by Ronie Kendig
“Did they all leave?” Fekiria lay to his left, close enough that she could whisper.
“Don’t know.” He didn’t have nocs since losing his ruck. “We’ll need to wait, make sure they’re gone. See if anyone else comes out, maybe for firewood for the night.”
Please…please, God. He’d never prayed this hard so much in his life. The girls had been through too much. They wouldn’t make it one more night without this to feed them, fuel their bodies and spirits. Then again, they could get down there and find the place emptied of everything. He hoped for food but knew necessity demanded shelter from the storm.
He traced a path with his eyes along the outer rim of the ridgeline that created the bowl-like shape, with one side missing. The same side the trucks had disappeared down. “C’mon.” He shouldered Mitra onto his back once more. “We’ll climb down while we watch. Get a little closer.”
It took them almost an hour to make the bottom of the valley—well, not really a valley. Just a depression. The thought of warmth and protection against the winds kicking up gave them the strength to make it down.
“Wait here,” Brian said as they took cover behind a couple of trees. He crouch-ran as best he could across the open, holding his weapon in both hands and ignoring the knifing pain in his thigh. What bothered him more was the numbness in his legs. He slipped up against the structure and shouldered his way around the corner. Weapon up. Eyes alert.
He listened, or tried to listen, over the howl of the winds. It rattled against his ears and made it impossible to know if anyone else was inside. The window was boarded up and gave no offer of help in determining occupancy. Door. He’d have to go through the door.
Brian took a breath. Stared at the rudimentary barrier against the wind. Hand on the catch, he lifted it…slowly.
Once he felt it release, he pushed in, sweeping the room with his weapon up and heart pounding. A simple two-room structure. Large and open, the main area provided little comfort but immediate warmth. He hustled along to the opening that led to a secondary room. Smaller. A pallet on the floor. Bedroom.
But safe.
A cabinet sat against the wall. Odd. Out of place. Brian eased over to it. Weapon at head level, he aimed and reached the door. Gloved fingers coiling around the handle, he saw something red. And black. His heart thudded. Hard. Harder. Brian stepped back, visually tracing the wires.
He cursed. They’d rigged the place. Touch something, lose a hand. Touch too much, lose your life.
Boards creaked.
Brian turned in time to see Aadela hobble across the room toward a table.
Every thump of her feet on the packed earth hammered against his heart. One step. Two.
His gaze swung to the small two-door cabinet in the corner. A pantry, he guessed. And he saw the wires trailing from it straight to his feet.
The blur of the little girl headed straight for it.
She’d be blown to pieces.
“No!” He rushed forward and scooped her up. He held her tight, but she squealed in frustration against him. He spun toward the door where Fekiria and the teen waited with Mitra. “It’s rigged! Don’t move.”
Brian delivered Aadela to Fekiria then cleared the room. “Go ahead and sit down. There’s blankets in the other room. Get warm.” He knelt before the pantry, tracing the wires to a gray brick. After a short exhale, he went to work disarming the device. Once he pulled the det cord free, he coiled up the wires. Opened the doors slowly, hoping there weren’t more surprises there. He shuffled over to the large metal cabinet and traced the wires to another brick tucked behind the cabinet. He neutralized that, too. Boxed up the equipment then opened the doors.
He stood, stunned. “No way,” he muttered as he ran a hand over the equipment. He grabbed a couple of devices and then squatted and laughed. “Jackpot!”
“What is it?”
“Sat phone, laptop.”
A scream pierced the cabin.
Brian jerked toward it, saw Fekiria removing the little girl’s boots. “No!” He rushed toward them. “Keep the clothes on. Just put more on.”
“But she—You said—”
“Nothing comes off until we get medical aid. Clear?” Aadela would be screaming a lot—all of them would as their limbs warmed back up and circulation returned.
Fekiria stared at up at him and nodded. “You think we can get help?”
He pointed to the table. “If they aren’t already working, I can get them up and running. Then we can make contact with someone. Get an extraction.”
“Up here? During the storm?”
Brian’s excitement deflated a little. “No. But as soon as it breaks.” He motioned her back to the others. “First things first. Can you see what food there is?”
She bristled. “What, I’m the cook because I’m a woman?”
Brian almost grinned. Not five minutes out of the storm and already her fire returned. “I’ll cook. You want to do surgery on Mitra?”
She blanched, her lips forming a silent O.
Brian rustled through the cabinet and found pretty much nothing he needed—except a bottle of what he thought, and Fekiria confirmed, was the equivalent of ibuprofen. He told her to mash some up and give it to Aadela. She and Sheevah needed to take a few, too.
“Why?” Fekiria asked. “I’m okay.”
“How do your hands feel?”
She hesitated.
“And your feet?” Brian didn’t mean to be confrontational. “You can’t feel them, can you?”
She blinked. “I…I—how do you know that?”
He tossed a few pills in his mouth. “Because you’re not groaning or screaming in pain.” He swallowed dry and went to the other room where Mitra was laid out, unconscious. He packed a blanket around her then drew her pallet toward the other room. There, he built a fire in the small pit and let the warmth fill the room.
Aadela eventually fell asleep, and that’s when Brian knelt to work on Mitra. Hand against her carotid, he knew the odds of making it were against her. Her thready pulse made it unlikely she’d survive any attempts he made to remove bullets. And he couldn’t sew her up, so…
24 February—1730 Hours
Violent shivering wracked Fekiria hours into their stay in the shanty. She made a light soup with some leftover partially rotten vegetables. They were not so ruined they were unusable, so in the pot they went. After their bellies were filled, everyone lay down.
Everyone, that is, except Brian. He worked on. Exhausted. In pain. He worked.
As she lay before the fire, her back to the flames, agony tore at her limbs, fiery yet freezing. She curled on her side, holding her hands, keeping her feet toward the fire. She shared a blanket with Aadela, who whimpered in her sleep constantly. Sometimes, waking into full fits of screaming that broke Fekiria’s heart as she held up her hands in obvious pain.
Wind howled and the storm raged through the night as Brian sat on the floor, not far from the fire either, with a powered-up laptop. He’d told her right away there was no signal. No way to communicate—yet.
But he worked. Fastidiously. Shaking out his hands. With the fire behind her, she was sure he couldn’t see her watching him because he made no effort to hide the pain as he tucked his fingers under his armpits and doubled over, his face screwed tight. His teeth bared in what would be a growl—that is, if he allowed himself to make a noise. But he didn’t. He soldiered on, as he liked to say.
He was handsome—even with the swollen eye, the cuts and bruises. He never gave up. Never left them. Strong and brave. A fighter. A good man.
She drifted in and out of sleep, awakened often by Aadela. Sheevah burrowed closer to them, smiling at her and muttering something about Aadela sleeping better if she couldn’t see Mitra. Fekiria understood—her friend looked dead in the flickering firelight. Grateful for the girl’s wisdom, she scooted over a little until they had Aadela sandwiched between them. The next time Fekiria awakened, both girls were sound asleep.
Brian curs
ed.
She looked up but he wasn’t in the same spot. She heard the clack of him typing behind her and rolled onto her back. He was propped against the wall, his feet near her head, the glow of the laptop splashing a dull light against his beat-up face.
“What’s wrong?” She tucked an arm behind her head to prop herself up.
Brian heaved a sigh. “Trouble.”
Fekiria groaned.
“No kidding.” He lifted the laptop, drew his feet closer to himself and put the computer near her face. He laid down on his stomach. “I think…I think the men who were here are the people who’ve been hitting my team.”
Fekiria rolled onto her side, pushing her torso up. “Really?”
Another strong exhale. “Yeah.” He jabbed a still-gloved finger toward the screen. “These codes… If I’ve figured it out right, they match the coordinates for our troops. It’s all old data though. But still—”
“It’s a lead.”
Brian considered her. “You seem as excited as me.”
“They took over my aircraft and tried to make me kill innocent people. Those are not the type of people who need to control Afghanistan, so yes—I am excited.”
He bounced a finger toward the screen. “I’m running a program, searching the laptop for key phrases. If I can get this back to the base, they can dig into it better.”
“Do you know who’s behind it?”
His gaze bounced over the different applications running. “We only have theories, suspects, but no proof. Not sure I can—if I had equipment, I probably could figure something out—which is why I want to get this back to Command.”
She noticed the disassembled phones on the floor. “They don’t work?”
“Still working on them.”
Fekiria couldn’t help but smile. “I didn’t realize you were so smart.”
He scowled. “I’m not.”
“How can you say that? The last twenty-eight hours, you’ve protected us, guided us. You knew how to skin that leopard. How to fashion extra protection for Aadela, how to perform surgery on—”
“Okay, okay.” Brian shifted his attention back to the computer, his expression stern.
She’d faced her brother’s anger. Her father’s. And took it in stride. But seeing Brian’s turned her stomach. “I did not mean to anger you.”
Brian hung his head. “I know.” He put a fist to his cracked, bloodied lips. “It’s just… I don’t like people thinking…saying I’m smart.”
“Why? You are very smart.”
“Smart isn’t always a good thing.”
Fekiria studied him. What was behind that statement?
“My dad,” he said, as if it hurt to even speak the words. “My dad was this majorly smart guy—rated Mensa. He was too smart for his own good, felt he didn’t owe anything to those who depended on him. His work, his wife, his family.” Brian seemed to study the dirt floor. “When I was fifteen, he was arrested. Someone had told the police what he was doing behind closed doors.”
“What was he doing?”
“Running a really big scam. Stealing money and funneling it to other agencies. He thought he was so smart he didn’t have to answer to anyone else.” He tried to wet his lip and shook his head. “He’s in prison still. The whole thing really got to me. Changed my life.”
Something in his expression shifted, went…vacant. Fekiria eased up, as if she could draw him out from the hole he’d vanished into. She could only imagine the humiliation his family must have faced when his dad went to prison.
“Why? Was it hard on you and your family after…?” Wondering about it and voicing it were two different things. She hurt for him—this clearly affected him. “Was it the shame?” She could relate to that, with all that had happened with her family.
A twitch in Brian’s left cheek almost seemed like a smile. “No.” He looked at the laptop, seemingly through it. “No, it changed my life because…” His hesitation dangled on the precipice of something haunting. Fekiria wouldn’t push. If he wanted to share it, he would.
BORIS
Taking a bullet in the head would’ve been so much less painful than this whole interlude with the Chinese. Take down the American computers. Spy on them. Make them hurt.
Sounds easy, right?
That’s what I thought, too. But now I’m staring at underground chatter in the hacker world and hearing something very disturbing. Osiris is taking credit for my work. The brainless, dimwitted Chinese hackers are taking credit for my work.
No. This is not happening.
I grab my phone. Almost press the keys through the device as I dial the number I’m not allowed to store in my phone but I’ve memorized.
“What do you want?” Her voice is sultry and hateful. Weird combo, but totally works.
“That is my code you’ve been using. My work. My genius—”
“If you call this number again, I will make sure your genius is available for everyone to see.”
A threat? I laugh. “You can’t kill me. You kill me and everyone will know.”
“Yes, precisely,” she says—and I swear it sounds like a cat purring. It’s totally sick. And hot, which is twisted and wrong since she’s totally threatening me. “You understand?”
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to be civil. “This isn’t right.”
“Do. You. Understand?” she asks, biting out each word.
“Your words are clear.” I will not tell them I understand. Because this is wrong on every level and then some. And they’ve screwed me over so many times I can’t see straight. Now…now they’re taking credit for my handiwork.
Know what they say about payback, right?
I crack my knuckles and stretch my neck. This may be my last act of kindness, but it’s going to be a doozie. Then Osiris will know not to mess with me. And I have the perfect counterpart to disguise as an accomplice. The Doris to my Boris.
But how…how can I do this? How to tip off the Americans without tipping my hand?
A line of code pops up on one of my monitors to the left. “What the…?” It’s one of the hack-proof systems I provided. One that, of course, has a backdoor code. No decent programmer would hand over his tech without one. But—
I glance at the other computer. The video feeds from the chopper. From the other locations. Nobody should be on that laptop. They’d told me it wasn’t working.
Streaming data sprints up the screen.
“Holy crud,” I whisper, wheeling my chair to the keyboard. “Someone’s hacking it.”
It’s a race. Whoever it is, he’s almost in. And that can’t happen. My fingers are racing against my brain. Where did this laptop come from?
Son of tortoises! It’s him. It’s Hawk. Gotta be. These systems were in the safe house.
And then, like a generator powering down, I realize…
This is perfect. Absolutely, singularly perfect.
So it’s time to show them who is really in control. A few tips here and there—really, did they not figure out I’d tipped off the military elite months ago?—to remind my Chinese friends who had given them this feast on a platter.
While my good friend Hawk is hammering his way through the security measures, I’ll just lay a golden egg.
A few keystrokes…
Right in his lap.
But just for good measure, to make sure nobody knows how many cards I have in play, I lift the phone. Dial.
Yeah, I know. She said not to call. But trust me, she’s going to want to hear this.
“Are you stupid, calling me again?”
“Quite the contrary. I have information you will want.” Oh wait. I can’t tell her he has the laptop. Because they’ll take it or kill it or him. “I know where he is.”
Silence greeted me.
Ahhh, thought so, genius. “He’s at Location Four.”
And just like that, my systems are going berserk.
They’re back-tracing me. Trying to figure out how I know where he is. I have to adm
it—my heart starts pounding. Did I go too far? Have they figured out what I’m doing?
“Good night, Mr. Kolceki.”
That’s it. They’re coming after me. They’re going to try to kill me. Trust me, I’ve heard that code enough times to know the real meaning.
Punching the leather seat, I curse. It shouldn’t happen this way. “I gave you everything!”
CHAPTER 39
Above Tera Pass, Afghanistan
24 February—1920 Hours
Telling this sixteen-year-old secret…
It seemed stupid. Holding on to it. As if he did something wrong.
That was just it. Brian had betrayed his own father.
But Dad betrayed us with everything he did.
A soft pressure on his shoulder lured his mind from that dark alley in his past. Brian blinked and glanced to the side. Fekiria lay on her back, her gloved touch gentle. She was beautiful. One of the most beautiful women he’d ever known. And for all her “I hate Americans” talk, she sure showed him a lot of niceness.
If he told her the truth, she’d be the only one alive who would know. “I turned my father in.”
She rolled onto her side and pushed up onto an elbow. Concern traced dark lines around her beautiful eyes. And he hated it. Hated that something he did put that look on her face.
Brian yanked his gaze back to the keyboard of the laptop.
“That was very brave.”
Brian snorted. “Brave?” He shook his head. “I was fed up with him. Fed up with his lies. Hated that he was getting away with illegal money transactions and his criminal activity held the potential to destroy my mother. It had to stop.”
“Yes, it did.” She reached over and curled her gloved fingers around his. “You were sixteen?”
“Fifteen. Turned him in the week before my sixteenth birthday.”
“How did you know—I mean, if the authorities hadn’t figured it out?”
With a crooked smile, he met her beautiful green eyes again. “I’m smart, remember?” It was a lame answer, one that acquitted him of the guilt he felt. But…not really. “They knew. At least, I think they knew. My dad was smart—a Mensa, remember?—but I was smarter. Maybe not in quantifiable ways through Mensa measures, but through paying attention. I saw how things weren’t adding up, the meetings he had with people. I couldn’t cope with him lying through his teeth about the money he earned, money that would destroy all of us.” But there was more. “I was sick of him telling me I wasn’t smart enough.”
