“No, no,” Mohammed replied, his voice shaking. “There will be no help there. This is a Taliban village. You must protect yourselves. Come with me. If we can get to my house, I have a pistol and a wagon. Inshallah, I can get you out of here.”
Just then, a rustle of movement sounded behind them. Now afraid of everything, Mohammed and the others turned cautiously, but there was nothing to see. The little group turned back to the path and continued along in silence until Mohammed stopped again.
“Shh, do you hear it?” His voice was almost a whisper.
Another rustle of movement reached Parween’s ears. Elsa and the others looked back, but she saw only their trembling shadows.
Suddenly, a chill ran along Parween’s spine and she held her breath, but this time she heard nothing. Not far away, she saw three figures darting through the trees. One held a Kalashnikov.
A tangled knot of fear exploded in Parween’s mind.
The Taliban!
“Run!” someone shouted.
But as the others dashed ahead, Parween hesitated, slowed, and then darted behind the heavy trunk of a tree, her heart racing.
Taliban be damned.
And as quickly as it had appeared, her knot of fear began to unravel.
She was done being afraid. The Taliban had taken enough from her, from her family, from her beloved Afghanistan. She pulled herself up into the tree and settled among the leafy branches. And as she reached for the knife she’d hidden in her front pocket, her fear faded, and she took a long, slow, deep breath.
31
Dave and Mike arrived back in Bamiyan after forty-eight long hours on patrol. They stopped at the drop site to check for messages before heading to the safe house for sleep and a shower.
“This one’s for you, Mike,” Dave said as he handed over an envelope. He recognized Elsa’s handwriting and smiled.
Mike tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper Elsa had so carefully folded up. The grin fell from Dave’s face when he saw Mike’s expression.
“What is it? What happened?”
Mike read him the short, simple message: “Gone to Sattar with Parween and Hamid. Back later.” His voice cracked as he spoke.
“Oh sweet Jesus, what was she thinking?” Dave said. “We gotta get out there. She can’t be too far ahead of us. The bus just left not an hour ago. Let’s go,” he said as he led Mike out the door, leaving a confused Majid behind.
Mike pulled himself into the jeep and reached for their radio while Dave revved the engine and drove away. The radio sputtered and crackled. Mike held his breath as he tried again and again to radio the Chief. Both men knew they’d need backup.
“God damn it!”
“Just relax, will you?” Dave said. “They’re probably fine.”
“Oh God, I should’ve told her about Sattar. She has no idea what she’s walking into.” Mike checked his pistol and then Dave’s as their jeep sped across the barren countryside. He tried once more to radio the Chief but still couldn’t get through. They knew the rules—they had no business going off like this. But they had no choice.
They arrived at the outskirts of Sattar in less than an hour. They stopped to get their bearings, and as they looked around, a young boy peeked out at them from a grove of trees. Mike motioned to him, and he ran, smiling nervously, to the jeep. Through a halting combination of English and Dari, they learned that the boy had seen the strangers, including the foreign woman under the burqa and the Taliban who stalked them.
“Feringi,” he whispered, and pointed through the trees to a group of small mud houses.
“Taliban?” Mike asked.
“Yes, yes, balay. Khoob n’ast, no good.”
The boy pulled on Mike’s sleeve and pointed.
“Anja, there,” he said. Mike put his finger to his lips and motioned for the boy to be still.
They climbed back into the jeep, and Mike tried to contact the Chief one last time as Dave turned toward the houses. When they reached the point where they would make better progress on foot, Dave killed the engine and they unholstered their weapons as their feet hit the ground.
Parween watched as Elsa and the others raced for the house, the little band of Taliban weaving in and out of the tree line to follow. God, how she hated them. They were like stray dogs. No—they were lower than rats. Her face burned with the anger that had simmered for so long in her heart.
The scurrying Taliban passed around a rifle until it finally rested in the hands of the dirtiest one. She held her breath as they walked beneath her.
After what seemed an eternity, Elsa and the others reached the house. Just inside the entrance, she turned and stopped dead in her tracks. A growing sense of panic washed over her.
Parween.
Her eyes swept the horizon, but there was no sign of her friend.
Elsa’s throat burned as she tried to catch her breath, and she felt as though her heart would explode in her chest.
She buried her face in her hands.
How had it all gone so wrong? What were they doing here?
What was she doing here?
A nurse from Boston in fucking Afghanistan, for Christ’s sake.
Hot tears stung her eyes. With trembling hands, she tried to wipe them away.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Where are you, Parween?”
She watched as Mohammed retrieved a pistol from under a sleeping pad. His house was modest, without even plastic to cover the windows, and he ordered Elsa and Hamid to stay down. Without a compound wall to protect them, they were easy prey for the Taliban and their rifle.
As Mohammed loaded his pistol, Elsa saw that he had only three bullets. He gripped the gun so tightly it left an imprint in his hand. He handed a knife to Hamid, and the three crouched, frozen in place, peering over the edge of the window to watch the Taliban approach, the Kalashnikov occasionally glinting in the sun.
“Can you see Parween?” asked Elsa, panic creeping into her voice. “Can you see her?”
Mike and Dave ran through the fields, their footfalls silent in the deep woods. Up ahead, they saw three Taliban hiding in a grove of trees facing a small house in the distance. In unison, Mike and Dave stopped, knelt, and searched for cover to make a final check of their handguns.
Mike’s heart was pounding as he looked for any sign of Elsa. He motioned to Dave, and the two men stepped behind a small cluster of hedges.
“Do you see her?” Mike whispered. Dave shook his head, his eyes locked on the Taliban ahead.
Mike took a long, slow breath and checked his clip, silently laying a round in the chamber of his gun.
* * *
Parween calculated her distance from the house—probably half a kilometer away, maybe less. The Taliban were just at the midpoint between her position in the tree and Mohammed’s house.
She watched as, suddenly—perhaps sensing that something was amiss—they ran for the house.
“Burro, Burro!” one of them yelled as they sprinted toward the unprotected structure.
Out of the corner of her eye, Parween noticed other movement, but there was no time to turn and look. She had to get down from her perch and join the race for the house. If she could get there quickly, she would be behind the Taliban and they would be surrounded—Mohammed and the others in the house, Parween at the rear. If she could surprise the Taliban, she could defeat them at their own game.
With her eyes and ears focused on the running men, she hung on to her knife, took a deep breath, and jumped stealthily from the tree, landing softly on the ground.
She was almost bowled over by two running newcomers.
Their decision made for them, Mike and Dave raced after the bearded men.
As they neared the house, they were startled by the boy who fell into their path, holding a knife. They yelled out and raised their weapons.
The Taliban heard the commotion and spun around. Seeing the soldiers, they let off a volley of shots. Mike and Dave found cover behind the trees and returned fire
.
A searing pain burst in Parween’s chest, her hand searching blindly for the source of the agony. She rolled on the ground, and it was then that she saw the blood—her blood—spilling from a small hole in her shirt. She couldn’t catch her breath, and she struggled to get up, still clutching her knife.
The taste of blood filled her mouth. Her turban was tangled and she pulled it away, exposing her long, lustrous hair.
Dave knew then that the boy who’d fallen from the tree was actually Parween.
“Oh Jesus,” he said as he and Mike leaped from their cover to pull her to safety.
In that instant of exposure, bullets flew again and Dave felt a hot poker burn into his head. He couldn’t stand, he couldn’t hold his gun, and he couldn’t speak, though he wanted to scream. An explosion of lights stung his eyes and he sank to the ground, his hand hovering protectively over the pocket where his precious picture lay.
His head was on fire, pain tearing through him, and he tried to rub it away but he couldn’t move.
Strong hands grabbed him and dragged him along. The fire in his head burst again, and he felt himself sink deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. He tried to fight, to speak, but the bullet had stolen his words. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and as he lay helpless in the dirt, the blackness enveloped him.
Parween heard the crack of the rifle and a sickening thud as Dave fell to the ground. His pistol dropped within her reach, and she stretched her arm out to grasp it. With her blood spilling out around her, she grabbed hold of it and summoned her last bit of strength. Raising herself up, she placed her fingers on the trigger as she’d seen so many soldiers do, and with the instincts of a natural marksman, she steadied her shaking hands, took meticulous aim, and fired at one of the Taliban.
She watched as the bullet tore into his shoulder, blood gushing from the wound. Clutching the pistol, she took aim once again, but with her shirt saturated now and her energy fading, she collapsed into the dirt. Her mouth filled with blood and she tried to spit it out but she didn’t have the strength. She couldn’t catch her breath, and she struggled against the crushing exhaustion that had overtaken her.
She lay back to rest for a minute, clinging to Dave’s gun, and the final emptiness engulfed her.
With both Parween and Dave out of the line of fire, Mike jumped up and shot unrelentingly at the murderers. He watched as a bullet tore into the neck of the already wounded man. His eyes flew back in his head, and Mike knew the man was dead before he hit the ground. One of his companions, the one with the rifle, fired back, hitting the crackling radio tucked into Mike’s breast pocket. The plastic exploded through his shirt.
He’d been in firefights before, but he’d never felt the fury he felt now.
He fired again, and a second man fell, blood pouring from his chest wound.
He’s gotta be dead, Mike thought.
The last rebel standing shot back, and Mike stood straight up and took careful aim with his pistol, his finger poised on the trigger. He focused on his target until an excruciating fire exploded in his abdomen and the pistol fell from his hands.
He teetered and fell, and it was then that he saw a gaping hole in his shirt and stomach. His own blood and guts seemed to have exploded around him. He tried to hold in his insides with his hands, but he didn’t have the strength, and he slipped quickly into nothingness.
There was an eerie silence in the little grove of trees as the lone Taliban turned toward the house.
32
Elsa held her breath as the frenzied shoot-out raged outside the house. Who was shooting? It wasn’t Mohammed, not yet at least. He and Hamid were huddled on the floor next to her.
Are the Taliban shooting at one another?
Oh, God, at Parween?
Has someone come to rescue us? Are we safe?
Elsa held her head in her hands and prayed.
When the gunfire stopped, the sudden silence took her by surprise. Hamid rose from his crouched position, and in that instant, he became a perfect target for the last Taliban, who fired a round. She watched as he clutched his arm tightly and fell back to the floor.
“Allah, the Most Merciful, save me,” he yelled as he held the wound.
Mohammed jumped to the window, and with a clear line of sight, he steadied his arm, aimed, and fired at the gunman.
With that final shot, a deep, bone-chilling silence settled around them. Even the birds were still. Elsa dared not breathe for fear of provoking more gunfire.
She crawled to Hamid, and after a quick check, she determined that his arm wound was superficial. She reassured him, helped him to sit, and then she stood to look out the window at the scene outside.
In the harsh sunlight, it took a moment for her eyes to focus, and when she blinked away her confusion, she could only stare in horror. Nearby, she saw the three Taliban, lying motionless on the ground, and farther on she saw a scene of utter bloodshed. She made out the camouflage-clad bodies of two soldiers and the body of someone very small, a boy maybe.
A suffocating wave of dread swept over her.
Oh, God, the boy is Parween, and the soldiers—oh Jesus, the soldiers…
She put a hand over her mouth to hold back her screams. She raced for the door. Mohammed tried to hold her back, but she shook him off and ran for her motionless friends.
She sprinted past the Taliban sprawled on the ground, her sandals tracking through their blood as she ran. Sweating, gasping for air, and crying, she reached the bloody scene.
“Parween!” she shrieked as she reached her friend, who lay on her side in a pool of blood. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, her bloodied lips carried the trace of a smile, and her hand still gripped a pistol. Elsa knelt down to her friend and shook her, called her name again, and finally rested her ear over Parween’s heart, but just as in the quiet grove, there was only silence.
She put her mouth over Parween’s and tried to breathe life back into her friend, but Parween’s mouth was filled with blood and her lungs were unyielding. Elsa pulled at her friend’s shirt to find the wound, and she knew.
Parween was dead.
The panic that Elsa had held back tore out of her then and the scream she released startled even the birds, which rose up and away in fear.
With tears clouding her vision, Elsa cradled her friend in her arms, rocking back and forth on her heels. All around her was bloodshed. She held tightly to Parween, afraid to let go—afraid to look around—and then out of the corner of her eye, she saw the soldiers.
Oh God, Mike and Dave.
They lay motionless and bloody in the dirt. Her sobs caught in her throat as she gently laid Parween down. Turning, she reached for Mike, and she saw his wound, gaping and ugly. She held her hands over his shirt and tried desperately to hold back the blood that oozed from his body. Her hands came back warm and sticky, covered with blood and bits of body tissue.
Paralyzed by the disastrous turn of events, Elsa sank into the dirt. “Oh Jesus,” she whispered, resting her head on Mike’s chest. “Help me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Elsa, check Dave,” a voice murmured. “He’s really hurt. Help him, Elsa.”
Mike’s words, proof that he was at least alive, soothed her, and she touched his face. She turned, searching for Dave. He lay on his back, one hand held over his shirt pocket, his eyes open and looking to the skies. A gunshot wound in the side of his head told her everything she needed to know.
She wanted to scream, to take his gun and shoot wildly into the air, but she didn’t. Instead, she kissed his forehead and gently closed his eyes.
A wrenching sorrow tore through Elsa, and she turned back to Mike and tried to think. Be a nurse, she told herself, just do what you know. With trembling hands, she tore away his shirt to inspect his wounds. There was shrapnel in his chest, but his larger wound, the one that bled most heavily and could kill him fastest, was the one to his abdomen. She pulled off her scarf to craft a pressure dressing. Once the flimsy bandage was applied, Elsa s
at back on her heels to figure out what to do next but the chaotic scene threatened to overwhelm her. She pushed her hair back from her face and saw Mohammed and Hamid running toward her. The sight of them gave her a small measure of courage, and steadying her hands, she turned to Mike again.
“Mike,” she commanded, her voice cracking, “do as I say. Don’t move. We’re going to get everyone out of here, and then we’ll take care of you.”
Mohammed approached with a cart, and Hamid followed, still clutching his wound. “We must get them in here—quickly, now—before we are seen,” he ordered. They lifted Dave and Parween gently to the back and then carefully lifted Mike into the cart as well.
Elsa turned and retrieved both pistols, as well as the remnants of Mike’s radio. Something shiny caught her eye, and she bent to have a closer look. There, on the ground where Parween had fallen, lay a glistening tube of lipstick, the same one Elsa had given her the night they’d first had dinner. Elsa dropped to her knees and clutched it to her chest.
A fresh flood of tears overtook her and the shock of what had happened started to creep in. Mohammed gently, but firmly, tapped her back. “Miss, we must hurry.”
Nodding through her grief, Elsa stood up shakily and slipped the small tube into her pocket.
“We must go to the house of my sister,” Mohammed said urgently as he steered the cart along a winding road. “The Taliban lying there will be found soon and there will surely be a search for the strangers who came to Sattar this day.” He hastily guided the cart through the streets, eyes alert, scanning the few people they passed. Soon they turned toward a small compound.
“Fariba,” he called. “Are you here?”
“Mohammed,” a smiling woman answered. “Salaam alaikum—”
“Fariba,” he interrupted, “there is trouble. I have come here with my friends.” He turned and pointed. “This is Elsa and Hamid.”
Fariba started to greet the strangers and then, seeing the blood that stained all of their clothes, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. “Che’ast? Che taklif? Mariz?”
Lipstick in Afghanistan Page 26
