Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  Dedication

  Like the pioneers before us, Texas pilgrims today share the age-old desire for a future as bright as our stars. Being Texan isn’t a birthright, it’s a state of mind. It’s to the trailblazers of past, present, and future that I dedicate this novel.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  Part Two 11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  Part Three 26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Part Four 36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  At ten years of age, Asadi Saleem didn’t know much, other than that he was in danger, maybe even about to die. His clearest memory of the attack was falling face-first into the snow outside the house. That was when the coldness crept into his bones.

  He was certain the killers were the same men he’d seen before. The skinny one had a lizard’s face, pointed and smooth. The giant was scruffy, with a reddish-blond beard that dangled like a goat’s.

  Now Asadi was their prisoner.

  With only a T-shirt and underwear as insulation, he could feel the icy metal floor of the van biting at his skin. He tried to rise, but his hands and feet were tethered. Asadi yanked at the restraints but his body was nearly frozen and his muscles quivered like jelly. He tugged harder, just as the brakes squealed and the van came to a stop.

  The creaking of hinges preceded two sharp clanks. Soft footsteps and calm voices gave way to shouting and a scuffle. The violent outbreak was followed by silence.

  Tears burned in Asadi’s eyes, but just as he began to weep, the voices outside grew loud again. As grief morphed into panic, Asadi turned to the black windows. Although it was difficult to make out any definite shapes, he could tell there was someone holding a flashlight.

  A border crossing? A policeman?

  With a glimmer of hope, Asadi screamed, but only a whimper escaped through the rope cinched over his cracked lips. He swallowed hard against the metallic tang of blood and cried out again as a key zipped into the lock on the rear of the van.

  The doors swung open, revealing two silhouettes. Asadi’s heart sank as one moved closer with a syringe. Clamping his eyes shut, he curled into a ball, and sobbed a desperate prayer. The prick to his neck sent a shock wave of pain through his body as the image of his captor echoed in his brain.

  His only shred of hope came from the familiar neon sign in the distance—the one he remembered from two days before—of a smiling bandit atop a galloping red stallion, blazing like fire. Its legs pulsated in an alternating pattern that changed by the second.

  Sliding back into the fog of his frozen nightmare, Asadi’s mind clung to the vision of a man and his horse, racing to save him. He’d be rescued by his friend—the cowboy—the one who’d promised—you’ll always be safe with me.

  Part One

  The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.

  —Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove

  1

  Three days earlier . . .

  Nasrin, Afghanistan

  Garrett Kohl kept looking back at his dusty white Land Cruiser, nestled between the foothills about forty yards down the ridge. A little rough and dirty math showed he was nearly out of the safe zone and drifting farther from it by the second.

  He tried to squelch the chiding voice in his head, but with every step he took into the mountainous Taliban terrain, it grew more persistent. By the time he was nearing the edge of the escarpment overlooking the small Afghan village, an old line of caution boomed in his head like a honky-tonk serenade.

  If you get your ass in, you better get your ass out.

  Had Garrett been sipping on a Shiner Bock beer at the Stumblin’ Goat Saloon he might have enjoyed the melody. But the warning was no beer joint poetry dripping from the mouths of Sturgill Simpson or Robert Earl Keen. It was a little hard knocks wisdom imparted five years prior by a seasoned instructor at the DEA Academy in Quantico.

  A Georgia-born gunslinger named Joe Bob Dawson ended every tradecraft lesson and war story with one of several sayings. First among his favorites was I didn’t get this old by accident, which was followed by a close second: I want to meet Jesus, just not today.

  Either way, the message to his deep-cover officers was clear. The kind of work they did was as dangerous as it gets.

  As a former Green Beret turned DEA special agent, Garrett had, over the years, become a devoted disciple of more than a few old hands who had been there, done that, bought the bloodstained T-shirt. And he treated their lessons like gospel. He’d been in a few tight spots more than once, and their wisdom had saved him on several occasions.

  Slowing his pace, Garrett dropped into the prone position and inched over a blanket of powdery snow to the edge of a crag overlooking the valley. Finding good cover behind the serrated stump of a fallen gray cedar, he lay flush against the cold granite, struggling to catch his breath as adrenaline surged and lactic acid pumped into his aching thighs.

  After a short rest, he rolled to his side, unzipped his brown Carhartt jacket and jerked at its fleece lining to let a little cool air flow in. Garrett nudged the black Filson watch cap up on his forehead, raised the camera’s viewfinder, and made a slight adjustment to the lens. Once the snowcapped mountain peaks were in focus, he shifted his gaze downward to a narrow but powerful mountain tributary.

  The meadow lining its banks was emerald green, reminding him of photos he’d seen from Ireland and Scotland. But the crown jewel of the whole view was the sky-colored water swirling over jagged gray fangs of rock. The image was surreal, like some lost valley from an ancient storybook world.

  In fact, it would have been a postcard-worthy shot were it not for the two dozen heavily armed tangos bunched around at the creek, about sixty yards below his position. He didn’t recognize them, but they were dressed in black shalwar kameez and carried Kalashnikov rifle variants with polymer stocks. Their modern rifles and tactical chest rigs made them look more like paramilitary troops than straight-up Taliban or ISIS.

  Of course, it was growing nearly impossible to identify anyone by guns and gear. Since the pullout of NATO forces, terrorist organizations, drug runners, and warlords were thriving, in large part due to proceeds from the opium trade. For that reason, Garrett and his DEA team were deployed to Afghanistan. The jihadi movement had grown bigger than ideology. It was about money and power. And selling the drug large scale bought dump trucks full of both.

  The call to morning prayers caught Garrett’s attention, and he watched the tangos drop to their knees on small maroon rugs laid out on the chalky stone. With heads wrapped in black turbans, they bowed and rose, mumbling in a low steady cadence that carried on the wind. The hunter in Garrett liked the sound cover provided by the gale, but the rest of him cursed the damn bite of it.

  Garrett adjusted the lens, zoomed in on the creek, and captu
red a few photos of weapons and equipment. There were three Toyota Hilux pickups and a red Nissan four-by-four pickup with a Dushka machine gun mounted over the cab. But nothing out of the ordinary for a warlord’s convoy.

  Several more snaps with the camera and he checked his six. No one in sight, but a deep uneasiness set in, a burn in his stomach he recognized from over a decade of war-zone tours and undercover assignments. Garrett didn’t normally travel alone, but the rest of his unit had relocated from Camp Tsavo to another Forward Operating Base (FOB) southwest of Kandahar. This elite squad of expert counternarcotics and counterterrorist fighters made up of former operators from Army Special Forces, Rangers, Navy SEALs, and Force Recon Marines had shifted their efforts to tackle opium production in the fields.

  Garrett was left standing to continue running their confidential sources. Cultivation and trafficking were two separate parts of the same serious problem, and DEA headquarters didn’t want either getting worse. Unfortunately, Washington’s allocation of resources wasn’t consistent with its expectations. He and his team did the best they could with what they were given, but it was only a matter of time before something big fell through the cracks.

  At the sound of a cranking engine, Garrett eased the camera back around and brought the lens into focus on the Nissan. He was repositioning for a better view when a stinging gust of wind tore across the valley—chilling him to the bone. He grabbed a black-and-gray shemagh scarf from his pack, wrapped it around his face, and tugged the coat’s hood over his head.

  With hair past his collar, a thick beard, and sleeve-tattoos inked over sinewy arms, Garrett came across as a hell of a lot more outlaw than lawman. It was a look and persona he’d affectionally dubbed redneck crank dealer, developed while working deep-cover operations in the meth trade around North Dakota’s oil fields and interstate truck stops. He’d later perfected the guise smuggling cocaine for Mexican cartels in the border hinterlands of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona—mostly along the Rio Grande.

  Surviving in this world meant playing the part. And Garrett played it to a T. On top of the assortment of tattoos that included death skulls and screaming Comanche warriors, he wore trucker hats, pearl snap shirts, faded Wranglers, and Twisted X boots. Between the look, swagger, and a whole mess of battle scars, there wasn’t a square inch of him that didn’t look rodeo cowboy gone horribly off the rails. If someone ever questioned his authenticity, they sure didn’t do it to his face.

  Garrett focused in on the red Nissan pickup that had moved parallel to the creek. In addition to the Dushka machine gun there were two RPGs lying on the tailgate. Lots of lead and gunpowder but not what he was looking for. No drugs. No money.

  According to his source, a Russian arms dealer named Vadik Sokolov, the Taliban in the area were delivering a good-size shipment of opium to an Uzbek buyer that morning. It was a payload estimated in the millions of dollars. Garrett debated the reliability of the intel, knowing full well it could be garbage, but Vadik had never steered him wrong. And because of that fact he was freezing his butt off up in the mountains and hoping like hell he could stay out of sight.

  Getting caught out there alone was a surefire ticket to a miserable death. He’d be mutilated and murdered or murdered and mutilated. Either way, it was a helluva bad end. But serious money bought serious weapons, and a cash infusion of that magnitude to the Taliban, ISIS, or any other terrorist organization posed a major security threat. Reporting of loose SA-24 surface-to-air weapons systems had upped the ante. Russian missiles capable of hitting a jet at over ten thousand feet posed a grave risk to U.S. forces operating in-country, not to mention civilian airliners if smuggled overseas.

  Looking over at the opposite bank from where the Nissan sat, Garrett watched as a group of black-clad men herded a crowd of villagers, including women and children, into the icy shallows. Nearly forty or fifty friendlies at a rough count. There was a fair amount of yelling and screaming from both sides, but it was unclear to Garrett exactly what was going down or why. Tribal disputes were common, particularly in this part of the country, but they usually resulted in little more than threats and some bruised egos on behalf of whoever was on the receiving end.

  Which is why it came as a gut punch when the armed men raised their rifles and let loose a barrage of machine-gun fire that sent the villagers tumbling back into the water. A few seconds passed, and those who hadn’t drifted with the current met a second volley that finished the job.

  It was a scene more horrific than any Garrett had ever witnessed on the battlefield—and that was saying plenty. As a combat veteran, he’d seen men shot and blown up, and he’d held them while they died. But there was nothing so horrifying as the slaughter of women and children.

  Unlike Hollywood’s depiction of a quick, painless death by shooting, the reality was deeply unsettling. Panicked villagers gave in to their baser instincts. They clawed, scratched, and climbed over each other to flee the onslaught of bullets. Shrieks of pain and grief rose above the echoing gunfire in a deafening discord of pleas from the dying.

  Garrett was stunned by how quickly the firing squad had acted. Forcing himself back into the moment, he contemplated a plan to put an end to the bloodbath, but at this point, there wasn’t much left to stop. Beyond that, taking on this many men alone would be suicide. There was nothing to do but capture it on film, head back to Tsavo, and send a report to headquarters.

  Satisfied he’d taken enough photos to capture the horror, Garrett was about to turn and head down the slope when he saw five villagers swim the creek. But before they made it to the other side, waiting soldiers either shot the poor souls or finished them off with their knives.

  Garrett took a deep breath and contemplated his options. With only his LWRC M6 rifle and a couple extra mags on his gun belt, he could punish a few of the bastards, but then what? The rules of engagement were clear. Weapons were for defense not revenge. If he engaged first, he’d be looked upon little differently than the murderers below.

  Aside from that, he was in a region off-limits to Americans pursuant to a treaty negotiated between the Afghan government and the Taliban. Washington and Kabul were trying to keep the peace, and Garrett’s violation would be upsetting the applecart with a stick of dynamite.

  For his infractions, the CIA base chief would have him on the first flight home to face a firestorm of political and legal scrutiny. At best, it would end his career. At worst, he’d go to prison. And that was assuming he made it out alive in the first place. Although rage flowed through him like an electric current, he quickly tamped down his feelings and made the rational decision to exfil.

  Easing back over the edge for a last look, Garrett raised his rifle and peered through the magnified optic to find three black-clad fighters charging up the ridge. His hair stood on end in momentary panic until he realized they weren’t after him but a village boy no older than ten. They were about forty yards out and closing fast.

  Garrett’s pulse raced but the world around him decelerated into slow motion. With his senses kicked into overdrive, the click of his rifle’s selector from SAFE to FIRE seemed loud enough to give away his position. He glanced behind him at his Land Cruiser, his instincts screaming at him to haul ass and jump inside, but for some reason he couldn’t move. Whether it was a duty to stay or the guilt of leaving, Garrett wasn’t sure. He only knew that a whisper from God superseded his flight response. Over and over he heard. Not. Just. Yet.

  Garrett returned to the scope and found the kid again, the boy’s eyes streaming with tears, chest heaving as he gulped in panicked breaths. The kid had gained a decent lead on his pursuers, but a slip on some loose rocks caused him to stumble and fall. Popping up with a skinned knee, the boy tried to run, but the nearest attacker, knife gripped in one hand, extended the other and clutched his foot. The child wailed in pure terror, crying out for his mother.

  That pitiful scream moved Garrett more than any threat of torture or death. And it was in that microsecond that he tuned out eve
ry bit of wisdom he’d ever heard and followed the voice speaking to his soul.

  The crack of Garrett’s rifle signaled the launch of three rounds that slammed into the attacker’s chest, cutting short the swing of his blade and sending him tumbling backward in a cloud of gray dust. Sliding his crosshairs right, Garrett lined up on an orange-bearded freak who lumbered up behind the boy. His face was tensed, neck muscles clenched as he raised the dagger to strike. But a single shot from the M6 punched a tiny hole below his left eye, killing him instantly.

  Immediately shifting upward, Garrett steadied the crosshairs on the third fighter, and landed a bullet center mass, crumpling him into a pile of black rags atop the chalky white stone.

  Garrett flinched as a 7.62 round cracked by, rolled left, canted the rifle to access the offset red dot, and shot at a half dozen marauders sprinting for cover behind the Nissan. Downing one and hobbling another, he shifted fire to a group caught out in the open.

  Emptying his rifle, Garrett dropped the mag, snatched a reload from his belt, and jammed it in the magwell. He hit the bolt release and went back to work. In a matter of seconds, his last round was spent, and there was nothing left but the lingering echo of gunfire and a pile of dead bodies.

  In a lull of return fire, he peered over the ridge to find the kid still thirty yards out, clawing his way upward. The gravel beneath his feet was making progress difficult.

  Garrett rose to help, but a fusillade of rounds ripped overhead and pinned him flat. He popped in a new mag and was acquiring a target when two fighters behind the Nissan leapt into the bed and swung the Dushka in his direction. The gunmen were in his crosshairs, but the machine gun belched first, unleashing a buzz saw of Soviet-era firepower as the bullets climbed the ridge.

  Since it wasn’t if but when the massive projectiles connected, Garrett dumped three rounds into the Nissan’s engine compartment, then took a couple of potshots at the Dushka operators as he scrambled to his feet.