by Ronie Kendig
A large woman, bent over a pot on the stove, slid a glance in Fekiria’s direction. Sprigs of unruly gray and black hair coiled out from beneath the tan hijab. Sweat mottled the woman’s complexion. “Sit,” the cook ordered then turned to a teen girl. “Get her some naan and water.”
Fekiria held up a hand. “Thank you, but I am—”
The cook shouted to someone else to check the bread in the massive stone oven that reminded Fekiria of ovens of old that were hewn in the walls of the home from rock.
Unwilling to argue with the cook and draw more attention to herself, Fekiria tucked herself into the corner table and did everything she could to be invisible. Within a few minutes, bread and cup were planted before her by a young girl, who hurried down into the cooling room then returned a minute later with a basket of chickpeas.
Quietly sipping the drink, Fekiria ignored the naan. It was too sweet and heavy for her stomach—especially knowing she sat beneath the same roof with Adeeb. Of all the people…why must it be him? As fierce and traditional as their father, Adeeb had no reservations about honor killings. Or putting a woman in her place.
This woman he’d put six feet under without hesitating.
The hard wood chair dug into her bones as the hours passed. Growing fidgety two and a half hours later, she stood and debated about whether she should say something to the cook, who was now well into making pastries and baklava—Oh, mercy! Fekiria’s sweet tooth ached for the parchment pastry—but then decided the cook would not care if she was here or not.
She caught the young girl who’d served the bread. “Excuse me, I must speak with one of the guards.”
The girl, eyes larger that pomegranates, shook her head.
“I must. My boss will be angry. We were supposed to leave thirty minutes ago.”
“I will get the guard. Leave the girl alone,” said an older man who appeared in the kitchen. He then shuffled out.
Waiting, she tried to keep to the shadows. What if he brought Adeeb instead of a guard? Maybe she should just go to the chopper—
“What is it?” the guard demanded, a scowl darkening his beady eyes.
“I am an ANA soldier, who was on orders to fly the gentlemen out there, but we were supposed to be back at the base by now. I could get in very serious trouble.”
His scowl grew. “What do you want me to do, stupid woman?”
“I must either radio in that we—”
“No! You cannot go out there.”
Fekiria drew back at the venom in his words. “I must. If I do not report in, the Army will come looking for their aircraft and me.”
“Let them look.”
“You cannot stop me from going out there.”
He snapped his weapon at her in a not-so-subtle challenge. “They said no one out there. That means you, too.”
Anger pushed her boldness to the front, beyond her fear of reprisal. “Then go tell them I must radio in, or I’m going out there.”
“And I will kill you.”
“Then you will have to explain to your masters why they have no pilot to get them back to the base.”
He snapped his mouth closed.
Aha. She had him. Triumph sent her thundering heart into an irregular beat. Trembling coursed through her hands, but she refused to show weakness to this man who found power only in threatening a woman.
He made to strike her, and she stepped back. Embarrassed, he hurried from the kitchen amid the laughter of the cook and the girl. Fekiria stumbled back, but her legs went rubbery. She steadied herself at the table, giving herself time to regain her courage.
Stomping feet preceded the guard who stalked into the kitchen, his face all rage. Behind him strode a man in a suit.
Fekiria drew herself up, silently thanking Allah that it was not Adeeb.
“What is the problem?” the suited man demanded.
“My name is Lieutenant Rhmani, and my orders were to deliver four men to this estate three hours ago, and to return two hours later.”
“They are not finished.” He dared her to argue, and the smug grin of the guard behind him only frustrated Fekiria.
“I understand,” she said. “I only ask that I may go to my aircraft and radio.”
“That would be unwise.”
The threat in his words could not be clearer, but she would use the “stupid woman” belief to her advantage. “What would be unwise, sir, is if I do not report in.”
“You dare counter my words?”
“What is happening here?” a voice demanded from the kitchen entrance.
Fekiria’s stomach vaulted into her throat. She stood, frozen, as she met Adeeb’s fierce gaze. Her heart felt as if it exploded with each beat.
“What is the matter?” Adeeb barked, looking from the others then to her. Recognition flickered through his face.
“Ad—”
“I asked what is happening here,” Adeeb shouted at the men.
“Sir, this woman insists on radioing to the U.S. base.”
“I must,” Fekiria said. Why had he not named her? Shouted at her? Hit her?
“You are the pilot.” His voice betrayed nothing but irritation.
Confusion circled her brain like vultures over a dead, rotting carcass. Why had he not acknowledged her? His question felt as one he’d ask a stranger. Perhaps that is what I am to him now. Besides, she still wore the flight suit, so refuting it would be foolish. “I am. If I do not report in, then not only will more ANA soldiers come, but the American military will come looking for their property.”
His gaze raked her soul. But he said nothing. It felt like minutes, but it had been only seconds. “You will radio in and let them know we will not be leaving tonight.”
Fekiria started. “Not—what?”
“You will return tomorrow morning.”
“The flight orders said we would return an hour ago!”
Voice and expression impassive, he said, “Plans change.” Understanding spread across his face. “Escort her out there and back.” His gaze never left her face. “Then lock her up in a room. Make sure she does not leave again.”
The guard and the suited man escorted her out to the helicopter. With her headset on, she radioed the base. “November Romeo to Sierra Alpha Bravo Two.”
“Sierra Alpha Bravo here. What is your status, November Romeo?”
“Delayed,” she said, exasperated and yet relieved to hear Captain Ripley’s voice again. Had he been sitting there at the controls the whole time? Why did it have to be him? “The VIPs have had a change of plans, sir.”
“Come again?”
“They have said we will not be leaving until tomorrow morning.”
“Negative, November Romeo. You are ordered to RTB immediately.”
“They will not allow me to leave.”
“November Romeo, is this a threat level red?”
Threat level red meant hostile. Meant Captain Ripley and who knew how many other American soldiers would come rushing—assaulting—to her aid. What would happen to Adeeb then? She stared out at the guard, who happily kept his weapon trained on her.
He had been the devil himself. Did she care what happened to him?
Perhaps not. But she wanted to know why Adeeb was here. “No, sir. Just…”
“Just them holding us over a barrel.”
“Sir?” His American phrases did not always make sense to her.
“He’s got our hands tied. He has you, the aircraft, and if there’s no threat, Colonel Mahmoud knows we won’t do anything.” Captain Ripley sighed. “Am I right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I.” She glanced against the muzzle of the M16.
“I’ll be waiting for your preflight check-in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I haven’t heard from you by 0800, I’m bringing the cavalry.”
BORIS
Have you found them?”
She didn’t need to get all snippy abou
t it. Boris pulled back his frustration and indignation. “I want to know about Zmaray.”
“Do not toy with us, Boris.”
I smirk. They really have no idea who they’re messing with. “This isn’t toying with you, Highness. This is ensuring my safety.”
“If you keep Osiris happy, then you are ensuring your safety.”
“Osiris.” The name is an anesthetic to my brain. I can’t think. Can’t process. I know that name. I do. Somewhere…at some time. Shaking out of my stupor is the only way I guarantee staying alive. “Zmaray. I want to know about him.”
With more of that unnerving silence she is so good at dishing out, I wait. And wait.
“Check the e-mail.”
Warily, I reach for the screen. Touch the icon for my e-mail. It opens. And explodes with a gruesome image of a man—a dead man—sporting an extra hole in his head.
“For the love of—” I race to close the browser. My stomach is climbing up into my throat. With a flick of one hand, I open one of the cantilever windows. With another, I reach for my sport drink. “Was that necessary?” My voice is shrill and my fear rancid. I gulp the drink. Grateful for the cold sensation of the liquid dumping down my system.
“I don’t know, Boris. Was it?”
“I don’t work well under death threats, Miss…” How is it I don’t even know her name? Honestly how did I know anyone I met or worked with was who they said they were? It came with the trade. All sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors.
It’s bull crap. No need to get ugly and hateful.
I can pull the plug. I can get nasty with my viruses and programs that snake into a system. Lay dormant for decades if I want…and then unleash the demon within when I want. Do they realize what I can do? Do they?
I’m so mad, my hands are shaking. How dare they threaten me!
“Please, Boris. I would not threaten you.” Her voice seems to purr, making me angrier. “This was not a threat. I tried to distract you from the question about Zmaray. But you persisted. Even threatened me.”
“I didn’t threaten.” There is a fine line with these types. You threaten, then you push them over the ledge. Which pushes you over a real ledge. Your body is found weeks, months later, eaten by crows and wild animals. Not enough left to identify except through dental records.
“You were willing to withhold your cooperation if I did not tell you.”
In the movies, a guy in my place would wet his pants about now. “It was insurance.”
“And are you insured now?”
I shove my hand through my hair, noticing the sweat. The tremble in my fingers. This chick—I don’t like her. She’s worse than Zmaray. And my mind is in denial. Maybe that image wasn’t the guy I’d dealt with. The one who showed up here and had his thugs throw their weight around. “I just—you have to admit that a person in my situation has to be careful. Just as you have to be careful.”
“Are we past the handshakes yet? Can we get on with business?” She was a cool cucumber.
Why people used that expression, I don’t know. Because I hate cucumbers. They give me gas. Give me a chilled apple. Better yet—a chilled Cayman Jack. That would settle my nerves. Well, right now, it might take an entire case…Maybe I need to visit Salim’s.
“Okay.” I wipe my hands over my face, warding off the chill—it is January after all—and sweat that coated my body after the standoff with the queen of Sheba. “Okay, look. I don’t know their exact location. They’ve gone south. I’ve narrowed it down to Kandahar or a nearby province.”
“Find them. We must know their location.”
CHAPTER 12
Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
16 January—0910 Hours
Okay, listen up!” Sergeant Brennan, a wiry guy with a deep voice and a wicked sunburned nose, waited as his members of the 10th Mountain, 1st Sustainment Brigade gathered.
With his HK416, Brian sauntered into the staging area where a dozen or so grunts were gathered around—
Hold up. What was this?
Brian couldn’t help but grin as he took in the four, not three, vehicles. So someone was listening after all. Even if they didn’t want him here—and heck-fire, he was all in with that sentiment—they knew he had something to contribute.
The echoes of boots thudding across the tarmac made Brian’s hackles rise. He pivoted and brought around his HK416, easing his finger toward the trigger well as he sighted the boots. Friendly. He relaxed his grip and stance as they hustled toward the group.
“Davis, Parker—you’re late!”
“Sorry, sir.” Specialist Parker circled up with Davis. And only when Davis looked in Brian’s direction did he make the connection. Blond bombshell who’d gone red when he blew off her flirtatious glance.
I am cursed.
“Today,” Brennan continued, “we have the experienced brain and brawn of Sergeant Bledsoe.”
Brian touched the rim of the baseball cap he wore in a mock salute.
“Trust his lead, his instructions. If he says pull back, then do it.”
Surprised at the command authority he was being given, Brian had this crazy, crawl-out-of-his-skin agitation. What was it? What bugged him?
Only when the private next to him skated Brian a glance did he figure it out. They’re kids. They’re freakin’ kids. The punk to his right didn’t even have enough peach fuzz to need a razor. What was this? Kindergarten roundup?
Be nice, be nice. He’d been there once, green and wet behind the ears. Eager to serve. Wetting his pants when his convoy hit the first IED.
“Okay, let’s load up,” Brennan said as he took a step toward Brian and extended his hand. “Adam Brennan.”
“Call me Hawk.”
“Good to have you on board.” As they moved toward the MRAPs, Brennan asked, “Special Forces?”
Brian nodded.
“Rumor’s going around that SOCOM’s calling in all the teams.”
He said nothing.
“You’ll ride with me in the lead.” Brennan climbed in the rear, navigating around boxes stacked on one side. Supplies. Counting and verifying what they had as he moved forward.
Trailing him, Brian noticed the man stumble over the small obstacle course–like space. One of the grunts looked pale, his knees bouncing as he sat on the bench lining the other side of the vehicle.
Brian slapped his shoulder, trying to give him a boost of courage.
Instead, the kid jolted.
“Need some air?” Brian asked, taunting him.
Face red, the kid licked his lips. “I’m good, sir.”
Brian snorted and kept moving. His gaze hit Davis. “You ready for this?”
“Not my first rodeo, sir.”
“Good to know.” He then hoisted himself into the right, front seat.
The convoy made radio contact with each other then lumbered off the base. Taking a normal route, they raced toward their destination. Wisps of green stuck up defiantly against the winter weather that stripped most bushes and trees of their leaves. But mostly, more of the same—brown, gray drab, and rock—smeared across his mind with the minutes.
Brennan’s grip on the wheel kept rolling, his gaze shooting back and forth.
The team’s tension was tighter than a det cord. They needed something to lighten up the mood. “And on this side, we have a glorious field of rocks,” Brian spoke over his shoulder. “On your left, if you’ll take a moment to gaze out the blast shields, you’ll find another stunning field of rocky barrenness.”
“I think I buried my pet rock there.”
Brian laughed and glanced back—surprised that Davis had the wherewithal to be lighthearted. But she was the only one. Nobody else laughed. Or even looked out the windows. “Got a tough audience, Davis.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eyes front, Brian stiffened. Before them, a village of huts and plaster-walled structures stood like a ravenous animal in the middle of the road. A starving animal who saw its first meal of the day—the convoy.
Scanning. Assessing. Processing. Brian had eyes out, probing the shadows. Not more than twenty or thirty sardine-packed structures, but plenty for the enemy to hide in. A blur of striped fabric warned him of someone hustling out of view. A man in tan pants and a long tunic raced across the main road and dove down an alley.
Not good.
The MRAP slowed.
Brian snapped a hand to the left. “Don’t slow down. You’re tipping them that you’re nervous. Barrel in.” This wasn’t just a small road. It was the main road that led to their supply target. Houses and small shanties had shot up around the paved road that had more windows than the structures.
The sergeant hesitated for only a second.
“Do it,” Brian barked, his adrenaline spiraling. The truck lurched forward, pulling them faster. Relax. No need to nuke what little courage these grunts had. “When was the last time you were outside the wire?”
Brennan shot him a nervous glance. “I just got back over here.”
“How long have you been sergeant?”
Head down in a defeated posture, Brennan muttered, “Two months.”
Brian rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the frustration. “Well, Sergeant, you have to man up. These terrorists don’t care what rank you are. You’re a target. They don’t stop and check rank first. They shoot to kill. Period. There’s no playing nice, no PC crap out here. The rules of the playground here are very different than they are at home.”
“Figured that out last time.”
Brian jerked toward the sergeant. Beneath the brain bowl, all of a sudden he looked maybe fifteen. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. The guy was scared spitless. “You got family, Brennan?” A startled smile distracted him from his nerves. Blue irises sparked with memory. “Yeah. Got married last Christmas. Jennie.”
“She’s a beauty,” Davis added from the rear.
Brian again noted Davis, who had it more together than her first sergeant.
“Not sure how I rated to get her,” Brennan said, his tone sheepish, “but I’m no dummy. Married her before she could change her mind.” His sweat had turned to joy.
“You kidding me?” Brian slapped the guy on the shoulder. “She married a real American hero. I think she’s the one who knew to marry you before you could get away.”
