By the sounds of Arzad’s attempts to translate through the bedlam, all the men had been threatened and some beaten by the self-proclaimed dictator. In the beginning, they were swayed to grow poppies by the simple economics of poverty and the lure of an easy cash crop. They did not realize there would be harsh consequences.
One farmer leaned into Harley’s face, bellowing while he held up his bandaged left hand. Harley reached to shake the farmer’s right hand. Instantly, a shy smile flashed across the man’s face. Mark was impressed. It took less than a split second, and Harley had made a friend.
Mukhtar had seen the handshake too. He eyed Mark again, his gaze drifting to the much needed care in that first-aid kit. Pushing up from his sitting position, he came to sit cross-legged in front of Mark with a show of much bravado.
“I no like you American,” he hissed the moment he sat down, offering his hand to Mark despite his angry words.
“I no like Seinkevitz.” Mark met his angry glare, but he saw something else there, too. This man was damn sick.
Mukhtar grunted. Mark let it go, and proceeded to examine the injury. The index finger had been severed an inch above the knuckle and just below the first joint. One hard bump was all it would take to perforate the tender skin and invite another round of bacteria. The stump was infected, barely healed at all. The single strip of tape wrapped over and around it did nothing to prevent infection or further injury. The entire hand was hot. Mukhtar had to be suffering.
The remaining bone was not crushed, indicating to Mark that an extremely sharp implement had been used to perform the brutal amputation. He growled softly to himself. Jose Gutierrez’s head had also been severed surgically, much like this. No wonder Mukhtar was suspicious. What kind of man restrains another man and forces brutality on him?
The scabbard hanging on the belt beneath the Russian’s belly flashed to Mark’s mind. Had Boris personally inflicted these retaliations? Mark intended to find out. Somehow.
Mark clenched his jaw as he diagnosed. He had learned a few things while in the Corps. The first rule of medical triage in the field was always to seize the opportunity. Bleeding limbs and injured men could not wait. By the looks of Mukhtar’s finger and the angry redness of his entire hand, he was well on his way to blood poisoning. Treatment could not wait any longer.
“You soldier?” Mark asked.
Mukhtar nodded begrudgingly, but his eyes widened when Mark pulled a tray of sealed sterilized scalpels and pre-loaded hypos of lidocaine from the kit. Mark set the tray aside and covered the now closed kit with a clean cloth he kept bagged in plastic for just such emergencies. It made for a primitive operating table, but with the feeling of distrust from these men who were no doubt also armed to the teeth, it made sense to keep everything out in the open.
“We start now,” Mark said, focusing on the medical treatment he needed to complete instead of the pounding in his chest. Helping locals always involved great risk. If this man was really a Taliban sympathizer, or a Taliban soldier, Mark might be dead within seconds. Harley too. Or worse.
He opened the bottle of antiseptic wash and poured it over the injury, scrubbing lightly with a pad of sterile gauze. Grasping his patient’s hand firmly between his thumb and index finger, he injected the painkiller, not giving Mukhtar any time to realize what was happening, much less object. Mark dispensed with the sterile wrap on the scalpel and cut a quick, thin slice over the tender top of the stump again without asking permission.
Mukhtar didn’t flinch. Good man. Either his pride wouldn’t let him, or he was damn tough. Putrid fluids oozed from the opening. Mark focused on cleaning it, aware that all eyes were on him and his American-hating friend.
After expressing as much of the infection as possible, he doused it with more wash and packed the incision with antiseptic infused cotton. Finally, he wrapped the entire hand with extra layers of sterile gauze and secured it with strips of white medical tape. Not until the procedure was finished did he let out a small sigh of relief.
He handed Mukhtar a small plastic bottle of a powerful antibiotic, holding up five fingers and hoping this brave Afghani soldier would understand. “You must take one each day. Five pills. Five days.”
Mukhtar rattled the bottle with his good hand and nodded. A bemused light flickered over his face. The arrogance was gone, probably because of the wonder of lidocaine. “I will take.”
“Keep that hand clean. Understand?”
Mukhtar pulled his hand against his chest, cradling it with his other hand. “I do what you say. I think maybe you good American GI.”
Grasping his shoulder, Mark offered the hard man a quick nod. “Today I make you my friend.”
“Yes. Friend.” Mukhtar still eyed him. The distrust was gone, but something else was going on now that the operation was over. “I not hurt you.”
Mark smiled. Mukhtar must have picked up on his nervousness and interpreted it as fear. Well, okay, so maybe some of it was fear, but mostly, Mark didn’t want Mukhtar going to sleep with that throbbing wound for one more night.
“You no hurt me.” He chuckled as he pointed toward the Kalashnikov that had slipped partially into view from beneath Mukhtar’s robe. “That might hurt me.”
Mukhtar shook his head solemnly. “No. You friend. Mukhtar no hurt you.”
All eyes were still on Mark and his new friend. Harley shot him a quick wink.
Mark shrugged.
This was why he loved Afghanistan.
Nine
“What do you think? Over or through?”
Mark sized up the very impressive wall around the Russian’s compound. It stood around twelve feet tall, not the kind of barrier a man could easily breach. It was late in the afternoon by the time they left the farmers, but not too late to do a little impromptu surveillance. Arzad had dropped them off near the home of Seinkevitz. They stood crouched behind the camouflage of several scraggly pines. Mark had his gear bag slung over his shoulder. Now was not the time to be tired.
“Through,” Harley said as he walked up to the wall. “Let’s get going.”
The problem with ‘through’ was that it was still daylight. Mark glanced around. He would feel a hundred times less obvious if they waited until dark. The only good thing about this spur of the moment plan was that this place stood apart from the village. There were no prying eyes watching and reporting; neither were there innocent people who could get hurt if things went south. Aside from the pine trees, a fairly large orchard stood between the compound and the nearest home, which was a mile or two away.
“How through?” The wall appeared impenetrable.
“The thing about these mud brick walls.” Harley flattened his body against the wall and—he disappeared.
Cool trick. Mark approached the same part of the wall. What appeared to be solid was actually two sections of the same wall, one overlapping the other to provide a hidden passageway. Mark entered sideways, blowing out his breath to make himself as thin as possible in order to follow. Once he eased his bulky frame between the two walls, he inched along. Harley made it look easy, but he had the bulk of a willow. Mark was an oak. When the narrow passageway cornered, he ran smack into his buddy’s back.
“Shhhhh.” Harley held a hand up signaling Mark to stay put, like he had a choice. He peered over Harley’s shoulder.
They had entered the interior of the compound behind a vine-covered fence that ran the length of the back wall except where a large gate opened outward. A gravel driveway extended from that gate to a large metal building in front of them. Another building, this one with windows, stood across the way and paralleled the adjacent wall to their right. Rakes, shovels, and other gardening implements leaned against the wall of the building.
“What do you think? Barracks and garage?” Mark asked.
Harley nodded in agreement. “Looks like it. You’ve got the stuff?” he whispered.
“In my gear bag.”
“Give me a few of them gizmos.” Harley held his open palm
over his shoulder. “Man, it looks awful quiet.”
“Shut up, Mortimer.” Mark squirmed to reach into his gear bag, which was difficult for a big guy like him in such a cramped position. At last, he reached a handful of bugs and passed them forward. “Don’t jinx us.”
If the law of averages worked like it usually did, the moment anyone said that an operation was too easy or too quiet, it suddenly wasn’t. Going into a hot spot was never simple, and maintaining any level of secrecy in broad daylight was another problem all by itself. Still, plain sight did make for the best hiding place. Mark understood Harley’s thinking. He just hated the acid pouring into his stomach.
Harley stepped out from the false wall and strode to the gardening tools, dragging them behind him as he proceeded to the front corner of the windowed building, what they thought might be the barracks. He planted the first miniscule listening device under a window frame when he paused to rake alongside of the building.
The thing about these particular bugs was that Mother had invented them. Patented under the name on Tattle Tales, they were small enough eavesdroppers to escape notice under most conditions, but powerful enough to transmit farther than others on the market.
Mark gulped at Harley’s audacity. The man had nerves of steel, strolling around in broad daylight like he had a right to be there. Damn. He’s good.
Two Russians exited the end door of the barracks, their heads bent together in earnest conversation. They barely glanced at their new gardener scratching his rake over the hard ground, collecting a small pile of rubble while planting yet another bug, this one on the upright post to the stair rail. Then another. Looking up, he waved for Mark to exit the wall, pointing to the other building.
Mark blew out a deep breath. Again, Harley made this look easy, but he could. He was skinny. He could blend in. That could be a problem. Still, if Harley could do it—
Mark gathered his nerves, and walked calmly to the space between what looked like a garage and the wall behind it. A large, corrugated steel Quonset-style building, the garage was large. Sidling between the rear of the building and the compound wall, he planted one bug at each corner for two opposing views. They might relay nothing from this location. No problem. Better to be safe than sorry.
He paused to catch his breath. His initial foray into enemy territory brought him toward the front of the compound, opposite where he and Harley had entered. The view was impressive. Seinkevitz lived in a lavish whitewashed home, again with the obscene gold trim. The place took up the entire northeast corner of the compound. A turret at one corner of the building over-looked the front gate, which could have easily accommodated a large truck’s passage, maybe even a tank’s. It was wide enough. Two wooden doors on massive iron hinges barred the way at the moment. Mark studied the doors.
A pulley and chain system provided a way to manually open and close them. There was no guard at the gate, in fact there were no guards anywhere. Where had the two Russians gone? He looked around, wishing he’d paid closer attention to them instead of Harley.
A patio comprised the yard west of the house. Within a circle of flowering trees gurgled a three-tiered fountain set in a concrete basin. The sounds of water would have been soothing except for the very real thing Mark had to do next. It was time to play gardener like Harley had done, only Mark didn’t have a rake to hide behind. No matter.
He slouched, pulled his scarf up to hide his one day’s growth and his cap down to hide his eyes. One step to the first tree and his adrenaline kicked into overdrive. Make this quick. He stuck the first bug high in the nearest tree trunk, thankful it was camouflaged. A man would have to look very hard to spot these babies.
Mark rounded the circle of trees, placing another bug on the opposite side. Video and audio was now very much alive and well inside the Seinkevitz lair. His hands shook, but he was done. Pretty good work for a dumb farm boy. Only the mansion was left. He looked up and straight into the snarling face of a uniformed guard.
The man barked something at him in Russian.
Great. What do I do now? Mark stood silent, shifting his feet and keeping his head down, hoping plain old ignorance would fool the man.
Harley ran to him, calling something from across the compound, but Mark’s heart was pounding so hard, he couldn’t understand a word. Harley pushed a rake into his hand, which was plenty sweaty by now. Grunting, he took the rake and kept his head down.
“Is your dumb brother?” the Russian spoke in English while he poked a stern finger into Harley’s shoulder, pushing him back a step.
“Is yes.” Harley shrugged apologetically, mumbling through his scarf as he accepted the push.
“You should teach him to mind his business. These trees from motherland. Too good for you.”
Harley shrugged again, pushing Mark along with him back toward the barracks. Fortunately, the Russian did not follow. He had turned on his heel and walked into the mansion through the side door.
“I didn’t know you spoke Afghani that well,” Mark muttered.
“I don’t.”
“What’d you say then?”
“You don’t want to know. Keep moving. We need to get inside that mansion.”
Harley’s calm façade had evaporated. Mark saw his hands shaking, too. Their window of opportunity was about to close.
Mark glanced sideways at the whitewashed building with its obscene gold trim. Entry through the front and side doors was definitely not feasible. He headed to the rear of the mansion, still dragging his rake in case anyone might look out the window at the two goofball gardeners. Rounding the corner, he stopped cold.
“Sonofabitch.”
“Focus, Houston.” Harley had seen it too. His grip on Mark’s elbow was the only thing that propelled him forward.
That backdoor looked like the servant’s entrance all right, but it was the heavy wooden chopping block planted on the ground between the door and the barracks that held Mark’s attention. His father kept a much smaller version outside the barn back in Ohio. It was a butcher’s block, a place of slaughter. Long, deep grooves marked the blackened top. Death had struck here. Often.
Mark got that. A kid raised on a farm grew up knowing that animals eventually made their way into the family freezer, but chickens, pigs and lambs didn’t need leather straps or leg irons. Neither did they leave bloody human handprints smeared down the side of the wood. That was where Mukhtar had lost his finger. Those might be Mukhtar’s bloody prints. Other’s had been killed there, too. Mark could tell. He could feel it.
“Don’t look,” Harley growled. “We’ve got to get inside. Now.”
“How?” Mark tore his eyes away from the brutal crime scene. There was no doubt what would happen if they were caught inside this compound now, but he couldn’t get the image of Mukhtar’s angry brown eyes out of his head. He’d suffered. Recently. Right damn here. In this very spot.
“How do you think?” Harley stepped to the backdoor of the mansion. “We do it damn fast.”
Mark followed, dragging his dread with him. They were running on borrowed time. His gut churned out enough acid to eat a hole through his stomach. There was no time to strategize. He sucked in another breath, wrapped his scarf nearly up and over his nose, and into the mansion he went.
Three Afghan women looked up from their work at the kitchen counters, their eyes bright with concern. He shrugged, trying his best to look halfway daft. It was a short trip with the all the strong emotions running through his head.
Bowing, he stepped backwards as if he was just confused and needed to leave. He pressed a miniscule listening device beneath the edge of the marble cabinet. One down. Time to go. Mission accomplished.
His hand was nearly on the doorknob when one of the women grumbled. They were older, and judging by their quick conversation, they had all agreed on something. The one who had spoken waved him over and opened the very nice, stainless steel refrigerator.
Mark took one step closer and nodded, careful not to look her in th
e eye. She clucked softly, shaking her head, her mouth twisted in that womanly way when confronted with a foolish man.
He only leaned against the refrigerator for a brief second, but it was enough. By the time she had wrapped a hefty slice of goat’s cheese in a napkin and waved him out the door, the deed was done. Not only was another bug attached to the refrigerator door, but a third was stuck to the underside of the serving cart next to the refrigerator also.
And who knew where that would go?
By then, his heart was an out of control brass band. He and Harley had to move. They made it to the hidden passage in record time. Once outside, Mark blew out a heaving sigh, his mouth open as he sucked in enough air to finally fill his lungs. Neither spoke, their only task to put time and distance between them and what they had just seen.
“Holy hell, Houston,” Harley growled as they hurried into the cover of the pines. “You got a death wish or something?”
Mark shook his head instead of answering. He shouldn’t have entered the mansion without at least mentioning his plan. He would have – if he’d had one. It just kind of happened. Harley had a right to be angry.
“That’s twice today, three if I count the chance you took with that Mukhtar fellow.” Harley kicked at a dirt clod on their path, still plenty pissed off. “You could’ve gotten us both killed.”
“You’re right,” Mark conceded. For a man who didn’t like to take risks, he’d certainly filled his quota today. He’d been on the receiving end of too many bullies over the years. All that past humiliation had evolved into a hair trigger of sorts. Zero tolerance. Blam. Instant reaction. He’d have to watch that. “When I saw that butcher chop block, I—”
“Forget it,” Harley cut him off. “I know. You thought you had to do something. I get it. Just don’t do it again.”
They walked in silence for a mile or two on the dusty road back to Arzad’s. The afternoon was late. Mark kept a close watch over his shoulder. No one followed. The Russian’s mansion was no longer in view. He wanted to keep it that way.
Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2) Page 8