The officer shrugged. “No such thing as civilians in this country. At least not right now. Somebody shoots at one of my boys, and we round up everybody we can get our hands on. Even if they didn’t pull the trigger, they know who did. And if they don’t, no problem. There’s plenty more of them roaming around.”
A bead of sweat sped down the colonel’s face and dove to the ground, disappearing in a tiny mushroom cloud of dust. Jeremy’s heartbeat resonated in his ears, and he morphed his hands into tight fists. “Then I’d best get started. If you’ll point me to the detention area, I’ll get set up. I assume you have a translator available?”
“Two-story building on the other side of the camp. They’re waiting for you. Translator’s there too. I’ll be joining you in a few minutes.”
Jeremy opened his mouth to speak but closed it without saying anything.
“Problem?” the colonel asked.
“No, sir. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready to start.”
“Start now. That Marine they’re holding may not have fifteen minutes to spare.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Three Marines stood in the entry room of the two-story home that now served as a brig. One of the men escorted Jeremy to a murky back room that hung thick with diesel fumes. Outside a dark-curtained window, a generator belched noise, exhaust, and electricity. An orange power cord snaked through the window, across the floor, and onto a green plastic table. A lamp spit out enough light to illuminate a photo of the missing Marine and some bottles of water, but not much more.
In a corner sat a pile of soiled white shirts and towels. Even in the dimness, Jeremy could make out large splotches of crimson stains. In the center of the room was a wooden chair, minus one of its back slats. Behind the seat, the dirt floor was noticeably darker. A whiff of gunpowder filtered briefly through the diesel fumes, and he drew the back of his hand across his mouth.
Jeremy turned to his escort. “You’ve got nine prisoners?”
“Yes, sir. Upstairs.”
“Let’s go.”
Another Marine stood at the top of the steps and led the men to a small room. Jeremy stepped inside and glanced at the turbaned men, each bearded and filthy. They all wore traditional Afghan clothing, a knee- length loose-fitting whitish robe, baggy cotton pants, and a decorated vest. Plastic ties secured their hands behind their backs. These men looked like everyone else he’d seen since he arrived in the country. They could be farmers or teachers or shop owners or terrorists.
Jeremy moved down the line, pausing to stare into the face of each man. They all met his gaze.
“Marine, when was the last time these men had something to drink?”
The guard glanced at Jeremy. “What day is it?”
“They need water. Would one of you bring me some?”
Neither guard moved.
Jeremy sighed, frowned, and stepped out of the room. He turned so he could see the Afghan men over the Marine’s shoulder. “Look. I know what I’m doing. If you want to find your friend, then help me.”
One of the guards grunted and walked downstairs, returning moments later with nine bottled waters. He thrust them toward Jeremy. “Here. I hope they choke on it.”
“Thank you.” Jeremy opened one of the bottles and took a drink. Two of the prisoners cut their eyes toward the man on the far right, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Got you. Jeremy handed the water back to the Marine. “You give it to them while I get set up downstairs. No games. Let them finish, then pick one and bring him down.” He pointed to the man on the end. “Except him. He goes last.”
The Afghan’s dark eyes seared into Jeremy, belying the brown-toothed smile on his face. There was no mistaking his expression.
What makes a man so angry he’d kill others simply because of where they lived? It wasn’t that long ago America had aided these people. Given them the weapons and training that were now being used against U.S. forces. And then came the attacks. They had to know America would respond. Maybe that’s what they wanted.
How many innocents had men like this killed? And for what? He flashed to his wife, Holly, now six months pregnant with their first child. A girl. They’d already picked out a name. Miranda. Hard to believe that in a few months, he’d be holding his daughter.
The Afghan still stared at him, his grin even wider now. Daring him to do something.
If the man was trying to be intimidating, it wasn’t working. Big and brave when killing civilians. Not so much when the Marines get their hands on you. And now you’ve gone and really pissed them off by taking one of their men. Bad move. This guy needed to understand the only thing standing between him and death was Jeremy. If he could be reasoned with, there was a chance—
The Afghan spat across the room toward Jeremy. So much for reason. Jeremy smiled and winked. “See you downstairs, buddy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Colonel Cronfeld waited for Jeremy in the interrogation room. A younger man stood with him, obviously a local but wearing jeans, a faded red T-shirt emblazoned with a Nike swoosh, and a turban.
“This is Nezam, your translator,” the colonel said. “He’s on loan from the CIA. Good man. Helped us on a couple of missions already.”
“How do you do, sir?” Nezam said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Jeremy nodded. “Your English is excellent. Spend some time in the States?”
“No, sir. American TV shows.” He grinned and looked away from the men. “Dallas is my favorite.”
“You can pick up American TV here?” Jeremy asked.
Nezam shook his head. “I spend most of my time in Pakistan. Things are not so, um, strict there. I wish the same for my country.”
“You have family there?”
The translator grinned and looked toward the window. “A sister. We left Afghanistan almost ten years ago. She was only six but I saw ... things. How the Taliban treated women and girls. Not my sister. Not while I lived. I took her across the border. It was hard, but I had help. Your CIA offered and I accepted. It was a chance to help my sister and change my country. Make things better for other girls.”
Jeremy studied the man. “No parents?”
“Both dead. My father died fighting the Russians. The Taliban killed my mother.”
“Sorry. Where’s your sister now? The Taliban have to know you’re working with us. They’ll go after her.”
Nezam glanced at the colonel. “She stayed here with me for many weeks, but she is far away now. Safe forever.”
Colonel Cronfeld patted Nezam’s shoulder. “You’re a good brother. When all this is over, you’ll join her. I promise.”
Jeremy arched his back and yawned. So she’s back in the States, or at least that’s what they want Nezam to believe. Who knows? Maybe she really is. “Okay, let’s get going.”
“Nezam,” the colonel said, “the things that happen in this room must remain in here. You understand?”
“Of course, sir. I will do whatever I can to help find your comrade. I know that—”
One of the prisoners from upstairs shuffled into the room, his arms still bound behind him. The guard hovered inches behind with his rifle held tightly, the barrel pointed at the base of his captive’s skull. For a moment, no one moved. The background hum of the generator grew louder as a stifling breeze fanned the heavy curtain into the room.
Jeremy pressed a hand over his gurgling stomach and resisted the urge to shake the surreal feeling from his mind. In less than two days, he’d gone from sorting through pediatricians to a military jet to this room with its weapons and stench. Get to work and get home. He tilted his head toward the chair, and the guard shoved the prisoner into it.
“Thank you, Marine,” the colonel said. “That’ll be all. Close the door on your way out.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard paused at the exit to hang a heavy tarp across the doorway.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Colonel Cronfeld said. “Get what you can, then we’ll bring down th
e next one.”
Jeremy wiped the sweat off his lip and turned to the officer. “Sir? Fifteen minutes is barely enough time to—”
“The clock is ticking, Winter. Get on with it.”
“But if I don’t have enough time to do this right, I can’t get what you need.”
Colonel Cronfeld shrugged. “Do what you can. Our experience is that, um, aggressive interrogation methods work best. I’ll be right outside. If this guy doesn’t give us any intel on my missing Marine, we’ll move on to the next.”
“And when we’ve interrogated all nine of these men?”
“We’ll get a dozen more. In case you didn’t notice, this country’s crawling with them. Fourteen minutes.”
Jeremy clenched his jaw and turned to the translator. “Ask him his name.”
The prisoner did not respond.
“An American soldier—”
“Marine,” the colonel said as he exited the room.
Jeremy cut his eyes toward the officer before turning back to the prisoner. “An American Marine is missing. We’re trying to locate him. We have many ways to show our appreciation to our friends.”
The Afghan scooted forward in the chair, his eyes wide and his chest rising and falling at an alarming rate. He spoke quickly as if the words had built to an eruption and could no longer be contained. Nearly two minutes of one-way conversation occurred before Jeremy held up his hand.
Nezam cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “He says he knows nothing. The man upstairs, the one on the end, is Taliban. He knows everyone. If any of them help, their families could be killed. He says he doesn’t know where your soldier is though. None of them do. He just wants to go home.”
Jeremy bent forward, placed his hands on his knees, and smiled at the prisoner. “I understand. But surely there’s something you can tell us that will help. Anything. No one will ever know it was you.”
The Afghan listened to the translation and shook his head.
“We can protect you and your family,” Jeremy said. “We’re all on the same side here. All fighting for the same thing.”
Nezam and the man spoke rapidly for a moment, each growing more animated as the conversation continued. Finally, the man slumped in the chair, his mouth open and forehead creased.
“He trusts no one,” the translator said. “But I don’t think he knows anything. He’s more worried about his wife and children than anything else. He just wants to go home and take care of them.”
Jeremy rested his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder. The man shrank away and cowed his head.
“It’s okay. Nezam, tell him it’s okay. I don’t have any more questions. I believe him.”
The translator arched an eyebrow before repeating the message.
Jeremy brushed back the tarp and called for the guard. Instead, Colonel Cronfeld entered the room and glanced at the prisoner before turning to Jeremy.
“Doesn’t look any different than he did when he came in here.”
“He doesn’t know anything. Knocking him around won’t change that.”
The colonel sighed and crossed his arms. “It may not change anything for him, but it might for the next one. You’d be surprised the effect a few screams can have on a man’s willingness to share information.”
Jeremy moved closer to the officer. “I don’t operate that way. Sir.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll escort this one to the holding cell personally. You ready for the next one?”
“I am.”
“Fine. I’ll have him brought down in a minute. Wait here.”
Jeremy downed half a bottled water and poured the remainder over his head. He studied the photo of the Marine and wondered if the man’s family knew that he was missing. Sometimes the military—
The sharp crack of a gunshot echoed through the building, and Jeremy flinched before pulling his Glock. Nezam hadn’t moved. No one was yelling. No more shots. He lowered his weapon and moved out of the room to the front of the home, then stepped outside into the blinding sun.
The colonel stood off to the right, motioning to a pair of Marines. On the ground in front of him lay a body.
Jeremy clenched his throat, refusing to give Cronfeld the satisfaction of seeing him vomit. His finger crept onto the trigger of his semi-automatic.
Cronfeld turned toward him and smiled. “Welcome to Afghanistan, Agent Winter.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jeremy strode back to the interrogation room, yelling at a guard as he passed. “Bring me the one on the end. Now.”
Moments later, the Marine shoved the old Afghan into the chair and secured his hands behind his back. “He’s all yours.”
“Wait outside.”
“You got it. You need anything, I’ll be around.”
Jeremy ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, Nezam. Tell him what I want to know.”
The translator spoke for a moment, then waited as the prisoner spewed an animated tirade in return. “You want word for word?” the translator asked.
“Give me the short version,” Jeremy said.
“He says Americans think they can buy the world. Their money is nothing compared to what Allah offers those who stand against the infidels.”
Jeremy grabbed the photo of the missing Marine and swung his focus back to the man in the wooden chair. “Tell us what you know about this American. Tell us where he is and you’ll live. Go back to your family in peace.”
The Afghan glanced at the picture and yawned as Nezam translated.
Jeremy continued, “The man in this photo has a family. A little girl, two years old.”
The prisoner squinted at the picture, nodded slightly, and looked up. A broad smile spread across his face, and he spoke slowly, never taking his eyes off Jeremy.
“Nezam, what did he say?”
“He said to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling him the American had a daughter. It will make his death sweeter.”
Jeremy’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head. What kind of ...
The man in the chair licked his cracked lips and laughed.
“Does he not understand that I’m trying to save his life? Nezam, tell him.”
The translator glanced away and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “It won’t matter. He doesn’t care.”
“Everybody wants to live.”
Nezam shook his head. “That is not always true. The men flying those planes didn’t.”
9/11.
Mass murder on an epic scale. Nezam was right. You couldn’t reason with some people. Life held no value for them. Death was glory. Especially an American death.
The prisoner held his chin high, glared through narrowed dark eyes at Jeremy, and turned up one corner of his lips.
Jeremy’s ears pounded as adrenaline flooded his body. Cowards. Planning their attack to maximize civilian casualties. Rejoicing because mothers and fathers and children were dead. And now young men like this missing Marine were far away from their families in this godforsaken place. Fighting and dying to ensure the nation had its revenge.
And the man before him didn’t care. He welcomed the chance to kill others who disobeyed his version of reality. Didn’t matter if it was an American half a world away or his next-door neighbor. And if he died in the process, so much the better.
Jeremy grazed the back of his hand across his stubbled cheek as he inhaled the dusty diesel air. Death was a release he wouldn’t give the Afghan. Pain, though, was a different story.
The man snarled and displayed brown-stained teeth before launching into a verbal tirade.
Jeremy didn’t need a translator to understand. His right fist plowed into the Afghan’s jaw. Pain shot across the back of his hand and up his arm. A cut on his middle finger from one of the man’s teeth dripped blood. He held up the picture again. “Where is he?”
The man in the chair spat at the photo in Jeremy’s hand, dotting the missing Marine’s face with crimson specks, then
spoke slowly, his tongue dabbing at the blood on his lips.
Jeremy casually wiped the photo on his pants to remove the spots. “Nezam?”
“He regrets that the girl will not know of the suffering of her father. How he screams and begs—”
Jeremy struck him again, this time farther back along the jawline to protect his hand. Euphoria swept through him as the adrenaline did its job. He could do this all day.
He wanted to do this all day. Make them pay for what they’d done.
He drew back his fist but froze when the Afghan’s sneer erupted into another laugh.
For the first time in his life, Jeremy knew. He’d been trained in self-defense, but this was different. In this room, he had all the control. The Afghan tied to the chair was no threat to him. But Jeremy knew.
He not only could kill another human being, but wanted desperately to do so. Quite easy, really, once you understood that thing in the chair was more animal than man. The photo fluttered to the ground.
Jeremy closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow. Vengeance. Justice. Murder. Take your pick. He looked at the man before him and made his decision. “Nezam, ask him where the Marine is. One. More. Time.”
The prisoner cleared his throat, bringing up as much mucus as possible, and spat on Jeremy’s shirt.
The thick wet glob hung there, defying gravity. Jeremy pulled his gun from the shoulder holster and smiled at the Afghan. He wondered if his own face showed the same hatred. He hoped so. He backed a few steps and pointed the pistol toward the prisoner.
The Afghan didn’t blink. He thrust his chin higher and began to chant.
Jeremy focused down the length of his arm to his hand. The blurry figure of the prisoner was simply a background to the pistol’s sight. So easy to kill a man. Squeeze the trigger and move on. Anything to save an American life. His finger tensed and his breathing slowed as the firearms training kicked in. Don’t anticipate. Don’t jerk. Squeeze until ...
Coming of Winter Page 12
