Down Range

by Taylor Moore

  He looked over the edge to where the boy had been but only churned-up earth remained. Even over the cacophony of gunfire and strafing rounds, Garrett could still hear the cries. It was only in his mind, he knew, but it would scar his soul nonetheless. Yet another life he could not save.

  With a heavy heart, Garrett aborted his rescue and tore a path down the embankment in the opposite direction, fighting for purchase atop loose gravel. He was within fifteen yards of his vehicle when gunfire sounded from behind. At five yards, the tingting of bullets rang out as they hit the armor-plated doors. He dove headfirst under the engine block and low-crawled to the passenger side as rounds cracked overhead.

  Garrett kept beneath the windows as he climbed in and slid to the driver’s side. The steel doors had held so far, but a heavy-caliber round or RPG would be the end. Once behind the wheel, he cranked the engine and was about to throw it in gear when he witnessed what had to be an adrenaline-fueled hallucination.

  The boy had not only escaped the knife-wielding mob and Dushka machine gun, he was standing outside. Garrett opened the door and yanked him in with a swift tug.

  Swiveling back, Garrett jerked the Glock 17 from his holster and blasted twice, hitting the closest pursuer center mass. The marauder stumbled, fell forward, and slid under the chassis.

  A cloud of white dust wafted into the cab as Garrett pulled the door shut and slammed the Toyota in drive. With a wall of earth to his right and a swarm of fighters to his left, he mashed the gas, kicking up a burst of gravel that pinged and thudded in the wheel wells.

  As the knobby tires rumbled over the dead body, Garrett redlined the tachometer, forcing the engine into an angry roar. Launching deeper and deeper into hostile territory, he shot a glance in the rearview, but the 7.62 rounds dinging off the armored plating told him everything he needed to know. Going back the way he’d come in was not an option.

  They hadn’t driven more than a half mile when the valley opened up to a fork in the road. With an established route to the left and a goat path to the right, it wasn’t a hard choice. But his decision to stay the course rattled the hell out of his young navigator.

  “Right! Right! Right!” the kid screamed in Dari.

  Against his better judgment, Garrett followed orders. At first, they dipped into a moderate slope, but in a matter of seconds their escape route became more mountain than mound. He jammed his boot on the brakes, just as an RPG slammed into the road ahead, pelting his hood with rocks and flame.

  Forty yards to the left of his original trajectory, a half dozen fighters opened fire, raking the driver’s side and thwacking the windows in a tight group of successive rounds. With the ballistic glass spiderwebbed to zero visibility, Garrett mashed the gas, punching through a hail of dirt clods and thick black smoke, plowing over a short cedar as they zigged and zagged down the steep mountain trail.

  At the mercy of the terrain, he took his foot off the brakes and let momentum take over. He jerked the wheel left, missing a boulder, then right to avoid a tree, but lost complete control when the Toyota hit a dry creek bed and launched into the air.

  With his stomach in his throat, Garrett threw out an arm to brace the boy but couldn’t get a hold before the weightlessness of midair suspension ended in a teeth-rattling touchdown. Fortunately, the ground leveled out and they rolled to a stop at the edge of a wheat field.

  The interior went dark as a cloud of billowy dust engulfed them, but Garrett could see that his young companion was alive and uninjured, just scared to death. The skinny Afghan boy looked to him with desperate eyes, his horror-stricken face caked in muddy tears. And it was at that moment that a stark reality settled in. For the sake of one kid, too stubborn to die, Garrett had made a reckless decision.

  Not only had he jeopardized the mission, his career, and possibly his freedom, he’d violated an international agreement that could have ramifications on a global scale. And because of this, his fate now rested with the people he trusted least. His life was in the hands of the CIA.

  2

  Back at Camp Tsavo, Garrett sat outside the CIA base chief’s office, going over and over the events of the massacre in his head. It was late and he was exhausted, but if he was going to take an ass-whoopin’ from Kim Manning, he’d rather get it over, done, and behind him.

  He’d dealt with her a few times before and she’d always been kind of a hard-ass control freak—a sort of my way or the highway kind of gal. And there was a good chance she’d want to nail him to the wall over his actions in Nasrin.

  Garrett didn’t know exactly what to expect, truth be told. Intelligence officers were unpredictable, measuring success with a whole different yardstick than law enforcement. There was also a chance he could walk into her office and be greeted with an attaboy and a big sloppy kiss. But that was wishful thinking.

  Preparing for the worst, he carefully rehearsed how he’d tell the story from start to finish. Given what he knew about Kim, she’d want every detail, even beyond what he’d included in the Intelligence Information Report (IIR) he’d written earlier. She was a woman who lived in the weeds, a workaholic perfectionist with a near photographic memory.

  There’d be no highlights here. She’d want the play-by-play. She’d also demand to know why he was out there alone without coordinating with her first, which meant he’d better have a good reason right off the bat. Of course, good reasons were open for interpretation. Priority for DEA and CIA were often two different things.

  Garrett and his team made criminal cases, while the CIA made craters. It was a hell of a lot easier if problems, or in some cases people, just disappeared. They’d send in a drone, or a hit team, or pay off some black-bag assassin to knife you in a dark alley, whatever it took to solve the problem. If the Agency wanted you gone, you were gone. Plain and simple.

  Having crossed paths with more than a few bottom feeders that needed killin’, Garrett didn’t necessarily disagree with the CIA’s tactics. In fact, he’d have done it himself without qualms, but DEA wasn’t operating under a presidential finding.

  Of course, there was no sense in bitching about it. CIA had a direct line to the National Security Council and that was that. If the DEA developed a good intel source, you could bet your ass the Agency would either poach them or kill them before you could say boo. Two Agencies. Same team. Different objectives. It was a match made in hell, but policy makers back in Washington expected everyone to sing kumbaya for the good of the country. Yeah right.

  Although he didn’t work for Kim directly, Garrett was obliged to confer with her before making any drastic moves. And the act of shooting up a village and absconding with a child was pretty much the definition of a drastic move. DEA operations were supposed to be deconflicted through the CIA base chief first. No exceptions.

  That also meant Garrett’s shoot first—ask permission later policy in Nasrin was bound to ruffle feathers. And Kim’s feathers were already ruffled given the blistering verbal assault she was delivering to the poor bastard inside her office. She was known around Tsavo for slicing and dicing with a quick wit and a razor-sharp tongue. But sometimes her razor was followed with a mallet. Whoever was in there was getting flayed and beaten all at the same time.

  Looking around at the empty desks inside the skiff made Garrett uneasy. It was evening, true, but the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF) was almost never vacant, which led him to believe it was void of witnesses for a reason. Not a good sign.

  The portable building, which housed CIA’s base of operations, was spartan at best, a rickety headquarters comprised of particleboard walls and cheap vinyl flooring. It was a hodgepodge of computer monitors set atop smudgy plastic tables. Millions of dollars in equipment kept in a structure little better than a lawn mower shed.

  Garrett was toeing at a rat’s nest of multicolored cables beneath his chair when a piece of silver duct tape became affixed to his boot. He leaned over and ripped it off, as the diatribe in Kim’s office ended. A newbie CIA operations officer
blasted through the door looking queasy and disheveled. The guy made brief eye contact but didn’t break stride. Another bad sign.

  “Garrett Kohl!” Kim bellowed from inside her office. “Get your ass in here! Right now!”

  He walked in to find Kim sitting behind her desk, glaring at the monitor, and pecking away at her keyboard. She worked for at least a minute and a half uninterrupted while Garrett stood there at the door like an idiot. It was a power move for sure, but what could he do? She had power and he didn’t.

  He’d have been more pissed had he not been reminded of an inside joke with his friend Carlos Contreras, a die-hard old operator who ran the CIA’s Ground Branch paramilitary team at Tsavo. The former SEAL and self-proclaimed Puerto Rican ambassador to Afghanistan always referred to Kim as “the Dragon Queen,” a reference to the poised but brutal Daenerys Targaryen character from Game of Thrones.

  The description was as comical as it was accurate. From her blond hair to her slight frame, Kim was a miniature-size dynamo of fire and fury. She couldn’t have been taller than five foot three or weighed more than a hundred pounds, but she somehow managed to fill a room with her presence and intimidate even her toughest foes.

  After mouthing the last few words to whatever she was reading, Kim clicked a coffee-stained mouse, shoved her keyboard forward, and looked up. “Ah . . . Special Agent Kohl. A bull in search of a china shop.” With unnerving calmness, she added, “Sit down, cowboy.”

  As the son of a Texas rancher, Garrett was all too familiar with the nickname. He’d heard it his entire career. Normally, he took it with pride, but not in the field. In the field cowboy meant reckless. And that wasn’t a reputation you wanted in a war zone.

  As Garrett walked to her desk, he noticed the only place to sit was a splintery wooden chair that looked like something you’d see next to an elementary school Dumpster. It was clear she wasn’t going to begin until he was seated, so he dropped into the wobbly chair, much lower than hers. She was already starting with the dirty CIA mind games, and he suspected next she’d find a way to lean over the table and show her cleavage, which was surprisingly ample for her tiny frame.

  In his experience with her, she’d never been shy about using every weapon in her arsenal to assert control. And Garrett couldn’t say he blamed her. No way it was easy to get the edge on a bunch of type A Neanderthals like himself, so she made use of what the good Lord gave her. It may have been a disgraceful trick, but damned if it wasn’t effective. And the longer he was in-country the better it worked.

  Kim eased back in her chair looking cheerier than he expected. “Sounds like you had quite an experience while I was over in Kabul. Am I right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it was that for sure.” Garrett’s voice was gravel and molasses. His sentences arrived when they felt like it. He punctuated this one with a friendly smile.

  “I read your report.” She tapped a file on her desk with her index finger. “Mass murder. A big shootout. Very interesting stuff.”

  He lifted the secure lock bag, stowing his report, a map of the area, and the horrific images caught on camera. “I brought photos, if you want to take a look.”

  Kim raised her hand and waved him off. “Not necessary. Already have them.” From drones to satellites, she always had eyes in the sky.

  As soon as Garrett launched into his version of the story, she stopped him and gave her own recounting of the events he’d laid out in the report. It was a line by line summation, all off the top of her head, and without missing a single detail.

  As Kim spoke, he bobbed his head in a way he hoped looked earnest, seeking to foster some goodwill. When she finally wrapped it up, Garrett responded with a tone of finality.

  “Yep, I guess that about covers it.”

  He rose to leave, but she raised a hand and pushed the air.

  “No wait, there’s more. There’s the part about how you brought one of their children back here for us to deal with.”

  Garrett eased back into his creaking chair. “There is that.”

  “Everything else I could cover up. But with the kid in our possession, we’ve got to come clean. Let the Afghans know we were in a restricted zone.”

  Garrett held back as much as he could. What was he supposed to do? Let the kid die? “Well, you weren’t there, Kim. You didn’t see what I saw.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you saw. This is a sovereign country, Kohl. What matters is DEA doesn’t have the authority to play judge, jury, and executioner over here.”

  You do it all the time, Garrett thought but didn’t say. He removed his cap, hung it on his knee, and stared at the Lone Star Dry Goods patch with the bison silhouette, which made him long to be home. Realizing he’d better get his head in the game or run the risk of losing it, Garrett mustered up a little contrition to make his case.

  “Look, Kim, I know this puts you in a tough position. But if you’d have been there in the moment, heard the screams, seen the blood, you’d understand why I did it.” He looked up and locked eyes. “They butchered these people like animals. I had to do something.”

  “I agree you had to do something. But that something was gain proof of what happened, then come back here and report what you saw. I don’t have a problem with you being there. I have a problem with vigilantism, as will Afghan authorities if this gets out. And if it does, the ambassador will have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. We’ve already had enough bad press over what those trigger-happy contractors did last year.”

  Your contractors! Garrett again kept quiet. He didn’t know the details, but there’d been a big hullaballoo over a case of mistaken identity leading to the deaths of several Afghan civilians. Kim was deputy at the time. The base chief was sent home early.

  “And in case you weren’t aware,” she continued, “your weapons are issued for self-defense, not so you can go Punisher on everybody’s asses out there. This is not the movies. You do not get to take the law into your own hands.”

  Garrett leaned back in his chair, contemplating her response. Legally, he was in the wrong. There was no arguing it. The rules of engagement were clear. He engaged the enemy first without being under attack. Guilty as charged.

  Realizing the ramifications for his actions, Garrett did his best to calm himself. Fighting her was a losing battle. “I know, Kim. You’re right on the ROEs. I messed up. Big time.”

  After a few awkward seconds passed, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “So . . . here’s the part where I’d normally be telling you I’m shipping you back home. From there, the DEA will let you go immediately, and you’ll spend the rest of your days back in Nowhereland, Texas, busting teenagers smoking weed behind the Piggly Wiggly. If you’re lucky.” Her eyes drifted back down as she spoke. “That sound appealing to you, Kohl?”

  He let out a huff. “No. It doesn’t.” After a pregnant pause he added, “I feel like I hear a but coming though. Am I right?”

  She met his gaze. “But that wouldn’t do either of us any good. You go away with a ruined career and I lose someone who owes me a big favor.”

  Garrett relaxed, but only slightly. Repaying a favor to the CIA could be a cure worse than the disease. “Okay . . . what’s on your mind?”

  Kim picked up a manila folder and waggled it at him. “Did some reading on you today.”

  “Kind of figured you’d done all your snooping on me a long time ago.”

  Ignoring the comment, she opened the folder and studied the first page. “Says here you were an instructor at the Special Forces Advanced Mountain Operations School at Fort Carson.”

  Garrett shifted in his creaking chair. “What of it?”

  “Tactical mountain operations, wilderness survival, high-alpine medical emergency training.” She looked up wearing a curious expression. “Kind of a stretch for a kid from the Texas High Plains, wasn’t it?”

  Garrett had to laugh. The part of the Texas he was from was called the Llano Estacado, Spanish for Staked Plains. Legend had it that this expanse of rolli
ng grassland, larger in size than New England, was so flat and barren that Comanchero traders centuries ago had to drive stakes in the ground just to keep their bearings. It was in every way the opposite of the battlefield he’d come to know.

  Kim’s question was reasonable enough, but still he wondered where in the hell she was going with this one. “Spent some time in the mountains when I was younger. Mostly New Mexico. Got a feel for it, I guess. My best memories growing up were elk hunting, fly fishing, and camping out under the stars with my dad and brother.”

  “Nature boy, huh?”

  Garrett gave her a half smile. “The outdoors suits me better than anywhere else, I suppose, but that wasn’t what got me interested in mountain warfare.”

  “Then what was it?”

  For the first time in their conversation, he felt at ease. They were finally on a subject he didn’t have to qualify, couch, or justify first. “Horses.”

  Kim repeated the word horses and looked at the file. She ran her finger up the page as if following the time line backward. “DEA. Criminal Justice degree from West Texas A&M University. Tenth Special Forces Group. High school in Canadian, Texas.” She tossed the folder on her desk. “Nothing in here about horses.”

  The Kohl family’s remuda was as good as it gets, and that wasn’t just personal bias. By genetics alone, quarter horses were gifted sprinters—breed favorites in the quarter-mile race and competition rodeo. But it’s not just bloodline that makes them superior. It’s having a good trainer. And Garrett’s father was among the best.

  Garrett shook off the intelligence gap. “Your people probably didn’t find it particularly important.” He leaned back again, feeling more comfortable by the second. “Not surprising. Most people think horsemanship is a useless skill for soldiers these days.”

  Kim narrowed her gaze. “You weren’t one of those Green Beret horse soldiers, were you? The ones who dropped in here after 9/11?”