by Chase Austin
“Akram!” Wick whispered his name again.
The man shifted his weight on the bedding and cocked his head to look at Wick.
“Omar, is that you?”
“Yes, I’m here. You okay?”
“I knew you would come. I knew it.” There was an unusual glee in his voice.
Wick remained where he was, watching Akram struggle to lift himself up on the mattress. After an arduous ten minutes, he was able to come to a sitting position, leaning against the wall for support. He wore a torn police uniform, and his yellowish skin was peeling off, perhaps due to an excess of drugs, or perhaps because he suffered from some skin ailment, Wick couldn’t tell for sure. He made sure to not touch him or go any closer than was needed.
“Did you bring it?” Akram’s voice trembled in anticipation. He was staring at the floor, purposely not making eye contact with Wick.
“Yes,” Wick said.
Akram extended his right hand, palm open.
“I need something first.” Wick put the plastic bag back in his pocket.
“How many times I have told you, I know nothing,” Akram shouted. His lips curled with hate and the corner of his mouth frothed with anger. He still did not make eye contact. His tongue flicked out repeatedly, licking his lips.
“You don’t know what I want,” Wick said in a low whisper.
Akram said nothing.
“You know about an American reporter gone missing today?”
This time Akram raised his eyes to look at Wick. For a fleeting moment their eyes met, then Akram lowered his eyes again, staring at the floor.
“I know nothing.” His body shivered.
“Okay, if you want to play it like this.” Wick turned around to leave.
Akram saw his patron leaving and his mind rebelled against him. His body ached for the promised dose. His hands wanted to strangle Wick to death or crack open his skull. He could have done any of those things once, but now he was just an empty shell of his older self.
“Wait, please wait,” Akram pleaded. He was still a salaried police officer, but without a station and with a drug problem. It was his network of informants across the Helmand province that had kept him alive so far. Wick had discovered this very early during his stay in Afghanistan. He had met him as a civilian and soon understood that Akram fed information for cash to the various armed forces acting against the Taliban. This barter system had grown to include opium too, and Akram had had a good thing going for him. But then the regime changed, and what had been Akram’s selling point was now used by the new government itself to get US financial aid, making him redundant. However, he still had a few people who came to him for intel and that kept him alive. Wick was one of them.
Wick stopped and turned to face him.
“I know about the American.”
“I’m listening,” Wick said.
“They’ll kill me if they know I snitched.”
“Who will tell them? We are the only ones here.” Wick took out the packet again. “But if you do not get this soon, then you will definitely be dead before the next time I see you.” Akram’s eyes trailed the packet.
“What do you want to know?”
“Who took him and where?”
“Why?”
“None of your concern.” Wick was in no mood to oblige his curiosity.
Akram wiggled as if he were trying to unshackle his chains. “Give me some of that, I’ll die if I don’t get it right now.”
“Enough of your games, Akram. The next thing I want to hear from you is the answer to my questions.”
“I knew you would come when I heard about that American,” Akram screamed, gnashing his teeth. His eyes flamed with fury. With no warning, he leaped from the bed onto Wick and dug his nails into his skin. Wick took a step back. His grasp on the bag loosened, but it still hung from his little finger. He regained his balance and hurled a blow at Akram’s temple. Akram sprawled back on the mattress with a horrible groan.
Wick knelt, looking Akram straight in the eye. He spoke softly, enunciating each word. “If you ever do something like that again, I will break every bone of your body.”
“I just want that bag. Please... please, I’ll die.”
“You won’t. But if you lie, I will kill you. And you can’t do shit about it.”
“The Taliban took him.” Akram had no other option.
“Where?”
“There is a place not far from here, near the Pakistan–Afghanistan border. I don’t know the exact location, but…” Akram appeared to doze off. A sharp slap brought him around. He growled in return, trying to hit back but then curbed his instincts.
“Where?” Wick repeated.
“It’s a new place,” Akram mumbled, wiping his spittle.
“New place?”
“It wasn’t there a few months ago. Now it’s the only place where they take traitors to kill them.”
Wick said nothing, giving Akram a long look, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth.
“I’m not lying,” Akram yelled, reading his thoughts.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know,” Akram mumbled to himself but then saw Wick moving aggressively forward. “I... I… I know a man who could take you to the place.”
“Who?”
“Wasim…. Wasimullah. He is a deputy commander in the Taliban. He and his team grabbed your man.”
“Where would I find him?”
“You out of your mind? He has an army. If he comes to know about you, he will not just stop at you. He will kill your family, and everyone you know, just for fun.”
“You are concerned about me. I’m touched.” Wick said, sarcastically.
“What’s this American to you?” Akram raised his sweaty face. His eyes were moist, and lips parched.
Wick stayed silent.
“Omar, I pity you.”
“Address,” Wick said, cranking up the pressure.
Akram’s face contorted as he dwelled hard on his options.
“I don’t have time, and neither do you.” Wick dangled the bag, pressing further.
“Wasim will be in the town to meet his mother.” Akram broke under pressure.
“When?”
“Today.”
“Where?”
“I need that bag first”
Wick handed him the bag. Akram blurted out the address and withdrew eagerly into his shell with his prize. Wick looked at him snorting the powder greedily. It would probably be his final dose.
Chapter 7
Standing in the shadow of the building, Wick took out a burner phone from his coat’s inner pocket and dialed Eddie’s number from memory.
“It’s me,” he said as soon as the call connected.
“Good to hear your voice.”
“Need your help.”
“Last time I heard, they asked me to stay out. The word they used, if I recall right, was ‘loose cannon’.”
“Not anymore.”
“Says who?” Eddie asked.
“Helms.”
“Helms?… William Helms?”
“I don’t know anyone else with that name.”
“I haven’t received any orders.”
“These are your orders. You in or out? If you’re happy to bide your time on that military base, doing paperwork while the other soldiers bore you with fake stories of their bravado, be my guest.” Wick clearly wasn’t interested in stretching the conversation more than it was necessary.
Eddie thought about it for a moment. “What do you want me to do?”
“You don’t want to know what’s in it for you?” Wick asked.
“I’m all ears.” Eddie chuckled.
“Note down this address first.”
“Okay.”
Wick gave Eddie a drill down of Josh, Wasim and his upcoming visit to his mother’s house. Eddie listened, asked a few questions and then was off to work.
By the time Eddie reached out to his commanding officer, the CO had already r
eceived a call from his boss about the Eddie’s new assignment which he received with surprise.
What could they want from this paper pusher? That was all he could think when Eddie came to him.
His doubts were legit. Eddie, an El Paso stock with a boyish grin, black hair, and vital green eyes, was unlike the muscular officers in his unit. He was short and wiry and more importantly, a good for nothing recruit.
It was on his boss’s order that he had to take Eddie in, as someone who could help the CO with the mounting paperwork, and Eddie could not be sent to the field without explicit permission from the higher-ups.
He hated Eddie from the word go. The reasons were many. One of them was that he knew nothing about the new recruit except that he was in Afghanistan for the last eight months. Secondly, he had no say in his appointment to his unit, and third, and the most important one was that he knew, Eddie was there just to bide his time, unlike others who were there for their country. And for the CO, it was the most selfish thing a soldier could do.
Being a part of the TF-77, it was a regular protocol to re-assign the assets to the nearest army units as someone who amounted to nothing. This was important as a part of their cover although, in the case of Eddie, it was, in fact, his partial suspension for not adhering to the orders.
Eddie knew all this. He also knew that the CO hated him. He knew that he didn’t fit in the unit. All this amplified his problems, but this was the closest he could have been to the battlefield. So, he kept his head down and was biding his time silently, until today.
Standing in the hall of the police station, Wick gazed outside. Even under a new sun, the landscape was still devoid of men. An eerie silence filled the beautiful scenery. Wick stepped out and started to walk towards the safe house. A few minutes later, he fell into a slow jog. He had to do something else before Eddie came back to him with Wasim’s whereabouts.
Chapter 8
A pair of eyes, watched Wick through a pair of military grade binoculars from the top of a building some five hundred yards away from the police station. The man watched Wick speaking to someone on the phone and then leaving on foot, the same way he had arrived, until he became a tiny dot in the vast expanse of barren land. Once the man was sure that Wick wasn’t coming back, he grabbed his bag, threw his equipment inside and ran for the stairs.
The man dressed in a white t-shirt, khaki pants, and clubman sunglasses hopped into his Toyota SUV parked behind the building, hidden beneath a green cover.
He turned the ignition on and raced to the Police Station. Instead of parking near the front gate, he drove the SUV to the back of the building. The tire marks already present on the sand testified to the SUV’s previous visit in the not-so-distant past.
In the room on the second floor, Akram was on the verge of dozing off when someone grabbed him by his collar and yanked him out of his makeshift shelter.
Akram was in no condition to fight back. The man slapped him hard and flung to the floor like he was a ragdoll. The back of Akram’s head hit the concrete and he cried out in pain.
“Are you out of your mind?” Akram yelled.
“Good that you are in your senses. What have you told him?”
“Whatever you asked me to. Where is my money?” Akram grunted.
The man ignored his question, walking towards the only window of the room.
“Where’s my money?” Akram’s voice trailed him.
The man peered outside the window. A tiny grey recorder was stuck in the space between two bricks. He carefully plucked it out. He then took out a listening device from his pocket and plugged it into the recorder. For the next few minutes, he listened to the recording, occasionally rewinding and forwarding the recording. Once he was sure he had captured every nuance of their conversation, he turned his attention back to Akram, who was staring at him incredulously.
“When did you…” Akram faltered when he saw the man taking out a silenced gun. “No… No…” Akram tried to crawl away but the first two bullets unerringly found their way into his skull.
Chapter 9
EDDIE GOT off the hired three-wheeler, three blocks away from the location. He intended to walk the rest of the distance. In a busy neighborhood, mixing in with the locals was vital. Eddie looked like a professor wearing a blue perahan tunban with black-rimmed round glasses. On his right shoulder he carried a duffle bag that matched perfectly with his overall outfit and carried everything he needed.
The most important thing in the bag was a pair of Steiner military binoculars. With an astonishing 6500-yard range, the binoculars were high on precision. With an 8X magnification and a weight of 33 oz, it was useful for missions like these and perfect for someone like him who preferred to travel light.
It didn’t take him long to find the target location. It was the only house with two guards at the front door, brandishing loaded assault rifles. Eddie ambled past the house without making eye contact with either of the two gunmen. He walked to the end of the road and took a right. Once he crossed the bend, he increased his pace, covering the next two blocks quickly. Halfway through the third block, he found a six-story under-construction building with a perfect vantage point of the house.
He skimmed the neighborhood for any onlookers, anyone who could pose a problem. The locality was deserted. The time was eleven in the morning and people were probably off to work. Without losing an extra second, he walked into the building. He found the stairs to his right. Taking multiple strides at a time, he reached the top of the building in no time. On the rooftop, he took out the binoculars and immediately pinned down the house. At 6X magnification, he could clearly see the front porch secured by the two men he had walked past. He took out a tiny earpiece with a mic and stuck it in his ear.
“Eddie checking in.”
On the other side, Wick’s earpiece crackled.
“What’s the situation?”
“Stationed on the sixth floor of an under-construction building, three blocks south of the target. Two tangos securing the front door. No other movement. The target possibly has not yet arrived.”
“Okay, stay put. I’ll be there soon.”
Eddie didn’t have to wait long. Some thirty minutes later, three open Toyota SUVs turned into the street. One by one they came to a gentle halt in front of the house. Doors of the first and the third SUV opened. Four men with Kalashnikov assault rifles emerged from each vehicle. On any other street in the world, this would have caused immediate panic, but this was Afghanistan. There was barely a ripple. Once they secured the perimeter, the second SUV opened, and a man got out. Wasim, Eddie guessed, though he had no way of knowing for sure.
Eddie tapped for Wick on the earpiece but found only static. He was off the grid. Eddie was three blocks away and if the cavalcade moved again, he had no way to tail it.
He decided to keep his focus on the one-story house and wait for Wick.
Chapter 10
THE MEN from the SUVs disappeared into the house, and the street became like any other.
Close to the house, a group of eight- to ten-year-old boys was playing cricket.
The batsman was a lanky boy, just under four feet in height, while the kid at the bowler’s end was thin and short, looking a year younger than the batsman. His face turned red as he took a long run-up for pitching the ball at the batsman. His sprint was fast and steady. He released the ball from the top of his hand with a nice inward angle. The ball hit the uneven pitch and remained low. The batsman was ready; he expertly maneuvered the uneven bounce and swung his bat. There was a loud thwack of the ball hitting wood, and the ball soared skywards. A boy fielding at the boundary misjudged the trajectory and started his sprint a second too late. The ball came down, bounced across the street and rolled under the third SUV. The fielder came running and peered under the SUV. The ball wasn’t there. He walked around the SUV and knelt on the ground looking all around. No sign of the ball still.
“Did you see any ball here?” the boy asked one of the two gunmen secur
ing the house.
“This is not a playground,” one of them snapped.
