“You are not dead!” Mudar was equally surprised and angry. His powers of observation made Jarvis smile under the tape. “Why are you here?” He waited for an answer, convincing Brin and Jarvis that he gained his power through violence, not intellect. He caught on and pointed at his bodyguard who leaned in and ripped the duct tape off Brin’s mouth first, then Jarvis’. It hurt.
“Why are you here? Why are you not dead?” as if they could now understand the question with their mouths unencumbered.
Jarvis licked his lips. “Brin almost died. And your morons couldn’t get to me.”
Mudar moved quickly. He slapped Jarvis, hard, in the face almost before Jarvis could brace himself. It was not just a threat, but a sign of disrespect. “Then you’ll die here instead. You came here to stop me? Stupid Americans, think they can come five thousand miles and start a war. You have a war now, pigs!”
Jarvis was fairly certain Mudar would saw off their heads right now if he had a steak knife. “You sent men to poison innocent people. Even a scumbag like you could have the decency to go after military targets, not women and children.”
Mudar’s anger dissipated into laughter. “No one is innocent. Tell me why you are here and I will kill you quickly.”
Brin couldn’t resist. “To kill you, asshole, before you hurt anyone else.”
Mudar raised his hand to slap Brin but the angle would have resulted in him smacking Brin in the ear. Instead he spat in Brin’s face. He got laughter in return. Brin wasn’t fearless – he just didn’t know what fear was.
Before it could deteriorate further, Jarvis cut in. “I followed the trail. The kid who poisoned Brin and a couple others, the guy in Wisconsin who received and distributed the stuff, and your pal Said here,” he nodded unpleasantly at Said to keep up appearances.
“Then you are truly fools. You will wish you had died that day when the school fell, or by poison back in your despicable home.” Mudar’s voice began to rise, a sermon on his lips.
“No, dumbass, you’re the fool. You’re taking revenge on something we didn’t do.” That stopped Mudar. He looked surprised. Jarvis kept him off balance. “The rockets that hit the school and killed those kids and parents, it wasn’t ours. It came from your guys.”
“Lousy frickin’ aim.”
Mudar’s face squinted in confusion. “You know that? You know the bomb was from us?”
The wording caught Jarvis’ attention. The English wasn’t perfect, but good enough that he knew Mudar picked his words. And he figured it out. “You already knew. You knew your own RPGs hit the school and you used it to get people riled up.”
Said looked at Mudar quizzically but Mudar ignored him. A look of pain came over the daughter’s face. Mudar laughed again, only this time it was cold and dark.
“You are the fools. It was no accident. We waited for you, at that spot. We ambushed you in front of the school. We fired on the school as if we were shooting at you. It was a plan. A brilliant plan in praise of Allah!”
The room was silent except for the sound of breathing and the almost audible thumping of hearts as realization spread. Jarvis broke the reverie.
“You killed those kids, those mothers, to get sympathy?” He was incredulous but something was still off.
Mudar leaned in close, almost nose to nose with Jarvis. “I did not want sympathy. I wanted fury. The fury of orphans, children who lost everything because of the Americans. Children who would do anything for revenge, even grow up and go to America and raise the sword of Allah to smite the heathen!”
Even Brin was mildly surprised. “You’re a freakin’ psycho.”
The slang may have been foreign to Mudar, but he understood the sentiment. “Tell me what you have learned. Tell me what you know of the glorious plan! If you do, you will die honorably.” His inconsistency on method of death did not comfort Jarvis.
Said’s eyes were closed. Thoughts of his son dying so Mudar could carry out a plot to increase his power and influence tore at him. His knees weakened. Mudar barked an order at his guard who raised the rifle and pointed it at Jarvis’ head.
“Tell me now.”
Jarvis looked at the guard whose eyes were lining up on the sight of the rifle. With a startle, the guard’s gaze moved away from the rifle and back to Mudar, a sudden movement catching his attention. The daughter’s arm was making a wide arc and the small knife she’d hidden under her scarf flashed above her head before she plunged it into Mudar’s neck. Blood instantly shot out and hit Jarvis’ face. Mudar made a high-pitched squeal and clawed at his throat. Jarvis turned back to the guard, expecting a bullet to either hit him in the forehead or whiz by on its way to the girl. The rifle wavered as the guard overcame surprise and tried to regain his composure and prepare for a fight. He didn’t have time to make the transition. Brin and Jarvis simultaneously reached under their chairs, the duct tape on their wrists entirely for show and not restricting their movements. Each came out with a pistol and Brin’s shot rang first, entering the guard’s left eye and killing him instantly. Jarvi’s shot was a heartbeat behind, piercing the guard’s chest and stopping any last-minute pumping of the organ with the brain already dead. Both men stood, the tape on their chest as much a ruse as that on the their wrists, and pointed the guns at Mudar. He was already on the ground, but much further from death than his bodyguard. Blood had stopped spurting and was oozing now. The daughter stood over him and cursed in Arabic. She put her face close to his and growled the name of her brother, then plunged the short knife into Mudar’s chest at the diaphragm. Unable to breathe his last, Mudar choked and fell into unconsciousness and died quickly from loss of blood and lack of oxygen.
The two shots had not gone unnoticed and the flurry of activity didn’t distract Brin or Jarvis. Footsteps came to the top of the stairs and started down. The second guard was confident the sounds had been of an execution. He was just unaware of the identity of the victims. He did not find out, as Brin put a bullet in his right kneecap as soon as the guard’s legs came into view. As the man fell forward in agony, Jarvis shot him twice in the head. The body rolled noisily down the stairs and came to a rest next to Said, who still had not said a word. He was the only confused one in the room, the only one unable to act.
The girl was unfazed by the death around her. The gunshots had barely distracted her intense study of Mudar’s body. Now she turned to her father.
“How could you let this happen? They killed my brother. They killed your son!”
Jarvis reached gently but quickly for the knife still in her hand. She didn’t notice. Upbringing wouldn’t let her harm her father, but she could hate him with a hot fury.
Brin’s tone was the same as when he’d been facing Mudar and imminent death. “Your father didn’t know.” It was a fact. He turned to Jarvis, with the body of Mudar curled in a bloody ball between them, “there’re some other guys out there. We should take off.”
It was excellent advice. Killing a Taliban leader was several notches worse than any of the other killing they’d done that day.
“I need to be sure they won’t send anyone else to the States. Someone’ll pick up where he left off.” He pointed at Mudar on the floor. “I’ve got a list of the others, but was hoping we’d get him to call them off. Don’t think we’ll get him to do it now. Unless he’s got a boss.” He said it like a question. Said did not register it but his daughter did.
“Who else? Who else is doing this?” Her voice was near hysteria and her hands were in fists, ready to pummel her father. The tone broke his catatonia. He turned and looked past her, to Jarvis.
“There is no one else. This was Mudar’s plan. Not from the beginning. Sheikh Kalid plotted it. Mudar was his right-hand man, until Kalid was killed. Now it is just Mudar and his men. I did not know they were so evil. I did not…I did not know…” His voice broke and it was sad and inexcusable.
Brin spoke directly to Jarvis. “It’ll keep on. His men will want revenge and they’ll keep going.”
Said
’s voice interrupted and it was stronger. “No, they will not. I won’t let them. I’ll tell everyone what happened. They will be pariahs.”
Jarvis looked over the scene. “We don’t have a lot of choice. We need to get back to the States and hunt down the rest of these guys. They’re hiding after I got a couple, but they’ll start up again.”
There was some sort of emotional, cathartic exchange threatening to overtake the group, the girl forgiving her father or Said pledging to help the Americans. Instead, Brin turned and headed for the back door leading out to the alley. Jarvis took one final look around, picked up the pistol from the belt of the guard who’d tumbled down the stairs, and followed Brin without looking back. There was silence behind him as he ducked through the door. He mentally counted the bodies who’d taken their last breaths in the half-day since he’d been in Afghanistan. He felt no sorrow for any.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You want to explain how you got out of the hospital and made it to Afghanistan 36 hours after I figured you were brain dead?”
They could hear shouts coming from the square but that was almost a hundred yards away. They were working their way through the back alleys and toward the East side of the town. Jarvis pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and squinted at the display. One bar, which appeared and disappeared.
“I woke up, asked a few questions and took off before they could quiz me about my social security number. I don’t like hospitals.”
Brin had spent approximately three hours at Landstuhl hospital in Germany after almost being beheaded; which was a little less than the seven days of recovery and observation the doctors had ordered. Since then, Jarvis knew from direct experience that a sewing kit was as close to medical treatment as Brin had seen in a decade, excluding his recent coma.
“Yeah, okay.” He looked at the phone again as they picked up their pace along with the volume of noise coming from the square. “But now we’re even.” Brin smiled without breaking pace or looking over at Jarvis. They both were vigilant, looking for threats from any direction including above. They rounded a corner and saw a group of armed men smoking outside yet another coffee drinking spot haphazardly set up in the middle of the small road. Brin and Jarvis didn’t stop, which would have drawn more attention to themselves. They kept moving and the men shot them dirty looks but nothing more.
They took a hard right at the corner. It was the wrong direction but they didn’t want to pass too closely to the men. Jarvis saw a solid bar on the phone and hit speed dial. The phone barely rang before Saleem picked up.
“You are ready? I can come now?” Jarvis could hear the feigned calm in the voice.
“Yeah, now would be a good time. Same spot, and make sure the car is turned around – and gassed up.” He cut the connection as they turned left on another small side street to get heading back in the right direction. Behind them a hubbub boiled up. There were steps on the stone underfoot and the pace was increasing. Interested parties were getting closer. Voices shouted now, and Jarvis knew word had gone out. The men they’d passed were looking for them or had told Mudar’s followers about the two American’s who’d hustled by. Brin looked at Jarvis and pulled out the gun he’d kept under his jacket.
“Think we’ll need to shoot our way out?” Brin was mostly nonchalant.
“Not today, Butch. I’d like to make it back to the States in one piece.” They broke into a trot, each taking a turn looking back while the other looked forward. It was a natural, well-orchestrated partnership that might keep them both alive.
Neither had to tell the other which turn to make. They went left twice, then right, and cut across another alley. They were getting closer to the street near the edge of town but there was no way to know if a posse was waiting for them. The Taliban network could be tightly woven or full of gaping holes. Jarvis crossed his fingers for the latter. They reached a small intersection. Straight ahead was the main road and a hundred yards west was where Saleem would appear in another minute or two. Straight ahead also was a two-man guard walking down the middle of the narrow street. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they had rifles pointed in front of them – the silver lining being that they were walking away from Brin and Jarvis instead of toward them. Jarvis looked to his right and the street curved back the way they had come with no openings in the building to let them cut through. To the left was just a wall. Only one good choice. He took a deep breath and nodded toward the guards who were talking excitedly and angrily. At any moment they could turn around and see the Americans standing like tourists. Brin and Jarvis bent over to make themselves smaller targets and moved quickly and quietly toward the main street and the guards.
Brin was stealthy but Jarvis was faster. He reached the guard on the left just as the men sensed someone behind them. It was too late. The butt of Jarvis’ gun made a dull, angry sound against the man’s skull. He fell limply to the ground without a sound. Brin’s approach was more time consuming. He threw an arm around the other guard’s neck before he was able to do anything more than look in surprise at his companion’s body drifting to the ground. Brin locked his forearm across the man’s throat and used his left hand to hold it in place, the gun still in his right hand. The guard struggled heavily for a moment until lack of oxygen to his brain put him to sleep. Brin gave an extra tug for good measure and he heard cartilage strain. He gently laid the man on the ground. Seconds had passed and the alley was now empty of anyone standing except Brin and Jarvis. They trotted to the corner where the wider street passed and peered around the corner. Normal activity, men and women walking and talking, none appearing to be on the lookout for foreign murderers.
Jarvis did not see Saleem but knew he would be there. They walked briskly onto the broken cement and turned right. They avoided looking like killers on the run and moved cautiously but steadily toward the spot a hundred yards away where Saleem would soon be. There were people on the street, residents trying to live their lives. No one looked too closely at them, but the hair on the back of Jarvis’ neck stood up despite the sweat that now soaked his shirt. He and Brin moved like hunters being hunted. They were halfway to the spot when they heard an engine gunning and shouts from a side road. They didn’t break stride but both men looked back as a pickup truck careened onto the main street from the left. The bed of the truck banged into the stone wall of a building as the driver over-corrected. He hit the gas and the back corner of the truck scraped a few feet before it got onto the street, forcing a woman carrying a three-year-old to almost dive into the middle of the road. Brin and Jarvis picked up their pace, but they wouldn’t be able to outrun the pick-up. They’d both seen in one glance what was chasing them – one driver, a passenger with a handgun hanging out the window, and a man with what looked like an automatic weapon in the truck bed. The driver’s inept maneuver hadn’t thrown the outside shooter off, but banged him around enough to keep the gunfire from erupting. Jarvis calculated they had about 30 seconds and the truck would run them over; even odds on whether their bodies would be riddled with .50 caliber bullets when that happened. They ran faster.
Wheels screeched and an engine strained. This time, though, it came from up ahead. Thirty more feet and there wouldn’t be any buildings on either side as the street broke into open space. Saleem’s cab raced toward them, a hundred feet away. If he came too far, there wouldn’t be room to turn around quickly enough. The pick-up occupants wouldn’t watch patiently while Saleem executed a 3-point u-turn. Jarvis raised his arm and made a circular motion like a blender. It must have pissed off the guy with the automatic because there was a crack of gunfire and bullets sprayed the wall to their left. His aim improved slightly and the next round hit the stone to their right. Brin and Jarvis instinctively began zig-zagging in counterpoint to each other, making the target smaller but increasing the risk that one would be hit. Jarvis kept his eye on the taxi. Saleem didn’t need any instruction. His motivation to get to his friend as quickly as possible was quelled by his desire save his life; he spun the whe
el hard and the car did a smooth 180…and kept going around. The front wiped out a small cart holding multi-colored fruits, shocking the vendor who was suddenly holding a large melon above empty space, but the impact corrected Saleem’s turn and he was skidding backwards. He’d been accelerating, hitting 60 mph before turning the wheel, and his momentum kept him sliding another thirty feet, trunk first, toward Brin and Jarvis – and the pick-up truck spitting bullets. It deserved to be filmed and added to a James Bond movie.
Brin and Jarvis needed another ten seconds to reach the taxi. It would be close. They could feel the truck getting closer. They split, Jarvis going left and Brin right. Running along the wall, they forced the gunmen to pick one. Jarvis figured their odds had increased to a 25% chance of survival. They pushed for the final sprint and ten feet from the car they saw the taxi’s trunk hit by half a dozen rounds. Brin shouted “go, go, go!” and Saleem hit the gas. He started to accelerate forward and Brin and Jarvis gave it one more push. They hit max foot speed as Saleem got the taxi up to ten miles per hour. They reached the doors on either side and grabbed the handles. In unison they dove in and the doors slammed shut behind them from the force of the taxi’s acceleration. Bullets shattered the back window and several continued forward, creating spidery cracks in the windshield. The pick-up truck was straight behind them and the passengers’ aim was truer.
Dead East Page 16
