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CHAPTER 9



The next morning, Bait and Qalzai knocked on their door early, excited. Soon, the entire clan was gathered around. Nasima arrived at a run, in a long skirt and sweater in dark brown. Practical for the terrain. “They say we are ready,” she said. “We head northeast again, very close to the border, and into lower hills. The man we seek is in a village there.”

“Sounds good,” Kyle said. “Wade, call and tell them.”

“Right,” Wade nodded. He dialed a number and reported in, location, destination, current conditions.

They loaded up the truck again, and rolled out. They did, in fact, look like yokels, even in this small town. It was obvious to all that they were poor farm folk on some kind of errand. Good, Kyle thought. Better to be thought hicks than killers. There’d been a lot of creepy and scary happenings so far, but no real pucker factor.

He hoped it stayed that way.

The ride took all that day. On the plus side, they’d bought a cooler in town, and filled it with fresh food, including apples, bananas—imported at some expense—and sandwiches rolled in the local bread. Everyone was much happier, and grinned at their guests as crumbs fell from their beards.

“They say you can join their missions anytime,” Nasima said, “if you arrange the hotels and food.”

“Tell them they’re welcome, and we’re glad to be able to do them a small favor for all the help they’re giving us,” he said.

After the meal, they resumed the aching, bouncing ride. It was near dark when they stopped and pulled behind some concealing scrub. At once, the men emptied out the cab and laid cloths over the windows.

“I will sleep here,” Nasima said. “They’re being polite.”

“No problem,” Kyle agreed. It did make sense socially. He just hoped they didn’t need to leave in a hurry, with gear left piled in the bed to fall out. “Can you ask Qalzai for a mission update?”

“Yes,” she said, and turned and chattered. Qalzai deferred to Bait, who seemed to leer. He had odd expressions, sneers, snarls, and leers, that didn’t match his pleasant demeanor. Or pleasant enough to the Americans. Nasima apparently wasn’t finding him so. But she turned back and said, “We’re in the area. We will look for him tomorrow,” she said.

“Got it, and thanks. Wade, call up and update them. We’ll let them know after we get the kill.”

“On it,” Wade said, whipping out the phone. He was through and back off in moments.

As they prepared a sleeping area, the air chilling quickly in the dark, Wade asked, “What I want to know is why they need us? They’re brave enough, have the weapons and intel. Why can’t they wax this jerk? ”

“I dunno,” Kyle replied, pondering. “Maybe Uncle Sam wants the credit. Maybe they’re afraid of some feud. Or maybe they can’t get close enough for a good shot. It is unusual, though.”

“‘Ours not to reason why’,” Wade said. “Right. Time to sleep.”

They were up before dawn, and patrolling on foot. Tired from little sleep, weighted under their rucks, the two men cursed silently as they followed the locals into the “lower” hills. Kyle and Wade were trained and experienced, but these people moved like mountain goats. In short order, they were wheezing and huffing.

“I’m going to cheat,” Kyle said to Wade. Turning to Nasima, he said, “Call a break. We need to report in.”

Everyone squatted down to wait, while Wade took his own sweet time about making the call, and reported to the JSTARS on station that they were commencing their recon of the target. After that, he faked it for a few moments, asking about Yankee scores to a dead phone. Nasima grinned but didn’t say anything, and after catching their breath, they stood to continue.

Their breath steamed out in front, as if puffed from locomotives. It was dark, in the forties, and while they had lots of experience hiking, it was harder in local garb over terrain that was so unfamiliar.

They broke at sunrise, and brewed tea over a small British trioxane stove that might have been fifty years old. Kyle and Wade were glad of it, and wrapped their hands around their canteen cups. It was tasty tea, with sugar and some undefined spice. Cardamom, perhaps. Qalandar was a gourmet. It refreshed and revived them, and a few nibbles of sweetened bread helped immensely.

Then they were back to it, as the sun bled over the hills and dripped down on them. Ghostly wisps of mist arose from the dew, and burned off as the temperature rose.

Bait led out in front, looking for signs of patrols and other threats. Qalzai brought up the rear. Nasima and the snipers were safely ensconced in the middle, which did relieve some of the worries, of loose rocks, discovery, and other threats.

They scrambled up and down slopes, across old, wind-weathered sheets of rock, and past jutting shards. As the sun rose, it became warm enough for them to unbutton their coats. Then it got warm and sweaty. The wool and cotton breathed, but still insulated. That was fine when it was near freezing, but not above fifty degrees while exercising hard.

Straps cut into their shoulders, adding aches to the mix. The rigs were comfortable certainly, but seventy pounds plus each was a staggering load. They were glad to have left the extraneous gear at the truck.

“Doing okay, buddy?” Kyle asked between breaths.

“Passable. You?” Wade replied.

“Yeah.” It was all the reply Kyle could manage.

They ate dried goat en route, and Kyle passed around the last three MREs. He still wasn’t keen about sharing germs with this crowd—they all dug their spoons into the same package—as none of them had bathed recently, and didn’t seem worried about it in general. But they were all in the same unit, so it was good for morale. The dried fruit and gorilla cookies went over well, and the coffee was shared at lunch. They were all hunkered in a small ravine against discovery. Though if they were sighted, it was crap for a defensive position. Bait walked off during lunch, waving as he did so. They finished without him, and the men lit cigarettes.

Bait returned within the hour and conferred with Qalzai. Nasima translated from Qalzai, “The man we want is in this camp. We’ll have to wait for a good time to get a shot.”

“Excellent,” Kyle said, a feeling in his stomach like that of a giant rat scrabbling. This was what they’d come for. So why did it seem so problematic?

Probably because there hadn’t been any problems.

It still could be a setup, to embarrass America, or to put them in a bad political position. Kyle realized he should have asked more questions Stateside—how had this mission come about, and who had set it up?

“He says he’ll take you up there in time for the shot,” Nasima said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Tell him I need to reconnoiter the area first, so we know what our escape routes look like.”

They argued over a plan. Kyle found it annoying. While these men were more local to the area than he, he was the professional. They didn’t seem to grasp that a good escape was dependent upon knowing the local map, surface, and features. They actively fought against preparation, saying they were worried about discovery. Kyle told them that was the point of having Wade and him along; concealment was what they did. It took nearly an hour to get the point across. Apparently, the local method of fighting was to take cover, throw as much lead as possible until one side or the other quit, and leave. Their bravery and dedication were excellent. They weren’t strong on tactics or discipline.

Luckily it was a warm day, over sixty degrees. Considering the altitude of nearly a half mile, and the fall season, it was a blessing. Of course, it was also of use to their target. Kyle preferred cold, wet weather, mist, and calm air. But you worked with what you had.

While the debate took place, Wade slipped off to make a map anyway. Khushal went with him, grinning. Kyle saw it from the corner of his eye, and smiled inwardly. The man was a pro who needed only a hint. It was a pleasure to work with him.

But Kyle also needed that information himself, first hand. Finally, he got them to agree that they had to do it his way. He opened the case and assembled the Barrett while he spoke, hoping the sight of the massive rifle would encourage them.

Nasima argued his point while he turned to Wade and discussed their observations. They picked three routes down the mountain they felt they could handle. “We’ll each take a different one up,” Wade said. “You on one, me on another, Qalzai on a third. According to the map,” he shuffled through the sheaf of them until he found the one they wanted, “there’s a saddle right about there,” he pointed up the slope, “that should give us a good position.”

Grumbling, they split into three pairs, Kyle and Khushal, Wade and Mirza, Qalzai and Bait. Qalzai could read well enough to follow a map, and had a watch. They each tightened gear, dumped excess equipment, and prepared to ascend the rough slope, Kyle lugging the long mass of the Barrett in its tough bag. Nasima returned to the truck with the rest.

Kyle contented himself during the rough scramble with the thought that the mission was about to reach completion. Shortly, they’d be overlooking a camp and Kyle would take his shot. They’d extract quickly from a good range, find a place to recross the border, or call a chopper and be done with it.

The mission couldn’t be this easy, he thought. On second thought, the terrain was anything but easy. They constantly slipped on dust-covered shelves. They were sweating and panting. It was dry, and the sun cooked moisture out of them as sweat and the wind sucked it off their skin. It kept them cool now that they’d removed their coats, but greased them with dust and parched their throats.

He was having second thoughts the whole way. Good thoughts, then bad. He took several slow, measured breaths to refresh himself. This was a bitch of a climb.

A big part of it was the scrubby terrain. Almost any other terrain like it would have tree roots and such he could grip. Here, it was scrub with very shallow, thready roots, and rock. He was glad they’d split up, and he hoped the others had an easier time. They’d need a fast descent against incoming fire.

When he finally reached the saddle and peeked over, he could see Wade already there. Or rather, he couldn’t. Wade was a shapeless lump of dun and dusty burlap in his ghillie suit. Kyle crawled out farther and saw Qalzai’s element, too. He was last. That was fine, that meant the other routes were easier. He started dragging his own camouflage out.

Wade said, “We’ll take my route down. Easy descent with a gully and lots of grip.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kyle said, panting. He sucked down some more water.

“No problem. And I found a spot to shoot.”

“Even better,” Kyle agreed. “Show me.”

Wade had found a fine location. It was just below the military crest, in a dip between two rocks, and had a panoramic view out across the plain. The sun was to their left, so there’d be no reflection off a scope. All in all, it looked good.

And two thousand meters away, in a long, lazy arc, was the camp they sought. It had several sectional huts, two tents, mules for hauling up the mountains, and some motorcycles. He saw a couple of technical vehicles. There were a lot of hostiles there, too. At least twenty were in view, plus others behind concealment or inside.

“That is a long-ass shot,” Kyle commented. At that range, he’d be shooting a two-meter circle. Getting the human body in that two-meter circle was going to take several quick, precise shots and some luck. Otherwise, they’d have to extract and do it again.

“That’s why we brought that, in lieu of an airstrike,” Wade said. “Are you up to it?”

“I think so,” he said, squinting and taking in the whole scene. “Good weapon, good rest, plenty of time. But we’ve got to get him to hold still long enough, or in a vehicle I can nail. Can we get closer?”

Wade said, “They say he’s here for a few hours only. We have to go down into that valley and up to get closer.”

He asked, “Is there another time on the schedule?”

“This is the only one confirmed.”

“Right, that pretty much sets it.” You took the shots you had, but this was really subpar. He wondered if the missions into Cambodia during the Vietnam War were like this. “So let’s set up our exfiltration.”

The two looked back along Wade’s route. Wade pointed. “If we’re going down there, we’ve got good cover. But we’ll need supporting fire in case of disasters.”

“I see a spot,” Kyle said.

Qalzai was quietly jabbering away. Wade shook his head, “I don’t think he understands the concept still.”

Growling in frustration, though under his breath so their host wouldn’t be offended, Kyle turned with what he hoped was an eager look on his face.

“We aren’t just going to blaze away,” he told Qalzai. “Delta intazar?” he said, trying to say “wait.” “Ghuarum arama loya tiga.” That was as close as he could get. I’m looking for a quiet rock.

As they started reconnoitering the area, Qalzai seemed to understand. He pointed out several well-hidden areas. Though that wasn’t quite what the two snipers wanted. Qalzai looked confused as they seemed to retreat slightly from the area, along the route they’d be departing.

“There,” Wade said. “Easy to reach and solid cover.”

“Good,” Kyle said. “And we can keep it under fire from there.”

“Right. Now to explain to our host. Any ideas?”

“I think so,” Kyle said, looking at his annotated phrasebook. He turned to Qalzai and indicated several areas in turn. “Yau negdey loya tiga. Yau porta korner. Dua pe manz ke.” One at the rock, one above the bend, and two inside the cut in the cliff. It was amazing, he reflected, how much one could convey with fewer than fifty words.

He couldn’t remember the phrase he wanted, and the closest in the ratty, dog-eared phrase book in his pocket was, “Lutfan lag saber waka.” Please wait a while. We need to be patient.

Qalzai seemed to be with the program now, and indicated the lower positions to the three men. He would take the nearest. Bait was apparently unhappy at being at the bottom. He wanted to see.

Sighing, Kyle relented. “I think he’s got some kind of grudge,” he said to Wade.

“Seems like.”

They snuggled close to the rocks and looked through binoculars and scopes. Bait had an old Russian pair that had seen better days, but whose optics were still good, even with a scratch or two. Kyle used the Schmidt binoculars, Wade had the spotting scope.

They waited in the sun for six hours, watching and learning. Kyle and Wade switched off on the scope to gather intel. They kept a log of comings and goings and drew a map. They estimated weather and atmospheric pressure, calculated what trajectory the bullet would describe, and what the sight picture should look like.

The camp was all men, so it was a militia operation. The shacks were arranged in a box around a central area. That central area had a review stand. All the men were armed with AKs, and there were a few RPK machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades, and a mortar in evidence. Wade thought he saw what might be a recoilless rifle stashed under an awning. The primary vehicles were pickups, four-wheel drive, and two of them mounted machine guns, Russian 12.7mm heavies. The men moved around in such a way as to suggest they planned to move within the day. There was no immediate activity, but the vehicles were being checked, and some packing was taking place.

“So we wait more,” Kyle said. “If they plan to move, they’ll rally around the vehicles at some point. And if he sits and has to wait for a driver, even better.” That would be an ideal shot, in fact.

Or what was happening now. The men pulled the trucks back from the cleared area, and gathered on foot. That left one truck with a clear bed. They formed a rough semicircle around it, and one man climbed up to stand erect and address them.

“That’s him, he says,” Wade confirmed.

“The tall guy in the blue turban with the brown coat?” Kyle asked. He wanted to be sure. The man didn’t look a lot like the photos he’d been shown, but at this range, clothes and a beard change could easily mask features. He was clear enough in the scope, just small and distant.

There was another exchange and Kyle heard, “Yes, man, shoot,” among it.

“Dammit, are we really sure?” he asked. He didn’t like this at all. Something seemed wrong. He kept his eye to his scope and his stance easy and ready to shoot. If this was the wrong guy, they’d have a fight for nothing, possibly screw things up worse than they already were. If it was the right guy and he didn’t shoot, they might not get another.

“Yes, do it,” Wade said. “They’re sure that’s him and I showed them through the scope.”

“Okay,” Kyle said. He sighed, got as comfortable as he could, and zoned into his shooting trance. You had to trust the other guys to know their job, even if you thought they were idiots. If for no other reason than you couldn’t do their job for them. And Wade was not an idiot. He steadied down, aligned the reticle and calculated lead by eye. Breathe . . . squeeze . . . Blam!

Flight time was over a second, sound would take three seconds. There was time to take several shots, and Kyle did. In an instant, he had the reticle aligned again and shot dead center of mass on his target, then again, align and shoot, then three more rounds through the space filled by his body just to make sure. As he squeezed that last one, the first round hit.

Even at that range, the .50 packed more punch than most cartridges intended for cape buffalo or elephant. On a human figure it was overkill. The second round that hit the torso and the one that caught a waving wrist were redundant. He was blown into three pieces, all hanging together by bits of flesh, and collapsed in a gory heap.

His followers, troops, cheerleaders, whatever the hell they were, wasted no time in reacting.

They scattered, ducked, and began spraying with their AKs in seconds. One of them ran over, took a look at the shattered body, and squinted uphill. He yelled something indiscernible, but it was clearly something about large-caliber weapon and the ridge. “Right, let’s move!” Kyle said. He’d seen enough. Kill was good, reaction was fast. It was time to leave posthaste.

The Barrett was a bitch to lug. Kyle took it, banging his knee hard as he hefted it and singeing hair off the back of his hand. He stuffed it into the long drag case, not worrying about any possible heat damage. Wade grabbed the scope. As they passed Qalzai, and Bait, the two fell in behind them. They passed Khushal and Mirza, who brought up the rear.

The locals were in hot pursuit, though. While they were well out of range still, that didn’t stop fire from the Russian machine guns from ricocheting past them. Then someone opened up with one of the recoilless rifles. It was loud, potent, and blew chips from the hill.

Luckily, they were heading down fast, and the fire was well above them. But if anyone made it through a cut up the ridge, they’d have superior position to shoot down at them. Kyle felt an itch between his shoulders that he knew was psychosomatic. He was scared even if he didn’t want to admit it aloud. Inside, however, he knew he was terrified. Bosnia all over again. The itch became a tickle, then an empty, exposed feeling all over. He slipped and the rifle landed atop him, knocking his breath out. He swore, stood carefully, despite a burning sensation in his thigh from sliding in gravel, and continued, breathing deeply and deliberately to avoid doing it from panic.

The run downhill was a roller-coaster ride without the roller coaster. As they hit the cut that would take them down, a mortar shell exploded behind them. The explosion rocked them with a BANG! and threw rock around, the shockwave tugging at their breath.

Kyle swore as a rain of stinging pebbles came down, accompanied by a cloud of dust. The rifle was long and clunky and didn’t fit well between the walls of the crevice they were descending. It was straight, but straight is a relative term when speaking of fissures in cliffs.

But. he made it. They skidded and skittered over the sandy surface, suffering contusions and abrasions. Kyle skinned a knuckle and swore, banged his head and swore again. Then they were on a spreading slope and running fast, digging their feet in as brakes.

It would have been good, Kyle thought, to have had vehicles closer. But this would have to do. It was to be a high-speed sneak and exfiltrate across rough terrain.

The fire stopped for the time being, but would resume as soon as their pursuers hit the high ground. It would be wise to use that time to get away. Not hidden; knowing they were there would cause a search that would lead to discovery. This wasn’t a fight they could win standing up, it was a fight to run from. They’d already made their kill.

For ten minutes, they scrabbled across the ground in the failing light. Dark would be good, though they couldn’t assume the enemy didn’t have night vision as well. Heedless of throats chilled by drafts of air, burning lungs, and aching guts, they pushed on. Any distance now was a good thing; there was little cover and no support to rally.

Then the enemy cleared the ridge and were shooting at them.

The fire was grossly inaccurate, but there was a sufficient volume of it. While beyond effective range, it was shot from a clear, elevated position. Kyle had thought himself worn out and unable to go faster, but suddenly found a burst of energy he hadn’t expected. Incoming fire does that to a person, he thought, as a round cracked off a rock ten meters away. He was glad at that moment that Nasima wasn’t along. Small and untrained, she’d be a liability and none too safe. He wondered why he was thinking about that now, as he grasped another ledge and swung over and generally down. He was still half exposed, but it would help.

He saw movement, realized they were bunching up and making an inviting target for an area effect weapon. He was about to say so when Wade shouted, “Shindel!”, scatter, which was not in the phrase book, but had been on the CD-ROM of useful military phrases. Glancing around, the others fanned out and staggered their line.

Ahead, they could see the sharp bluff that led back to the road. They were safe, as long as they could make it there. Again urging speed into his burning thighs, Kyle swallowed between breaths, the spit cold and hard in his throat after the extreme effort.

They took the ledge far too fast. Wade was just ahead of him and slipped, grazing an elbow and abrading through his shirt. Blood seeped through whitened, raw skin, but he cursed a single word and kept on. Kyle slowed for that spot, and avoided injury with the exception of a toe jammed inside his boot. It was uncomfortable, but not really painful, especially in light of the dings to knuckles and knees, the strained shoulders and rasping throat he already had.

Shortly, they were tumbling to the ground, leaping into the back of the trucks, and Qalzai and Khushal were gassing the engines. They took off amidst roostertails of dust, heedless of the obvious sign they were leaving. Kyle yelled, “Wro wro!”, slow, and they did, but the panic had done its damage. It would be obvious where they’d started from.

The only thing to do now was to get onto a road and drive fast, far, and out of range. Then they could call in for extraction.

They were done.

“How was the shoot?” Kyle asked. He knew, but wanted another opinion.

“Clean, fast, and solid,” Wade said. “A bit high, likely due to the reduced atmospheric pressure at this altitude.”

“Yeah, I thought about dropping the aim a minute or so.”

“It was fine. Clean kill. So scratch one asshole and let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. Over. Done. No one hurt. Yet.

Despite the immediate fire, there was little pursuit. They drove insanely for fifteen minutes, but there was no visible threat after that.

“We should go as far as we can before stopping,” Kyle said. “Tell them, Nasima.” He was again glad she’d stayed behind, because he knew he would have worried about her.

“Okay,” she said, and relayed the message. Qalzai agreed, and they drove, while Mirza capped off a few bursts at their long out of sight pursuers. Or maybe he was doing it in defiance, like ceremonial fireworks.

After another ten minutes, Wade said, “Relax, Kyle.”

“Huh? Oh,” he said, realizing he was still white-knuckling the cab and holding his breath. He let out a sigh. “We got away with it.”

“Yeah, done,” Wade said. He seemed elated, but was as ragged as Kyle. They swapped glances, and began sorting gear and packing their camouflage away.


They stopped for the night in yet another small farm that was linked by blood somehow to Qalzai’s family. This one had an outer wall that had once been sections of building, and an inner courtyard that had once been a smaller house. It was on a dark green-mottled hillside with scattered sheep, and the oddest-looking goats Kyle had ever seen. Their asses stuck out about a foot past the hind legs, like the tailcone on a plane. He wasn’t sure if it was a genetic trait, or a medical condition, but he decided he wouldn’t eat goat here.

He needn’t have been concerned. As they arrived, greeted by dozens of people he wouldn’t remember, amid cheers and shouts and soon dancing and instruments, he was handed a bowl of curried lentils and rice. It was tasty enough, with fat, crisp lentils in a sauce with some vegetables, and rice pilaf underneath. Though he longed for meat, he avoided the goat. They were served naan bread to dip into the bowls, and served Coca-Cola, goat’s milk, and tea. He passed on the milk, decided a Coke was in order, even if it did have caffeine.

Some man started to ask a question. It seemed to be a standard, “So, how was the mission?” inquiry, with a big curious grin breaking his beard. Qalzai made surreptitious shushing motions, laid an arm over his shoulder, and led him away, waving an arm and talking.

They got some odd looks, and Kyle chalked it up to them being foreign. But eventually, he decided the stares were more than that. They weren’t threatening, but they were not just curious. And some of the grins looked familiar. He’d seen them in high school when someone had staged an elaborate prank.

He might be overreacting, though, he thought. He’d be ready in case of some local ritual or hazing, but he’d be cautious. It would be bad manners to respond to a local jape with gunfire.

“I think they’re planning something amusing and degrading to the naive Americans,” he said to Wade.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Wade replied. His hand was in his coat, obviously near his Beretta. “I won’t do anything brash, but I’m ready in case of an issue.”

They all gathered in the main room, which was roomy enough at twenty feet across, but cramped with so many men jammed in. But the conversation was not elated. There was satisfaction, certainly, and some grins, but the atmosphere definitely made Kyle think they were about to be set up for an elaborate practical joke.

Nasima had been banished to the kitchen with the women and girls. She slipped through the door and gave Kyle a look that seemed to ask for help, while asking him to keep quiet. Wade caught it, too.

“I don’t like what I’m feeling, Kyle,” Wade said softly, big grin plastered across his face as camouflage. “We got that son of a bitch. How’s it feel?” He made a big show of high-fiving Kyle.

“And now all we have to do is get out. Soon,” he continued. He was still grinning, and emphasized his meaning with a nod.

“Sounds good,” Kyle said. “Creepy, yeah.”

Nasima came through then, and served them, Khushal and Qalzai with curried chicken, tender and richly sauced, with rice. Under Kyle’s platter was a note on a tiny slip of paper. It said, in block letters, now we should leave.

That did it, Kyle decided. If two trained troops and a local all felt nervous, something was up.

Except there was no way to leave that wasn’t obviously a bug out. They’d have to play this for a few more hours, and sneak out by night.

As they lay down in a guest room, they were glad to see an outside door. They’d be through that when things quieted. “I’m on first watch,” Wade said.

“Asshole,” Kyle replied. “As if I can sleep now.”

“I know the feeling,” Wade said as he turned out the light. Both men were fully dressed and had their hands on their pistols under their coats.

The house quieted bit by bit, but it was past 1:00 a.m. before the last of the clan settled down. And the women would be up around five, to shoo the boys out to herd and milk and to start cooking. There wasn’t much of an aperture there.

There was a scuffling at the door. Kyle clutched for his pistol.

“Who’s there?” Wade asked in a whisper. Nasima was speaking very softly. “It is I. We have to leave at once,” she said.

“What? Why?” Kyle asked, nodding to Wade to open the door.

She came in, heedless of any customs of propriety. “There’s no time to explain now. We must be out of sight by dawn, and I’ll explain as we go, but there is danger for you both.”

Kyle hated situations like this. Still, he did trust Nasima and his own instincts, and if there was a threat, they should get moving. It had to do with Qalzai and Bait, and he figured they were safer off alone with her as translator than with those others and no translator. “Grab your gear, Wade,” he said, above a whisper but not much. “We’ll do as she says.”

“Understood,” Wade agreed. He had his ruck in seconds; it was already packed, and the three of them started walking. Kyle carefully maneuvered the cased Barrett through the door, and they were off into the dark. They eased through the courtyard, and Kyle was glad that dogs weren’t common. They bumped brick or stone twice, but didn’t make any major noises.

As they slipped out the gate, Nasima said, “It is good we are near a town, so we can find a place to hide.”

“Right,” Kyle agreed. “Now, what’s going on?”

She looked at him and said, “Kyle, the man you shot was not who you thought it was.”

“What? How do you know?” he protested. She didn’t even know who he had been shooting at, as far as he was aware.

“Because I heard Qalzai talk about settling a grudge. It’s a man he’s been fighting with for twenty years.”

“Okay, so it’s an old grudge, so what?” he said, but her comment was setting off alarms in his brain.

“Kyle, he shouldn’t have known him in that case. The Taliban haven’t been around that long, and al Qaeda even less,” Wade said.

“Yes,” Nasima nodded. “He said you’d done well for him, and he was glad to have American money. He doesn’t know where your target is, and doesn’t care. That kill was for him.”

“You mean we’re in the middle of a hillbilly feud here? Across the border?” he asked. Things were spinning, and he shook his head to clear it. Dammit, they should have had more intel.

“If I understand your idiom, yes. Tribespeople killing each other over old hatreds,” she said. “The border is slippery to these people, only a line on the map, and only enforced sometimes.”

“Ah, shit. Sorry,” he apologized to her.

“It’s okay, I’m familiar with the term. Also merde, scheisse, and a few others.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she swore in multiple languages. “And it fits,” she said. “They are nominally the same side. This is just tribal violence between them, not related to the war.”

“Okay, so we get hid and figure out what we’re going to do. Though under the circumstances,” Kyle said, hating what he was thinking, “we better abort the mission and have them try something else.”

“Right,” Wade said. “But first, we have to get out of this area and into another town. Any ideas?”

“Nasima,” Kyle said, “we have money. Is there a discreet way to get a ride?”

She thought for a moment. “There are always vehicles that will carry people. But the word will be told. There’s no way to stop people from talking.”

“So we need to be on the first vehicle anywhere, and hope the rumors are behind us,” he said.

“That is correct,” she said. “But there are few vehicles this late.”

“Hell, I’ll buy one if I have to,” he said. But he knew that wasn’t a practical idea in the middle of the night.

“So we keep walking and grab what we can,” Wade said. “If we need to, you can pass off as a local better than I can,” he held up his coffee-toned hand as emphasis, “and I can stay hid while you get us space.”

“We should avoid a public bus,” Nasima said. “Do you want to go to Quetta? Or somewhere else?”

“Right now,” Wade said, “we just need somewhere quiet, so we can call and report in. Then we can call for a helicopter if we have to.”

“Very well,” she said. “And what of me?”

“We give you a ride home,” he said. He wasn’t sure of Army policy, but he wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer. They owed her.

“Thank you,” she said, sounding honestly relieved. Well, with the way the government dicked everyone around, including him, he couldn’t blame her. “Though I should go to Berishtiya. My home is Nakhoney, in Afghanistan.”


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Framed