Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  He relaxed even more. Tucker and his men were probably a passing patrol.

  There’s probably a reason why his men have no markings on their fatigues.

  He was readying to reply when the sound of an engine came from their right.

  Hidden initially by rocks, a Toyota burst into view.

  Zeb sensed the unease in Tucker. His men glanced at the oncoming vehicle and then at the colonel, waiting for instructions.

  Doesn’t look like they planned for this .

  The vehicle stopped, spraying gravel on them.

  Zeb inched closer to Tucker.

  This had a bad smell to it.

  The Toyota seemed familiar, but there were many such vehicles in the area. He couldn’t see inside because of light reflecting off its windows and windshield.

  Its doors opened.

  Five armed men emerged.

  Taliban.

  No mistaking them.

  When the sixth man stepped out, Zeb lunged.

  Chapter Forty

  His move was instinctive, without conscious thought.

  He grabbed Tucker and spun him around, using him as a shield, his HK jammed into the colonel’s waist.

  What am I doing! He’s a fellow American. I can’t use him as cover.

  He was preparing to release the officer and open fire on the terrorists, when something held him back.

  Why isn’t Tucker ordering his men to open fire?

  Because the sixth man was Atash Mohammed, one of the most wanted terrorists.

  The officer seemed shaken by the arrivals. His men were stunned as well.

  Zeb decided to keep holding the colonel, until it became clear what exactly was going down.

  If the Taliban raise their weapons, I’ll shove Tucker away, dive to my left and open fire on Mohammed.

  He could survive, but he wasn’t counting on it.

  I’ll take down as many as I can.

  He held his ground for the moment, not liking how things were playing out. Tucker wasn’t offering any resistance. He wasn’t saying anything. He seemed dazed by the warlord’s arrival.

  The terrorist was in black, a checkered shemagh on his neck and a Beretta in his right hand.

  His eyes were triumphant as his men ranged around him, taking positions.

  ‘You?’ Tucker whispered, not heeding the fact that Zeb had an arm around his neck.

  His men looked uncertainly at him and at the Taliban men. Zeb saw nervousness in their faces, seeking direction from the colonel, who seemed to be in shock.

  ‘We got him,’ Mohammed slapped his thigh.

  Two things struck Zeb.

  The terrorist’s command of English from those two words.

  We? What does that mean?

  ‘Why are you here?’ Tucker asked, still in a daze.

  Mohammed ignored him. Came close.

  Zeb turned the colonel, narrowing himself to hide behind the officer.

  ‘So, this is Sher.’

  The terrorist’s lips curled at the way Zeb was shielding himself.

  ‘Sher. Lion. Here you are, hiding behind an American.’

  ‘You understand English?’ the warlord’s brows came together when Zeb kept silent.

  ‘You shouldn’t be—’ the colonel tried to break free. He failed.

  ‘ SILENCE! ’ Mohammed shouted.

  ‘Tucker? What’s going on?’ Zeb murmured in the colonel’s ear.

  ‘English! He speaks English,’ the terrorist chortled on hearing him. ‘Tucker! I told you. He is Carter.’

  Zeb felt the officer stiffen.

  ‘You know him?’ he asked the colonel incredulously. ‘Don’t you know who he is? Atash Mohammed. The terrorist we are hunting. Ask your men to take him.’

  The soldiers stared at their officer, who gave them no orders, and then at the warlord. Their weapons were aimed at no one. The translator was transfixed, his hands high in the air. The Taliban gunmen stood watching, their AKs trained on the Americans.

  ‘Tucker,’ Mohammed said gleefully, ‘Why don’t you tell him? You,’ his eyes looked into Zeb’s. ‘You’re Carter, aren’t you?’

  How do they know who I am?

  He flexed his arm around the officer’s throat. ‘What the hell is going on? Why do you know this terrorist?’

  ‘We are leaving,’ the colonel said, trying to assert his authority, ‘with Carter. Our prisoner.’

  Huh? He’s my prisoner .

  Mohammed roared in laughter. He jumped up and down and shook his head at his men, who chuckled.

  ‘You both are under my guns,’ he said, waving his Beretta in the air. ‘No one is leaving.’

  ‘Carter,’ he mused, mirth leaving his face. ‘We almost believed you. Buyer from London. Sher. You are the best. No other American operative came so close to me.’

  ‘Mohammed, let us go.’ Tucker made another attempt.

  ‘You aren’t going anywhere, my friend .’ His lips twisted in a snarl, spitting out the last two words.

  Zeb went cold as he made the connection. ‘You and he. You’re helping him?’

  Another jigsaw piece fell into place. You warn him of attacks so that he can escape. Move his drugs. What do you get in return? ’ He was squeezing the officer so hard that Tucker’s breath rasped out noisily.

  ‘Sir …’ a soldier called out uncertainly.

  No one looked at him. The Taliban men were focused on the struggling colonel and his captor.

  ‘Did you warn him of Roderick?’ Zeb knew he was yelling. The bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth. Darkness surging inside him, wanting to snap Tucker’s neck.

  A part of his mind urging caution.

  ‘No—’

  Tucker groaned pitifully.

  ‘Did you know he killed Chick? And Bud and Kelly? Shot them and tossed their bodies over the cliff?’

  No one moved. Mohammed seemed hypnotized, only his eyes flicking between Zeb and Tucker.

  ‘You lie …’ the officer sagged. Zeb could see the side of his face. It had turned ashen.

  ‘I saw them. I took photographs. I have got their dog tags.’

  The colonel lunged forward. Bellowing in rage. Breaking Zeb’s hold by sheer momentum.

  Arms outstretched. Reaching for Atash Mohammed.

  ‘ You played me. All along. You said you would free them. ’

  The warlord’s eyes were contemptuous as his Beretta rose. ‘Stupid American. You trusted me?’

  He spat twice.

  Tucker stumbled.

  Zeb dove away. His HK rose smoothly.

  ‘Cover!’ he yelled at the soldiers and the translator.

  Who were slow to react.

  The Afghan was the first to fall, his body jerking under the impact of bullets. The soldiers followed.

  Zeb rolled, triggering desperately, aiming at Mohammed. Point and shoot. Keep moving.

  He missed. The warlord was fleeing to his vehicle, zigging and zagging.

  Two soldiers, still alive, tried to return fire. The Taliban gunmen turned on them.

  Dirt flew in the air. Shouts and roars.

  Long bursts from Zeb, trying to save the soldiers, trying to draw the rounds away from them.

  A Taliban hitman fell, from Zeb’s bullet. Another gunman’s chest blossomed red.

  No view.

  The colonel’s body was blocking that of Mohammed, who was almost at the vehicle.

  He scrabbled sideways, ignoring the rounds hissing around him.

  Turned his weapon.

  Fired blindly. Stone chips flying in the air at the warlord’s feet.

  Mohammed was being grabbed by his men, and turned burning eyes at Zeb before climbing into the vehicle.

  Zeb shot into the body mass. Two Taliban gunmen stumbled. Hands plucked at their clothing and they were hauled inside.

  Something smashed Zeb’s chest. He fell back. Breath whooshing out. He felt himself blacking out.

  He kept squeezing. Slapping in a new magazine with blinding speed, unt
hinking, trigger-pressing, round pinging, metal and glass shattering and the wet slap of a round hitting a body, an engine howling, drowning out all sound until all that was left was dust swirling in the air and an empty valley.

  And a groan.

  I am hit, he thought .

  He felt his chest. No stickiness.

  Looked down.

  The AK’s round had pierced through his clothing, but the armor underneath had stopped it.

  He felt like he’d been kicked by a mule but at least he was alive. Miraculously unhurt.

  Another groan.

  Tucker!

  He got to his feet. Swayed for a moment. Got his balance. Checked the fallen soldiers, cursorily. All of them seemed dead.

  Hurried over to the colonel and saw that he was in bad shape. Both rounds had smashed into his chest. Blood was bubbling from his mouth.

  His eyes flickered when Zeb knelt beside him.

  ‘Why?’ Zeb asked him. He didn’t give him any false assurances. He could see it in the officer’s eyes. Tucker knew he was dying.

  ‘Daughter … You said … is true?’

  Zeb dug into a pocket. Brought out the three dog tags. They glinted in the sunlight, swaying lightly.

  A long, shuddering sigh shook the colonel.

  ‘Where can I find Mohammed?’ Zeb leaned over him.

  Tucker’s left hand clamped his wrist. Tight. With all the remaining strength in his body.

  ‘Caves … can’t …’

  ‘I will—’

  A hard squeeze.

  ‘Listen …’

  Zeb bent his head lower.

  ‘Going … with…’

  ‘Going? Mohammed’s going?’

  Tucker’s eyes were dimming. His breath was stuttering.

  ‘Tell me,’ Zeb held his shoulder. ‘Where’s Mohammed going? With what?’

  The colonel summoned all the strength in his body. Raised it slightly.

  Looked down at his left hand, which was outstretched, two fingers pointed out.

  Zeb followed his eyes.

  ‘With two men? Two what?’

  ‘Stop …’

  Colonel Jesse Tucker sagged back and died.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Zeb sat for long moments over the colonel’s body.

  Where’s Mohammed going? When?

  There were no more answers forthcoming from Tucker.

  Zeb got to his feet and checked the three soldiers, just in case. None of them was alive.

  He went to the translator.

  He, too, was dead.

  We came to his country. He was helping us. This is his reward. Dying in the middle of nowhere.

  He whirled blindly, his eyes resting on the two Taliban men.

  Both dead. He searched them. Neither was carrying a cell phone.

  He sank down on an outcrop and ran his fingers over his face wearily.

  Mohammed was gone. Tucker, a colonel in the American army, a traitor, was dead.

  I should have killed the terrorist yesterday . He shook his head savagely and got to his feet, angry with himself.

  Tucker said something about his daughter .

  Zeb filed the thought away. It would have to wait.

  They knew about me.

  There’s a leak at Kilmer’s end.

  He stretched his arms and felt his chest. It hurt, but didn’t feel like a cracked rib.

  He had gone off the reservation, disobeying Kilmer’s instructions to return.

  The leak didn’t matter anymore. Now that Mohammed knew who he was, or how he looked—

  No, he doesn’t. I’m in the Sher disguise.

  He picked up his HK and the other weapons he had discarded.

  Frowned, remembering.

  That last burst. I thought I hit someone .

  No more bodies were on the ground.

  Something else caught his eye.

  Something rubbery. Flesh colored.

  He stood over it, staring uncomprehendingly.

  Bent and picked it up.

  It was his prosthetic nose.

  He felt his face. Bare nose and ears.

  He searched the ground.

  There, next to one of the soldiers. A fake ear. The second one, a few feet away.

  Mohammed looked at me, that last time .

  He recognized me? As Akmal? His men would have mentioned the new face in the village.

  Bidar!

  Zeb ran and then stopped abruptly. He turned back and went to Tucker’s body.

  He searched it. Brought out his cell phone.

  Scrolled through it blindly until he got the recent calls menu.

  Pressed the first number. It rang twice. A male voice answered.

  ‘Tucker’s dead. His men too. In Badakshan. In a valley near the mine. Track his cell phone.’

  He hung up, cutting off the voice. Tried the next number. Another male. Authority in his tone.

  Zeb gave him the same information. Hung up and started running.

  Recklessly, jumping over rocks, going through thigh-high bushes, uncaring about branches slapping at him.

  Slithering, falling, picking himself up, going at a relentless pace.

  He patted his pockets, brought out his sat phone. Tried the storekeeper. No reply.

  It had taken him three hours to reach his hide.

  It took him less than two to reach his vehicle. He threw away its camouflage, jumped inside, and turned it around, tires squealing.

  Pedal to floor, he accelerated, teeth clenched to prevent his tongue from being bitten off from the body-shaking, bone-jarring ride.

  Tried his phone again. Tossed it away when he got no reply.

  Let me be in time.

  Driving over rough terrain, pushing his Jeep as hard as it could go, wanting to get to even road as quickly as he could.

  Mohammed will take time, too. He will want to put some distance between him and the scene. He will be worried that American forces will come searching for the colonel.

  He won’t use his cell. Calls will be monitored.

  Zeb thought he had some time.

  He hoped.

  Because he was sure of one thing.

  Atash Mohammed was a vengeful killer.

  He would want to make an example of Bidar Humayun.

  For harboring Zeb Carter.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Zeb got to the dirt track ninety minutes later, leaving a cloud of dust behind as he overtook a truck and an animal herder. A donkey’s bray faded when he swerved around it.

  Two hours later, he was on the outskirts of Raghi, where he came to a shuddering stop.

  Wrapped his shemagh around his face. Put on the prosthetics.

  Sure, Mohammed and his men knew who he was, but there was a possibility the villagers didn’t. He would use the Sher disguise for as long as he could get away with it.

  Took the HK, because he wanted his weapon and broke into a jog, beads of sweat sliding down his face and disappearing into the covering across his nose and mouth.

  Ears and eyes keenly aware, searching, seeking.

  No gunshots in the distance.

  A haze over the valley, but he could make out the shape of Raghi, the pale walls of houses.

  He reached the main street.

  Deserted. Which wasn’t normal. At that time of the day, close to four pm, there was usually a good amount of foot traffic.

  Bidar’s store was farther away, hidden from sight.

  Zeb broke into a run when he saw spilled sacks, vegetables, fruit, and grain on the ground.

  His eyes sweeping, capturing everything and registering on his mind like a series of still photographs.

  Deserted village.

  No faces at windows or doors. No sounds audible, either .

  He corrected himself immediately, because there was a person out there.

  Standing in front of Humayun’s shop. His AK in his hand. Head turning at Zeb’s approach.

  Taliban!

  Zeb didn’t slow
down. Didn’t use his HK.

  His left foot fell to the ground. Rolled smoothly. His right swung forward and started landing.

  The HK blurred in the air as he switched it from right to left. His right hand continued. Went inside his shirt.

  Drew out the Benchmade.

  It winked in the air as it flew straight.

  Zeb was close enough now to see the gunman’s attention was split.

  Shoot at the incoming or duck from the blade.

  He ducked and the second knife that Zeb had drawn while running sank into his shoulder.

  Zeb pounced on him.

  Slapped the AK aside, pulled out the Benchmade and buried it in his neck.

  He lost three seconds in retrieving the first blade and checking both ends of the street.

  Just that one fighter. No one else.

  The terrorists were sure of themselves.

  Or they would have posted more men on the street.

  The store’s entrance gaped dark.

  He leaped over rows of produce and sacks.

  Landed on the small platform, on which was a tiny desk.

  A narrow passage beyond, going inside.

  He plunged inside, HK rising.

  Opening into a room. Smelling of oils, spices and green vegetables. Shelves on the walls. Indistinct shapes on them.

  Through to the next room. A small stove in a corner. Still burning.

  Zeb grabbed it.

  Approached the last room, dark rage filling him when he heard a cry and what sounded like blows.

  Door shut.

  A fraction of a second to decide on either stealthy opening or crashing through.

  The second option won the mental coin toss.

  It would give him the slightest advantage of surprise.

  His left leg smashed the flimsy barricade.

  It flew open, wood splintering.

  Three men. Guns and knives in their hands.

  Bidar kneeling. Bound. Bloody.

  Heads turning at the intrusion.

  Two Taliban jumping away.

  The stove arcing in the air and catching one of them in the chest.

  HK chattering, reducing his chest to pulp.

  A second gunman firing.

  A round slapped air and flew past Zeb’s face. A second round riffled his hair.

  Zeb leaped sideways, shooting, finding the gunman and felling him.

  Before he could land, the third fighter was on him, crashing against him and dragging him into the wall.

  The fighter was big. He was fierce. His eyes were small pinpoints of light as he grunted and tried to jab Zeb with his knife.

  Zeb twisted, but there wasn’t any room.