by Kaki Warner
The one trying to work the phone was a mess. Dirty, his face battered, one pantleg soaked with blood. The one caught in the snare? When they argued, Farid called him Mohammad. His eyes were cold and hard and showed no fear. Apparently he was resourceful enough to free himself, but not smart enough to work a smartphone.
Next to him, Khalil looked fat and old. But seeing the way the injured one—Muhammad—deferred to him told KD he was the leader. A fucking lunatic, Richard had called him. He looked it. Maybe he was high on drugs. He was definitely the most dangerous of the three.
“The man you killed was a lawman,” she told him. “A sheriff. Not an army officer. Not Murdock.”
With a look of fury, Khalil rounded on the youngest man. He said something in Dari. When the panicked kid shook his head, Khalil hit him across the face.
Realizing it was probably the young one who had hurt the sheriff and taken her from the house, KD saw a way to add to their confusion. “Murdock is still alive,” she said loudly, regaining Khalil’s attention. “And he’s coming for you.”
“You lie!” Farid lunged toward her, fist rising.
She tried to duck, but the blow hit her head and knocked her and the chair over onto its side. She lay stunned, while above her, a tense, whispered argument went on until the one with the bloody leg pulled Farid away.
She tried to listen as they argued. Over the ringing in her ears, all she could make out was the Dari word for wait. But when she saw Muhammad point at his phone then at her and make a slashing motion across his neck, she knew what they had planned, had seen it on the news over and over. Was she to be another videoed assassination?
Bile burned in her throat. Her lungs seized. She began to shake. It took all of her strength to block the images flashing through her mind. God . . . don’t let them . . . please . . . help me.
The three men bent over the phones again.
Numbly, she watched them from where she lay, her stomach churning with fear. From what she could make out, their three phones were identical except for the security codes. They either didn’t have facial recognition or couldn’t remember which code opened which phone or couldn’t figure out how to work the apps. Not surprising, since technical expertise wasn’t a priority in Afghanistan.
The young one came over and struggled to pull her chair back on its feet. As soon as he got KD upright, Farid came over and thrust a paper in her face. “Read!” he ordered.
It was written in Arabic. KD couldn’t tell which dialect. “Do you have one in English?” she mumbled through swollen lips, wincing at the throb in her head.
He slapped her. Started to draw back his arm again.
Then the one named Muhammad turned off the overhead light.
In the sudden dimness, KD heard him hiss for silence. As her eyes adjusted, she saw him point to the side of the tent as he snatched up one of the AKs. Flipping the safety to full auto, he worked the bolt, then put his ear close to the canvas wall.
All KD heard was an odd, snuffling noise. Like an animal’s snort.
The kid rushed over and grabbed the other AK. Khalil took a pistol, racked the slide, then they both flattened against the tent wall, guns up and ready.
Another snorting nose. Something big moving nearby.
KD couldn’t see what was happening. One eye didn’t open all the way and her head wouldn’t stop spinning long enough for her to focus. The three men argued in tense whispers. She didn’t understand their words but guessed they thought someone was outside the tent.
God, let it be Richard. She tried to listen, but all she heard was the rush of blood past her ear and moths batting against the darkened light above her head.
When nothing happened, Khalil muttered instructions to the young Afghan, then shoved him out of the tent. KD prayed for a gunshot, a scream, the sound of a body falling. But all that broke the silence was the distant wail of a siren.
Seconds later, the kid called back something that sounded like “aspa” or “asp,” which might have been Dari for “horse.”
A horse? Why was a horse running loose?
Khalil eased the flap open a few inches and looked outside. Through the gap, KD could see the dark silhouettes of tree branches against the sky and knew it was nearing dawn. Richard would find her soon.
After a short, whispered conversation with the kid, Khalil drew back inside with obvious relief. Muhammad propped his AK against the table and went back to the cell phones. They didn’t turn on the light. Khalil stuck his handgun into his belt and stood beside Muhammad, arguing and pointing to the screen. KD wished the bullet he’d left in the chamber of his automatic would discharge and blow his balls off.
Minutes passed. When the kid didn’t return, Khalil stepped close to the canvas and called in a soft voice, “Mostafa?”
No answer.
He called again, louder.
When there was still no answer, the two Afghans looked at each other. KD watched confusion turn to fear, then panic. Muhammad snatched up the AK. Khalil grabbed a knife and rushed toward KD.
With a cry, she wrenched away, expecting to feel the blade slice into her throat. When nothing happened, she saw Khalil waiting tensely beside her and Muhammad edging toward the gap in the opening of the tent. With the barrel of his AK, he eased back the flap. One inch. Two. Stepping closer, he peered out.
A deafening blast. He flew backward, clutching at his throat, then fell to the floor and lay still.
With a cry, Khalil dropped to his knees behind KD, using her for cover.
She twisted and bucked, trying to tip the chair on its side so she would be out of the line of fire, but Khalil grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and pressed the knife against her throat.
KD froze, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
A second later, Richard stepped over Muhammad’s body and into the tent.
He wore an expression KD had never seen. Teeth bared. Eyes so focused, he hardly blinked. Muscles taut in the arms and hands that held his big automatic in a two-handed shooter’s grip. “Put down the knife, Farid,” he ordered.
“Stay back!” Khalil warned, pushing the blade harder against KD’s neck.
She felt a warm trickle but didn’t dare move. Khalil panted behind her, his hot breath against the back of her head.
Shoot him! Shoot him now!
Richard took a step forward. He didn’t look at KD. The barrel of his gun never wavered. “Now, Farid.”
Dalton stepped into the tent, his pistol up and ready. Alejandro came in behind him, holding a knife. Then Sarge, smiling and flexing his hands.
“Stop! Or I will kill her!” The Afghan cried out in a high, thin voice.
“Let her go and we’ll let you go,” Dalton said. He stepped off to Richard’s side, forcing Farid to shift on his knees so KD would screen him from both men.
The Afghan’s breathing turned into a whimper and he shifted back when Alejandro and Sarge stepped nearer on his other side. “Come no closer!”
“We don’t want to hurt you,” Dalton said in his calm, even voice. “Put down the knife. And the gun in your belt. We won’t shoot.”
The man behind her didn’t move. KD could smell his sweat, feel the tremble in the knife against her neck. Afraid Khalil’s terror would drive him to do something stupid, KD said in a strained voice, “You’ve done nothing wrong, Khalil.”
“Be silent!” he hissed, his breath rancid with fear.
“It was Mostafa who killed the sheriff,” she insisted, hoping she was wrong and Ford was still alive. “Not you. By our laws, you’ve done nothing wrong. They’ll have to let you go.”
“It’s true,” Dalton cut in. “If you release her, we have to let you go. That’s the law. But if you hurt her, we’ll kill you.”
KD sensed the man’s terror and indecision. Felt the knife waver.
Shoot him!
her mind screamed.
“Last chance,” Dalton said. “Drop it now.”
Alejandro and Sarge edged closer.
Richard didn’t move. Never looked away from Khalil.
One second. Two. The blade left KD’s neck. Khalil let go of her hair. When KD heard the thump of the knife hitting the floor, she sagged forward in relief.
“Good choice, Khalil,” Dalton said. “Stand up.”
Grunting with the effort, Khalil staggered to his feet.
“Now step back.”
Khalil stepped back. But KD could still feel him looming behind her and shrank away, terrified he might try to grab her again.
“Take out the gun and put it on the floor,” Dalton ordered.
KD watched Dalton’s eyes as he tracked Khalil’s hand down to his belt. Heard the rustle of cloth as Farid pulled the gun free. Then she flinched in startled terror when Richard’s gun went off with an earsplitting boom, and Khalil fell to the floor behind her.
The next few minutes were chaos—Richard kneeling by her chair to cut the ties—Dalton calling Raney to bring the Expedition but to keep the EMTs there until they brought KD to the house—Alejandro and Sarge crowding close, faces worried, asking if she was okay.
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Hoarse sobs rose in her throat.
As soon as she was free, she threw herself at Richard, desperate to feel his arms around her, to know she was safe and he was alive. She couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t believe they had survived. “He said you were dead,” she cried against his neck. “I didn’t believe it. I knew you would come. You always come when I need you.”
She could feel the tremble in his arms, the thud of his heart against hers, hot tears falling into her hair. “I’m here, babe. You’re safe. I’m safe. It’s over.”
CHAPTER 22
After telling the men not to touch anything and to leave the tent, Richard took KD out to a bench beside the fire ring. Alejandro found a blanket in one of the other tents, brought it to Richard, murmured something in Spanish to KD, then left to find his horse and take it back to the livestock barn.
After wrapping the blanket around KD’s shaking body, Richard pulled her onto his lap and held her tight against his body, not knowing if her shivering was from fear, or shock or because she was cold. Closing his eyes against an onslaught of emotion, he began to rock, the same thoughts circling his mind in an unending loop: She’s alive. She’s safe. Thank you, God.
A few minutes later, Raney drove up with good news. Sheriff Ford was alive and had a good chance of pulling through. Hearing that after such a long, terrible night, boosted everyone’s sagging spirits.
While Richard gently loaded KD into the second row of seats in the Expedition then climbed in beside her, Sarge showed Dalton where he’d come across the third Afghan—facedown in the creek. No obvious wounds, but the angle of the head might indicate a broken neck. No one asked Sarge how he’d discovered the body. No one wanted to know.
After returning Richard’s backup gun, Dalton took the wheel of the Expedition; Raney, the passenger seat; and Sarge crowded into the rear. Then they headed slowly back to the house.
Richard couldn’t tell how badly KD was hurt. She seemed lucid and was able to talk, although she was shaking so much, he had trouble understanding her. He was shaky, too, still caught between fear and rage whenever he thought of Khalil’s knife at her throat. He tried to stay calm, knowing the day wasn’t over and there would be questions to answer, but he had little energy left to think. All he could do was look down at the woman in his arms and wonder what he would have done if he’d lost her.
In the front seat, Raney chattered nonstop, as strung out on adrenalin as the rest of them were. She told them that without Shirley’s quick intervention, Ford might have bled to death, but now he was stable and ready for transport as soon as the EMTs checked out KD. “He was even able to talk to Mama on the phone, which was kind of sweet.”
But there was troubling news, too.
Someone in either the Border Patrol, the Texas Highway Patrol, or the army’s MP Division had alerted the Department of Homeland Security about the three Afghans crossing the border, and DHS had called in the FBI. “They’re already showing up,” Raney warned.
Richard envisioned a long day ahead and was determined that, if charges were brought, none of these guys went down with him. “Listen up,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the noise of the motor. “Let me talk to the FBI. Dalton, if either you or Sarge are questioned, I want you to say you weren’t inside the tent when Farid or the other man were shot.”
“Muhammad,” KD said weakly. “He was the one in the snare. The young one . . . Mostafa . . . took me from the house.”
Richard filed that away, then continued his instructions. “Say you didn’t see anything. Period. Sarge, make sure Alejandro knows. KD will back you up, right, babe?”
She gave a shaky nod. “I only remember seeing you come in, then hearing gunfire.”
The words sounded convincing, but Richard knew they weren’t true. He’d seen the fear and horror on her poor battered face. She’d been aware of everything going on around her.
“Why you trying to cover for us?” Sarge asked from the rear seat.
“I’m not covering. I’m simplifying. My SIG 40 was the only gun fired. Which means I’m the only shooter. Got it?”
Sarge laughed. “I don’t need no fucking gun to kill a terrorist,” he said, giving Richard another reason to keep him as far away from the feds as possible.
“Look, guys.” Richard needed to get this settled before they reached the house. “I know what I’m doing. I was interrogated dozens of times as part of my PsyOps training, and I conducted double that number as a CID agent. I know how to protect myself, so let me handle it, Okay?”
Richard knew there would be questions. No witnesses to Mostafa’s death—and only Richard’s account of how Muhammad and Farid died. The FBI would question KD, but she would tell them the same thing Richard did, or fall back on a memory lapse after her attack. Either way, forensics would back them up. As long as Dalton, Alejandro, and Sarge said they came into the tent after the shooting, everything would be okay.
Granted, there might be lingering doubts about the cuts and contusions on Muhammad. Or questions about how three Afghans on the national watch list could have gotten into the country undetected. Or why the State Department had issued an entry visa to a known Taliban sympathizer in the first place. But the answers to most of those questions were classified, and since there was no one to corroborate or refute Richard’s and KD’s accounts of what happened in the tent, Richard was confident they could all walk away clean from this nightmare.
It took some discussion, but by the time they’d arrived at the house, they were all agreed: Richard had the only gun; no one saw Mostafa after he left to follow the horse; only KD and Richard had been in the tent when Farid and Muhammad were shot. And most important—Richard would be the one to talk to the feds.
As long as he could stay awake.
It wouldn’t be easy. The constant need to stay vigilant and ready to act on an instant’s notice, coupled with his unrelenting fear for KD, had sucked all the energy out of him. The adrenalin crash left him feeling numb, sluggish, his thoughts scattered. All he wanted to do was sleep. But he knew he had to stay focused if he hoped to convince the FBI that the shootings in Tent City were warranted. He might not like what he’d had to do, but he certainly wouldn’t lose sleep over killing two terrorists. Some actions were justified, no matter how brutal and ugly they were, and using lethal force against two terrorists was one of them.
An EMT was waiting on the veranda when Dalton pulled into the parking area—as were four stern-faced people wearing FBI ball caps and windbreakers. When the medic took KD into the guest room to check her over, an FBI tech with a black bag and a camera a
round her neck went with them.
Richard pulled Raney aside and told her to go with them. “Make sure they get samples of Khalil’s blood in KD’s hair and on the back of her shirt.” As soon as the door had closed behind her, he went back to the three agents on the veranda and said, “There are three dead bodies out past the creek. Cardwell can show you where.”
Immediately, the female special agent in charge—SAIC Remmert—sent an agent back to the crime scene with Dalton. Then she and Agent Brouwer, a young man with less cynicism in his eyes than the SAIC, took Richard into the office for a private interview. Remmert motioned for Richard to take one of the leather chairs flanking the fireplace. She moved to the other. Agent Brouwer pulled up the desk chair. Smiles all around. Nothing threatening or official here, folks. Just a friendly, cozy chat.
Yeah, right.
As soon as he’d sat down, Richard asked for something to drink and eat.
The junior agent went back to the kitchen. Remmert took a small recorder from her pocket and set it on the table between their chairs. With an apologetic smile, she explained that it was agency policy to record all interviews.
“Good idea,” Richard said, and pulled out his cell phone, set it to record, and put it on the table beside the FBI recorder. Remmert didn’t look happy, but she didn’t ask Richard to remove it.
By the time they’d covered the basics—Richard’s full name, DOB, etc., Brouwer was back with coffee, water, and a PB&J wrapped in a paper towel.
While he ate, Richard told them he had shot Khalil Farid and the man KD had identified as Muhammad—last name unknown. The younger Afghan, Mostafa—also last name unknown—had died of either a broken neck or drowning. Possibly from a fall, since they’d found him at the bottom of a six-foot drop, facedown, in the creek. Then the questions began, growing less friendly and more direct as they went along, carefully timed to keep the person being questioned off balance. A common interrogation technique. Richard was familiar with it. But unlike most of the people he had interviewed, he knew to keep his answers short and on point.
