The Messenger - Special Agent Dylan Kane Series 11 (2021)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “The captain in charge of the mission managed to communicate that he thought the villagers were in on it. We have drone footage from after the attack showing someone taking photos of the bodies of our people.”

  Dawson’s eyebrows shot up. “Photos? Like recruitment photos?”

  Clancy shrugged. “We don’t know, but this wasn’t the first time this has happened in the past couple of months. Langley’s investigating, as is the Pentagon. Something strange is going on, and we need to find out what, because our people are being targeted in areas that have been peaceful for far too long.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “So, just why are you here, Sergeant Major?”

  Dawson sat upright. “Bravo Team is requesting that if there’s a mission, we’re part of it.”

  Clancy regarded him. “Don’t you think Charlie Team should have that honor?”

  “Absolutely, but if it takes more than them, Bravo Team would like the honor of accompanying them.”

  Clancy smiled at him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  13 |

  Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan

  Kane shifted in the driver’s seat, grunting, the boys still a little tender, though now it was only if he worked them into an odd position or bounced them around too much. And this poor excuse for a road was doing a Tommy Lee drum solo on them.

  “Are you all right?” asked Mo. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were in pain.”

  Kane shifted again. “My girlfriend shot me in the nuts a couple of days ago.”

  Mo’s eyes bulged. “What?”

  Kane roared with laughter. “Paintball, not real bullets.”

  “What’s paintball?”

  “It’s a game where you run around and pretend to be soldiers and shoot at each other with little balls of paint.”

  Mo shook his head. “You Americans are so strange. Why would anybody want to make a game out of something as horrible as war?”

  Kane regarded the man for a moment. It was an interesting question. He could honestly say he had no clue whether something like paintball was popular outside of America, or whether young people glued to their video game consoles, simulating war, was exclusive to children raised in peaceful countries where they had no concept of what war was. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose when you’re surrounded by war every day, it’s inconceivable to think anyone would want to simulate it for fun.”

  Mo gestured toward Kane’s genitals. “For your girlfriend to have shot you there, you must have really upset her.”

  Kane chuckled. “I had just shot her in the tatas, and in her defense, she thought I was wearing a cup.”

  Mo eyed him. “Why would one wear a cup over one’s private parts?”

  Kane roared again. “Different kind of cup, my friend.”

  Mo shook his head. “If I ever get to America, I fear it’s going to be a difficult place to understand.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be safe. Your wife and daughters will be safe, and they’ll have futures that won’t be limited simply because they’re women.”

  Mo pressed his head against the back of his seat and sighed. “I can’t imagine it. Every time I hear an American or someone from one of the Western countries talking, it seems like a dream, like propaganda designed to make the rest of the world believe your way of life is better than it actually is, just so they can prove they’re on the right side of whatever conflict they’re in.”

  Kane grunted. “Well, we’re certainly not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re a hell of a lot better than most of the world. Unfortunately, we’ve become polarized to the extreme, and it’s ruining things. It’s a crying shame, really, and I pray every day we come to our senses before it’s too late.”

  “Polarized? How so?”

  “An old professor of mine blames social media, and says America is particularly susceptible to the binary culture being created by it through everything only having two options. Yes or no, like or dislike, thumbs up or thumbs down. It conditions our way of thinking into believing there are only two choices in life.”

  Mo regarded him. “So, if I’m right and your opinion is different, then you must be wrong?”

  “Exactly. And it goes beyond that. Too many think they’re on the side of good, therefore you must be evil if you disagree. And it extends into politics. Most stable democracies have several reasonable choices on the ballot. For generations, America has only had two, and it fits into this binary way of thinking. If I support one party and you support the other, then you must be either evil, stupid, or uninformed. There can’t be any in-between. It’s tearing apart what’s supposed to be the greatest nation on Earth.”

  Mo frowned. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”

  “It’s not exactly something we’re proud of, but the problems in Western society aren’t exclusive to America, though we seem to be taking the brunt of it at the moment. Unfortunately, anyone who speaks out to challenge any of the extreme viewpoints on both sides is canceled.”

  Mo eyed him. “Canceled?”

  “They’re attacked on social media and their careers are destroyed. The problem is that it doesn’t take many to destroy a career. Get a few hundred people in an outrage over nothing who have followers, and they pile on. It causes something to trend, and before you know it, you have millions of people demanding someone lose their job, yet they don’t even know why they’re demanding it, because they never bother researching the issue or even reading the article. They’re simply agreeing because some Hollywood simpleton says they should be angry. Like my father always said, just because you have a following doesn’t mean you’re smart.”

  “In Afghanistan, we don’t really have anything like that, though I suppose our politicians have followings, and I can say with certainty the majority of them have no brains.”

  Kane chuckled. “That, my friend, is something shared the world over.”

  The GPS interrupted their conversation, giving its first direction in at least an hour. Their destination was just ahead. Kane geared down and pulled them over to the side of the poor excuse for a road, riddled with potholes and temporary repairs. It gave him an idea for his cover story. He grabbed a set of binoculars then climbed out. “You stay here. I’m only going to be a couple of minutes. Honk the horn if anything happens. There’s a gun in the center console. It’s a Glock, so don’t go looking for the safety, just aim and shoot.”

  Mo’s face slackened slightly, but he nodded. Kane closed the door then scurried up a rise on the opposite side of the road, gaining the high ground for a better perspective. He crawled the last few yards then lay prone on the uncomfortable rock-strewn ground. He peered at the village ahead, doing a quick scan for anything that could prove dangerous, then did a slow pass, picking out the landmarks from the reports he had read, the hillside from where the attack had initiated, the village center scarred by the Humvee explosion, and the building where Dax and his captain had been killed, still pockmarked with bullet holes.

  He didn’t spot any red flags. Nobody was walking around with guns or acting suspiciously. It appeared to be an ordinary, peaceful Afghan village, desperately impoverished with people who just wanted to be left alone.

  Gears ground behind him and he rolled to his side, redirecting his binoculars. An old transport truck with a threadbare canvas back was slowing as it approached his SUV. He rose and slung the binoculars over his shoulder and behind his back as he rushed down the hillside. The truck came to a stop and a man about his age climbed out, not yet noticing him, approaching the driver’s side window. Pleasantries were exchanged in Pashto, the man introducing himself as Jafar and asking Mo if everything were all right.

  “Hello,” called Kane, raising his hand with a practiced smile that won most people over. The man spun, fear written on his face. Kane raised his hands slightly, showing them empty. “Mo, let him know I’m friendly,” he said in English, despite speaking Pashto—his cover didn’t.

  “He’s an A
merican civilian. He’s a friend,” said Mo, who then made proper introductions.

  Jafar relaxed slightly. He jerked his chin toward where Kane had just come from, asking what he had been doing. Kane waited for the translation. “I was just relieving myself.” He swung the binoculars around. “And I was checking your road. It’s not in good shape, is it?”

  Jafar shook his head. “It never has been for as long as I’ve been alive.” He eyed him. “Are you here to repair the road?”

  Kane shook his head and Jafar was clearly disappointed. Kane smiled. “I’m here to replace the road.”

  Jafar’s face brightened as Mo translated. “Then I must take you to the elders! Follow me and I’ll introduce you. It will be better that way.”

  Kane agreed, and a two-vehicle convoy was quickly formed. They were inside the village within minutes, his expert eye surveying everything close-up as pleasantries were exchanged. They were invited into the very home where Dax had made his last stand and lost. Kane had met Dax on many occasions during his brief stint in Delta before being recruited into the CIA. Dax was a good man, a family man, and reading that he was one of the victims had been a gut punch.

  He kept his practiced smile in place as he was introduced to those perhaps responsible for the deaths of six Americans and their translator only days before. Jafar turned to a young man, telling him the supplies to repair the walls were in the truck, and the man rushed outside. Kane and Mo, along with several of the elders, sat on carpets laid out on the dirt floor, and he suppressed a frown at a dark stain on the trim of one of them that appeared to be blood.

  Whose blood was it? Dax’s? Captain O’Donnell’s? Or one of those that had lured them into the trap? A space directly across from him in the circle being formed remained empty, and Kane surreptitiously surveyed the room, spotting out of the corner of his eye Jafar handing over a thick envelope to an elderly man who tucked it into his robes with a smile before taking the empty spot.

  “This is our new imam,” explained Jafar. “I’ll take my leave of you now.”

  Kane thanked him and Jafar headed outside. He returned his attention to those seated with them, smiling pleasantly as his well-trained eyes assessed the body language on display. There was a certain uneasiness in the room. Excitement was evident, which could sometimes be mistaken for nervousness. They had, after all, just been told they might be getting a freshly paved road into their village.

  But it was more than that, at least with the imam, whose eyes were wide, the smile on his face far too genuine. He was excited about something, and it had to be the thick envelope he had been handed, an envelope that suspiciously resembled a wrapped stack of bills. Kane was certain the man had just been delivered a payoff, though there was no way he could prove that, nor could he challenge the man. All he could do was keep up the pretense of being here to discuss the new road, for if it were indeed a payoff, it proved these people couldn’t be trusted, and wouldn’t hesitate to kill to keep their secret.

  Jafar grabbed the last of the supplies from the back of the truck, handing it over to one of the others. It was the most expensive load of supplies he had ever returned with, some of the payoff used to purchase materials to repair the roofs on all the houses. He couldn’t wait. The house he shared with four generations of his family was in desperate need. There were far too many holes in their roof, patched over the years. Heat would escape at night in the summer or all day in the winter, animals would get in, and rain was a constant problem.

  As it was for everyone.

  They were all poor farmers, eking out a meager living by bartering for what they needed with any surplus crops. The money received earlier today would do so much good, improving the lives of all. He glanced over at the home of his best friend, Behrooz, that sat near the center of the village, scarred by bullets and flame from when the rocket had hit the Americans’ vehicle. The supplies he had purchased included what would be needed to erase any evidence of what had happened here earlier in the week, and soon they would put this entire affair behind them.

  He placed his hands on his hips and stretched his back, thrusting his pelvis forward. His gaze came to rest on the SUV that had brought the American and his translator. He couldn’t believe their good fortune. He was pretty sure he was 30 years old, though there was some dispute over that. His mother said 30, his father said 31. Whatever it was, the road had been the road for as long as he had been alive. When the Americans had arrived years ago, repairs had been made, though he was convinced it wasn’t for the benefit of the locals, but for their own vehicles to have a smoother ride.

  He continued to stare at the vehicle, the one lone vehicle with no government markings, the single vehicle with nothing that indicated its purpose, carrying two unarmed men. This region was normally peaceful. The only violence he had heard about in years was the attack he had participated in several days ago. Surely these people were aware of the incident, but if they were, why would they come here with no guards, no security, no defense, especially here specifically, where the attack had occurred? Could they be that ignorant? If they knew the truth, then they would know there was no real risk. If they knew the truth, then they would know there was little danger. However, there was no way they could know the truth, yet here they were.

  Was it possible they didn’t know about what had happened? Even if so, he couldn’t recall the last time he had seen any foreigner alone, unarmed. He pursed his lips as he scratched at his beard. It made no sense. It was one thing to be brave, though too often foolishness was mistaken for courage. The man could be new to the country and ignorant to the dangers, though he had to work for people who had experience, who wouldn’t send their new worker into a dangerous situation.

  None of it made sense.

  His head swiveled, checking for anyone watching, then he strode as casually as he could manage toward the SUV. It appeared locked though he didn’t dare touch it. He had, of course, heard of car alarms, though the few vehicles in the village weren’t equipped. Instead, he peered through the windows, searching for anything out of place, but it was what he didn’t find that had his suspicions growing. Where was the paperwork? Government people always had paperwork. Forms, pamphlets, booklets, badges, identification, and so much more, yet there wasn’t anything, not a single piece in sight, and there were no briefcases or file holders where they might be hiding.

  Yet still, he couldn’t be certain that was anything suspicious. He had never worked for the government, and his interactions in this area were mainly with the American military, who did not understand that when they handed out pamphlets, there was almost nobody in the village who could actually read them. Perhaps these new arrivals weren’t so ignorant.

  A foot scraped behind him on the gravel and his heart leaped into his throat as he spun. He breathed a sigh of relief to find it was his friend Behrooz.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jafar shook his head. “Nothing. Just curious.”

  Behrooz cupped his hands against the glass and peered inside.

  Jafar gasped. “Careful, you might set the alarm off!”

  Behrooz shrugged. “So? If they’re supposed to be our friends, aren’t we allowed to be curious?”

  Jafar eyed him. “If?”

  Behrooz gave him a look. “Don’t play stupid with me. I’ve known you your entire life. You think there’s something wrong, otherwise why would you be staring so intently inside this car and perhaps risking a new road?”

  Jafar said nothing.

  Behrooz smirked. “Your silence speaks volumes, my friend.” He pointed at the road running through their village. “You and I both know nobody’s going to be building us a new road when there are so many others that are far more important that need to be done.”

  Jafar’s head bobbed slowly as he thought about it. It didn’t make sense. Their road was terrible, yes, but the road led to scattered villages of no importance and a closed Chinese border. There were entire highways in the region in need of replacemen
t where transport trucks and other vehicles traveled regularly. He paused. Why had the man been up on the hill with binoculars? He said he had been surveying the road, yet he had just driven on it.

  The more he thought about it, the more nothing made sense. American soldiers die in his village, and several days later, a lone American civilian and his Afghan translator show up alone and unarmed, claiming to be doing work on replacing a road that no one had cared about for decades. Every government official he had ever met, every Westerner he had ever met, always had a badge or a uniform. They always presented it when they arrived, but that hadn’t happened here.

  Jafar shook his head. “You’re right. Something’s wrong here.”

  Behrooz pointed up. “There’s another thing that’s wrong.”

  Jafar tilted his head back and peered up at the sky. “What?”

  Behrooz pointed and Jafar squinted, finally spotting what his friend already had—a drone circling overhead. “Now, tell me, is that there because of them, or is that there because of what we did to those Americans?”

  The blood drained from Jafar’s cheeks as his jaw dropped. “Or are they both here because of what we did to those Americans?”

  14 |

  Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia

  “I think they made us.”

  Leroux cursed at Child’s observation. Two men that had been paying a little bit too much attention to Kane’s SUV were now staring directly at the drone overhead. He reached for his headset to warn Kane and cursed again. He wasn’t on comms. But there was a relay in his SUV that could communicate with his watch. He turned to Tong. “Send him an emergency signal indicating he might have been made.”

  Tong typed furiously on her keyboard for a few moments then gave a thumbs-up. “Message sent.”

  Leroux stared at the screen. The two men were still peering up at the drone, and he debated what he should do. He could call it off, which might appear suspicious, or he could leave it in place, which could stoke the villagers’ suspicions regardless.