by Shamim Sarif
“Maximum casualties,” confirms another.
My heart is pounding, with stress, with willing them to say more. Where are these casualties meant to be?
“I never thought us Pakistanis would be working with Indians,” laughs Imran. “Muslims and Hindus—sworn enemies. But Family First is a bigger cause that unites us all.”
Murmurs of appreciation rise up for Imran’s comment.
“What made you choose this target, brother?” asks a different man, with a high voice.
Imran gives a low chuckle. “This target? This met all the requirements for Family First—but for me, it was also personal, my friend.”
Next to me, I feel Hala tensing, leaning forward just a bit. We’re getting close. Keep talking, Imran, I think. Just a little more detail and we can hand you over to the villagers and hightail it back home.
And then something blurs past us, right through the corridor, and then it stops, just as suddenly. I stare, my eyes wide open, my ears filled with the sudden hammering of my heart.
It’s a little boy, maybe six or seven years old, tousle-headed, sleepy. One of Imran’s kids, probably. The boy turns in surprise and stares openmouthed at the dark outlines of me and Hala standing there like statues in the corridor. Time slows to a crawl. I feel the blood pulse in my ears, as I watch, dull-headed, unable to think. Hala makes the tiniest move forward, then stops. Because I can’t think of what else to do, I put my finger to my lips. Wide-eyed, the boy watches us in fright for a moment more, then turns and runs, screaming, into the room where Imran sits.
4
WE ARE ALREADY RACING THE other way, back up the corridor. In our ears, there’s an echo of voices—a translation of the child’s frantic warnings, and then the questions, the surprise from the men in the room as they rise and hurry out to investigate. A shot blasts into the corridor behind us, lodging into the wall just as we hurtle into the kitchen. The housekeeper is at the sink. Before he can even turn at the commotion, Hala has pushed him to the ground, using the table to cover him as best she can. Hala and I throw ourselves out into the courtyard, but more shots come, splintering the door moments after we run outside.
“The outhouse,” I call to her. Desperate for cover, we both dive into the wooden building across from the kitchen door and pull out weapons—she has a real gun, I have my dart pistol. The team in London is hooked up to the feed from tiny body cameras sewn into our clothing. Amber’s voice comes in:
“Just intercepted a text. Imran’s requested backup.”
Now, Li’s voice sends an order into our ears. “Extract now, from the house.”
“On my way,” Caitlin replies.
I peer around the outhouse doorway and shoot—first one, then another of Imran’s friends. Both fall, drugged. Then I get the third. Suddenly alone, Imran drops to the ground for cover and lies there, waiting, a pistol in his hand. I don’t want to shoot him with a dart, because if he’s tranquilized, he can’t talk. In my ear, Caitlin comes in:
“I’m approaching the south wall.”
But we can’t move—we are in a standoff with Imran. He’s not stupid; he knows where we are. He’s seen three of his men drop from shots fired from our direction. Through a crack in the wooden wall, Hala and I watch his head lift off the ground, looking our way. Without getting up, he raises his gun at the outhouse. His bullets will blast through the rotting wood like a fist through a paper bag. So quickly that I hardly feel her, Hala pushes me aside and rolls herself out of the door. Imran’s hand sweeps across to track her, but she shoots first, getting him in the elbow. He screams and drops his gun.
I’m out in a flash, running toward Imran. He flails his other arm out, looking for the gun, but my boot moves it out of his reach. I scoop it up and press it to Imran’s head, holstering my dart pistol. At the kitchen door, women and children cower, drawn downstairs by the sound of gunfire. Hala fires into the air and barks at them to stay back. The kitchen door slams shut, leaving us alone with Imran in the courtyard.
“We have him,” I say on my comms.
“Get out of there,” Li says. “This is not the plan.”
But if we leave, Imran gets what he wants—the attack in India will happen. I ignore Li and push Imran’s head down closer to the ground.
“What’s the target?” I bark.
He turns to me. Fleshy lips protruding from a dry beard. His mouth opens, as if to speak. I lean down close to hear him. But he only spits at me. Gross. I push the gun harder into his scalp.
“Incoming car carrying two guys, ETA three minutes,” says Caitlin, from the copter. “This is a mess, get over to me now. . . .”
“I’m bringing Imran with us,” I tell Caitlin.
“Li?” Caitlin asks.
There’s hesitation from London, which is all the permission I need. I yank Imran upright as the copter lowers down just outside the wall. Holding our captive between us, Hala and I hustle him outside and through the downwash from the helicopter blades, pushing us back like a small hurricane. But we get him to the door. With one arm useless, bleeding from his gunshot wound, Imran is not able to fight us off.
“Can you control him?” Li asks.
“Taking Jessie’s lead on this,” replies Caitlin.
Hala clambers into the chopper and hauls Imran up by the shoulders while I push him in from behind, with the gun thrust into his back. I follow him into the open door as the chopper starts to rise from the ground. Below us, a car screams to a stop outside the house, and two men jump out. They appear smaller and smaller to me as we take off and climb higher, but I get a glimpse of them opening up the trunk of the car and pulling out something large.
But I leave Caitlin to keep tabs on them—I have Imran to deal with. He watches us, focused, alert; not complaining at all about the injury to his arm. It’s bleeding everywhere and must be painful as anything.
“Put your good hand behind you,” Hala instructs.
Still facing my gun, Imran obeys. Hala pulls out plastic ties to attach Imran’s uninjured hand to the frame of the copter. But even as she tries to secure him, we both see something streak past the window and explode into the air just behind us.
“What was that?” I ask.
“They have a SAM,” Caitlin says grimly. A surface-to-air missile. I feel tension—even more tension—flood my veins.
“They’ll get a lock on us, those things are accurate . . . ,” I reply, stressed.
“I’m using ECMs,” she says. Electronic countermeasures can help confuse things, and there is another explosion, but also another miss. Hala glances at me in relief but now Caitlin makes a steep turn and banks upward—and in the back, we all tumble over each other. I’m on the floor of the helicopter, with Imran flung on top of me. Hala staggers up, looming above us, and grasps Imran by the collar to pull him off me.
“We’re out of missile range,” reports Caitlin from the pilot seat. “Okay back there?”
I don’t reply because even as Imran turns and gets up onto his knees, with Hala’s fingers grasping his tunic, I realize he’s pulled the dart gun out of my body holster. I kick my leg up at his hand, at the gun, but he turns and shoots it at Hala. Her eyes widen in shock before she collapses onto the floor, drugged.
Caitlin glances back at us, cursing under her breath. As Imran tries to turn the dart gun on me, she twists the chopper from side to side, throwing him off his feet. I’m tossed around too, but at least he can’t hit me with a dart. On the floor, Hala rolls around with the movement, out cold. I’m dizzy, but I aim a kick at Imran’s wounded elbow. That puts him in enough agony for me to find my footing, struggle upright, and hit him again, in the face. The dart gun drops, and Imran is on the floor between the tiny bucket seats. I’m on top of him in a flash, my knee on his chest, my hand squeezing his windpipe.
“What’s the target?” My face is right up against his. We’re both sweating, stressed. His blood is everywhere, making it tough to keep my grip on his throat. Time is passing, every second dragging us
closer to some unknown attack, unknown lives ruined, untold fear spread. All of it is pain that I have to believe we could still avoid.
“You CIA pigs,” he hisses. “You think you will stop me?”
So, he’s assumed that we’re black-ops Americans. He literally snarls and then bites at my fingers, so I snatch my hand away from his bared teeth and use it to punch his eye. I cast a look toward the front of the chopper, checking on Hala. She’s still lying there, drugged.
“Torture is what you know,” he says, accusingly. “Nobody will torture me.”
“What do you want?” I ask, desperate to make him talk. “Freedom? Citizenship somewhere? I can arrange it.” Maybe he’ll believe me if he thinks I’m CIA. “But you have to tell me what Family First is targeting.”
Frustrated, I yank at his collar. I don’t want to hit him again. He’s already lost blood from the gunshot wound; I don’t need him passing out on me.
Imran stares at me for a long moment, then he breaks into a smile.
“I will tell you,” he says.
I wait, getting my breathing under control. Caitlin flies smoothly now, and my earpiece is silent as everyone in London waits. Only the soft chop-chop-chop of the blades of the helicopter and the dull throb of white noise in the cabin fill the space. Grasping Imran’s neck, I glance at the watch on my wrist. Twelve minutes to go.
“Two years ago, imperialists—women imperialists—came here to my village, to interfere in my culture. Sending girls to a school. Girls who should marry, look after families. Women have a sacred place in the family. . . .”
For crying out loud, will this guy just get to the point, already?
“That’s a great story,” I interrupt through gritted teeth. “Now, what’s the target?”
“Those imperialist women still educate girls,” he says, managing to smirk through the pain of his arm.
I hesitate. I’m assuming the “imperialist women” he’s talking about are Athena’s founders. As for education, all three of them run foundations involved with schools, universities, and career training for women, dotted all around the world, including some in India. They own some of them, fund others, or are on boards of governors.
“Let’s get specific, shall we?” I press my knee harder, lower, into Imran’s solar plexus, and it makes him gasp.
“I will tell you,” he says. “Because you are too late to stop it.”
I clench my jaw as I watch the countdown dip toward nine minutes.
“The most disgusting of these women is a whore,” he spits. “A singer, entertaining men on a stage.”
He means my mother.
“What’s her name?” I say, just to be sure.
“Kit Love,” he says. “She has two schools in Mumbai. In a few minutes, she will only have one.”
Even having to look at him makes my stomach turn.
“Did you get that?” I yell at my team, but my question is drowned in a sudden cacophony of voices and instructions in London. They got it, all right. The audio drops out suddenly, but there’s nothing wrong. It’s just that the London team won’t want us distracted with whatever they are doing.
I scramble up, grasping Hala’s handgun, and turn it onto Imran. I’d rather control him without having to be on top of him. For one thing, I can’t stand to be near him, and for another, it gives me a chance to check on Hala. She’s unconscious but breathing fine. With my free hand I slip her own kit bag under her head and arrange her limbs more comfortably. At the back of the chopper, Imran pulls himself to his feet.
“You can’t stop this,” Imran says. “This is bigger than one attack. It is bigger than me. It is a movement, and it will only end when family values are restored to the whole world.”
With a sudden movement from his good hand, Imran flips open a control panel attached to the rear door right beside him.
“Don’t touch that,” I command, moving closer, threatening him with my gun.
But his hand is out, feeling for the red lever that opens the rear hatch of the helicopter.
“Or what?” he sneers. “You won’t shoot me. You want me alive, so you can torture me for more information. . . .”
“No,” I begin. But he slams down the lever. Behind him, the rear door cranks open, letting in a windstorm of icy air.
“What the hell is he doing?” says Caitlin from the pilot’s seat, her voice rising with stress.
The sheer volume of air rushing in at this altitude makes it hard to see. Water fills my eyes suddenly, a reaction to the cold, the wind . . . I grasp hold of the seat behind me and cling on, because my first thought is that Imran wants to throw me out of the speeding chopper. But that’s not what he has in mind. As my eyes blink and clear, I watch Imran watching me. His gaze does not leave mine, and it carries an air of triumph as, cradling his wounded arm, he takes three steps back and falls out of the helicopter and into thin air.
5
THE CHOPPER FEELS STRANGELY SILENT as we fly south toward the airfield where we picked it up, not even two hours ago. I’m in the copilot seat, next to Caitlin. Behind us, I’ve settled Hala as best I can to sleep off the drugged dart that Imran hit her with. And now, on my wrist, I watch the timer count down the last few seconds toward 4:30 a.m. in India—the scheduled time of the attacks.
Our communications devices, phones, earpieces, everything, are eerily quiet. The rest of our team will be frantically trying to evacuate the schools in Mumbai that Imran referred to. There are two boarding schools funded from the charity that Kit set up back when she made a ton of money as a recording artist. Both are focused on educating girls aged eleven to eighteen, and between them they give places to around a hundred and twenty students—girls from small villages where they would usually be married off as they hit puberty, if not before. The schools are not only places to live and study, a safe haven where the students learn reading, math, and science skills; they also keep girls out of arranged marriages while they’re still children. Instead, the curriculum sets them up to go to university or get a job and, either way, get equipped for some independence.
I reach into my backpack for wipes and use them to clean my face and hands. I can feel sweat, and congealed fluid, probably Imran’s blood, seeping into my clothes, pooling under my nails. It also gives me something to do while we wait—and the waiting is painful as we stand by to find out what has happened. At the moment that Imran finally spoke up, there were only eight minutes to go; it’s hard to imagine that any kind of attack could have been averted. And that’s assuming that Imran even bothered to tell us the truth. Leaning my head tiredly against the back of my seat, I watch Caitlin fly. Her calm demeanor, her methodical movements, are soothing. Her kind blue eyes glancing encouragingly at me remind me of all the good things in the world. But then, Peggy’s voice crackles into our ears. I sit bolt upright. We both do.
“How’s Hala?” Peggy asks. Her voice is heavy.
“Vitals are fine. It’ll take another hour till she’s conscious,” I say. “Peggy? Tell us.”
“There was a bombing at one of Kit’s schools.” She sighs. There’s a crack in her voice when she continues and the sound of it makes me feel ill. “There just wasn’t enough time. By the time the message reached them, they had only started to evacuate. . . .”
Caitlin looks at me, her eyes full. She swallows down tears.
“How many casualties?” Caitlin asks.
“Still waiting to find out. I’m afraid the number will be high,” Peggy says.
I put my head in my hands. “Peggy, I’m sorry,” I say.
“You did everything you could, you all did. We got so close.”
“How’s Kit?” I ask.
Peggy hesitates. “She’s taking it hard. She’s off comms right now, getting ready to head to Mumbai on the next flight out, to meet the families of the victims, attend funerals. . . . I’ll travel out too. Separately.”
There’s a moment of quiet, of respect and reflection, before Caitlin gently breaks the silence with a q
uestion.
“So, what’s our plan now?”
Li chimes in, focusing us all with a set of efficient orders:
“Amber will get you to Mumbai this morning,” she says. “You have three things to do. Find the bombers. Investigate this Family First outfit. And protect the remaining girls.”
We are all tired, but in the early-morning traffic of Mumbai, the possibility of sleep fades pretty fast. I’ve never tried drugs but negotiating the city’s dense traffic from the back seat of a taxi, with windows open to the damp, surging heat outside, feels like some kind of bizarre rush. Even Hala, who claims that roads in the Middle East provide the true test of driving ability, hangs on to the passenger strap as we career past acres of land covered in tented slums and into town.
“Feeling okay?” Caitlin asks Hala.
“No. We failed in our mission,” Hala replies, ignoring the fact that she was clearly being asked about her recovery from the sleep dart. But her churlish reply is only self-blame, directed outward. Caitlin looks at me, pained, but says nothing more to Hala, who turns away, sullen, and goes back to watching the road beside us.
The truth is that we’ve all spent the past few hours replaying the whole Pakistan mission in our heads, trying to think of ways we could have done better, ways we might have coaxed Imran to speak earlier. Our only consolation is that since Imran’s cronies were drugged, Asif was able to mobilize the village to drag them into jail. There were more than enough angry fathers and mothers to take on the extra men who turned up with missiles too. Now that the power balance has shifted, and especially in light of Imran’s death, it looks as if the village will at last be back under the control of the farmers who live there.
Ahead of us, a truck crammed with chickens bursting out of wooden crates wavers as it turns a sharp corner. To our right, three goats are driven along by a young boy. To our left, a family of four cruise by, all of them riding on one moped and with one helmet between them. I pay attention to how our driver negotiates the whole mess. He’s certainly skilled in a way they don’t teach you at any driving school. He spots gaps where the rest of us would see only bumper-to-bumper gridlock and wheedles the taxi in and out of different traffic lanes with minimal fuss but plenty of horn tooting.
