Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2)

by Lisa Hughey

  I couldn’t dig until I stabilized the bone.

  Using my toe, I marked the spot with an X then prowled the spartan room. In the corner sat a wooden crate of supplies, marked with symbols of the United States Military Civil Affairs Battalion, a goodwill package designed as a part of Operation: Rebuild to deliver aid to the villages and ensure cooperation against the Taliban and al-Qaeda.

  I opened the crate and found a long wooden spoon. In a basket on the other side of the room near the pallet, I unearthed a long strip of fabric woven into stripes of brown, ocher, and deep blue. Hopefully, Fariya didn’t need it.

  Crafting a makeshift splint, I awkwardly tied the wool, criss-crossing along the spoon until my arm felt immediately better.

  I hustled back to the X and started digging, ignoring the zing of pain every time the shovel hit the hardened dirt. The process was slow, and I could only trust the cache wasn’t buried deeply.

  The small village came to life as I worked at the hard earth. Then a gong tolled and all activity stopped.

  Morning prayer.

  I huddled beneath the single window, a small oddly-shaped hole in the middle of the wall. Melodic chanting resonated in the morning air, taking me back to my childhood and a yearning for the simple pleasure of listening to my mother sing.

  Although I didn’t have a prayer rug, I knelt on the hard-packed dirt and bowed to the West.

  Musical voices raised in thanks and praise hummed in the air.

  I couldn’t chant. It might give me away.

  Instead, I gave thanks for my freedom, I gave thanks for my life. As I glanced at the shallow hole I’d dug, in the shifting dirt and sand, a burlap bag with the outline of guns caught my eye, and I gave thanks for the weapons to aid my escape.

  As the gong tolled again, signifying the end of prayer time, I crawled over to the shovel and scooped at the dirt again and again.

  I dug faster, praying no one would look in Fariya’s hut while she was away at work. A dog barked and women in burkhas bustled quietly past the window, not far from me.

  With short strokes of the shovel, I uncovered the hidden stash. I pulled out the burlap bag and emptied the contents onto the dirt floor.

  The bag contained a virtual United Nations of firepower. Two Russian rifles. One AK-47, a Kalashnikov 7.62 x 39 mm assault rifle weighing in at nine and a half pounds without the magazine. No way could I carry it.

  An AK-101, a compact assault rifle, standard for NATO forces. Much lighter. And there were more of the 101 cartridges buried with the weapon.

  Two handguns. One Italian pistol, Beretta 92G, with no safety, used by the French military, a little over two pounds. And lastly, an Austrian Glock 17, a favorite of the Afghan National Police force, and a full 12 ounces lighter than the Beretta.

  I hoped I didn’t need to use any of them because the recoil just might knock me on my ass and I didn't know if I could even hold the damn thing to fire it.

  No way could I bring all four. I couldn’t carry them all. Carefully I lifted the AK-101 rifle out of the bag.

  I didn’t see the "jingles", a cascade of little bells attached to the stock, until I heard them jangle. I held in my breath, waiting for discovery.

  As I crouched low to the ground, I heard another jingle and my pulse stuttered again. I realized it wasn’t from the weapon I had, as my fingers were still slick with sweat and gripping the jingles on the AK. A guard patrolled by outside, his bells masking my own thumping heart.

  When he was past the window, I carefully removed the bells, then lifted the smaller, lighter Glock 17 out of the shallow hole. Sweat trickled between my breasts as I tried to keep my breathing slow and even.

  I laid the weapons in a Keffiyeh scarf and fashioned a sling to carry the assault rifle and handgun. Quickly I scraped the dirt back over the bag with the remaining weapons and then pulled a small rug from the corner to cover the slight impression.

  Rummaging through Fariya’s bride trunk, I found a pair of men’s sandals and slipped them on my abused feet.

  The pungent scent of Chai tea drifted in the air. My stomach growled in response. The aroma of sizzling sheep’s meat from a wood-burning fire assaulted my senses. My mouth watered but my stomach revolted.

  I swallowed hard, hoping to keep down the little bit of rice I’d eaten last night. I needed all of my strength to survive. I put the pre-wrapped package of bread and dried fruit she had left for me in my pocket. I would eat later.

  The women would be serving the men, then the children, and it seemed a perfect time to escape. Now that the sun was up I could slip out of the walled complex with little notice.

  Most everyone should be in the main compound area eating. There would be guards posted at the massive front doors and the back area, but Fariya had promised that the East side of the complex would not be well-guarded. The current group of men forced to be drug mules were gone, so the guards would be very young men, in their early teens and the least experienced.

  I skirted the edge of the compound, almost to my exit point, when a dog started barking furiously.

  Shit.

  Had the dog somehow noticed me? Smelled me? I wasn’t moving with my usual agility or speed, but I hadn’t thought I was that out of place.

  Perhaps the dogs had caught my scent, as my body still carried the stink of the prison.

  Someone approached. My body quivered with tension as I continued to walk slowly. A wizened old man scurried past me with a worried expression.

  As if he recognized me, he reared back. Then, he grabbed me, whispered harshly. I only caught every other word, he spoke so quickly.

  “Fariya...sacrifice...don’t let...catch...go, go....”

  I nodded, thinking him demented as I pretended to be Fariya and trying to pull away, until the content of his rambling penetrated.

  His eyes were tortured. “Go...before...find...here.”

  Realization dawned. He knew who I was. Which meant Fariya had told someone of her plan.

  He knew who I was. And he was telling me to go before they found me.

  A sonorous bang, bang, bang, ripped through the morning chatter. Male shouts pierced the air.

  A cry rose from the center of the compound.

  “Amreekees.”

  Soldiers. American soldiers were here.

  THREE

  Americans. Soldiers. Here.

  For a moment, my spirit soared. I could be out of here and on military transport home in a matter of hours.

  Back in my townhouse in Alexandria, back in my cramped little cubicle in Georgetown, back in Jordan’s arms.

  Jordan.

  My heart beat faster. Maybe we still had a shot.

  Our last words, right before I was captured, had been stilted, awkward. But Fariya’s love for her family highlighted the emptiness of my personal life. I needed to let go of my fears and take a chance with him.

  First I had to get the hell out of here.

  My impulse was to scale the wall and sprint for the ground convoy trucks. I picked up my pace, making a beeline for the unguarded side wall.

  A sunburst of joy spread through me. I could go home.

  The sudden rattle of metal detectors as the Special Forces guys searched the compound for weapons grated on my ears. Then, the bark and growl of the dogs and the commands from the Spec Warrior leader drowned out the annoying noise. The additional sounds and distractions made my escape easier.

  As I climbed to the top of the wall one-handed, I protected my arm as best I could. I straddled the two-foot-wide wall, hugged the flat top to keep my profile low, and canted my head to listen as the soldiers raided the compound.

  They were calling to each other in some sort of code, but I wasn’t close enough to hear actual words. The general mood seemed to be relaxed, the villagers ignoring the soldiers, except for the kids begging for pencils and pens.

  The fact that they were here so soon after my escape nagged at me. What were the odds that they would be inspecting this compound, on t
his day, at this time?

  I dropped down on the other side of the wall and fell off-balance. The muffled landing stung my sore feet as if I’d pressed thousands of tiny shards of glass into my soles. I bent into a crouch, the sling with the rifle banged against my back and jabbed into a semi-healed bruise over my kidney. White spots danced in my eyes. I held still, desperately trying to clear my vision.

  The rough wool of the burkha abraded the cigarette burns on my arms. The frantic words of the old man beat in my ears, pounding at my thoughts. Fariya, sacrifice.

  Something was not right.

  The paranoia I’d experienced and disregarded right before my capture came raging back. If these soldiers had been in the area, why hadn’t they come to get me out of prison? In those two long weeks, why hadn’t the CIA facilitated my release?

  Two weeks.

  Two fucking weeks.

  I eased the Glock out of the homemade sling and clutched the weapon in my right hand, thankful my left arm was broken, not my right.

  I couldn’t shoot for shit with my left hand.

  I needed to find a place to conceal myself until after the Americans were done in the compound. If I could make the run to the poppy fields, I could hide there. Assuming they weren’t here to plow them under. The plows must be coming since the village showed signs of American aid.

  I crept along, hugging the side of the wall. When I got to the corner, I lay down flat in the sand, my cheek on the ground, my head facing the wall and edged forward inch by inch.

  After a quick visual inspection, I saw only one soldier to guard two vehicles. Finally things were looking up. I surveyed the two vehicles, one Mine Resistant Ambush Protected RG-31 and one hard topped, open convoy truck. After I watched the guard’s pattern take him across the front and around one truck twice as often as the other, I deduced the MRAP had the weapons.

  Jordan had been in Afghanistan. He had talked about performing surveillance on villages and known enemies from three hundred yards away. If the soldiers had snipers in the hills, I’d be dead before the shot echoed.

  A pang of sorrow filled me.

  I’d never told Jordan how much he meant to me. How much I was beginning to care. Now I wished that I had grabbed the courage to move our relationship to the next level.

  I shoved aside the tender feelings. I could wallow later.

  Slowly, I lowered my bundle to the ground. I ignored the weapons truck. I needed what was in the second truck.

  I had sixty seconds before the guard would be around again.

  As the guard rounded the MRAP, the one with the weapons, I moved.

  Five. I scurried toward the second, zig-zagging, trying to forget about snipers and Jordan, as I counted off the seconds in my head.

  Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. I put my right foot on the bumper, grabbed the handle on the open side, and pulled myself up and over the tailgate, stifling a groan at the sharp pain in my left arm.

  Thirty, thirty-one.... Carefully, I eased down and stretched along the floor, flat on my back.

  Forty, forty-one, forty-two.... I moved only my gaze, methodically cataloguing the truck’s contents. And there in the corner, mounted on the wall above my head, was my prize.

  The red cross on the white box identified the medic kit.

  Fifty-five. Five seconds.

  I couldn’t get the kit down before the guard’s next pass. With effort, I slowed my breathing. The exertion had taken more out of me than it should have. I needed water as well as medicine.

  Outside the truck, the young soldier’s measured pace scuffed the hard-packed desert sand. The heat grew more intense as the sun rose in the clear blue sky. No rain today.

  The guard was almost around the corner. An insect buzzed above my head.

  Sweat--hydration I couldn’t afford to lose--rolled down my forehead, past my eyebrows to the bridge of my nose, and hovered there.

  In my mind’s eye, I placed him mid-way around the tailgate. No further than thirty inches away from me. I closed my eyes, not wanting anything to draw attention to the shadowed interior of the truck bed.

  The hard metal pressed into my back, the sharp blades of my shoulders pinched my skin. I’d always been fit and solid. Now I was neither. And the lack was agony.

  I inhaled slowly, meditating on the covered top that offered cool shade from the already blistering sun.

  I ticked off the seconds in my head and hoped the guard hadn’t noticed the wake of my burkha in the sand.

  When I determined he’d rounded the corner, I counted out ten more seconds. I had to wait until he was far enough away from this truck before I moved.

  I eased up gingerly, struggling with the effort needed to rise from the prone position. I lifted the kit from the hook and counted off seconds while I grabbed what I needed.

  Eureka. My salvation.

  Antibiotics.

  I shoved two vials into my pocket along with a syringe, then swiped a roll of bandages and antiseptic salve.

  I stared for a moment at the painkillers, Tylenol with Codeine then closed the lid with a quiet snap. I couldn’t afford to lose any more clarity.

  A shout sounded--much closer than I would have liked.

  Shit.

  I hunched back down. Landed on my injured arm. Pain, sharp and insistent, throbbed through me. The shout had triggered my flight or fight instinct. Adrenaline pumped through me, raising my blood sugar, depleting energy I could ill afford to lose.

  I listened to the soldiers shouting. I could only hope they hadn’t found the half empty bag I’d just buried.

  I struggled to switch over to English. The words, sounds were foreign me after several weeks of hearing and speaking Arab dialects.

  “Riot, escapees, reacquire.” They repeated the words over and over, in English, Dari, Pashto and Modern Standard.

  Wanting information from the warlord?

  Think, Staci. Use your brain. Use your training. I forced myself to focus on their words.

  Escapee. That was me.

  Riot? That wasn’t right.

  Reacquire? A fancy word for putting me back in that jail...or worse.

  Then their words struck me. Escapees? Multiple? Fariya wouldn’t have done that. Letting other prisoners go meant certain death.

  The old man’s words came back to me. Sacrifice.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Moisture leaked from my eyes. Dammit. I couldn’t afford to lose any more. Yet tears continued to roll down my face. I didn’t have time for grief. I didn’t have time for this choking rage festering in my chest. I had to get out of here. Quietly. Silently.

  Reacquire?

  No fucking way.

  Fariya had given her own life to insure I helped her, helped her village, helped her country. She had given her life for mine.

  Someone had set me up. Someone engineered my capture. Someone wanted me dead.

  I wasn’t going to let them succeed.

  FOUR

  September 6

  Washington, D.C.

  Staci is dead.

  Jordan Ramirez stared at the official, high-level, high security clearance report from Afghanistan. A succinct, thirty-two word brutal recitation of her death.

  Cigarette burns, barbed wire tearing of dermis, mole on her collarbone burned off, decapitated (head missing), skull found in ashes outside the prison. Body showed signs of pre- and post-mortem torture.

  He couldn’t bear to look at the second page yet.

  Photographs.

  Frank McClellan, his boss, gestured to the two-page report he had just handed to Jordan. “An American woman we’ve been keeping track of was killed.”

  The normal sounds of the office filtered through his consciousness. But the everyday murmur of conversation, the hum of computers and fax machines, the muted ringing of phones seemed distorted, far away.

  The smell of coffee left too long on a Bunn warmer, the subtle mix of fabric softener, floral perfume, and the slight under-scent of perspiration twisted i
nto a surreal throb behind his left eye.

  Staci. Dead.

  He refused to believe it. She had such life, such energy, such sheer presence. She couldn’t be dead. They weren’t done yet. He was still mad at her. She couldn’t fucking go away and not finish their argument.

  He loved her.

  When was he supposed to get that out? And why the hell hadn’t he told her instead of arguing with her for misleading him about her job?

  And shit, didn’t that just say it all.

  Inside his pocket, Jordan clenched her mother’s amulet in his left hand, running his thumb over the delicately carved scarab. Beyond shifting his thumb he didn't move, didn't twitch a muscle. He couldn’t have even if a sniper had a bead on him.

  Something in Jordan’s very stillness must have given him away. “You okay, man?” Frank’s question ripped him out of his misery, and Jordan realized he'd been silent too long. And it was critical he not show any more reaction than he’d already betrayed.

  No one knew about his relationship with Staci, and if they found out, he wouldn’t be able to access this report. Jordan dropped heavily into a chair at the lunch table, before his knees gave out. “Yeah. Touch of food poisoning.”

  Frank took a surreptitious step back.

  Jordan tapped the sheets of paper against the forearm of his Egyptian cotton shirt and forced himself to focus. He had to start asking the right questions. “What was she doing in that area of Afghanistan anyway?”

  As if he didn’t already know. As if he and Staci hadn’t had the mother of all arguments when he’d discovered she was going there. And that had been before he’d found out she worked for the fucking C.I. of A.

  “She was a do-gooder, working for United Nations Office for the Coordination of Human Affairs. Humanitarian mission for de-mining.” Frank snorted. “The land mines have been there for years. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

  Jordan had nearly had a heart attack when he realized which region of Afghanistan she was in. Supposedly she truly had been on a humanitarian mission. But the enormity of her previous lies, omissions really, had made it impossible for him to believe her.