Текст книги "Ghost recon : Combat ops"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

of me.

“Boss!” Brown whispered.

I came down two rungs, my heart palpitating. Brown

was waving at me to come back, his teeth bared.

“What?”

He mouthed the words: We found him!

During my first tour in country, my team captured an

Afghan policeman who’d been working secretly as an

interrogator for the Taliban. He shared with us the

orders from his boss: “I want you to torture them with

methods so horrible that their cries of agony will scare

even the birds from their nests, and if any one of them

survives, he will never again have a night’s sleep.”

This guy described in vivid detail the creative meth-

ods he and his comrades employed to slowly and system-

atically kill their prisoners. The generous use of electricity,

insects, water, and clubs would’ve made even the most

iron-stomached soldier grimace as he listened to the

tales.

286 GH OS T RE CON

Consequently, when we found Warris, my imagina-

tion had already run wild . . .

But I’d forgotten they wanted him in good condi-

tion. They still wanted to negotiate, and I’m sure Zahed

was heavily influenced by the company he kept, other-

wise Warris would have been much closer to death. I

took one look past the planks, and in the tiny shaft of

light created by Brown, I grimaced tightly.

Warris was sitting naked in a foot-high pool of water,

urine, and feces. He’d been gagged, his hands cuffed

behind his back, and when he saw us, saw me remove my

shemagh, his eyes lit with recognition. He struggled to

his feet and began crying. His face was bruised and bat-

tered, but otherwise he had all his appendages and could

still move.

I’d never seen a soldier, especially one from my own

unit, look as helpless and pathetic, and I suddenly didn’t

care what he said about me—politics and bullshit be

damned. We were going to get him out of there, out of

tunnels, out of that godforsaken country.

We’d brought about fifty feet of paracord in one of the

packs, but we didn’t need it. Hume rushed back to fetch

the ladder. The hole was about nine feet deep, the ladder

about seven feet long, so we’d get him out the easier way.

With Hume standing guard, Brown and I lowered our-

selves down the ladder, and I descended to the bottom

rung, just above the cesspool. I could barely look at War-

ris. “It’s all right, buddy. We’re getting you out of here.”

I removed his gag, and he swallowed and said, “Thank

you.” He began crying again. “I won’t forget this.”

CO MB AT O P S

287

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But Scott, I can’t lie about it . . . about what hap-

pened. I can’t live with myself if I do that . . .”

My tone hardened. “You know what I think? I think

that if I save your ass right now, and you still turn me in,

that’ll be harder to live with than just lying. And really,

all you have to do is keep your mouth shut. That’s it.

You think about that . . .”

He bit his lip, then suddenly nodded.

“Can you climb?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s move.”

They’d used a pair of our plastic zipper cuffs, and,

with a penlight in my mouth, I carefully sawed through

them. With that done, I started up the ladder, and he

ascended behind me. I ordered Hume to go fetch some

clothes from one of the guys we’d killed, along with an

extra shirt to use as rag. God, we needed to wipe him

off. He reeked. Hume hurried away, and once we pulled

Warris out, he backhanded the tears from his eyes and

said, “I’ve been down there most of the time. They

cleaned me up to make the videos. I’ve barely had any-

thing to eat or drink. I’m dying.”

“Easy, we’ll get you something,” whispered Brown.

“They got MREs down here.”

Within two minutes, Hume came dashing back with

the clothes and a concerned look. “I heard some crying

up there,” he began, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.

“You know what I’m thinking . . .”

“Give me that goddamned ladder,” I barked.

288 GH OS T RE CON

“Captain, do we really have time for this?” asked Brown.

“Indulge me for three minutes,” I said. “While you

clean him up and get him dressed.”

I dragged the ladder back up to the next hole in the

ceiling, ascended, and stepped into another chamber with

more boxes of MREs. A narrow tunnel led to a second,

even wider area where a few lanterns burned brightly.

My mouth must’ve fallen open.

Girls ranging in age from perhaps twelve or thirteen

up to seventeen or eighteen were dressed in tattered

clothes, bound and gagged, and sitting along the wall, a

few sleeping, others staring blankly at me, and a few

more crying through their gags.

At the far end of the room was a sleeping area piled

high with pillows and blankets, and I shuddered as I

imagined what went on there. Zahed would, of course,

deny any wrongdoing; he could blame it all on his men,

argue that in some respects he did not have control over

them. And, of course, he’d be lying. He allowed this to

go on, and in doing so, created a nightmare for the par-

ents of these poor girls.

I caught a blur of movement from the corner of my

eye, and then from a tunnel exit near the back came

another fighter. I raised my silenced pistol and put two

rounds in his heart. I wanted to put fifty.

I whirled back, lowered my shemagh, and in Pashto

said to the girls, “I will help you.”

One girl in particular fought more violently against

her binding and gag. As I crossed to her, she began to

look familiar, and then, with a start, I knew she was

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289

Shilmani’s daughter, Hila. I heard him screaming again,

“They took my daughter!”

They’d tied up the girls with cheap nylon rope and

gagged them with scarves. I untied Hila’s gag, and she

moved her mouth, licked her lips, and began to speak in

a rapid fire that I didn’t understand.

“It’s okay . . .” I said in a soothing tone.

She surprised me. “Thank you. I . . . what they did . . .

I cannot see my family again . . .”

“You speak English?”

“My father taught me.”

I grinned weakly in understanding. “Okay. That helps.

All I know is, we’re going to get you out of here. All of

you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell them for me?”

She nodded. I finished cutting her arms and legs free.

She stood and spoke rapidly to the girls, who all began

nodding. Brown came rushing into the chamber, took

one look at the girls, at me, and said, “Jesus Christ.”

“We’re getting them out.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“Aw, this has really gone to hell! We came here for

Zahed, and we’re going home with them!”

Hila turned back to face me. “You came here for

Zahed?”

I leaned over and nodded slowly.

She glanced away, a pained look coming over her face.

“He is very bad man.”

290 GH OS T RE CON

“Yes, he is.”

She pursed her lips, glanced back at the girls, as if

thinking it over, then said, “I know where he is . . .”

All the intelligence assets of the U.S. government had

been unable to locate the fat man, in part because the

intelligence they gathered was being corrupted by Bronco

and his associates. Nevertheless, I would never, for the life

of me, bet that the location of my target would be spoon-

fed to me by a teenaged girl who’d been taken prisoner.

When I reflect and calculate the odds of what had hap-

pened, how I’d met Shilmani, how Hila had come to rec-

ognize me, what had happened to her and how she’d come

to learn where Zahed was located, I could only blame fate.

Or the merciless universe.

Because if I hadn’t listened to her, if I’d just dragged

them out of the cave and gotten out of there, I would’ve

only had to deal with keeping Warris quiet—

And not the rest of it.

“Help me cut ’em free,” I told Brown. “Come on,

come on.”

The words escaped my lips, and not two seconds

later, the chamber quaked and dust fell from the ceiling.

“What the hell?” Brown gasped.

“Captain!” cried Hume. “I hear gunfire coming from

somewhere outside! And mortars!”

“We have to move now, Scott!” added Warris.

“We’re coming! We’ve got some girls up here. They’re

coming down. We’re getting them out!”

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291

As Brown freed the girls, Hila told them where to go,

and one by one they took off running.

“They made us drink wine,” she told me as I cut

another girl free. “They made us do things.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. I am filthy. I am not a woman any-

more. I am a dog.”

I looked at her, grabbed her hand. “You’re not a dog.”

“But I can never go home.”

She started removing the gags from the remaining

girls and reassuring them, while the guys kept scream-

ing for me to come. The final two girls dashed off.

“All right, get them and Warris out of here. Ramirez

and the rest of Bravo should be waiting for you,” I told

Brown.

“What about you?”

I lifted my chin to Hila. “She knows where Zahed is.”

“Boss, what if she’s wrong?”

I widened my gaze on Hila. “Are you sure?”

She gave an exaggerated nod. “I hate him. He was

the first one to have me. I know where he is.”

“Oh my God,” Brown muttered under his breath.

“I’m going with her.”

“Not alone,” said Brown. “You fight with your buddy.”

I shoved my silenced pistol into Hila’s hand. “That’s

right. She’s my buddy.”

She looked at me, scared, the weight of the pistol

causing her shoulder to droop.

“You’re crazy,” said Brown. “This is crazy!”

“Just listen to me, Marcus. I need you to protect

292 GH OS T RE CON

Warris. I need you to get him out. I’m worried about

Joey, you know that.”

“I know, boss. I won’t let Joey do anything stupid.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m betting Warris won’t talk.”

“Me, too. He owes us. Big-time.”

“All right, so when you get out, contact Gordon. Tell

them to track my chip. You’ll know where I am.”

“Will do.” He thrust out his hand. “See you soon,

you crazy mofo.”

I gave him a firm handshake. “Thank you, Marcus.”

Then I turned to Hila. “Which way?”

My father raised three sons and a daughter, and my sister

Jenn was unquestionably Daddy’s little girl. The old

man was a hardcore disciplinarian with us boys, but my

sister could get away with bloody murder. As a kid I

could never understand his leniency toward her and was

entirely jealous of it. As I got older, I didn’t begrudge

my sister anymore. In fact, it took my entire life for me

to realize that Dad was a cynic who simply needed my

sister to remind him of all the beauty still left in the

world.

I wondered if Shilmani had felt likewise about Hila.

As she led me through the next tunnel, I wondered if

he’d be able to look Hila in the eye after what had hap-

pened to her. I knew the culture. I knew what happened

to girls like her. But I didn’t want to believe that.

She held up my pistol, and I had my rifle at the ready

now, with the penlight attached. She led me down two

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293

more tunnels, and we descended yet another ladder into

a small room with crates piled to the ceiling.

“Guns,” was all she said.

“So you came through here?” I asked.

She frowned a moment, then realized what I was ask-

ing. “Yes, yes.”

“Zahed is here? In the mountain?”

She stopped and shook her head.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then where is he?”

“He is in Sangsar.”

My mouth fell open. “Aw, no. That’s no good. What

do you think we’re going to do? Walk right down this

mountain and into the village?”

I guess I had spoken too fast. She frowned in thought,

then finally said, “No, no. We don’t walk. We’ll run.”

She tugged my arm, but I stopped dead.

“We can’t go to Sangsar.”

“Yes, we’ll go!”

“How?”

She made a gesture with her hand. “Under . . .”

“You mean there’s a tunnel that leads all the way

there?”

She beamed at me.

While I was heading off to Sangsar, Brown, Hume, and

Warris, along with the group of girls, were rushing back

through the tunnels, following the beacons we’d left.

294 GH OS T RE CON

The guys were not happy with my decision to free the

girls and attempt to save them, but they obeyed orders

and later told me they would’ve done the same thing. It

was sickening to realize what’d been happening in there.

Warris had told them that my decision to search for

Zahed alone was foolish and indicative of my poor judg-

ment. Brown had told him that saving his sorry ass was

also indicative of my poor judgment. I liked that.

As Hila and I kept moving, I reminded myself that

no, you could not generalize and say that all Taliban

liked to rape young girls, but we could definitively state

that Zahed’s men had taken it upon themselves to estab-

lish a terrible prison for them. The acts were inexcusable

and when I looked at Hila, even for just a second, I

wanted to kill Zahed more than anything. He was, in

my mind, the symbol for all that was wrong with the

country, all that was wrong with the war. And my hatred

burned hotter as she dragged me by the wrist and led me

down the next tunnel.

The emotions were all over the place at that moment.

I felt as though I’d been chasing the fat man all my life,

and soon there’d finally be closure, but then I worried

for Hila and imagined my own death, the gunshot to my

heart, the throbbing pain, the blood seeping into my

lungs.

The passageways grew shorter, each ending abruptly

with another ladder that we took down, always down,

and it was clear we were descending the mountain from

the inside. A lantern lit the passage at each ladder, and

we encountered no resistance. I grew more at ease—

CO MB AT O P S

295

Until at the end of the next passage we spotted a man

coming up a ladder.

Hila fired at him first, the kickback of the pistol star-

tling her. She hit him in the shoulder with the first

round, but the second went over his head and ricocheted

off the wall.

I put two rounds in his chest, and he fell backward

off the ladder. I ran over there, checked below. No other

movement. Thankfully, he’d been alone.

It wasn’t until I started back that I felt the pain in my

arm and stopped, directed a second light down, and saw

that I’d been hit, probably from that ricocheting round.

She saw it, too, and started crying and pointing to

herself, as if to say, It’s my fault.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Just caught me a little. See? In

and out?”

I reached into my back pocket, where I kept a small

plastic bag filled with antiseptic wipes and bandages. I

handed the kit to her. “Fix me up. Quick,” I said.

She nodded and got to work, applying the antiseptic

and the bandage. The wound looked worse than it was, but

it still hurt like a mother. When she was finished, I thanked

her and she grabbed me by the other arm. “This way.”

We climbed down the next ladder and found our-

selves in a concrete drainage pipe that left me hunched

over. The pipe ran straight away for as far as I could see,

and I guessed that it led all the way under the village

wall and into Sangsar proper. I still couldn’t receive any

satellite signals on the Cross-Com, so I just took it off

and shoved it in my hip pocket.

296 GH OS T RE CON

The pipe was littered with rocks and lined with a fine

layer of sand, but there was certainly no water, so although

I’d described it as a drainage pipe, its primary use was

clear: smuggling. There were both boot and tire tracks in

the sand. They’d brought wheelbarrows into the pipe or

other wheeled carts to move their opium back and forth.

I had to get word of this passage back to higher, in

the event I didn’t make it back. I’d thought bombing

the tunnels we’d found would help stop the attacks on

Senjaray, but we’d barely put a dent in Zahed’s clandes-

tine highway. But this pipe, this could be the main

artery, I thought.

We were losing our breath, and as we picked up the

pace and continued on for meter after meter, I repeat-

edly glanced over my shoulder to watch the light drift

away and the darkness consume the rest of the shaft.

“Are we getting closer?” I asked her.

She looked at me. “Close?”

“Zahed is here?” I asked.

“Soon,” she said.

T WENTY-EIGHT

While we had been considering a major offensive against

the Taliban, they had, unsurprisingly, been thinking

about the same thing. And unbeknownst to us, they had

planned to launch their attack only a few hours after I’d

taken my team into the mountains. Call that ironic and

interesting timing.

What gave them pause, however, was our placement

of the Bradleys in the defile and the firing of that flare.

My simple diversion had changed the enemy’s entire

battle plan. We later learned that they thought we’d

been tipped off, and that had sent Zahed into a state of

panic. From what we could gather, he launched a half-

hearted offensive, committing only about half of his

298 GH OS T RE CON

troops to the fight, while pulling the rest back to Sang-

sar to help ensure his escape.

But I was unaware of those facts as Hila took me

through the concrete pipe. Had I known that Sangsar

would be swarming with at least two, maybe three hun-

dred of Zahed’s best trained fighters, I might’ve given

the decision more thought.

But I was blithely unaware.

And Hila had assured me that the fat man kept only

two or three guards around him at all times.

Not three hundred.

Far ahead, my light finally picked out the edge of the

pipe, which led directly into another tunnel, one only

about three meters long.

The air was filled by other scents I couldn’t quite dis-

cern: incense, cooked meat, burning candles, some-

thing. And then I paused, glanced back at Hila. “Here?”

She raised an index finger, and her gaze turned up.

I nodded. The concrete pipe had led to a tunnel that

I believed emptied into a basement.

With a gesture for her to remain behind me, I shifted

farther into the tunnel, reached the edge, then hunkered

down and slowly lifted my penlight.

“Whoa . . .” The word escaped my lips before I could

stop it.

We were in a basement all right, a huge one. Fifteen-

foot-high concrete walls rose around the perimeter, and I

estimated the depth at more than one hundred feet. The

place had been converted into a subterranean warehouse,

CO MB AT O P S

299

with long rows of opium bricks, crates of ammunition

and guns, and more MREs, along with dozens and

dozens of wooden boxes whose contents were a mystery.

I shifted to one box and opened it to find a bag

labeled in English: ammonium nitrate fertilizer. I

snorted. Fertilizer for making bombs.

At the back of the basement rose a wooden staircase

leading up to a door half open, flickering light wedging

through the crack. When I looked back, Hila was right

behind me. She hadn’t held back like I’d asked.

I glanced up at the wooden planks and ceiling, listened

as people shifted and creaked overhead. Hila’s breathing

grew louder. I leaned down, grabbed her wrist, and led

her along a row of opium bricks, then crouched down at

the back.

“Zahed is up there?”

She nodded.

I thought of the Predator, of somehow getting a signal

off to that controller, getting him to bomb the whole place

while we escaped back through the drainage pipe. Simple.

Clean. The only problem was I couldn’t confirm that the

fat man was up there. I wanted to see him for myself.

“Is it a house up there?”

“Yes. He stays in a big room.”

“All right.” I didn’t think I could get more out of her,

and she wanted to come with me.

“No,” I told her. “You stay here, be quiet, and wait

for me . . . okay?”

She looked about to cry.

300 GH OS T RE CON

“Please . . .”

“Okay.”

As I stole away, shifting quickly from row to row of

crates and opium bricks, I asked myself, What the hell am

I doing?

The door at the top of the staircase creaked open, and

two Taliban fighters came charging down the stairs with a

purpose. I tucked myself deeper into the crates and just

watched them jog through the basement and head straight

into the tunnel. I looked far down the row at Hila, hidden

between two crates now. She’d heard them but she didn’t

move. Perfect. That kid had a lot of courage, all right.

I gave myself a once-over and tightened the shemagh

around my face. I was about to step forward and mount

the staircase when I thought better of it and shifted back

to my spot. I was panting. What the hell had just hap-

pened? Had I just chickened out? I wasn’t sure. I dug

into my pocket, ripped down the shemaghagain, then

donned the Cross-Com and gave the verbal command

to activate the device.

The monocle flickered, came to life, but the HUD

showed no satellite signal. I was still too deep. I removed

and pocketed the unit, then took several long breaths. I

checked my magazine, my second pistol with silencer,

was ready to rip open my shirt to expose the web gear

beneath and the half dozen grenades I carried.

Once more, the door above opened, and three more

Taliban fighters came running down and dashed across

the basement, on their way toward the tunnel.

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301

I kept telling myself that if I waited any longer, the fat

man would be gone. Either he was up there right now

packing his bags, or maybe it was all for naught. Maybe

he’d already left.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

My arm was stinging again as I hustled up the stairs—

a reminder that getting killed was going to hurt. Oh,

yeah. I shivered and passed through the door.

A long hallway stretched out in both directions. A liv-

ing room lay to the left, with tables, chairs, even a very

Western-looking leather sofa and flat-screen TV mounted

to the wall, all very posh despite the mud-brick walls.

Candles burning from wall sconces lit the pathway to my

right, where a large kitchen with bar and stools, again

very Western, was set up beside another eating area.

Someone shouted behind me. I turned to him, a guy

about my age with a salt-and-pepper beard.

He asked me something, then asked me again.

I shook my head. He shoved me out of the way and

jogged down the hall. I ran after him. “Wait!” I cried in

Pashto. “I need to see Zahed!”

But he kept running. I slowed, reached the edge of

the kitchen as something or someone moved behind me.

I whirled.

Hila stood there, pistol in one hand.

“I told you to stay down there!” I cried through a

whisper.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see Zahed! I know

where!”

302 GH OS T RE CON

She grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the hall-

way ahead.

I grabbed her by the mouth, pulled her into the

kitchen, then ducked down beneath the bar and stools. I

rolled her over, my hand still wrapped around her mouth,

and said, “If they see you, they’ll kill you.”

She didn’t move.

I slowly removed my hand.

“You have to go back,” I told her, pointing down

toward the basement.

She shook her head.

I gestured to my eyes. “If they see you, they will kill

you.”

“I know what you said. I don’t care. I am dead already.

To my family. To everyone who knows me. Let me help

you. Let me get revenge against Zahed.”

The decision pained me. If I dragged her along, the

second we were spotted we’d be accosted, maybe even

shot. I could concoct some story, but I didn’t like that. I

didn’t want her around. I couldn’t bear to see her get

killed, not after what had already happened to her.

I told myself that if I could save her, maybe it all

meant something. Maybe I wasn’t just a puppet whose

strings were being pulled by asinine politicians.

But she could save me time, get me to Zahed more

quickly. I would have to comb through the entire house.

She seemed to know exactly where he’d be.

She made the decision for me. I released my grip on

her at the sound of approaching men, and she bolted

around the bar before I could grab her.

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The men passed, heading toward the basement door,

and she ran out into the hall, waving to me.

So it was the middle of the night in a small town deep in

the desert of southern Afghanistan, and I was chasing a

teenaged girl carrying a pistol through a terrorist’s

house. If I started a conversation like that, would you

believe me? I wouldn’t believe me.

Hila ran all the way down the hall, made an abrupt

right-hand turn, and when I followed, I found her stopped

dead, raising her pistol at another man coming toward us.

She shot him right in the heart. As he fell, she ran past

him, down another hall with doors lining both sides. I

was indeed crazy. I’d turned the girl into a cold-blooded

killer; then again, maybe Zahed was responsible for that.

As we ran I couldn’t help but realize this wasn’t a

house but a mansion, perhaps the biggest place in the

entire town, although you wouldn’t know it when look-

ing on Sangsar from above. The buildings were so closely

situated that it was hard to tell where one ended and the

other began. The doors here were ornate as well, heavy

oak, deeply carved. The fat man had spared no expense.

Hila reached a door at the end, pushed through it,

and ran inside.

I called after her, reached the doorway, turned into

the room, and found her at the far end, running toward

a window, a real window, which was rare to find.

We were in a massive bedroom with a four-poster

bed, heavy furniture, and yet another flat-screen TV.

304 GH OS T RE CON

It was like a room in a five-star hotel that had been built

in a neighborhood of utter squalor. Very surreal. I’m sure

parts of the village didn’t have electricity, but Zahed

sure did; either that or he ran his TV off a generator.

I rushed to the window to find Hila pointing. “There!”

she cried. “There!”

Across a long, tree-lined courtyard, past fig trees and

a wall covered in rose bushes, were the silhouettes of

three men standing near a wrought-iron gate.

One of them had to be the fat man. He was tall, six feet

five at least, and huge, more than four hundred pounds, I

guessed.

Stacks of luggage were lined on the walkway beside

them. They were waiting to be picked up.

Damn it. I tried the window. Locked. I couldn’t find

a way to open it! I turned back—

And when I did, a man was standing in the door with

his AK pointed at us. “What’re you doing?” he asked in

Pashto.

I shifted in front of Hila but didn’t raise my rifle.

“The infidels come from the basement,” I tried to say.

The man took a step forward and frowned. Aw, no. I

must’ve made a mistake. Maybe I’d told him his mother

was a whore, I wasn’t sure.

Before I could react, another man jogged up beside

the first and began screaming and tugging at his buddy.

I stole a look out the window.

A car had rolled up outside.

The first guy shouted at me again. I threw myself to

one side, raised my rifle, and fired a salvo into him and

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305

his buddy, no silencer, just me and the AK dishing out

lead loud and clear. Both went down, but the first guy

had started firing—

And Hila let out a scream.

As both men fell, I clambered up, shouldered my

rifle, and rushed to Hila, who’d fallen onto her back and

was clutching her side. I immediately pulled away her

shirt and saw that a round had pierced the right side of

her abdomen, no exit wound.

I chanced another look out the window. The wrought-

iron gate was open. The three men were fighting over

something, their voices raised as they rushed to get in

the car while two others hurried to load the luggage.

“This hurts,” said Hila. “Please. Can you help?”

“It’s not that bad. You’ll be okay.”

She clutched my hand. “Please. I need help.”

“But I need to go,” I told her. “He’s outside. He’s

going to get away . . .”

She grabbed my hand even tighter as tears welled in

her eyes.

T WENTY-NINE

I’d thought Hila would beg me to stay with her, but she

narrowed her gaze and said, “Okay. Get him. Then come

back to help me.”

“I will.”

“Okay.”

I understood now. She had wanted to die, but ironi-

cally the gunshot now gave her the will to live. I dragged

her behind the bed, out of view from the doorway, and

then I grabbed the pistol I’d given her, tucked it into my

waistband, and bolted to my feet. I seized a pillow from

the four-poster bed, then braced the pillow in front of

my face. With a running start, I launched into the air and

let out a string of curses as I crashed through the win-

dow and landed in a shower of glass on the dirt below.

CO MB AT O P S

307

The three figures ran toward the car now, a black

Mercedes, probably fitted with bulletproof glass. I came

rolling up with the pistol in my hand and shot the two

guys loading luggage.

The driver opened his door and raised a pistol. I shot

him, and then, as I sprinted toward the gate, I got my

first clear look at the men:

Bronco.

His Asian buddy “Mike.”

And the fat man himself, decked out in silk robes and

clean turban and with a beard that splayed across his

chest. He wore big gold and diamond rings, and when

he faced me, he frowned for a second as both Bronco

and Mike reached down to draw weapons.

“Unh-uh,” I said, tugging down my shemagh.

“Aw, Joe, I can’t believe you’re this stupid,” said Bronco,

slowly raising his palms now. “Didn’t you get your new

OPORDER? We got you pulled off this job. Finally . . .”

“You’re bluffing. I got nothing.”

Zahed eyes narrowed in fury, and he turned to

Bronco and began screaming. I didn’t catch very much,

but he’d said something about Bronco being the fool.

All three of them backed toward the car.

“Don’t move,” I warned them.

“We have to leave,” said Mike. “You have no idea

how important this is or the extent of this operation.”

I craned my head at the sound of multiple helicopter

engines echoing off the mountains. We couldn’t see them

yet, but they were coming . . . and more gunfire echoed

from the hills. Harruck had committed some forces all

308 GH OS T RE CON

right, and I wondered if the Predator controller had

finally been granted permission to unleash his bombs.

“Tell Zahed I’m taking him into custody,” I told

Bronco.

The old spook shook his head. “Joe, you’re wasting

your time. If you take him in, I’ll get him released—all

because your people haven’t even contacted you yet.

What a joke.”

I raised my pistol even higher and began to lose my

breath. Bronco was right. It wasall just a game. I could

bring in Zahed, and yes, they probably would get him

released. Nothing would change.

The satellite phone tucked into my back pocket began

to ring.

“So I guess you know the rest,” I tell Blaisdell, as she

scrutinizes me with those lawyer eyes flashing above the

rim of her glasses.

She glances down at my report. “Yes, it’s all here.” She

sighs. “I don’t want you to have any unreasonable hope.

You admitted what you did right here. In addition to the

obvious charge, they’re going for dereliction of duty . . .

failure to keep yourself fully apprised of a fluid tactical

situation . . . conduct unbecoming an officer.”

“What was I supposed to do? Lie? I’ve done enough