by Ronie Kendig
“Assalaam alaikum.”
Zahrah Zarrick looked up from her laptop. “Wa ‘alaikum assalaam.” She shook her head at her cousin easing into the room. “You know he was only flirting with you.”
With a cheeky smile, Fekiria Haidary giggled. “Oh, I’m aware.” Her green-brown eyes sparkled. Then she wrinkled her nose. “He’s too old.”
“Your madar would not agree.”
With a groan, Fekiria dropped into the chair beside her. “You must rescue me.”
Another laugh nearly choked Zahrah. “Me? You’re the one who insisted it was good to marry a man established in the community.”
“Yes, established but not with ten grandchildren!”
Zahrah could not help but smile. She adored her cousin, even with her laaf. Exaggeration was a way of life here in Afghanistan, and her cousin heaped hers in mounds. Zahrah, on the other hand, was too sensible and too Western to let her family decide who she would marry. But she also respected her kaka and khala enough not to interfere with their customs. “He has one,” she corrected her cousin.
“The man I marry should not have any! I am only twenty-one.” Fekiria moaned. “Why can’t I draw the attention of American soldiers like you? I served in the ANA and have just as much strength as you do!”
The words pushed Zahrah’s gaze down and filled her cheeks with heat. She turned and lifted the math books from the shelf, using the move to hide her embarrassment. But it was true—speaking English as fluently and clearly as she did Pashto and Farsi ingratiated her with the American military, who had used her as an interpreter. “Your parents would never approve—and they didn’t approve of your being in the army.”
“I am well aware, but that has nothing to do with marrying a grandfather!”
“Fekiria, in this, I think you won’t begrudge my American upbringing, yes?”
She pouted as her gaze traipsed the small classroom. “I like our customs. They have worked for thousands of years….”
A deep quiet settled in as Zahrah laid out the workbooks for the students who would return after their lunch break and the zuhr. Though she loved the mode the muezzin used for the noon namaz, she ached for her mother’s people to know Isa—Jesus.
Silence gaped, drawing her attention back to her cousin. Fekiria never sat still. Never stayed quiet. In fact, a weight seemed to settle on the face framed in a vibrant teal polyester/cotton hijab. “What?”
Fekiria blinked and straightened in the chair. A weak smile flickered across the beautiful lips that Zahrah had often envied for their natural pink hue and fullness. “Nothing.” She pushed to her feet and went to the window, where a dingy, striped, cotton curtain vainly attempted to shield the classroom from the sun. With two fingers Fekiria tugged aside the material.
Laughter pealed through the day, bringing joy to Zahrah’s heart that matched what she heard from the children. So good to hear them laughing and playing. Not screaming. She shuddered as the memory of the attack two weeks ago stomped her mood. Only then did she also notice the merriment in the courtyard warred with Fekiria’s expression.
Zahrah went to her cousin and touched her shoulder. “You wear the weight of the world. What’s wrong?”
Though Fekiria softened beneath the words, she did not look at her. Finally, she sighed. “You came here—why?”
Zahrah frowned. “You know why—what my madar went through when they moved to America …” She shook her head and watched the boys playing soccer in the courtyard and the girls huddled to one side. Her mother had done the same thing, but not just around other kids—she huddled in life. Feeling alone, isolated, and excluded because she did not speak English, did not dress like Americans, and was poor, her mother had become a virtual recluse. “I never want anyone to experience what she went through. If I can help just one …” Saying the words reinfused her with determination. “Why are you asking?”
Shoulders slumped, mouth pouting, Fekiria sighed again. “I feel lost, Zahrah jan.”
She still loved the endearments used in Pashtun and other Arab cultures. “Lost? How?”
Her cousin had lived in Balkh Province her entire life. Though Fekiria’s father had wanted to leave with his father and sister—Zahrah’s mother—his ties to Afghanistan were too strong. A prodigy in science, Jahandar Haidary had been scouted by Afghanistan right out of secondary school. When Zahrah’s grandfather escaped to America, Kaka Jahandar stayed behind for two reasons: fear of being captured and his love for the woman who would become his wife.
Shouts arose from the courtyard, and Fekiria stood straighter. “They’re back.”
Zahrah flicked her gaze to the school’s front gate. Her simple lunch of hummus and vegetables curdled in her stomach at the sight of a military armored vehicle lumbering into the yard, followed by a canopy truck. “What are they bringing in here?”
As the vehicles glided by, Zahrah and Fekiria tucked themselves aside to avoid being seen. Once the diesel sounds rumbled past, Zahrah again peered through the curtain as the vehicles vanished into the old gym. Doors slid open and the gymnasium swallowed the vehicles.
“I don’t know.” Fekiria eyed her. “Think we should go see?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Zahrah shook her head. “No, we need to stay right here. No need drawing attention to ourselves.”
“Must you always play it safe?”
“If we are killed or sent away, who will watch the children? Who will teach the girls?”
“But if we let them bring trouble to the school, they put the lives of everyone in danger—that includes you, Zahrah. And me!” Fire lit through her cousin’s eyes. “I’m going to see what I can find out.”
“Fekiria!” Her hissed admonishment fell flat in her cousin’s wake. With a huff, Zahrah turned back to the window. She slid a hand along the long gray tunic of her perahan tunban then placed that hand on her stomach. She willed herself to have nerves of steel like her cousin.
After pushing herself out the door, she looked both ways down the short hall. The corridor seemed ominous with its dirty walls, cracking paint, and crumbling plaster. She went right, toward the main entrance.
A wall of flesh rammed into her. Hands held her.
Zahrah jerked back with a gasp, wresting from the man’s hold. “Zeh mutaasif yum!” As her apology hung between them, her gaze hit his for a brief second, but it was enough to stab an icy feeling down her spine. “Sorry.” She dropped her gaze, sensing his strong disapproval for looking at and speaking to him.
As he and a group of other men stalked into the sunshine, Zahrah worked to steady her breathing. Who was he? She hadn’t seen him before. Too old to be a student. Another teacher? God forbid a man like that should teach children.
Only then did she notice the door Director Kohistani had insisted remain barred stood ajar. As she considered it, two more men emerged. Their fierce expressions urged her back.
The men breezed past. A shoulder hit hers—intentionally, she was sure. Her heart hammered, fear a familiar friend in recent days. Most Afghan men were kind and just like any other men, but a few made her want to flee back to America.
Shaken, she turned and walked after them into the courtyard to look for her cousin. Father, I know You’re with me wherever I go…. The silent prayer stirred peace in the recesses of her soul. Playing it safe, cool, she strode to where she’d seen Fekiria disappear.
“Miss Zarrick! Miss Zarrick!”
The shout jolted her. She glanced back.
Eight-year-old Rashid waved as he hurried out of the building—but just as fast, a hand clamped on his shoulder. Hauled him back, Rashid’s legs kicking up as his eyes widened. The tall man from the hall held Rashid against him, his tan chapan a sharp contrast to Rashid’s blue.
Zahrah’s heart plummeted.
“Who is this woman, boy?”
Rashid yanked away from the man, scowling. “My sister’s teacher.” He rubbed his shoulder and started for Zahrah.
The man’s gaze drifted purpo
sefully to the gym-cum-warehouse. “Tell the teacher to keep to her books and students.” Then to Rashid. “If she values those she teaches.”
His threat hung in the air. Zahrah scooted the boy around her. At the same time the man spewed more hatred, a melody and sage voice smothered those words. Afternoon namaz.
Thank You, Lord.
Swallowing hard, Zahrah bent to Rashid as the call to prayer sounded across Mazar-e. In her periphery, she saw the man stomp back into the building. She drew in a shaky breath and patted Rashid. “You should go to prayers.”
“But I saw them, Miss Zarrick.”
“I know. I saw the men, too.”
“No! Not them.”
She frowned. “Who?”
“American soldiers. In the hills.”
The beautiful mode used by the muezzin carried heavily across the city as it fell quiet, for the most part. As the zuhr began, Zahrah remained still and respectful of those who held to the Islamic traditions.
“Hurry.” She managed a smile. “To namaz before Director Kohistani notices you missing.”
“But the soldiers—”
“Are doing their job.” She touched the side of his face. “You must do yours now.” She gave him a nod. “Go. We’ll talk later.” As he darted off, Zahrah straightened, threaded her fingers in front of her kaftan, and looked toward the sloping rise of earth.
“I will lift up my eyes to the hills—From whence comes my help? My help comes from the LORD, Who made heaven and earth.”
If the soldiers were close, in the hills, then that meant …
Zahrah looked back toward the gymnasium, mentally considering the vehicles. The strange men. “Trouble’s closer.”
CHAPTER 4
Sub-base Schwarzburg, Camp Marmal
Mazar-e Sharif, Balkh Province, Afghanistan
27 May—1045 Hours
Go in early—break up your routine to avoid an ambush.”
Palms on either side of the laptop, Dean looked down at the monitor that held the grim visage of General Lance Burnett. The live feed between the Pentagon and Northern Afghanistan came through surprisingly sharp. Had the man’s gray hair gone grayer? They’d been through a lot in the last three years of working together. Dean guessed he probably had a few grays already, too.
Dean gave a slow nod, but something about the way the general said that made his nerves jounce. “Something we need to know, General?”
“Yeah,” Hawk said, chomping into a muffin then talking around it. “That sounds a lot like, ‘We know something you don’t know.’”
“Like talking with your mouth full is rude?” Harrier shot back.
“And disgusting.” Falcon eased into view of the camera. “General, if there’s trouble—”
“You’re in the middle of a war zone, Sergeant—of course there’s trouble!”
Falcon straightened and shifted aside.
“Look, there’s nothing we can put our finger on. But I have too much invested in your team to lose any of you.” General Burnett slurped a soda and slammed down the can. “Now, get your sorry carcasses out there. Early.”
“Yes, sir.” The connection canceled and Dean nodded to his team. “You heard the man.”
It took an hour to gear up and get the appropriate supplies for Harrier to work his medic magic in the village. Another thirty minutes spent rumbling over the brutal Afghan terrain and toward the village that hunkered at the foot of the mountain, east of the bustling Mazar-e Sharif and west of nowhere. The village had just come into sight when Falcon eyed him from the driver’s seat. “You feelin’ it?”
“Every day.”
“Right?” Falcon cut right around a hut with a burned-out roof and carried the team down the main street—“paved” with dirt pounded into a hard surface by years of foot traffic, beasts of burden, and vehicles.
Dean’s mind buzzed with the unspoken warning Burnett had given by suggesting an early ETA. They’d been working with the villagers to provide medical care for the last several months. Alternating arrival times to avoid stepping into a pile of trouble. But for Burnett to suggest it—well that suggested anticipated danger.
Stretching his jaw, Dean scratched his beard. Just another few weeks and he’d shave it for his leave Stateside. Mrs. Elliott didn’t like beards. But then, she didn’t like that she now stood nearly a foot shorter than the young man her husband had taken under his wing. He smiled, remembering her taunts and teasing, but mostly—her love and prayers for him.
“Thought we’d stroll into Mazar-e on our way back.”
Dean snapped his attention back to the Falcon. “What?”
“Hooah!” Hawk shouted from the back. “Get me some girls!”
Dean would scowl at the live wire, but it’d only fuel the fire. He thumbed toward Hawk. “That’d be a bad idea, unleashing him on an unsuspecting city.”
“Need to get him one of those choke collars,” Harrier put in.
Laughter trickled through the mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicle.
“Hey.” Titanis eased forward, stabbing a finger toward the front, between Dean and Falcon.
Dean squinted past the glare the sun cast against the tan paint to see what the Aussie indicated. “What?”
“Trucks. I just saw trucks.”
He shot a questioning look at his engineering sergeant. “You sure?”
“I know what a truck looks like, Commander.”
Relatively new to Raptor, Titanis didn’t have the casual comfort Dean had with the other members of the team. But his intensity, his penchant toward perfection and accuracy, brought a much-needed element to the team since losing Candyman.
“Pull over.” Dean pointed to a street two blocks north of where the team normally conducted the clinics. “Eyes out.” With that, he climbed out into the sun-drenched afternoon, lifting his M4 from the strap and cradling it as he scanned the street.
“Anything?” Falcon asked.
Tracing the buildings’ walls, doors, shadows, Dean didn’t detect a threat. But he also couldn’t ward off the foreboding sense prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “Nice and easy,” he said as he walked the narrow road.
“This sucks.” Hawk walked a cautious but steady pace.
“Quiet.” Dean advanced, taking everything in. But that was just it. The streets should be filling with people heading to the clinic. Instead, only dust and dirt clogged the streets.
“I should be a half mile out and a dozen feet up.” Broad-chested and well built, the team sniper seemed tense. More so than usual. Then again, Eagle always preferred higher ground and laying prostrate with his sniper rifle. But the threat level didn’t warrant that. “You know what …” Eagle slung his carbine around to his back and turned down an alley. He hoisted himself up onto a wall and reached for a rooftop ledge.
“Cover him,” Dean said.
Titanis and Harrier took up positions as Eagle climbed.
A teen rounded the corner, not six feet from Hawk. The teen’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath. Spun. And sprinted.
“He’s running,” Hawk growled. He glanced to Dean. “Why’s he running?” With that, Hawk lurched into a sprint.
To warn someone!
Dean joined the chase. “Stop him!” Behind him, he heard the pounding boots of Falcon, who darted past him despite the seventy-five-pound gear strapped to his back.
“Eagle, you got eyes on our boy?” Dean keyed his mic, rushing forward, eyes and brain processing every shadow and movement.
“Roger that.”
“Where’s he headed?”
Seconds pounded off the clock. Dean took a corner. Down the main alley that led to the “community center,” which was simply a cement-block building erected by the team. One more turn and he’d have it in view. “Eagle!”
“Taking fire! Taking fire!” Falcon shouted through the coms.
A heartbeat too late.
Dean rounded a corner. The world blurred into slow motion. He saw it—a dozen or
more fighters had taken position around the truck. M16s, AK-47s, handguns spewing bullets. Hawk and Falcon on the ground, returning fire at a cluster of three trucks parked in front of the building they’d used for a clinic.
Dean skidded to a stop. His boot slid on the dirt. Out from under him. He landed. Hard. Pain jolted through his backside. Shots pelted the wall. The small structure to his right seemed to spit dirt and cement at him. He palmed it, trying to gain traction and backpedal.
Dean rolled out of sight and pressed his spine against the cement brick wall. “Eagle, I need me some eyes in the sky.”
“Roger. Two dozen men. Loading up. In a hurry. Armed.”
No joke. “Locations!”
Hawk scrambled for cover with him. Lifting his arm that exposed a gleam of red on his sleeve, he glowered.
“Can we take them?” Dean asked.
Falcon dove into them. Together with Hawk, Dean dragged him the rest of the way to safety.
Hawk slammed a grenade into the tube. “Yeah.” Now Hawk’s grin seemed greedy.
Gears ground. Axles groaned.
“They’re leaving.” The tight, controlled voice betrayed nothing to the uninitiated. To the initiated—like Dean—Eagle was ticked.
Trucks lurched.
“Not on my watch,” Hawk ground out.
Dean peeked around the corner.
Cement smacked him back.
He nodded to Hawk. “Do it!”
Angling his M4 around, Hawk took a bead on the first truck. Fired a grenade through the launcher.
It struck the engine. A fireball erupted. Men poured out like ants from a doused anthill. Dean watched, confused. But just as quick, the men climbed into the other trucks that sped away. He started forward.
Bullets ate up the ground.
He threw himself against another building, one closer. Keyed his mic to ask Eagle to level the playing field. As if a blanket had dropped over the village, quiet reigned. Dean cautiously waited. He circled a finger in the air, giving the signal for the team to group up.
They treaded the road, hugging buildings so they didn’t get turned into Swiss cheese approaching the truck.
Sidling up, Dean waited for the others. Falcon angled out in the open, ready to neutralize any threat. Hawk took a knee, watching their six. Sweeping around, Falcon came to the side. Nodded to Dean then yanked back the flap.