by Ronie Kendig
Aadela shuffled toward him as he knelt, stuffing gear and supplies into his pack. Groggy, the little one slumped against his back as if she’d known him her entire life. Brian jerked up and glanced at Aadela. His expression went from surprise to…confusion, it seemed. Fekiria couldn’t help but feel a small bit of envy that Aadela could lean on him so openly. Letting anyone know what she felt for him would open her up to ridicule, condemnation…humiliation. Perhaps even death. All these years she’d spewed the “Americans are evil” venom, that now she’d infected her own world with it.
“It is of your own doing.”
As if a lightning bolt shot through her, Fekiria jerked upright. Was that…was that what the man in the dream meant? A gasping whimper came from the side. She watched as Sheevah helped Mitra to her feet, her friend almost doubled over in pain.
Brian was already watching Mitra, his expression grim. He said nothing as he met Fekiria’s gaze evenly. And she understood his silent message—Mitra had to walk on her own. They had no way to carry her.
“C’mon,” Brian hissed to them, a hand on Aadela’s shoulder as he stood near the opening again. “Keep her close,” he said to Fekiria.
She slid her hand into Aadela’s. She wanted to ask him, needed to know what was going on out there.
“Go out and to the right. Around the cleft. Understand?”
Fekiria nodded then gave the instructions to the others in Pashto.
Sergeant Brian—because he was the soldier once more—stepped into the switchback and crowded out the light. Seconds passed before her vision adjusted and light returned. Fekiria scooted along the space, stone touching her shoulder blades and chest as she sidestepped through.
She ushered Mitra through with the help of Sheevah, who seemed very distressed at seeing her teacher—who was more like a mother—in pain. “Stay close to each other,” Fekiria whispered as she followed them, holding Aadela’s hand.
In the open, she moved quickly but noticed the thick gray blanket stretched across the sky. Snow, deep and powdery, layered the mountain again. Wind swept the powdery landscape with a rough hand.
“Go!” Brian hissed and leaned into his weapon propped on a rocky outcropping, part of the lip that protected them in the cave. He never looked back. Just kept his gaze trained on whatever he’d spotted.
She turned to the right, finding a very narrow footpath—not eight inches wide—that snaked upward around the mountain like a spiral staircase. Though she’d hesitated and considered Brian, and though Mitra and Sheevah had a couple minutes’ head start, Fekiria was already on top of them. Urgency and panic thrummed against her pulse. They were in danger and her friend could barely move.
“Here,” Fekiria said to Sheevah. “Take Aadela. Keep going. Faster!” She hooked her arm around Mitra’s waist.
Her friend grunted. “It is a storm. You would think the bad guys would stay where it is warm.”
“Their veins are heated by bloodlust.”
Rocks gave way beneath Mitra’s feet, causing her to stumble. Fekiria tightened her arm around her friend’s waist, holding her up. Gritting against the weight and the cold. Slowly—too slowly—they wrangled their way up the steepening path. Minutes in, she glanced back down the path, seeing nothing but snow and a hint of the path they’d trod.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he caught up?
But she had to keep going. He told her to. She was responsible for the others now. He would want her to keep on.
But where was he? It took as many minutes to traverse a dozen paces. Each second felt like an eternity, her ears trained on the terrain behind them. Waiting for his arrival. For him to rush in and save them. He would. That was who he was. What he did.
Then where was he? She glanced behind them again.
“You kissed him,” Mitra said amid a shallow breath.
An embarrassing flush heated her cheeks again and made Fekiria angry. “Hush. Save your strength.” She noted the bandaged wound must be bleeding again.
“It is your own doing,” Mitra mumbled.
Fekiria’s heart spasmed. “What did you say?” Had she really said the same thing the snow-white man uttered?
“The pride and hatred keeps you from feeling what grows in your heart.” Mitra panted hard. She stumbled, rocks and snow rushing from beneath her feet. She pitched forward with a yelp.
Fekiria focused on balancing them both on the treacherous path. But it seemed the incline increased every few feet.
“For so long, you’ve said you hated Americans. Now you feel that you must hate them.” A shaky smile accompanied pain-hooded eyes. “Let it go and love him.”
“Ha.” Fekiria adjusted Mitra’s arm around her shoulder, pushing more into her friend to support her. “Your pain is making you delirious. Quiet. Focus on walking.”
But Fekiria couldn’t help looking back for him again. She imagined the worst—like last night when he’d been ambushed.
Camp Eggers, Afghanistan
24 February—0635 Hours
“Where are they?!” Dean slammed his hand against the table.
Falcon, Titanis, and Eagle stood quietly at the bank of monitors, having just returned from a failed search. Hours fighting the winds and elements that blinded them gave the pilots zero visibility and forced them to turn back. Night had set in with a vengeance, cloaking Hawk and the women in its fury. The deadly conditions made it impossible to attempt a rescue, but that there’d been no comunication with Hawk infuriated him. Worried him.
Dean paced, hands behind his head. “They’ve been out there for twelve hours—overnight in subzero!”
“It’s impossible,” Sal said with a grunt, rubbing his beard as he shook his head.
“No!” Dean stabbed a finger at him. “Not acceptable.”
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant. But negative doesn’t help. We need positive solutions.”
With a nod, Sal relented. “There’s no way to know where they went or where to look.”
“South.” Eagle’s left arm hung in a sling, leftover from the firefight he’d had with the Taliban who attacked them. “Hawk’s intent was to get as far south as he could, away from the city and those hunting the women.”
“But he went northeast. Into the mountains,” Dean repeated what Eagle told them once they’d rendezvoused.
“Initially, yes.” The man scratched his reddish blond scraggly beard. “It was the only escape. Those men were right there, gunning for us. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”
“Nobody’s blaming you, man.”
Eagle gave an acknowledging nod, but the guilt hung on him like a ragged scar.
“Blame doesn’t help anyway,” Titanis said. “What we need is a strategy. A way to find them.”
“Think they’re still alive?” Brie Hastings asked.
“Yes,” Dean answered in unison with Sal then added, “Even if he was dead, we’d go out there and find him. No man left behind.”
“Hooah,” Eagle muttered.
“Can we tap satellite coms to search for unusual chatter?” Knuckling the table, Sal stared over the map. “They’re up in the mountains. Not going to be a lot of chatter out there. Have the teams look for cryptic communication.”
“Yes.” Dean felt the heat of hope surge through him. He pointed to Hastings. “I want to know any phone signals. Any digital or electronic signals out there. Anything unusual. Even the usual. Dig, dig, and dig some more.” Dean jerked back a chair and dropped into it. “As soon as the storm breaks, we head back out.”
Titanis glanced at his watch and groaned. “Bad news.”
“What?”
“The storm is not moving out like we thought. It’s getting worse.”
Dean swallowed the curse climbing his throat. Now they would be grounded. No help for Hawk.
Tera Pass, Afghanistan
24 February—0645 Hours
With the silencer screwed onto the end of his weapon, Brian stared through the long scope. T
hree more Taliban had tracked them and uncovered the hasty burial. He had to buy Fekiria and the others time to get away from here. Slow down these rabid dogs who seemed to have an unnatural ability to find him and the women. This was a serious case of bad.
If things weren’t bad enough already, the darkening sky—which should be lightening—was the portent of doom. The freakin’ point of no return in every horror story. So he had to nail this sucker between its eyes so they didn’t end up as roadkill.
Controlling his breathing as he leaned against the rock face, Brian zeroed his sights on the lead guy. It’d taken a few minutes to rout out which of the three was leading. He’d already adjusted for wind and elements. He eased back the trigger and neutralized him.
Even as he realigned his sights, Brian felt the trace of Death’s icy finger on his spine. And the rocket launcher whipped out by one of the other Taliban told him why.
Oh crap!
Brian turned and threw himself toward the path.
Rock and fire exploded around him. Hands gloved, bloodied, and freezing, he pushed. Smelled something. Felt heat at his ear. Heard licking, crackling flames at his cheek. Fire! He shrugged out of his pack and dropped it.
Crack! The ground beneath his feet rattled. Brian glanced down. Snow seemed to levitate. Oh no…no no no.
The shelf broke away. Gravity yanked him downward.
GLASS WALLS
Shanghai, China
24 February—0945 Hours
The plan was in place. With the help of Takkar Corp., Daniel managed to get things set up in country to continue what he’d already acomplished against the Americans—the digital disruption of GPS signals. He’d misrouted, rerouted, and killed numerous radio communications, coordinates, and orders.
In exchange for help from a local tribal leader, he’d sent the team that had caused entirely too much trouble scattering in different directions. They would be ineffective. Useless. And perhaps even dead. His father’s name would live forever.
“Sir.”
Daniel did not like that tone. Urgent. Fearful. Filled with bad news. He remained at his bar and turned the glass in his hand without responding. They had made significant progress. He needed to cling to the success a little longer. A few more steps and they would have the operational security of the U.S. military completely crippled. They’d send the location of every black ops group—
“Sorry, sir, but—”
Calmly, Daniel slipped his hand inside his jacket and lifted the weapon holstered there. He shifted on the seat and aimed the gun at the messenger. And fired. So much for not killing the messenger.
Shuffling feet came running.
Mother.
Daniel stood and stalked to the hall before she could see. “Go back to your room, Māma.” He did not want to call the doctor again, especially over something he had done to incite her nerves.
“What has happened?” she squeaked, her voice quavering. “It sounded like a gun.”
“Nothing,” he said as he guided her by the shoulders back to her room. Already he could hear his assistant removing the body from the living area. “A book. I dropped a book on the wood floor.”
“You clumsy boy.” She went easily to her bed and drew the coverlet up over her thin legs. “Where is Kiew? I miss her smile. Such a sweet girl. You need to marry her and give me grandchildren.”
“I am too busy.” He held her face. “I am finishing what Bàba started, remember? His legacy.”
She eased back, a smile on her face that had begun to look like wrinkled rice paper. She touched his cheek as she did every night when he helped her with her medicines and rituals. “You are such a good son. Gang would be so proud!”
That was why he could not fail. He must not fail. Exactly the reason he did not want to hear the news the messenger brought.
But even he knew not hearing did not make the news less real. It would only delay his stress a little while. He pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheeks then flicked off the light. A stroll through the house brought him to Kiew’s personal room. He stared in, thinking of her in there. Sitting on the chaise, a satin robe around her curves as she looked out over Shanghai.
“It helps me think,” she’d said the first time he caught her there.
“But when you sit like that, then I cannot think.” He’d traced the curve of her leg and thigh. And their night ended in each other’s arms beneath exquisite Egyptian cotton sheets.
He longed for her touch, her laugh. To hear her voice. To have her help him think this through. She soothed the savage within him. To a degree. A man in his position must do things that others would hesitate to do. But he must teach them. Guide them. Be a leader to them. And leaders were not weak.
His phone rang as he stood in the hall, staring at her bed. Turning, he answered the call. “Nî hăo.”
“Wănshàng hăo, Jin.”
The sound of her voice shifted the axis of his world. Just a simple “good evening” from Kiew, but the soft lilt of her words slid over him like warm honey. Still, he must be strong. And he knew she would not risk calling so late and waking his mother unless— “What is it?” He thought of the dead messenger.
“We had the team, but they escaped. One fled into the mountains. We are hunting him.”
Clenching his eyes, he lowered his head. Turned to the rage that rumbled through him. He had ignored it too long. “Fix this!”
“We are working—”
“Fix. It!” he roared, his voice bouncing off the glass walls.
CHAPTER 36
Tera Pass, Afghanistan
24 February—0700 Hours
Fifteen minutes and he still hadn’t shown.
The path had leveled out, but Fekiria wasn’t willing to continue without knowing if Brian was okay. “It’s taking too long.”
“Go.” Mitra reached for a cluster of large snow-covered rocks. “I’ll sit.” She drew in a breath and let it out in a gulp. “I need…the rest.”
“Sheevah,” Fekiria called to the teen a dozen paces ahead. She felt the ache of winter’s breath stiffening her own bones as she waved the girl back. When the two returned, she said, “Stay with them. I’ll be right back.”
Fekiria set out, resolved and relieved to find out what happened to him. Each step made her heart pound harder. What if she had waited too long? Her fingers no longer ached against the cold—they were too numb—but she gripped the weapon as tight as she could. Or imagined she should. Her gaze skipped to her left. A brief opening in the clouds gave her a glimpse at the landscape. They were alone. Utterly alone and very high up in the mountain. Had they really climbed that high?
The shortness of breath.
The nausea…
“God, help us,” she muttered. And in her heart, she reached for a thin thread of hope that Mitra and Zahrah’s God would hear her. He seemed to hear them. Would He listen to her prayers?
As if an invisible hand blocked her, Fekiria stopped. Her attention lasered in like a targeting system on the space several meters away. A dark shape loomed there, taking stronger shape with each heartbeat. When her mind pieced together his long tunic, she choked back a scream.
Taliban!
A thousand questions pelted her as she spun around but nothing more powerful than the relief that he’d been looking the other way when she saw him.
Her foot twisted, but she threw herself up the spiral incline heedless of the pain tightening her ankle. Thick snow became a stark enemy, trying to push her back. Fekiria fought the elements, her fear, the questions—where was Sergeant Brian? Why were the Taliban ahead of him? Would they die here?—and plunged around another ledge.
The three waited, huddled against the cold and misery. “Get up! Go!” Fekiria growled, working every muscle to keep her voice down but urgent.
Sheevah punched to her feet, wide eyed and gripping Aadela, whose confusion washed over her face like a sheen of sweat.
“Run,” Fekiria hissed as she rushed in and scooped her arms around Mitra
, who felt rubbery in her grip. “Mitra, are you with me?”
Her friend’s head lobbed, eyes popping open then drifting closed.
Fekiria shook her. “Mitra!” She strangled the sob in her throat. “Mitra, you must fight!” Afraid of the men pursuing them, the weapons they carried, she dragged her friend to her feet. Tugged her around the corner. Wedged herself in under Mitra’s arm and wrapped her arm around her waist. Holding her left hand with her own, Fekiria forced herself to move. To put one foot in front of the other. The adrenaline shot through her, pushing her hard.
She wanted to cry. Wanted to shake her friend. Smack her into fight mode.
“Leave…me.” Mitra’s whispered words were almost lost in the wind and the huffing breaths.
Let them be lost. She could not let herself think of her friend as dying. That path was a dangerous, hopeless one. One they’d trip on and fall over the ledge to their deaths.
“Hadassah is waiting,” Fekiria said. “You must fight this.”
Mitra tensed. Her feet found traction in the crunching snow.
Crunching…snow…
Fekiria glanced back. Their footprints in the path created a homing beacon to their location. But there was nothing to be done for it. They had no time to hide their tracks.
“Here!” Sheevah waved to her from a thicket jutting up defiantly out of the snow and off the level area.
If they went there, they could be found.
But if they didn’t, they would be found since Mitra could not move fast enough. Fekiria guided her friend into the area. “Sheevah, help,” she said as she turned and shoved snow across the path and down. She swept her boots side to side, backstepping into the thicket. It was a vain hope to conceal their tracks.
Branches scraped her jacket noisily, and she could not help but wonder if the Taliban could hear that over the wind stalking the mountain. Eased to the ground by her friends, she brought out the weapon that Sergeant Brian had given her. She would not go down without a fight, without protecting Mitra, Aadela, and Sheevah.
