The SF guy and Weston walked his way, Rodriguez following like a guard dog. Man, oh, man. Young leaned back, away from the firing hole. The shelter was unlit. Young didn’t think they could see him unless they stopped and looked directly inside. He hoped they’d get close enough for him to see the SF guy’s face clearly. But about a hundred feet from the shelter, the SF guy jumped into a pickup truck parked on the side of the road. The pickup rolled off. Weston and Rodriguez kept walking, past him, past the shelter. Young waited until he was sure they were gone and headed over to the DFAC for chow. Roman found him a few minutes later.
“Thought we were gonna work out.”
“I changed my mind. Got hungry.”
“You should have told me.”
Young ignored him, went back to his barbecued chicken. That night, he poked around Zombieland, looking for places Rodriguez and Weston might have hidden the stash. But nothing stood out in the piles of broken metal and plastic parts. Anyway, Young figured they’d given the stuff to the SF guy.
He wanted to push on Roman. Roman was the weak link. Roman had started talking about how he was buying himself a farm when he got home. Finally, Sergeant Taz asked him how the heck he was going to buy a farm when he had two kids by different moms and he’d been so broke he filed Chapter 11 three months before they deployed. Roman mumbled something about how he’d been saving his money. The next morning, Roman and Rodriguez went for a walk and after that Roman didn’t talk about buying a farm anymore.
Young figured that he’d wait until they were a couple days from going home and then try to bluff Roman into giving up the truth. It wasn’t a great plan, but he didn’t have anything better. And at least he wouldn’t be giving Weston and Rodriguez much chance to come back at him.
A WEEK LATER, Young was headed to the gym when he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Sergeant Young.” He turned to see Rodriguez.
“First Sergeant Rodriguez.”
“How you been, Coleman? Good workout?” Rodriguez clapped a hand around the meat of Young’s biceps and squeezed. “Damn, Sergeant. You got some guns on you.”
“You like that, Rodriguez? Didn’t think you went that way.”
“Take a walk with me, Coleman.”
Young followed Rodriguez to the big lot where Strykers that needed minor repairs were kept. The mechanics weren’t up yet. No one was within a hundred yards.
Rodriguez was short and broad shouldered and cocky. He stood close to Young, making sure Young could feel him. Trying to back Young up. Typical Mexican crap, Young thought. He’d dealt with plenty of them in south Dallas. Dealing with them didn’t mean he liked them.
“What’s up, First Sergeant?”
“Wanted to be sure you were okay, Coleman. I know you and Ricky were good friends.”
“Yeah? You seen us holding hands, First Sergeant?” Young knew he should keep his mouth shut. But Rodriguez had been under his skin even before Ricky got juiced.
“You saying you weren’t friends.”
“Friends, sure.”
“So it’s only natural to be depressed.”
“Let me ask you something, First Sergeant.” Rodriguez liked to be in charge. Giving it back was the way to play him. Young wondered whether he should speak up about the SF guy he’d seen, decided to keep that bit to himself for now. “It strike you as odd, what happened to Ricky?”
“Odd like how?”
“Like once he got hit, the enemy disengaged right away. Almost like he was the only target.”
“I think the shooter figured he got lucky, decided not to push. Dropped his gun and ran, knowing we couldn’t touch him.”
You and Weston would tell CID that exact story if I went to them, Young thought. All I got on my side is the word of a dead man.
“The lieutenant and I are worried about you. We feel you’ve withdrawn from the rest of the platoon.” Rodriguez put a hand on Young’s shoulder. Young brushed it off.
“I prefer to keep my thoughts to myself.”
“That’s your choice.”
“I think it’s safer for everyone.”
“Could be. Anyway, the lieutenant and I, we were thinking if you wanted to get out of here, chill at KAF for a couple weeks, get your head on straight, we’d get that. Maybe even finish out the tour over there. You know we got barely two months left.”
So Weston and Rodriguez wanted him gone. They didn’t know what he knew, what he’d guessed, what Fowler had told him. They didn’t know what he might have told his family or his buddies in other units. They figured that trying to take him out might be tricky. It wouldn’t look good if another soldier in the platoon went down in some suspicious way. So they were offering him a deal. KAF, Kandahar Air Field. Young was more likely to get shot back home in Oak Cliff than at KAF. He’d be more or less certain to finish his tour in one piece.
Too bad I’m not looking to run. Young stepped close to Rodriguez, chest-to-chest, so Rodriguez had to tilt his head up to make eye contact.
“I appreciate that, Sergeant. That’s a generous offer. Thoughtful. But I’ll pass.”
“All right.”
“And know this, too. Ricky wasn’t much of a soldier.” Young stared at Rodriguez until the first sergeant nodded. “Me, I take care of myself. I’ll engage and destroy any threat outside the wire. Any threat.”
Rodriguez didn’t say a word, and they stood looking at each other for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, Young got tired of the staring contest and put his hands on Rodriguez’s shoulders and shoved, shoved hard—
And Rodriguez stumbled back and landed on his ass on the Stryker gravel. He muttered something under his breath that Young couldn’t hear. He popped up like he was on springs and took a half step toward Young.
“You’re gonna regret that, Sergeant.”
“Am I now? Whyn’t you show me?”
But Rodriguez stepped back and smiled. “I don’t have to. Somebody else will.”
“Listen to me, Rodriguez. Soon as I get back to my bunk I’m gonna write my brother and my best friend some thoughts I been having. I’m going to put them letters in envelopes. I’m gonna write on the outside, ‘Only open if I die,’ and then I’m gonna mail them off.”
“Yeah? Good luck with that.”
“Wanna know what it’s gonna say? Just your names, you and the lieutenant, and a note that says, ‘These two did me. Whatever the Army tells you, don’t believe it. And you come back on them.’ And I can promise you that they will.”
“Never seen you scared before, Coleman. Telling fairy tales about how your best friend’s gonna come at me. How’s he even know where I live? He a detective or something? And then he’s hunting me down? Please.”
“I got letters to write, Rodriguez.” Young turned away.
“You go ahead.”
Young went back to the hutch and wrote his letters. For all the good they’d do. He might just have gotten himself killed this morning and he couldn’t see how to get clean. He had no evidence against Weston and Rodriguez. And not only did he not know the name of the SF operator he’d seen with them, he hadn’t even gotten a clear look at the guy’s face.
Nothing else to do, so Young went to breakfast. It was still early, and he was one of the first inside. He loaded up with eggs and hash browns. Normally he was careful about what he ate. Today he didn’t care. He grabbed a couple of Cokes and found a seat by himself in a quiet corner and leaned his head over his plate and did something he hadn’t done in years. He said grace.
PART TWO
12
MUSLIM BAGH, PAKISTAN
T
he hood over Wells’s head gave off a funky odor, sweat mixed with dried blood. If the devil sold perfume, it would smell like this. Taliban. The New Fragrance from Mullah Omar.
“Stand,” Najibullah said. Wells stood. Najibullah patted him down through his shalwar kameez and grabbed the passport and the money from his pockets and tied his wrists behind his back with rough plastic twine. Then Najibullah and t
he other man frog-marched Wells to the back of the pickup and shoved him in.
“Lie down.” Wells did. The truck rolled off. It had been headed northeast when it stopped. Now it made a U-turn, back toward Quetta. Wells turned so he was lying against the sides of the pickup bed. With his arms hidden against the walls, Wells flexed his hands and rubbed his wrists together to test the knot. It was loose and the twine was cheap. Wells thought he could cut it on a sharp rock. He stopped moving and closed his eyes and tried to eavesdrop, but the pickup was moving too fast.
The truck swung off the highway and slowed and rattled over an unpaved road. The air cooled. They were rising into the mountains. The road noise lessened, and Wells heard Najibullah. “Won’t Amadullah be surprised? We’ll make him pay if he wants this one.”
So these men were fighting the Thuwanis. Maybe they were Afghans who had moved into territory Amadullah didn’t want to share. Or local bandits defending a smuggling route. Or they blamed the Thuwanis for a drone strike. Whatever the reason for the feud, Wells was caught in the middle. With better information he might have avoided this mess, but the CIA had almost no firsthand knowledge of this part of Balochistan. Americans had barely operated here in decades. The good news was that these men weren’t after Wells. They had no idea who he was, or how dangerous he could be.
The truck turned onto a bumpy track that seemed to be little more than a streambed. After half an hour, it stopped. “Get up,” Najibullah said. Before Wells could move, Najibullah kicked at Wells, dragged him up, shoved him out of the back of the truck.
Wells stumbled on a rock, let himself fall. As he hit the earth, he rolled sideways so his arms were hidden. He worked the twine around his wrists over a rough rock, cutting at the strands, feeling them come loose.
“Stupid cow,” Najibullah said. He kicked Wells. Wells grunted underneath his hood and squirmed up. Najibullah grabbed him and dragged him forward. The ground was uneven, and after a few steps Wells stepped into a ditch and stumbled again.
“Take off his hood,” one of the men in front said. “He’ll slow us down.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“He’s no threat. He’s a stupid Saudi. Take off his hood.”
Najibullah grabbed the top of the hood and pulled it off, snapping Wells’s head back. He found himself on a stony hillside, the sky a bright morning blue, the sun rising to the east, casting long shadows. Wells checked the positions of his captors. The pickup’s driver and passenger walked a few yards ahead. They carried holstered pistols, not rifles. Najibullah stood behind Wells. The thin one, Najibullah’s partner, brought up the rear.
Wells turned to walk and Najibullah caught him with a rifle butt in the side, over his right kidney. This time Wells wasn’t faking when he went down. He rested on his knees, his breathing ragged, the pain swelling with every heartbeat. Enjoy yourself, my friend, because the end is nigh. But Wells pushed the thought from his mind. No anger. Angry men made mistakes, and he couldn’t afford another mistake this morning.
“There’s no need for this. I only want to help.” Let them think he was pathetic. A pathetic prisoner was no threat.
Najibullah smiled down at Wells. A generation of war had bred countless men like him, sadists pure and simple. “You Arabs come here and play at jihad and then you go back to your fancy houses. And Saudis are the worst. At least Iraqis can shoot. You’re only good for strapping bombs on. Blowing yourselves up. If Allah gives you the bravery to go through.”
“My brother—”
Najibullah cuffed Wells on the shoulder with his AK. “I warned you about calling me that. My cousin went to Riyadh to work. And you know what happened? The man who brought him over said he was stealing. So he locked him in a cage. For a month. Like he was a dog. No court, no sharia. Just locked him and beat him. He still doesn’t walk right. I’ll put you in a cage, see if you like it. ‘My brother.’ Call me ‘my brother’ again and Allah will have you.”
“Najibullah,” the man in front said. “Enough.”
“It’s true,” Najibullah said sullenly.
THEY WALKED. The hills were quiet, no evidence of humans or any living creatures. Not a squirrel or a sparrow. Wells wanted to make his move soon. He didn’t know how many men would be waiting at the camp. He kept his pace slow, widening the gap with the two jihadis ahead. “Faster,” Najibullah said, jabbing at him.
Ten minutes later, the hills around them narrowed into the beginnings of a canyon. The trail angled right, along a pile of scree, loose rocks and boulders that had slid down. Wells pretended to stumble, kicking rocks back toward Najibullah. The jihadi slipped, sending a minor avalanche down the hill.
“You oaf—”
Wells flexed his shoulders and biceps, putting at the knot, trying to split the ragged twine. The knot tensed and stretched and then it tore. His hands came free. He spun backward. Behind him, Najibullah was lifting his AK.
But before he could get the rifle into position, Wells stepped toward him. Wells wrapped his right arm around Najibullah’s back and pulled him close so the AK was trapped between them. Then Wells reached up with his right hand and grabbed Najibullah’s hair and pulled his head back. Before Najibullah could even open his mouth to scream, Wells raised his left forearm and forced it under Najibullah’s chin and drove his head up and back and up and back—
And Najibullah’s neck snapped as sharp and sudden as a branch breaking. The hate and the anger and everything else left Najibullah’s eyes. He fell away from Wells, dead, and his rifle came free. Wells grabbed it before it hit the ground and pulled it up and dropped the safety. All this in a single breath. As a linebacker in college, Wells had never been the biggest or the strongest player on the field, but he’d always had the quickest first step.
The tall jihadi behind Najibullah fumbled for his rifle. He looked at Wells, his eyes pleading for mercy. “La,” he said. No. Wells shot him, three in the chest, knowing that he would have to deal with the two in front. Knowing that he couldn’t risk leaving an armed man behind him, even one who wanted to surrender. The jihadi tore at his chest and grunted and pitched backward. Wells forgot him and turned and looked up the hill.
The two men ahead were grabbing for their pistols. They were maybe sixty feet up the trail, four car lengths, only a few scrubby trees and bushes between them and Wells. Wells went to a knee as the jihadi farthest away fired three rounds high and wild. The shots echoed off the hills, and behind Wells, a branch broke. Wells sighted and steadied the AK, putting the stock against his shoulder. Make haste, not hurry. He squeezed the trigger three times. He was a good shot, not great, but he didn’t need to be, not with a long gun at this range. Two neat holes tore into the jihadi’s gown and he fell backward and didn’t move.
The fourth jihadi fired twice. He had a clean shot, but he was nervous and rushed it, and sixty feet was much more difficult for a pistol than a rifle. The rounds clicked against a rock a few yards to Wells’s right. Wells put the AK on him. The jihadi turned and fled up the hill, shooting wildly across his body as he ran, all his discipline gone. Wells squeezed the trigger twice. The jihadi yelped and spun down, hit in the right shoulder. He pushed himself up and stumbled to his feet. Wells fired again, catching him in the gut this time. The man screamed and dropped his gun and pressed his hands over his stomach. He slipped to his knees. The echoes of the scream faded into a hopeless grunt, the sound of a hungry baby with no tears left to cry.
Wells ran up the hill. “Leave the gun,” he said. The jihadi didn’t answer. The front of his gown was black with blood. Wells put a hand over the man’s and pushed down. The blood kept coming, covering Wells’s palm, spurting through his fingers. The shot had torn open the jihadi’s intestines. Surgery might save his life, but they were a half day from even the most basic hospital. “You’ll be all right,” Wells said in Pashtun.
The man tilted his head, looked at Wells. I know you’re lying, and you do too, his eyes said. He said something and Wells leaned close to hear him. “Al
lah forgive me for screaming. But it hurts.”
Wells almost had to admire the insanity of these Pashtuns. This man would be dead within the hour. Yet his biggest fear was that Wells would think he was weak for showing pain. “Where can I find the Thuwanis?”
The man’s head drooped. You waste my last minutes with this? his eyes said. “They pray at a mosque east of town. Near the turnoff for the mines.” He licked his lips. “I’m thirsty.”
“Why do you hate them? Why do you fight with them?” Even as he asked, Wells realized the answer didn’t matter. Men here fought for a thousand reasons. Over slights to honor, real and imagined. To prove their strength and amuse themselves. Because they’d always fought and always would.
“I don’t hate them. They’re not the ones who killed me,” the man said. “Now finish it. Before I dishonor myself.”
Wells heard shouts, distant but closing. The firefight must have echoed a long way in these hills. “Your men are coming.”
“Finish it. Don’t pretend you can’t.”
“La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasulu Allah,” Wells said. The words were the shahada, the Muslim declaration of faith, the first pillar of Islam. There is no God but God, and Muhammad is the Messenger of God. Pious Muslims hoped that the shahada would be the last words they heard.
“Allahu akbar,” the man said. “La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasulu Allah.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and crossed his hands over his chest. Wells put three shots into him and he twitched and stilled. Then Wells reached into the front pocket of the man’s shalwar and plucked out the keys to the Toyota and a cell phone and a Pakistani identification card smeared with blood. He jogged back down the hill to Najibullah’s body. The corpse’s head was twisted at a grotesque angle, jaw loose, tongue flopped out. It seemed to be leering at Wells. “You started it,” Wells said. He grabbed Jalal Haq’s passport and money.
The Shadow Patrol Page 16
