006
Sergeant Chuck McCrary had spent most of his watch crouched behind two Volkswagen-sized boulders at the top of a rocky foothill. His knees were killing him. Wonder why they call it “standing guard” when I spend most of my time hiding in the rocks? Two days into the Triple Seven’s training mission no one had taken a shot at him yet, so he couldn’t really complain. He yawned in the dry night air. He was starting to relax.
A scraping sound on the rocks below snapped him back to full alert. He raised his sound-suppressed carbine and peered down the scrubby hill through his night vision goggles. Two ghostly green images climbed toward him on the rock-strewn trail. McCrary’s gut knotted as he recognized the distinctive shape of the Kalashnikov AK-47 slung over the shoulder of the larger figure. He steadied the crosshairs in the center of the man’s chest, but kept his finger off the trigger.
The man made no effort to be stealthy; he seemed to want to be noticed. His cigarette glowed brightly through McCrary’s goggles. Probably Afghan National Army, but better safe than sorry. A smaller figure, limping badly, accompanied the man. Either a woman or child. Gotta be a boy. No woman would be out here with a man unless he was her husband or a family member. And no man in his right mind would want a female family member out at night in this neighborhood.
The two stopped about fifty yards from McCrary’s post. The glowing cigarette flew off the trail into the darkness. A flashlight flicked on, and McCrary flipped up his goggles to avoid being blinded.
The taller figure waved the flashlight. “I am Major Ibrahim Malik,” he called in accented English. “I have a local boy with me. May we approach?” He lit up his own bearded face with the flashlight so McCrary could see the ANA rank insignia on his brown beret. The knot in McCrary’s gut loosened. He lowered his carbine but kept it at the ready. “Come on up.”
Malik and the boy climbed the dusty hillside to where McCrary waited. He aimed his flashlight at the boy, who wore a shapeless tunic over ragged pants, his bare feet caked with what looked like dirt and blood. That explains the limp. “Does the boy need medical care, Major?”
“Yes, but I will…” he groped for the English words “…take care to him when we return to my barracks in Dashkalah. Captain Ramirez said I must come to him if your team could help us.”
“Please wait here, Major.” McCrary keyed his mic. “Toro, tell the boss that ANA Major Ibrahim Malik is here with an Afghan boy. Bring some water and a couple of energy bars, will you?”
Sergeant Torres arrived a few minutes later. “I brought some MREs too, Chuck.”
McCrary looked at the boy. “Meals-ready-to-eat?”
The boy nodded and grabbed the food.
Torres patted the boy’s shoulder and turned to the major. “Follow me, please.” As he led the two Afghans into the interior of the outpost, McCrary shined his flashlight on the boy’s footprints—a trail of red splotches—and shook his head.
Minutes later Torres returned. “I’m to relieve you, Chuck. Boss wants to see you.”
As McCrary stood to go, Torres stopped him. “Did you speak to the major in Pashto?”
“No, he spoke to me in English first.”
“Good. Boss said not to let him know you speak the lingo.”
“Boss doesn’t trust the guy?”
Torres laughed. “Boss don’t trust nobody. You know that. ‘Be polite. Be professional. But always have a plan to kill everyone you meet as quickly as possible.’”
McCrary laughed and made his way to the rough stone building that served as the Triple Seven’s temporary command post. He knocked twice on the wooden frame of the empty doorway.
“Enter.”
McCrary pulled aside the curtain, took two steps inside. “You wanted to see me, boss?”
Captain Ramirez sat across from Major Malik at a rough-hewn table in the center of the small room. The boy sat on one side, arms wrapped protectively around one of the MREs, wolfing down the food by lantern light. Ramirez waved McCrary in. “Sit down, Chuck. You need to hear this.” He looked to the Afghan officer. “Go ahead, Major.”
Malik gestured at the boy. “This is Atash. He is twelve years. He live in the village of Ghar Mesar.” The boy heard his name and looked up from his food long enough to nod.
“Atash walked fifteen kilometers tonight from Ghar Mesar to my headquarters.”
That explains the bloody feet, McCrary thought.
“He is very brave.” He turned back to the Americans. “The Taliban starve his people. They will no allow food into town, and they will no allow the people to go outside the walls to pick fruit from the orchards or feed the animals.”
“Tell the sergeant why, Major.”
Malik put a hand on Atash’s shoulder. “The Taliban raid the village school three days ago because it teach girls.” He glanced at Atash. “They cut off the magistrate’s head and rape and murder his wife and daughter. They burn the mosque with the Imam and his wife inside. Atash father was Imam. The Taliban… blockade? Yes?” Ramirez nodded. “Blockade Ghar Mesar to make example of the people.”
Malik looked at Atash and spoke a few words to him in Pashto. The boy thrust his empty MRE tray away and jumped up, his fist raised toward the ceiling. His eyes blazed in the lantern light as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then spoke rapidly in Pashto.
McCrary silently translated the boy’s words. I will kill them all.
The boy seemed on the verge of tears. McCrary looked at the major. His eyes were moist also. McCrary’s mouth compressed into a thin line as he envisioned the horrors Atash had survived, the guilt the boy might feel because he’d survived when his own family had not. “So Atash snuck out tonight to go for help?”
“Atash ran from Ghar Mesar to Dashkalah in the dark. He tell the local Imam about his people’s troubles. The Imam bringed him to me.” Malik looked at Atash. “How much food do you have?”
The boy frowned as he answered in Pashto. “They won’t let us milk our goats or pick our apricots. My neighbor has been feeding me, but they have no more.”
Malik turned back to the Americans. “He say the village is soon out of food.”
Ramirez tapped two fingers on the battered wooden table. “Show us on your map what we’re up against, Major.”
With calloused hands, Malik unfolded a wrinkled map of the province and spread it on the wobbly surface. He questioned Atash again and translated his answer. “The Taliban are in the town hall on the square.” He tapped a spot on the map with a nicotine-stained finger. “Here.” The worn topo markings showed a hill rising steeply above the town square with a rectangular building indicated on top.
McCrary pointed at the rectangle. “What’s that, Major?”
Malik questioned the boy.
Atash answered, “Old stone building. Thick walls.” He gestured, indicating the thickness of the walls. “We climb the rocks and play in the building. It’s very old and it’s empty.”
Malik said, “That must be Mughal fort.”
McCrary asked, “Why aren’t they holed up there?”
Malik shrugge
d. “I know many of these places. These old stone forts are four hundred years old, from the kingdom of Sher Khan, the Mughal Emperor. He build many small forts. Thick walls to fight a siege, but no other military value. No water, no indoor plumbing, no electricity. The Taliban do not worry about a siege.”
McCrary studied the map. “Forty meters above the village, though. Good view of the surrounding area.”
Malik spoke to Atash, then translated. “Atash play in the fort many times. He say is one path to the top, carved in the rock by the Mughal. It starts on the side away from the square and winds around the hill as it climbs to the top. Too hard to get in and out. The Taliban can no be up there if they want to keep the people in the town.”
“How many Taliban?” asked Ramirez.
“Atash think about fifteen men, maybe twenty. Captain, I have twelve soldiers; not enough for a successful attack. I think maybe your men come with us.”
“With respect, Major, for an operation like this, we’ll be more effective if it’s just our guys. We’ll get our briefing from you, with assistance from Atash, but my men know how each of the others operates. We haven’t trained with your troops, and we might wind up in each other’s way or—worse yet—shooting at each other. If we get there before dawn, we’ll have the advantage of surprise. We own the night.”
From the look on Malik’s face, McCrary thought he was about to object. “Captain, I have two sons about Atash’s age. He could be my son. I want to do this.”
“Major, how long would your men need to be ready to move?” Ramirez asked.
Malik narrowed his eyes as he studied Atash’s bloody feet. “After I attend to Atash, we can be ready in two hours.”
“Good, then you can reinforce us and drive the trucks of food for the village and a couple of medevac units for any wounded. Fair enough?”
Malik nodded. “We will be there to help.”
Ramirez turned to Atash. “Armaments?”
Malik asked Atash. “AK-47s, of course. Three RPGs that he see; maybe more. He not know how much ammunition, but say four men to carry it to the village hall. His cousin saw more ammo put in the gatehouse on the north end of town. Taliban come in two trucks with ANA… markings? Colors? The trucks leave empty. That is how Atash know the Taliban will stay until his village starves.”
Atash spoke again. He clenched his fists and the tears began to run down his cheeks. “They carry machetes too. They used machetes to kill the magistrate and his family. Just let me have a weapon, Major.”
Malik translated for the Americans. “He wants me to give him a weapon,” he finished quietly.
All three men looked silently at the boy for a moment.
Ramirez cleared his throat. “How do they keep the people from leaving or working their fields?”
Malik translated the boy’s answer. “There is just one road in the valley to connect with the rest of the province. The town is surrounded by mud walls with few gates. Atash say the Taliban let people work the poppy fields, but that is the only work they allow.”
Ramirez grunted. “They’ve got to have their opium to sell, don’t they?”
###
After the Afghans left, Ramirez briefed team Triple Seven while they waited for their transports to arrive. “I’ve checked with the higher-ups. Satellite intel for the last week over Ghar Mesar shows the kid’s story holds up. The op is a go.” Ramirez refolded the provincial map that Major Malik had left with him. “My instructor at Fort Benning used to say, ‘Wars are God’s way of teaching geography to Americans.’ Looks like we’re going to learn a lot more about the geography of Ghar Mesar.”
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Six Murders Too Many
The first Carlos McCrary novel, Six Murders Too Many is available in both electronic and print editions on Amazon.com. Free to Kindle Unlimited members. Print edition is also available on barnesandnoble.com.
###
Private investigator Carlos “Chuck” McCrary digs into a paternity dispute and uncovers a series of murders.
Millionaire oil man Ike Simonetti tells Chuck McCrary that his late father’s widow is trying to steal over $200,000,000 from him.
While seventy-five-year-old billionaire Sam Simonetti was hospitalized for his second heart attack, his two daughters from an earlier marriage died in a house fire, leaving Ike as Sam’s only child and sole heir. Or was he?
After Sam’s death, his trophy wife (now widowed) produces another contender for the fortune—a baby girl born six months later. The widow stakes a claim to half of Sam’s estate for her infant daughter Gloria.
Now Ike wants Chuck to uncover the identity of Gloria’s real father and cut her out of the will.
The investigation takes Chuck from the sun-splashed beaches of South Florida to the burned-out Cleveland mansion of the two dead daughters. He stirs up a hornet’s nest and uncovers a triple murder.
When three hit men ambush Chuck, the case becomes a matter of life and death. To save his own life and that of the supposed infant heiress, Chuck must discover if one of the billionaire’s surviving family members is the real puppet master behind the murders.
Then Chuck learns that there may be two Black Widows dueling over the billionaire’s estate—willing to kill anyone who gets in their way… including an infant heiress and a nosy private investigator.
A preview of
Six Murders Too Many
Prologue
The trespasser picked his way through the darkness along the rocky beach. The city lights of nearby Cleveland reflected off the cloud cover, but barely relieved the darkness. He stumbled again. Damn these rocks, he thought. He dared not use a flashlight. An occasional glimpse from the light of his cellphone would have to do. It had been just as difficult to find his footing the previous two nights, but he had managed with only a skinned knee and torn pants, a small price to pay for invisibility.
The lakefront houses had fences that ran down to the water’s edge. He waded around them. The six o’clock news had said the water in Lake Erie was sixty-five degrees, but the north wind whipping across the lake made it feel colder. Goddamn water. He had been here four days and still couldn’t believe how cold sixty-five degrees could be. He was used to the warmer water and gentler breezes of home. When is the damned air temperature going to get cold enough for the friggin’ furnace to kick on?
The intruder waded around the last fence, shivering. He examined the slope above by the light of his cellphone screen and stepped carefully into the footprints he’d left the night before—and the night before that. He climbed to his hiding place in the azaleas at the edge of the lawn, resigned to wait in his cold, wet shoes until dawn.
The north wind blew against his wet pants. He shivered, stuck his hands further into his pockets. God, I wish I had a cigarette. Or a joint. Yeah, as long as I’m wishing for something I can’t have, why not wish for a joint? My parole officer hasn’t run a drug test on me in months.
From his outpost, the stranger could see the glow from the TV in the living room of the old, stone house. He thought about what a great chimney those stone walls would make for the bonfire of dry, weathered joists and floorboards inside. Soon, he reminded himself. Soon.
###
Inside, a woman and her two grown daughters finished watching the eleven o’clock news and weather. “Current temperature is fifty-two degrees,” the meteorologist said, “with lows expected in the forties.”
“Sounds like it’ll be chilly by morning,” the older woman said. “I’m going to turn on the furnace and throw a blanket on my bed. Do either of you want one?”
“Not me, Mom,” replied the older of the sisters. “The furnace heats this place up enough and then some.”
“I wish you wouldn’t set the thermostat so high,” said her sister. “The furnace sucked the moisture right out of the air last winter and I woke up with a headache every morning. I’d rather just have a couple of extra blankets and keep the heat off.”
&nb
sp; “God, no! I nearly froze to death growing up in this old house. My mother refused to turn the furnace on unless it was down in the thirties.”
“So, why didn’t you sell it after your mom died?”
“I thought about the old place sitting up here empty, but I knew Mama would roll over in her grave for betraying the ‘family trust.’”
“Well you could at least update the heating system and put in a humidifier.”
“I know, sweetie, but I kept thinking I’d move to an apartment in town when you two girls went off to college.”
“But, Mom, we’ve always loved this old house. And it’s easy to commute to college from here. You should put some of the money you got in the divorce settlement into this place.”
Her sister laughed. “According to Mom, Dad left her penniless, remember?”
“Enough, you two. Since you’re determined to stay here, when you inherit the place, you can do what you want. Tonight, I’m turning up the heat.”
She stopped at the bottom of the stairway and looked back at her daughters—her treasures. They were the only good thing that had come out of her marriage to Sam Simonetti. Well, that and sixty-five million dollars. “Good night, my loves.”
“‘Night, Mom.”
“We love you, too.
###
Two shadows remained in the living room. Will they never go to bed? The wind had dried the trespasser’s pants, but the dropping temperature made him shiver even so. I shoulda brought a warmer coat. Who knew that September could be so Goddamned cold up here? It was much colder than it had been three nights before when he’d picked the lock on the basement door. He had waited three hours after the women had turned the lights out before making his stealthy invasion. All he’d needed was access to the basement. Tonight he wouldn’t have to wait that long.
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 25