by Holly Hart
"Jake, heel," I call to the obedient dog. The last thing I need is something happening to him as well. True to form, he quickly paces his way back to me, and we crouch with our backs against the wall, making ourselves small. I'm not armed, and I know how reckless this is, but we're only a hundred yards or so away from Katie's hut. And apparently, also a hundred yards or so away from the gunmen.
"Sir!"
I look around for the source of the noise and noticed a scared looking private with the straps of his body armor hanging loosely off him, like he's run straight here from his bunk bed. In fact, he probably has.
"It's sergeant, kid," I say, "how you doing?"
"I'm okay, si–, I mean, sergeant."
"Where's the rest of your squad, private?" I call back, as quietly as possible. I'm pretty sure the gunmen know where we are, but I don't want to give them any more hints, if I possibly can avoid it. He seems to realize what I'm doing.
"Lost ‘em, sergeant. It's dark, and we weren't really told where to go," he whispers back helplessly.
"Got a sidearm?" I hiss back urgently. I feel kind of naked without some kind of weapon, and while a handgun won't do much, especially as the enemy definitely has rifles with them, it's better than nothing. I hope.
He nods.
"Toss it over here. Safety on," I emphasize, because he looks pretty green and the last thing I need is for an accidental discharge to end up in my other leg. When he looks pretty unsure about whether to toss it over, I do my best to reassure him. "Don't worry, if I lose it – I'll pay for it."
He smiles and unholsters his weapon, quickly checking the magazine is full before limbering up to chuck it over to me. He's definitely a rookie, because if I was his sergeant, and I'd seen him do that, he'd get a clip around the ear at the very least. The gun should be fully loaded at all times, unless you're either firing it or cleaning it. Still, neither the time nor the place to call him up on that one…
He tosses, I catch.
"Good lad," I grunt, the effort of tensing up my core muscles to receive the loaded weapon having the unfortunate side effect of sending a jolt of pain through my injured leg. "Now, I want you to lay down some covering fire. Okay?"
He nods and nervously fingers his trigger.
"But we've got civilians around here," I say, looking around – acutely aware of the depression I’d sink into if a stray round ended up so much as scratching Katie. I'm pretty sure, if Katie's living here, then this is also the area where the rest of the base's contractors will have been housed. Most of them are probably cooks, cleaners and builders – only here for a good paycheck. "I need you to just fire down into the sand, got it? The last thing we need is anything to ricochet and kill someone…"
He gulps, but nods his assent.
My brain chooses now to ask me what the hell I'm doing. I'm not exactly a cripple, but my leg sure as hell isn't working like it should, and if the boy next to me is any guide, the good guys will turn up any time now.
But then again, if the boy next to me is any guide, whoever turns up isn't exactly going to be the cream of the crop. The best of the best tend not to be left on the base; the real killers are usually out there in the field. It's the paper pushers, rookies and guys, well, guys like me – walking wounded, who get left behind. Would I trust this guy to save Katie's life?
Probably not.
So, it's up to me. I check the magazine, sliding it out and counting every round. Fifteen. "You got a spare?" I ask, holding up the weapon. He shakes his head. Dammit. I'm going to have to make them count.
"What's your name, private?" I ask, trying to reassure the kid. I need him calm – the last thing I want is his adrenaline to be pumping and heart rate soaring while he's supposed to be covering me. I don't need to be shot at from both sides.
"Jim," he says, voice quavering. "You?"
"Mike," I say, keeping my voice firm. "You don’t need to worry about anything when you’re with me, kid," I say to calm him down. I’m Delta." Long experience has taught me that your average army grunt has a special belief that special forces can do no wrong, and I use it to my advantage. "Tell you what, Jim, on three – yeah?"
He nods, looking suitably in awe.
"Okay then. Remember, shoot at the ground, near them if you can, but don't take any risks. I just need you to keep their heads down. Ready?"
No reaction. I'm going to take that as a yes. "Good. Three. Two…"
"One."
Turns out he was listening. He starts firing shots in groups of three, and immediately there's returning fire, but not for long, because whoever's on the other end of Jim's rifle has clearly decided to duck.
"Come on, Jake, let's go," I signal, patting him on his coat. He's dusty, and I make a mental note to give him a bath when we get back. Funny what your mind starts thinking about in stressful situations. His ears are peeled back, and he keeps low to the ground, like he's stalking his prey, just the way he was trained. In a way, I suppose he is.
I go with him, keeping low to the ground, and our progress is slow – but steady. I don't bother keeping the handgun out in front of me, it's not like the movies. Especially not now, when I've got a walking stick in my other hand to concentrate on. I mask a smile, briefly thinking about how ridiculous I must look. If I run across some trained Taliban killer, what's he going to think? He's as likely to think I'm some kind of circus act as someone who poses him an actual threat.
On the plus side, that might be a good thing. I shut down that line of thought – it's ridiculous, and it's not going to get me anywhere – other than the wrong side of a wooden box.
"Good boy," I breathe quietly, scratching Jake behind his ear. We're almost there, and I can see the dark shapes of men moving around in the darkness, occasionally – and randomly – stretching a rifle out and firing it into the distance.
Definitely not good guys.
It looks like they've got – I'm not sure, dirt bikes with them? It would make sense, given how precarious the terrain is on the other side of the fences in this part of the base. Still, if they manage to get on them, then this is over.
I creep in closer, trying to get a better view, sticking to the shadows and cursing the full moon hanging low in the night sky and the fact that Afghanistan barely has any light pollution, so the sky's full of starlight.
When I do get closer, my heart sinks, and then it plummets.
They've got her. Katie. Shit, they've got her. They’ve got my woman – and they’ve got my kid. In that moment, I know I’ll do anything to save her, even if it costs me my own life.
There are two of them, two women, struggling against their captors. One of the terrorists barks something in a language I don't recognize – maybe Pashtun? It doesn't matter. Whatever he shouts, it quiets the two girls, and they stop struggling – clearly terrified.
One of the Taliban raises a handgun, pointing directly at Katie’s face, and my fingers tighten against the grip of the gun in my right hand, getting ready to fire. But it's just a threat, not an execution, and the tight ball of fear in my stomach relaxes, just a smidgen – but enough for me not to make a risky play with so much riding on my next move.
Okay, don't panic. Ordinarily, panic wouldn’t even be an option – but ordinarily, I don’t have the mother of my future child in mortal danger…
I count the bikes – five of them. Not the best odds, but I've dealt with worse. And I've got Jake with me, and he's as deadly as two men. I lower my head, whispering into his ear.
The engines on the bikes begin barking into life, and the countdown begins.
I've got only seconds before they speed off into the darkness, prizes secured. They start climbing on, one by one. Katie's forced onto the dirt bike in the middle first, and the other girl – I don't know her name – seems to be in so much terror that she can barely even climb aboard, no matter the threat to her life. All the bikes are purring now, and I slap Jake on the thigh. He speeds out of the darkness, and I can't even imagine how terrifying the pro
spect would be if you weren't expecting it.
These guys certainly aren't. He barrels into the nearest of the Taliban, forcing him off his bike. The most terrifying thing is he's not growling, not barking, he's just deadly silent – and in the darkness, the enemy can't risk firing at him for fear of hitting their own man. Lucky.
I step out, firing at the next closest militant before he's figured out what's happening. He drops to the ground.
Fourteen bullets left.
"Katie, run!" I shout, firing twice at the furthest of the terrorists, but missing both times. I'm suffering the same problem; I can't shoot at the two men nearest the girls, in case I hit the civilians.
Twelve bullets left.
"Mike?" Katie replies, confusion and terror reigning in her voice. "Help me, Mike!"
I shoot the Taliban soldier trying to force Katie's companion onto his bike. He's fumbling with his rifle at the same time as trying to concentrate on her, and he can't do both at once. He drops like a stone, and so does the girl, but I'm pretty sure she's not hurt.
It costs me four bullets, though.
Eight left.
I move with grim efficiency, trying to get into a better firing position. "Jake, back," I shout, knowing that he'll risk too much if he tries to go in for another one. The element of surprise is gone. He's out of the game now; it's up to me.
"Let her go!" I shout, indicating at Katie. The Taliban soldier standing behind her snarls, and his companion, one of only two militants left standing, lowers his rifle and points it at me.
It's a stand-off. The terrorist next Katie pulls out a handgun and points it at her temple. She's trembling, visibly shaking with fear, and my heart goes out for her. Watching it is almost more than I can bear, but the fear quickly turns to anger as I begin to consider what kind of a coward he must be to threaten a woman like that. A defenseless mother.
The terrorist racks his gun, and his meaning is completely clear. If I shoot, if I do so much as move, then she dies. And with her, my dreams of a family.
Fuck! Eight bullets, and I can't do anything with any of them. He forces Katie onto the dirt bike, and then climbs on himself, all the while maintaining his grip on her and his gun. If it wasn't the situation, I'd be impressed by his professionalism. As it is, I'm sickened by what he's doing with it.
"Mike! Don't let him take me!" Katie cries out, plaintively. But the terrorist guns his engine, and start screaming off into the distance. Fuck!
I put a bullet through both of the last remaining terrorist’s kneecaps, and he falls to the ground, howling in pain. In seconds, ignoring the screaming pain coming from my own leg, I'm upon him, pressing my handgun into his temple.
Six bullets left.
"You speak English?" I shout, not caring how hard I'm pressing the barrel of the gun into the soft part of his head. The sense of loss is almost earthshattering; I feel like the world is falling apart around me. I just found her, and now she's gone.
Perhaps sensing the inchoate rage emanating from me, the young terrorist underneath me nods, his eyes full of fear and pain.
"Tell me where you’re taking her, mother fucker. I need to get my kid back."
Chapter Sixteen - Katie
If I jump, I die.
But if I keep holding on, they'll kill me anyway.
Or worse, torture me.
Not much of a choice, when you put it like that. But still, as I watch the rocky earth spinning up off the toothy black rubber tire on either side of me, covering me in specks of fine dirt, I can't bring myself to do it.
For the first few miles of my journey – our journey – I was in shock, shivering violently and eyes firmly shut, and I had only one thought in my mind, which was to keep holding on. Keep holding on, even if that meant that I was clutching the body of the man who kidnapped me like I'm drowning and he's the good Samaritan who's diving in and saving my life.
I know that I'll never forget the feeling of anger tempered by helplessness that I felt in those long moments. I wanted to beat my hands against his back, dig my my sharp fingernails into the soft, defenseless tissue of his eyeballs, and reach my arm around his neck and throttle him for having the arrogance and deranged confidence to kidnap me. I wanted to do all of that, but my body failed me – the ultimate betrayal.
As a nurse, I know it's an evolutionary response designed to protect me and my child – or at least the physical vessel that carries my womb. Evolution hasn't exactly caught up with the fact that humans can be mentally damaged without showing any physical signs of mistreatment. I know all that, but it doesn't help.
Now, though, the shock has more or less worn off, and I feel as though I'm returning to normality – as though my personality is reasserting itself, pushing itself to the fore. I can feel the wind whipping through my hair, and I can appreciate the beauty of the full moon hanging low in the sky along with the thousands of stars alongside it, each depositing tiny pinpricks of light into the awe-inspiring night sky. But still, none of that helps the major problem I'm facing – the fact that I'm on the back of a dirt bike racing through a rocky ravine cutting through the mountains – and that a terrorist's driving it.
My eyes return to surveying the landscape and looking for a spot that would be suitable for some form of escape. The same mantra keeps running through my head.
If I jump, I die.
I’m well aware of what the consequences will be for my health. I'll be ripped apart by the rocky earth beneath me – falling down the side of even this gentle, sloping ravine at forty miles an hour will more than likely rip the flesh off my bones and leave me battered, bleeding and dead at the bottom of the valley.
But what's the alternative? I look forward, studying the only thing that's available to me – the back of my kidnapper's head. He must have lost his stolen army helmet at some point in the fight, because it looks like the back of anyone's head – just black, curly hair being blown in all directions by the wind. It doesn't look like the head of someone who's more than willing to kill me, but then – what would that look like?
No clues.
Not that I was expecting any, not really. But I think your brain tries to look for patterns, even where there aren't any. Below me, a few hundred yards down into the valley, a small burbling stream flows into the distance, and I stare with absent-minded interest at the life that's springing forth all around it in the otherwise dry, barren desert landscape. Even judging by the moonlight, it looks to be a bucolic, idyllic kind of place, and I'm somewhat surprised that there aren't any signs of life – it seems like the kind of place in which some enterprising villager might make himself a home.
Perhaps it’s too close to the base. Too close to the Americans for comfort. To us Americans, I remind myself.
Still, it's a beautiful place, and the charm of the valley seems so at odds with my current predicament that it's all I can do to stifle a chuckle. Apparently I'm not completely successful.
"What?" my captor barks in broken, accented English. "No noise, quiet."
I decide that trying to engage him in conversation is probably not the wisest course of action. Beneath me, the engine coughs loudly, and I wrinkle my forehead. My driver swears loudly in his native tongue – at least, I assume he's swearing, judging by the vitriol in his voice. Still, my brain whirrs into action, noticing a couple of interesting nuggets of information.
He speaks English. That's interesting, I wonder if I'll be able to use that my advantage?
I begin to wonder if maybe the bike sustained some kind of damage in the running gunfight Mike had engaged my kidnappers in as they tried to make their escape.
Mike. That had been him trying to save me, hadn't it?
My heart swells as I realize that I've been so wrapped up in my own problems – not that they are anything to sniff at, that I haven't even spent a moment to think about Mike, the man who rescued me from the depths of my depression and tried to save my life. Then again, I'm sure he'll forgive me. If I make it out of this, that is.
I turn my head and confirm my suspicions. The engine's spewing black smoke behind us, and I keep my eyes locked onto the sight, noticing that, if anything, it's growing in intensity. In front of me, my captor screams something unintelligible into the darkness, lifts one hand off the handlebars and beats the dirt bike with an open palm. I smile – there's something wrong. Good.
