Secret Soldier

by Dana Marton

  “Forgive me, El Jafar.” One of his men was at the tent’s opening. “Hamid begs for a word with you.”

  “Send him in.” He smiled, pleased beyond measure with the way his plan was progressing, faster than even he had expected. In another ten days or so, the world would know his name. And his enemies would learn to fear him.

  ABIGAIL GRABBED FOR her seat as Gerald swerved to avoid a giant pothole. She glanced at Leila next to her on the back seat. Neither she nor Abdul, riding shotgun with his rifle slung over his shoulder, seemed perturbed by the road conditions. As far as Abigail could see in the approaching twilight, their path was riddled with craters from shelling. Although the civil war had been over for almost four years, no one had the money to even begin repairs. But Gerald was proving useful at last, handling the obstacles with the agility of a race car driver.

  Mrs. Gerald Thornton. She turned the words over in her head for the hundredth time since they’d left Rahmara. She was married. Just like that. She caught Gerald’s gaze in the rearview mirror and he winked at her.

  She bit back a groan. God, what had she done?

  Their marriage was a lie and, beyond any other sin, she hated deceit the most. She should have thought of that earlier. And, of course, she had. But she had to be practical. Their marriage hurt no one, while it made possible for her to stay in Tukatar and save children. That outweighed everything. And then, of course, there was that whole “stoning to death” issue. She hoped the locals would think twice before enforcing such a punishment on a U.S. citizen, but she hadn’t been brave enough to test the mullah.

  Leila, her chaperone, a short but stocky widow covered from head to toe in a black abayah, said something to her brother. He shrugged. Maybe she was too hot. They had the Jeep’s roof up to keep the sun off them, but it didn’t help much. Abigail looked down on her own identical attire, which was roasting her alive.

  She’d worn black to her wedding.

  It should have told anyone who cared to pay attention how she felt about this very special occasion.

  She turned west, where the sun was dipping behind the mountains at last. Cool night air couldn’t come fast enough, although she didn’t feel all that comfortable being on the road after dark. She didn’t cherish the thought of breaking her neck, or some other body part, when the Jeep hit a pothole. She kept her eyes on the road, squinting when a swirl of rising dust in the distance caught her attention. It seemed to move toward them.

  “What’s that?”

  Gerald leaned forward. “Army trucks.” He didn’t seem to be worried.

  Thank God, Leila and her brother had come along. Westerners were common in the bigger cities, but out in the country, mistrust of them still ran high. They were sure to be stopped, their papers examined. But at least Abdul could vouch for them. She hoped they wouldn’t be held up long. Night was fast approaching.

  The vehicles were close enough now to count-four open-bed army trucks, their backs filled with men. They came to a dusty halt and blocked the road. A handful of men jumped off the first vehicle, some with rifles, some with machine guns. A man got out of the cab, better dressed and better fed than the rest, wearing a military uniform, a once-white turban covering his head.

  Gerald brought the Jeep to a slow stop and called out a respectful greeting.

  “Get out,” the man ordered in a strange dialect.

  She didn’t like the way he was looking at them. And she really, really didn’t want to get out of the car. Not that the Jeep could save them. They might be able to outrun the trucks, but they couldn’t outrun the bullets.

  With unhurried motions, Gerald stepped onto the sand and moved a couple of feet away from the vehicle. She followed his example. On the other side of the car, Abdul and Leila did the same.

  More men came off the trucks then, some surrounding them, some going through the Jeep. They were thin to the last man, their mismatched, worn clothes hanging on them, their scraggly beards not quite covering their hollow cheeks. Nobody asked for papers.

  “Bandits,” Gerald whispered.

  She sucked in her breath. According to the villagers, the bandits who controlled the mountains did not come into the desert as far as the road thatled to Tukatar. Had hunger forced them to stray from their territory?

  She watched as the bandits unloaded the food they had purchased in town. The bundles quickly disappeared into the back of the army trucks.

  The raggedy group looked hungry and wild. Not much distinguished them from the army troops that rode through the villages from time to time. The bandits stole from the army as much as from anyone else. Most of the men had at least one part of some uniform on them. Because the army could scarcely afford to keep its soldiers in new uniforms, they were also dressed in a blend of military and civilian clothing. Since provisions were scarce, even army troops were often forced to seize food and supplies from the general population.

  She hoped Gerald was wrong and the small group in front of them was a renegade army unit. Soldiers might take everything, but would probably leave their lives. Bandits were more likely to massacre them and leave them for the buzzards. If they were lucky.

  She listened as Abdul negotiated with the men in rapid-fire Arab. She caught enough to get the gist of the conversation.

  They wanted the women.

  Oh, God. She grabbed onto the back of Gerald’s shirt.

  “No,” he said firmly.

  A dozen guns were immediately aimed at them.

  One of the men headed for Leila. Abdul stepped in front of her and took his rifle off his back. Everybody shouted at once, both the bandit leader and Abdul gesturing wildly. Abdul leveled his rifle, shouted something and put his finger on the trigger. The voices stopped for a moment, even the air seemed to stand still.

  She realized what was going to happen about a split second before the shots rang out. She screamed, her voice drowned by the renewed yelling of the men and the sound of gunfire. It didn’t seem real. When Abdul and Leila crumpled to the ground, she half expected them to get up.

  The guns fell silent.

  She stood frozen to the spot, unable to look away from the bodies and the sand that greedily drank in their blood. They were both dead. And Gerald and she were next.

  The leader shouted at his men, clearly displeased, and ordered them to salvage whatever clothes they could from the bodies. She turned away, trembling, and caught sight of Gerald with his hands in the air. She should have done the same, except it didn’t seem she had that much control over her body.

  The leader of the bandits looked at her and Gerald, and walked over to them. Gerald shifted, blocking her view. It took her a few seconds to realize he was trying to shield her from the man.

  “If two United States citizens disappear, soldiers will be all over your mountain,” Gerald said in a calm voice and nodded toward the peaks. “You have a good camp up there, a warm cave. Winter is coming soon. Bad time to take your people on the run.”

  The man sneered at him, his dark eyes vivid with anger. “I own the mountain. I take what I want.” He pulled his pistol from his belt and pointed it at Gerald.

  Her lungs shrank; her heart slammed against her chest.

  “Get on the truck.” The man jerked his head toward one of the vehicles.

  Gerald glanced back at her and nodded. How the hell could he stay calm at a time like this? She stared after him as he walked toward the truck, but could not follow. Her legs weren’t working.

  One of the bandits came over to her and shoved her roughly. She caught herself from falling and stumbled forward. Then two men grabbed her and pulled her up into the back of the truck. She scampered to the front, to Gerald, although she knew he could offer no protection. He pushed her down on the end of the wooden bench and sat next to her. One of the bandits shoved Gerald over and sat between them.

  A few more men climbed up, six of them altogether in the back of the truck. They d
idn’t look friendly. A couple worked on stretching camouflage canvas over the metal ribs that arched above. She watched them with a strange detachment, as if seeing a movie. She was pretty sure she was in shock. She’d seen the aftermath of violence before, almost more than she could handle, but had never been part of it.

  Leila and Abdul were dead.

  She glanced at the bodies on the sand, but then the men finally secured the canvas so she couldn’t see out any longer. The sky was darkening, and the back of the truck was darker yet. Somebody yelled to them from the ground. The rushing blood in her ears drowned out the words.

  One of the bandits got up, ordered Gerald to stand and patted him down, taking the cell phone from his pocket and the watch from his wrist.

  “No weapons,” he yelled back before sitting to look at the phone. He pushed a couple of buttons, gave a frustrated groan, slipped the thing into the front pocket of his uniform and put the watch on.

  Gerald didn’t say a word, which was probably the smart thing to do. And yet, she couldn’t help wishing for a miracle—that he would spring up and subdue their kidnappers. Of course, it would have been impossible, even if he knew how to fight and had not gained his muscles pumping iron in front of a mirror in a gym.

  The motors roared to life, startling her. Their truck lurched ahead. Panic replaced her numbness, filling her veins in a slow trickle, spreading through her limbs. She was going to die, and get gang-raped first, most likely. Her lungs struggled for air. She shouldn’t have fought with her mother the day before.

  Maybe Mom had been right. Maybe she should have never come here. Her family would be devastated when they received news that she had vanished. They would probably never find out what had happened to her.

  Her sister’s death had nearly broken their parents. Her own disappearance was sure to finish the job.

  THEIR TRUCK WAS second to last. Spike surveyed the men. They were underfed and tired. He figured at least a good hour’s ride to the foothills, then however long it would take them to get to camp. Not that he planned to allow things to go that far.

  Were he alone, he would have been tempted to let them take him to their caves, talk them into holding him for ransom, stick around until he could determine whether they had any ties to the terrorists. But he wasn’t alone, and he could see no positive outcome for Abigail once they reached the bandits’ camp. And he didn’t really have time to pursue a tenuous lead such as this, anyhow. Jamal Hareb was their best chance. They couldn’t afford any detours.

  He waited about twenty minutes, until the night and the rhythmic rattle of the truck over the sand soothed the men into complacency. He took a deep breath, ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies, and bent to scratch his ankle, retrieving a switchblade hidden in the sole of his ordinary-looking sandal.

  He straightened and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyelids drift closed. Two of the six men were sleeping; the rest were on the brink. Without opening his eyes, he put his arm on the back of the seat, as if trying to make himself more comfortable. He struck with the next big bump in the road, barely moving his hand. The man sitting between him and Abigail slumped down in his seat with a small groan that sounded like a snort. Nobody else moved. He pulled his blade from the man’s heart, mumbled as if in his sleep and turned toward his other side.

  That one made more noise than the first. Spike coughed, then held his breath as he watched the man’s head fall on the sleeping bandit’s shoulder next to him. He didn’t wake up. Nobody stirred in the near pitch dark.

  Two down, four to go. He wanted to take care of the ones who were awake first. They sat side by side, across from Abigail. Spike leaned toward them.

  “I have to relieve myself,” he said in a voice low enough not to wake the sleepers.

  “We’ll be there soon enough,” one of the men responded. He leaned forward as if he hadn’t caught the words.

  Then, before either of the men knew what was happening, he had his knife buried in the chest of one, the neck of the other broken in the crook of his arm. One of the rifles fell to the floor with a thud before he could catch it and woke the rest. Too late. He reached them in two steps.

  When he was done with the last man, he picked up one of the rifles and stepped over the bodies to get back to Abigail. “Get down.”

  No time to reassure her. She’d just have to deal with the situation. To her credit, she had stayed quiet the whole time and was now obeying his order, though her eyes were as round as a pair of quarters as she stared at him in shock.

  He shot through the cab’s back window, hitting the guy in the passenger seat first, then the driver. The truck veered sharply to the right but kept on going full speed, the dead man’s foot heavy on the gas pedal.

  “Hang on. Stay where you are.” He pulled the canvas aside, grabbed the metal bar then climbed out.

  A bullet went by so close, it moved his hair. More shots. He hoped none of them hit Abigail. He yanked the driver-side door open and pulled the man out. The truck slowed momentarily, but then he was in the seat, his feet shoved hard against the gas pedal.

  Yeah, baby. He grinned; he was in his element at last and loving the challenge of it. He kept his eyes on the road, what little of it he could see by his lone headlight and the half moon above.

  He managed to gain some distance from the truckload of bandits behind them, but not enough to be out of rifle range. The bandits were shooting up their vehicle as if they were in competition. And then he heard the answering shots from the back. Dr. DiMatteo was returning fire. He grinned. Excellent. She hadn’t forgotten how to shoot.

  He watched in his side mirror as one of the trucks stopped following, then another. She must have taken out their tires. Smart woman.

  There was a gap in the shooting from the back. Did she get hit? He swore and glanced back, but couldn’t see anything. Then the sound of repeat fire filled the cab. She’d managed to find the semiautomatic in the darkness.

  The last truck fell back slowly. Then he could see nothing in the side mirror but darkness behind them. Still, he drove for a solid half hour before he stopped.

  “Are you okay?” He jumped from his seat and ran to the back.

  She was sitting on the floor among the dead bodies, her face as pale as the moon, her hands trembling. He had to climb up to help her down; he didn’t think she could manage by herself.

  He dumped the body from the passenger seat, helped her up, then went back to dispose of the rest of the dead. Even though he hated to waste the time, he wasn’t sure she could handle a load of bodies in the back. She’d had enough of a shock for the day. He could do this one thing for her. He didn’t bother to search the men, but made sure he got back his phone and watch. He also kept the guns.

  She was doubled over in her seat when he came back, her face buried in her hands.

  “Were you hit?”

  She straightened to look at him, her face tearstreaked, and shook her head.

  He let out his breath. “You did good.”

  He turned the truck in the general direction of Tukatar, figuring they’d find the road sooner or later. “We’ll be home in another hour or so.”

  They weren’t more than fifty-sixty miles northwest of the village.

  Unfortunately, they ran out of gas in ten.

  ABIGAIL LOOKED AT Gerald and found him watching her. He had lost some of that polished look; his face was dirty, his shirt smudged with dried blood. She blinked. What had happened back there? How had he turned from cameraman playboy into superhero?

  Obviously she knew even less about her temporary husband than she’d thought.

  “You okay?” His intense blue gaze searched her face.

  “Still alive.” Thanks to him. But for how long? “Now what?”

  “The extra cans of gas are on another truck. We walk as far as we can, then we rest.”

  “Will your cell phone work out here?”

 
“Probably not,” he said, but then tried anyway. He looked at the display and shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  She took a deep breath and looked around, shivering. She had planned on being back in her hut by now and hadn’t brought anything warm. Gerald’s footsteps sounded soft on the sand. She forced herself to follow him.

  They walked in silence for a while, and she wondered whether the scorpions or exposure would get them first, or if the bandits would catch up with them. “Do you think we’re going to make it?

  Gerald looked at her and held her gaze. “I know so.”

  She thought of the carnage in the back of the truck and wanted more than anything to ask him how he’d done that, but she couldn’t yet bring herself to speak of it. Maybe, in addition to being a cameraman, he was also a self-defense expert. Or maybe he was a spy. No, that was stupid. Why on earth would he be interested in Tukatar? People there barely had enough resources to survive, let alone conspire against anyone.

  And yet something about him didn’t add up. He was a cameraman from New York. Well-built, definitely a jock, probably a health club addict. But that didn’t explain how he knew how to disarm and annihilate a truckful of armed men. She didn’t think stuff like that could happen outside of Steven Seagal movies. There was more to Gerald Thornton than met the eye. For one, there had been no mention of a documentary in any of the grant information. Of course, they could have come up with it later. Or not.

  But on the off chance that he was some kind of a spy, confronting him with her theories in the middle of the desert hardly seemed the smartest thing to do. He could get upset that his cover was blown and could just leave her there. Maybe he was part of a spy ring trying to set up in Beharrain, working on establishing a believable cover, getting ready for some future operation. What that operation could possibly be, she couldn’t fathom. The country was poor beyond measure, sick and tired of war. She had trouble believing it would present a threat to anyone.