Qasim appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, his expression grave. “We need to move, right now,” he said to him in English, the use of it and dire tone making Safir’s stomach grab.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Americans have been to some villages close by, asking about you. They know you by name and have been showing pictures of you.”
Safir wasn’t all that surprised, but the news still sent a frisson of fear snaking up his spine. Ever since the latest American Chinook helicopter had been shot down the area had been crawling with enemy forces. Intelligence agencies had stepped up their efforts to identify him.
His name and face were circulating in the news and on posters and he now had a sizeable bounty on his head. The American media were calling him “Rahim 2.0”, which he found both flattering and insulting at the same time. He was so different from his predecessor, better, and had access to technology Rahim hadn’t been interested in.
“All right.” He got to his feet and thanked Gulab before turning to Behzad, now standing near the far wall. “Thank you once again for your hospitality.” Reaching into his pocket, he crossed to him and withdrew a wad of Afghan currency then held it out to him. Probably more than the old man earned in a year, and more than enough to improve his and his family’s living conditions.
Behzad’s eyes widened and he shook his head, his long gray beard brushing the front of his tunic. “I cannot accept this.”
Safir took one chapped, leathery hand and pressed the money into it, curling the old man’s gnarled fingers around it. “It’s the very least I can offer to repay you for your kindness.” And he’d offer more later when he came back next and asked him about sending him periodic reports from the area.
The old man’s eyes grew wet. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Safir smiled and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are most welcome, Uncle. I appreciate your friendship.” He was an honest, hardworking man. He deserved far more than this bleak existence and if Safir could help him, he would.
“Safir,” Qasim said impatiently from the doorway.
“All right, I’m coming.” He left the house with Anwar and Qasim while Gulab stayed behind to organize his men. Safir followed behind the other two as they took the narrow dirt path down toward the valley floor. They’d left the truck parked in the remnants of an old shed down the hill, out of sight from prying enemy eyes.
“Do we have a safe route back to the border, or do we have to use one of the safe houses tonight?” he asked Qasim in English so the other man wouldn’t understand.
His friend walked a few paces ahead of him down the dusty trail, directly behind Anwar, AK-47 held at the ready and his head swiveling back and forth as though he expected the enemy to jump out at them at any moment. “Not sure yet. Waiting for word from one of my—”
The roar of an explosion tore through the air behind them.
Safir’s heart shot into his throat as the shockwave blasted out and hurled him off his feet. He slammed into the ground in a heap, his ribs taking the brunt of the impact and knocking the breath from his lungs. No sooner had he landed than another explosion shook the ground. Struggling to his side, he wheezed in a thin breath of air as he took stock. His ears hurt and his head was ringing from the percussion.
“Safir!” Qasim was reaching for him, the whites of his eyes showing all around the irises.
He tried to answer his friend but couldn’t get anything out. Strong hands grabbed him beneath his armpits and began dragging him backward toward the hillside. Seconds later Qasim’s worried face appeared above him and Safir realized Anwar was the one dragging him. The man hauled him into the recesses of a shallow cave and quickly took position in front of him, putting himself between Safir and the opening.
Qasim dropped to his knees beside him, his expression anxious, dirt and thin streaks of blood streaking his face from where he’d scraped it on the ground. “Are you hurt?” he demanded in English.
Safir managed to shake his head, feeling nauseous as he did so. “No,” he wheezed, attempting to sit upright. Qasim helped him up and propped his back against the rock wall. “Wind knocked…out.”
The concern on his friend’s face eased but then he swiveled toward the cave entrance. “What happened?” he said to Anwar in Urdu.
“Something exploded back at the village,” he answered, his gaze trained in that direction.
Qasim peered past him out the opening and swore. Safir slowly got to his knees and crawled forward to risk a glance up toward the village. Fires were burning up there and already he could smell the acrid stench of the smoke.
Qasim pushed him back with a solid hand planted on his chest. “They’re still out there somewhere. Maybe they’ll call in another bomber—”
“It wasn’t a bomber,” Safir snarled, causing Qasim to look at him sharply. A bomber for such a small target? At such a high altitude that no one had seen or heard it coming through the clear evening sky? No. “That was a drone strike.” A laser-guided missile launched from a drone, maybe directed here by one of the men hunting him.
He settled back on his haunches, his entire body feeling bruised and a deep, lethal rage building inside him. “We have to go and see if Behzad is alive,” he said to them in Urdu.
Qasim made a scoffing sound and responded in English. “That’s just what they want, for you to come out into the open.” He eyed the darkening sky warily. “They might already have found you.”
If they had and launched a strike on this cave, his death would be quick and he’d likely never even know what hit him. Maybe he hadn’t been their intended target. Maybe they didn’t realize he was here. Still, knowing there were drones in the area made fear lick over his suddenly cold skin. Had they been hunting Gulab, or him? Just like his family, he wasn’t safe anywhere with eyes in the sky hunting him.
“None of us have any electronics on us except for the one satellite phone and the battery’s not even in it. The only way they could have found us is by human intelligence or satellite.” Which was highly plausible. More and more, he was convinced that he wasn’t the intended target.
This time.
He’d tried to keep the meeting brief, not wanting to put Behzad at risk, and now… He swallowed as guilt filled him, a foreign emotion he dismissed as soon as it formed. He was the leader now and there was no time for things like guilt.
“We’ll wait here for another hour and then move out. I’ll call someone to come pick us up in a different vehicle,” Qasim said.
“No. We stay for an hour then go to the village.” Although anyone wounded in the strike would likely be dead by then.
Qasim blew out a frustrated breath and raked a hand through his hair. “You have a death wish now? You know about the money they’ve offered for you. Even men you considered your allies might turn you in.”
“There’s nothing I can do about that now.”
His friend shook his head, his mouth tight. “Why is Behzad so important to you? Gulab is likely dead, and all of his men with him—but you don’t care about any of them. So why the old man?”
“Because he reminds me of my grandfather,” he snapped, shooting a quelling glare at his friend. “The only person who ever really gave a damn about me. He raised me until I was twelve, then used his life savings to send me away to a better life in the U.K. A farmer, like Behzad.”
Qasim shook his head. “There’s no way he survived that, mate. You know that. And even if he did, we don’t have a doctor or supplies with us.”
“I have to see.” It was his responsibility.
His friend muttered something under his breath and turned back to stare out the opening of the cave. They sat in eerie silence as the agonizingly slow minutes passed. There were no more explosions, no further sounds coming from up the hill. Finally Qasim gave the signal. On wobbly legs Safir ran back to the village, the other two men flanking him. He stumbled when he saw the first body part lying on the ground.