by Anthony Tata
“But he didn’t break in, right? You said that they had invited him in.”
“That’s what I thought, but obviously that’s not what happened. He must’ve broken in, because the charges stuck.”
“What do you mean, the charges stuck?”
“Well, he went to court and lost.”
“Were you excited that he was coming to see you?”
“I don’t know. I was confused back then. It’s just like I can’t explain it to you how I remember my mama letting him in the house, and how it was later explained to me that he had broken into the house.”
“What did you see? Where were you?”
“I was in my room. It was springtime, I remember that. My window was open, and it looks onto the front yard. I saw his pickup truck out there, and I heard him ring the doorbell. I was pretty sure I heard Mama invite him in, but I guess I was wrong. I was only ten.”
“What else did you hear? Think about the time your father was telling you the story.”
Amanda sighed. “He was the best storyteller, so I guess I was just listening to him, you know? The story was all about how me and a bunch of my friends were saving some famous piece of artwork in a cave in New Mexico to help the Native Americans there.”
“Pretty good memory of your dad there, sport.”
Amanda ignored the comment and continued talking.
“So I don’t remember much, though I think I heard a door slam out front. Maybe the front door or the car door. Or both.”
Amanda seemed to pause, considering the possibilities.
“Is it possible that your dad was set up?”
“Anything’s possible, but by who, and why?”
“I’m sure you can think that one through, Amanda. Tell me more about the story.”
Amanda felt a smile come on, which she slightly repressed. “I don’t know, I guess I’ve told you now like a hundred times that he told the best stories. He had so many. And I didn’t know this until the other day, but he would go back and write them down after we fell asleep.”
“Why do you think he did that?”
“Because that was his time? Because he loved me?”
Amanda felt tears begin to build in the back of her eyes. One escaped and carved a path along her left cheek.
“Because he loved me.”
CHAPTER 37
Northwest Frontier Province, Pakistan
Monday Morning
Zachary barely slept, passing in and out of a light dream state, then woke, sitting upright. He had heard screaming most of the night from one room over. He hoped it was not an American prisoner of war, and had actually heard the name Mansur screamed a few times. Zach figured that perhaps an interpreter had been captured and was being held in the same prison as him.
He shifted himself back and forth until his back was up against the mud wall. His right arm was numb from sleeping on it. He tried rotating his shoulder, to little effect, and then opened and closed his hand, trying to get some feeling back.
As he moved his hand, something registered in his mind. It took him a second, but it seemed that the binding was less secure. He figured it was his imagination, so he tried it again. True enough, the base of his right hand slipped into the loop of the zip-tie handcuff. He could not dare to force it, not yet. His mind wanted to savor just the thought of the possibility of escape before having the notion crushed at his next movement. Assuredly it would confirm his fate, his doom, that this blossoming hope was merely a mirage, an illusion.
He gently slid his hand forward, away from the zip-tie loop, feeling the plastic ribbing rest on his wrist. Just a few days without proper nutrition and the body would begin to shrink, to deflate. His cheeks felt sunken, and his stomach was concave. Had his hand and wrist diminished enough to allow for his escape? Unlikely.
He looked for any sign of life, but there was none. His space was completely blacked out save a glimmer of dull light that provided no clue other than the location of the door.
Back to his hands, he thought to himself. The moment was an enjoyable one, the idea of escaping, of loosened binds. Let’s end the party and go about thinking how to really get out of this predicament.
He took the thumb on his right hand and pushed it toward his small finger, forming a cup of sorts, trying to minimize the breadth of his hand. Slowly, he pulled his hand toward the zip-tie loop. He could feel the plastic scraping along the top of his wrist. Eventually he felt the binding begin to graze the outer portions of his right hand. He nearly gasped when he met no firm resistance until he reached the knuckles. How could this be?
Hope gathered momentum now. Slowly, he pulled and felt the plastic begin to squeeze against the skin on either side of his hand near the knuckles, knowing that if he could just get past that point, he would be out of the binding. The sharp-edged plastic was digging into his skin now. The inside portion of the loop was hung up on the knuckle of his index finger. He tried moving the finger toward the inside, again trying to decrease the width of his hand. It helped fractionally, primarily by decreasing the pain, removing the knife edge out of his knuckle.
He was bleeding now. He could feel the stiff plastic that remained between him and his freedom—at least the freedom of his hands—slipping on the blood.
A noise came from outside the door. Footfalls, followed by a voice, echoed ever so slightly in the structure. One voice, then another. Two people. Deep voices.
Now or never, was the thought that ricocheted through his mind. Now or never! He pulled down with his left hand and up with his right hand, feeling skin tearing off his knuckles for sure.
He held his hands up in front of his face in disbelief. Black hands against the blackness. He touched his face, felt his cold, sunken cheeks and rough, unshaven jaw. They were there. His hands were free. He had done it. He felt the warm blood seeping down his wrist. His own plasma had provided the lubricant.
This was step one. Now to deal with the voices, which were growing louder. More distinct. They were speaking Pashtu. During his time in Afghanistan he had come to learn the difference between the two major languages, Pashtu and Dari. Dari was a derivative of Farsi, spoken primarily in Iran. These men were definitely speaking Pashtu, which meant two things to him.
They were locals of some sort—either Pakistani or Afghan—which meant that he had a window of opportunity. It was small, almost negligible, but it was there. Al Qaeda were ruthless and very careful. Local tribesmen, even the hostile ones, however, were often careless. If his captors had left him in the temporary watch of two local Pashtuns, then perhaps he had a chance.
He fumbled with the zip-tie handcuff, removing it from his left hand as well by turning the jagged edges sideways and pushing them through the opening, like a trash bag tie. He swiftly lay back down, his hands behind his back, as he heard the men approaching the door.
“Garrett,” the voice called. It sounded more like “Garreeett.” “Garreeett,” again came the voice. He heard the door opening, feet falling toward him. He saw two men, the lead man carrying a candle in one hand, and amazingly, protecting it against the wind with the other. He had no weapon. Before he could get too excited, though, he noticed the man’s partner was carrying an AK-47 at the ready. Both men wore the traditional headdresses common to any number of indigenous tribes. They moved like silent ghosts in their flowing robes.
He lay still until the man with the candle knelt down next to him, the flame licking at the dark night, burning up the oxygen in his small room. The man’s face was half lit, half dark, like a theater mask. He saw his beard flowing a few inches from his chin and dark eyes that looked as friendly as burning coals.
“What now?” Zach asked, sounding sleepy and groaning just a bit. “Let me sleep.”
“Time to die.”
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly he was not excited to hear this man utter those words in almost perfect English.
He surprised himself, though, with the quickness with which he moved. He accel
erated off the floor, drove the candle up, ramming it into the hot coal that was the man’s left eye. Pushing him upward and toward the man’s backup, Zach used him as a shield, feeling him both scream at the burning candle in his eye and at the AK-47 rounds now punching into his back.
He released candle man, who was now simply dead weight, and lunged over his body to slip the zip-tie cuffs around the neck of the rifle-bearing man. Pulling back on the wrist holes, he surged and crisscrossed his arms, feeling the man’s neck snap.
He picked up the AK-47, checking the magazine. He felt around each man for more ammunition, finding none, but securing a six-inch knife.
He moved through the door into another dark room and slid silently toward the corner. He waited a few seconds. When he heard nothing, he moved toward the outside door. Opening it, he looked through a small crack, enough to tell him morning was no more than an hour away. To the East, the slightest hint of light was beginning to crest the massive mountain peaks, leaving in its wake a cloak of darkness, for the time being, to the West.
He had to risk it. He had to move now. It was his only option.
He went back into the room in which he had been held and removed the robe from the man whose neck he’d snapped. He took the turban as well.
Dressed the part, he moved back into the front room. Minutes had passed. Gunfire would have been heard from miles away along the narrow valleys of . . . wherever the hell he was. The thought stopped him momentarily. Which way should he flee? Regardless, he needed to move.
He stepped from the mud hut, looked to his right, and saw nothing but mountains climbing into the black sky. To his left he saw a stream about one hundred meters away, knifing its way through a valley that was more akin to a fjord. Jagged spires of rock shot upward, denying any movement anywhere but along the valley floor.
To his rear he heard voices. Excited voices. Speaking Arabic.
He fled west, toward the decreasing light. Walking at first, he picked up the pace as he moved toward a small footbridge that spanned a creek about forty yards wide. Clear water spilled and tumbled across the rocky bottom, rushing toward his left. If he was in Pakistan, he would be moving toward Afghanistan. If he was in Afghanistan, he would be moving toward some coalition military base eventually.
Crossing the bridge, he could sense others watching. Nothing happened in these remote tribal villages without someone, if not everyone, noticing. Not unlike Small Town America, there was little chance of Zachary escaping his predicament without interruption.
The footbridge swayed and the water rushed beneath him. Taller than most of the local inhabitants, he was sure he would not go unnoticed. Bounding onto the rocky far bank of the creek, he spied a trail that led toward the westward peak. The trail followed a gorge with water sliding down the middle of the crevice, melting snow from the top of the mountain that fed into the rushing creek.
Zachary grabbed at a large boulder, pulling himself up onto the trail. His robe and headdress all might have bought him a minute or two, but the sandals he took from the rifleman, while uncomfortable, were helping him scale the slippery incline.
Just get moving on the trail, he kept reminding himself.
He was about one hundred yards into the steep draw, the village opening to his back, the trail narrowing to his front. Away from the sounds of the rushing water, he could again hear the pitch of voices, more excited. Then one voice above all others seemed to focus the group.
Zachary had not looked back. Never look back, the famous motto. Now was a time to live by that credo. Focused, he pulled again at rocks and scraggly trees sticking out from the massif. The only thing that gave him mild comfort was the AK-47 strapped across his back beneath his flowing robe.
The focused voice began screaming. Shots rang out, but not near him. Darkness began to encompass him.
He was two hundred yards up the valley now and moving more quickly. Three hundred yards up, the climbing got tougher. Hand over hand in some areas.
A quarter mile, he guessed. Still the gunfire, but nothing close. Were they executing the other tribal members responsible for watching him? His breathing was labored, but only because he lacked food, energy. His adrenaline kicked in, though, and supplied the glycogen to his muscles to keep him moving.
An hour later he was cresting the ridge of the mountain. He had to be ten thousand feet high, he figured. He paused, resting, breathing hard, and looked back at the trail he had just climbed.
Unbelievable. From his vantage, it appeared that he had scaled a cliff. Perhaps he had.
Looking west, with the sun now creeping over the mountains, he could see for miles. What he saw was jagged mountain ridgelines, capped with white snow, lined up as far as he could see, like a set of waves coming in off the north shore of Hawaii, massive, white tipped, forbidding.
He pulled the robe around him, glad that he had it for the extra bit of warmth it would provide tonight. He watched his breath crystallize in a fine mist. For the first time he allowed his mind to unlock from the task at hand.
Amanda. His men. His family. Riley. What else in life was there? For a few minutes he savored his relationships with his warriors. The bond they had formed over so many years, so many missions. Living a life in pursuit of nobility, the cause, the righteousness of what they did for a living. It was a good way to live . . . and to die. Hell, it was the only way he could live. His life had to have meaning beyond the paycheck. He had to feel like he was saving the world. That’s how he’d operated ever since coming back into the service.
Then there was Amanda. His heart ached for her, not because of his loss, but because of hers. He had tucked away the injustice of it all so many years ago. The burden was too difficult to carry exposed, too heavy. Watching his relationship with Amanda morph from doting father and daughter to manipulative and destructive player and pawn caught him so off guard that for a couple of years he couldn’t fathom it.
But now, his heart reached out to Amanda, as it always had. It opened full blossom. He would make a stand, again. And in the interim, he knew in his heart that Matt and Riley would do all they could.
Zachary scanned the incredibly beautiful mountains that surrounded him. He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together.
Lord, thank you for this opportunity. Thank you for everything that you have given me. Please watch over my men, wherever they may be, and please, please, watch over Amanda for me until I can return to her.
Right now, right here, he decided, again, he would reclaim his child, and his life.
When he looked over his shoulder, he noticed the flashlights moving up the trail.
CHAPTER 38
Charlotte, North Carolina
Sunday Evening (EASTERN TIME)
Jake Devereaux had made the return trip from Sanford to Spartanburg after the brush up with the NC Bureau of Investigation. For a full day he dawdled around his house thinking about all that had transpired.
He was reluctant to call or text Amanda, fearing what her mother and grandmother might do or allege, not to mention that he felt someone had been keeping tabs on him since he left North Carolina. Neither did he want to discuss the situation with his father, an attorney, or his mother, who would worry.
It was Sunday evening and normally he would be taking Amanda to a movie or hanging with some of the other football players. He sat in his room wondering what he should do next and whom he might be able to talk to about everything.
His Droid phone suddenly moaned that he had a message. He had seen two others from Amanda telling him she was going to Dwyer’s house. The sending phone was listed as private. His instructions were:
Pick me up at Dwyers house. 112 Tryon St. Luv u.
He figured Amanda’s battery must have gone dead and she had texted him from Miss Dwyer’s phone. This would be a decent opportunity to talk to Amanda away from her mother and grandmother, but with a neutral third party present.
He bounced down the steps of his house, fired up his truck, and sped away. He f
ollowed his GPS, turned off I-77 and missed Tryon on the first pass, as it was on a cul-de-sac off the main road. Doubling back, he found the home, a nice two-story narrow brick house. It looked like a row home, only it wasn’t attached to another structure. It was free standing.
He parked in front of the house. Traffic whipped by on the main street just fifty yards behind him. There were ten homes he could see elegantly crammed into the semicircle. He didn’t know much about real estate, but he did figure that these homes, as small as they seemed, probably sold for close to a half million dollars. She must be doing okay, he thought.
The house seemed quiet. A dim light shone through the window that appeared to come from well into the back of the home. He walked along the sidewalk, which was lit by a single wrought-iron gas lamp.
Approaching the door, Jake sensed that the house was empty. There were no indications of movement that typically provided clues that the occupants were indeed present. No television flickering, no radio, no computer monitor.
He rang the doorbell, which sounded characteristically suburban, a double chime in reverse octaves. After a few moments, he pressed the dimly lit button again with his thumb. Lastly, he knocked on the heavy oak door, which surprisingly gave way and drifted open.
Jake looked down at the floor and then up as the door continued to open as if welcoming him on its own. A leafy plant was just inside the foyer to his right as he stepped through the threshold and into the wide foyer.
“Miss Dwyer? Anybody home?”
His voice sounded alien to him inside someone else’s home.
Jake looked at his watch. The time was just past 10 p.m. He had received the text message no more than forty-five minutes ago. Amanda should still be here.
