by LS Silverii
Shock washed away the old man’s arrogant expression, “Anwar is my name.” His brownish-green eyes welded toward the dirt.
Ben’s smashed his desert camo-colored boot into the water basin’s smoking bowl. Glass spit into Anwar’s face. The old man winced.
“Dumb ass?” Ben knew he’d blown it by alerting them that he understood their native tongue. He saw the shock in Al bin Tosk’s reddened eyes. “Tell me where to find bin Laden or I’ll show you how much of a dumb ass I can be.”
Al bin Tosk waved his meatless hand between Ben and Anwar. “Enough of this heathen action. You come to our country and expect us to treat you like royalty? The chief councilman tried to push his body from off the hard ground.
“Sit down old man. I’m not done.” Ben felt out of body. His anger swelled. He’d come too far to leave empty handed. One of these men would spill it.
Ben saw the blow coming from the corner of his right eye—he ducked left. Another Afghani fell forward with his sandal in his hand. The man, younger looking than the others, tried to strike him from behind with his shoe. Which Ben knew was a serious form of insult.
He snapped.
The man, known to Ben as Quati, had just regained his balance—dusty sandal still in hand. Ben zipped his steel KA-BAR knife from the sheath concealed beneath his waistcoat. Both men turned toward each other. Ben rammed the tip of the razor-sharp blade through Quati’s Adam’s apple. Quati remained standing only because Ben held him up. He died once the knife severed his spine and exited through the skin at the back of Quati’s leathery neck.
The kill flipped a switch in Ben that became more difficult to control with repetition. He glowered at the remaining five. Their expressions ranged from surprise to a lack of concern for their fellow council member. Finally, he noticed the tremble in Al bin Tosk’s right hand. They were scared shitless.
“Anybody else care to swing a shoe at this dumbass?” He zeroed in on the man who’d first stirred up this entire episode.
“You are Iblis,” Anwar shouted.
Ben lunged at him. The man flinched—both hands covering his face in surrender. “You think I’m the devil? Well, isn’t that an upgrade from a dumbass? Lets celebrate, shall we?” Ben chuckled maniacally.
“That’s enough,” Al bin Tosk ordered. He slammed his ornately carved walking stick against a jagged rock.
“Who do you think you are, Moses? You going to bring water from this rock old man?” Ben, basted in sweat, felt his heart beat elevating.
Al bin Tosk scoffed, “We have no fairy tale Moses in our faith. It’s time for you to leave this land. Now!” he screamed.
Ben’s body trembled—it wouldn’t be long. “One last chance. Where is Osama bin Laden?”
“Go home, Iblis,” Anwar said.
Ben grabbed the old man by his tunic, jerked Anwar to his feet. The man’s tattered hemp sandals remained where they were.
“Where is he?” Ben said.
“You’re worse than he is.”
Ben whispered, “Where?”
“Go home, Iblis. We prefer the treatment of bin Laden. At least he doesn’t come disguised.”
Ben pulled the reed-thin man toward him. Anwar’s feet left the ground. Ben smashed his forehead into the tribesman’s nose and eyes. Blood exploded from Anwar’s mahogany-colored face. The high altitude and thin air made bleeding much easier and clotting very difficult. Anwar crumbled limp.
Ben clamped his teeth against Anwar’s throat. He blacked out for a moment, but remained in control of his actions. His teeth gnashed and jerked as he powerfully brought them together with all the strength Ben could muster, until he felt cartilage give. He continued to bite and tear until Anwar’s larynx dangled from between his teeth.
Ben released Anwar’s bloodstained salwar kameez, and he fell.
“You want your Iblis, you got him. I’m your devil now. Tell me where Osama bin Laden is, or I’ll kill every one of you.” He glared with a wide-eyed expression, allowing the whisk of wind to carry sand against his pupils. He didn’t flinch—focus was on his mission—to find Osama bin Laden.
Al bin Tosk’s frail figure quaked. “Is this what America promised for our people? Send deviants like you to help us? I regret the first time I ever met you Ben Franklin Ford.” Tears dampened his greenish-brown eyes, “Please, go back to America.”
“Listen up. You agreed to help me. You will help, or I’ve no need for you or your Popi tribe.”
Ben’s Middle East mission was crystal clear—find Osama bin Laden, or don’t come back. It used to twist his gut that the country he loved and served, disregarded him as disposable. But, to be fair, he’d known the risk, just not the bullshit attached. The CIA oversaw the entire experiment—another reason to expect the unexpected.
The Agency had promised Ben, as a young recruit, he’d never be the same after serving as a covert operative. He’d withdrawn from the prestigious West Point Military Academy, and sprinted full-speed into the eager arms of CIA scientists and bureaucrats. He still hated them for what they’d done to him, but as time dragged on, he’d forgotten what it was he hated about what they did. He had become who he was.
Al bin Tosk was speaking. Ben’s mind warbled back.
“…do what you wish with us—we’re not afraid to die for our cause—but leave our people alone. They don’t deserve to be doomed by one man’s selfish wrath.”
“Who’s the youngest?” Ben’s mind flashed between controlled manipulation tactics and an intense thirst for blood.
“What?” Al bin Tosk snugged his scarf up to his bearded chin.
Ben struggled to settle his mind, and decided he’d move onto the next phase of this plan. He’d do whatever it took to capture the terrorist responsible for murdering 2,980 Americans during the coordinated attacks on September 11, 2001. He’d also been in this region and Europe for over a year. He’d grown tired of the culture and the men.
“Which of you traitors is the youngest?” he pointed at a man who appeared to be in his fifties. They all looked eternal, so it was impossible to tell. “Him?” he jabbed a finger toward that man.
“Sunni, yes, he is the youngest of the council.” Al bin Tosk replied.
Ben moved with reinvigorated momentum. He sensed the end game—he’d played it out too many times before. He snatched Sunni and strapped his reedy hide to a small tree. Horror exploded in Sunni’s expression. Ben noticed the Al bin Tosk, their brave man of honor, had pissed his salwar. He looked like an infant who’d just messed his jammies.
Al bin Tosk protested, but in reality it was his insolence that caused what would happen next. He’d be the last of them to go. Tension ramped up, as did Ben’s desire for satisfaction—operational and sexual. Everyone was stricken in disbelief as Ben jerked and directed Al bin Tosk and the two remaining council tribesmen into the tiny grove of trees. They were all fastened immobile against the trunks with the bite of cloth and leather straps.
Their meeting location had been carefully selected by Ben to be strategic as well as symbolic. Atop the ridge just north of the Khojak Pass, about eighty kilometers northwest of Quetta in Balochistan, their carcasses would be found within a day or so because of the mountain’s popular ridgeline passageway. It was the best way to travel between Pakistan and Afghanistan—especially for terror networks looking to avoid boarder checkpoints.
As the black-bag scientist back in the States had trained him, Ben began the process of killing. His goal was no longer information gathering—it was perception control. He’d been taught that people have a small window of opportunity to tell the truth about what they know. Once that window was gone, effort was wasted.
The next phase involved making a statement. Otherwise, the CIA would appear weak or merciful. Ben had become indifferent about killing enemies of the United States. What he hadn’t anticipated was the extra benefits that came with the freedom to operate on a level unaccountable to any one else. The stark reality that if he were captured, his nation would disavow kn
owledge of him, stirred a thirst for living his life with a real sense of finality.
Al bin Tosk was now a victim of Ben’s thirst. He fainted for the fifth or sixth time. Ben enjoyed slapping him harder each time until he regained consciousness. Actually, Ben couldn’t wait to get his hands on him. By now the eldest tribal leader was begging to talk but it was too late. Ben’s gut had become filled with the flavor of flesh he’d devoured from the last two men. He reveled in the fact that his delight in cannibalism horrified Sunni and Al bin Tosk. It would help make Sunni’s message to his tribe that much more vivid.
“Just get it over with. Kill me now.” The old man still assumed he had the authority to give orders.
Ben had stripped the three men completely naked earlier. Now he jammed his bloody KA-BAR into Al bin Tosk’s left thigh. He heard—and felt—the scraping thud as it embedded into the large femur bone. Al bin Tosk passed out. Again.
Another bruising slap to the face, and Al bin Tosk muttered through swollen lips and cracked teeth, “I’ll tell you. Just let me free.”
Coward. I hate cowards. Die with honor.
“I’m going to allow Sunni to go free after I kill you. He will tell your people what he witnessed. Someone from your tribe will tell me the truth.”
His loosened jaw wobbled side-to-side, “Kill him instead. I’ll go back and tell my people. They won’t listen to him,” Al bin Tosk pleaded.
Sunni’s eyes opened wide. Ben assumed it was at the news he’d be freed but it should’ve been over how cowardly his senior mentor was.
“What a horrible leader you’ve turned out to be. You offer to sell out Osama bin Laden, your country’s benefactor.” He twisted the blade’s tip deeper into the man’s thigh. Al bin Tosk ground his teeth until Ben heard snapping sounds. “You sit on your sunburned ass while your fellow councilmen are killed, and now you want to condemn this younger man to death so you can deliver a message,” he whispered as he yanked the knife from Al bin Tosk’s thigh.
“Please send me,” Al bin Tosk cried louder. “Please.”
“I’ll send you,” Ben mocked. “I’ll send you to hell.”
Chapter 3
Justice realized the sun would set soon. He cautiously hustled to maneuver into position before light was lost. Unhappy about Batya calling the shots on this phase of the mission, Justice respected her specialization as a long-range sniper.
“Assassin is more like it,” he bitched.
Low crawling over jagged terrain wasn’t his idea of a good time, but it sure beat continuing to argue with that hardheaded woman. Justice mashed his lips closed; toxic combinations of sand, dirt, dung and scorpions littered Pakistan’s terrain. He snugged his olive drab scarf just beneath his eyes. The wind goggles had become dry-rotted in the elements. He knew the special operation’s adage that two is one, and one is none held true almost every time, but stranded in the harshest of elements didn’t always jive with headquarters rhetoric.
Justice remained close to the ridge. He could actually still see Afghanistan’s Kandahar region over the crest. Sun beamed off the light colored dirt floor—he closed his eyes and tried to muster tears before reopening them. He imagined what the region’s founder, Alexander the Great, must’ve thought as he traversed the new land. Justice couldn’t be sure, but he’d be willing to bet he thought it was a total shit hole.
He rolled onto his left side to allow the heat that had blistered through his TDU clothing to escape back into the camel-scented atmosphere. The long-range scope showed he was still about a quarter mile from his destination. He spotted Batya on the level cliff as they’d agreed. She looked to have the crossing guards in her sights. The plan was for her to take out two of the three terrorists with long-range headshots. The third would flee. Justice would intercept him before he signaled for help or got away.
The Khojak Pass was a popular passage route for terrorists moving back and forth between both countries. Despite Pakistan’s Prime Minister’s pledge to fight the Taliban and help capture Osama bin Laden—the nation had done nothing to help. The border checkpoint was a farce. Manned by possible terrorists, they served as lookouts against US and coalition forces. They’d be better off dead.
Physical discomfort was something Justice had learned to set aside. It was part of Delta’s and the CIA’s Special Operations Group training. The ability didn’t come easy, but he’d need to rely on it during this mission to survive. The sun increased intensity. Even though the hellish heat of the day would fade at sunset, evening’s brisk cold was a few long hours away.
He felt his body beginning to slow under the strain of moving stealthily for so long. Tattered hands and knees ached like hell, but were a better alternative than detection.
At last, he arrived. One—two—three gulps from his canteen and he stole a moment to rest before giving Batya the signal. Justice laid flat onto his chest. Each jagged stone jutted into his gut and legs, and he felt every one. If earth had ever wanted revenge upon humans for trampling across it, this was the spot for the payback. The original three guards remained in place but in a makeshift camp about two hundred yards on the Pakistani side of the ridge, another three-man crew waited down the slope.
Son of a bitch. This is going to turn into a firefight.
His foot twitched—anxious about whether Batya would understand his signal to wait. He soon felt nervousness detonating like small explosions throughout his body.
He tried to spy her with his single-lens scope, squinting to shield his eye from the relentless sun’s rays. Unsure of how to communicate with his partner, Justice aimed the scope toward the sun and watched the tint reflection dance across desert sands. Straining to see, he watched as the bright blip disappeared over the cliff. Had she seen it?
The heat baked him—without shade in the rocky highlands, he risked dehydration and exposure. Their plan hadn’t calculated for three more bogies. Neither did his water supply. Sun scorched, he rested his face atop both gloved hands. He focused on his breathing to conserve energy, but breaths came at a price—lungs burns with sandy hot air. Consciousness faded as the hours drug on. He felt like a hog at one of his Cajun culture’s boucheries.
A flash of light stung his right eye. He blinked and it was gone. He rocked his head over sore knuckles. There it was again—bounced on his chest and back across the sandy-coated terrain. It was her. His pulse quickened. It was time to react, but to what?
Justice mustered his will to survive. The extended exposure had tapped his reserves. He softly pounded the soil with a gloved fist to vent his aggravation—he knew better than to let himself go so far. He’d allowed the assignment of partnering with a female to distract him. He wasn’t adverse to females—he’d grown up with a kickass bayou girl who was more capable than most men. Krystal “Voodoo” Laveau was a neighborhood kid that tagged along with he and his six brothers.
Batya Cohen was nothing like Voodoo, but he could sense she was just as deadly. Maybe he understood the implications of a Jewish woman alone in the heart of a Taliban controlled Muslim nation. He’d be her only ally, and not much good if he succumbed to heat stroke.
Justice eased to his left side and slid his short-barreled submachine gun around his shoulder. He twisted against the silencer, screwed on tight to the tip of his barrel. Shakily, his right index finger clicked the muted weapon from safe to single select fire. He began to rock and flex his entire body, cranking up blood flow to his extremities. He didn’t know what or when, but he did know for sure that Batya Cohen had a plan. He had to be ready to join her.
Now he saw four bogies huddled beneath the watchtower’s ladder. There wasn’t anyone in the elevated observation deck. The other two had either left or were down by the canvas hide lean-to. He, Batya, and the watchtower formed the shape of the letter “L.” Justice had flanked them to intercept anyone who escaped Batya’s sharpshooting.
Slow, methodical breathing and reinvigorated blood flow had energized Justice—he was ready. It was now up to her initial action.<
br />
Patience, Justice. Patience.
He heard the strong accent of a Middle Eastern man. “You there. Come from hiding with hands above your head.”
Justice’s heart skipped more than a few beats. What the fuck had just happened between resting his eyes and getting caught by the enemy? Capture meant abandonment by his government.
He heard the distinctive bolt action of an AK47 racked only feet away from him. “You. American. Stop hiding like a dog. Come out now.”
Justice swallowed hard, but nothing slid. His throat burned like sandpaper over open skin. His swollen eye hadn’t gotten any better but he squinted enough to see three figures. Two males, dark-skinned with a mash-up of clothing that he assumed were uniforms. The other was female—Batya. He eased his finger off the submachine gun’s trigger.
Justice purposely presented a weakened appearance—even more so than reality. He towered over the smaller guards. He tried to spy Batya’s condition, but it was hard to tell. How could she have been captured without even firing a shot? Had she been working with them all along? Had he been set up?
Damn it Justice. Get your mind off her ass, and back in the game.
Fuck it. Justice had to worry about Justice. Neither Batya nor his agency would or could save him now.
“Hello ladies,” he said. He wanted to determine whether they actually spoke English.
They didn’t respond. Batya surrendered a slight grin. They pointed their rifles and nodded with dark looks, he figured mostly out of fear.
“Where you taking me?” he asked with more force. He knew the fate of captured Americans. Daniel Pearl had been a civilian journalist, a neutral party, and that made no difference. They’d have a field day if they knew Justice was a CIA covert operative. He’d have to react soon—very soon.
“Why?” he mouthed to Batya. His head ducked with shoulders hunched to disguise his true size.
“Better at close. Too many to take out,” spoken in a chopped blend of Yiddish and English while she feigned coughs into her palm.
