“Can we not dream of another life far away from here?”
“And leave our families like cowards?”
“No, we can get our families, if you insist. I will say you were killed on the boat, lost at sea along with your money, and then I will go back, to be beaten assuredly, but you can fly, get there first, get your family and move quickly, maybe even get my family. Take $250,000 and leave it for Rahman.”
“Your plan is full of holes. Mullah Rahman is too smart for these games. You know he keeps guards on our families until we return,” Kamil said.
Mansur could see that Kamil was not going to participate in his scheme and so reluctantly shifted gears.
“I bought something else in the market when you were speaking with the ship captain,” Mansur said.
He brandished a small knife, wickedly sharp, that he thrust into his friends abdomen before either of them had a chance to think about it. He pulled his friend close and whispered, “Since you won’t join me in a new life, I will send you to another.”
Ratcheting the knife up toward his sternum, Mansur felt Kamil’s weakened grip attempt to push him away, but it wasn’t enough.
“Traitor,” Kamil whispered, a bubble of blood aspirating out of his mouth.
Mansur dragged Kamil’s body to the back of the warehouse, which opened to a pier. In the dark of the night, he wrapped loose chains around Kamil’s body, secured them with his belt, and retrieved his bag of money before dumping Kamil to the bottom of the Baba Channel where the ebb would certainly drag him into the Arabian Sea.
Cleaning up, Mansur took the full million dollars and improvised a new plan.
CHAPTER 31
Zachary Garrett looked up at his captor’s thin, evil grin baring rotten teeth. In the dim light of the adobe hut, Zachary could see the man’s long beard and traditional head dressing. He was pushing a bottle of water toward him.
“Drink.” The word came out, “dink.”
Zach lifted a heavy arm and took the water, twisted the cap with a bruised hand, and gladly poured the entire contents down his throat. He could feel the liquid burning cold throughout his upper torso. He was dehydrated.
“More?”
The man laughed. Though Zach thought it was doubtful if the terrorist understood English, he believed that the man understood his gesture. Regardless, the captor pulled a pair of flexible handcuffs from his robe and quickly zipped Zach’s hands together behind his back. Zach tugged at his hands, straining his shoulders. He silently wished that the Al Qaeda operative had known that the front position for the zip cuffs was preferred because men could relieve themselves without assistance, among other things.
“Stay.” The man pushed a large olive hand toward Zach’s face as if he were a cop indicating for traffic to stop.
Zach watched him disappear beyond a small opening, and then began to survey his surroundings. He was lying on a dirt floor in an enclosed room, save the opening through which his captor had just departed. He determined that the structure was typical of the Afghan and Pakistani people, caked mud walls that had hardened over centuries of sun and rain and constant repair. Through his time in Afghanistan, he had learned that the adobe structure was as strong as any rebar-reinforced concrete building.
He faintly recalled the tunnel complex as he tried to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. There was a man that called himself the Scientist who had been forcing him to kneel in front of… bin Laden? He had heard distant explosions and then lost consciousness. How long he had been unconscious he didn’t know. A day, maybe two? Then he awoke in this place.
He was still wearing his army combat uniform. Thankfully, he had two layers of polypro underwear. He was surprised his captors had not stripped him. It was the only thing keeping him from freezing to death. May in the Hindu Kush Mountains could sometimes bring forth a beautiful spring that would pull forth the grapes in the vineyards and the apples from the orchards scattered through the valleys. More often than not, though, the long reach of a reluctantly departing winter would sweep its frigid hand through the higher altitudes. The temperature was probably close to thirty degrees. Inside the adobe home, it was more like forty, maybe. At least he was out of the wind.
He laid his head against the hard floor, trying his best to find a position that wasn’t supremely uncomfortable. Finally, he decided that the best thing he could do was to lie flat on his stomach, removing the weight from his shoulders. As he nestled into the floor, he felt the searing pain of the knife cut to his neck and the two bullet wounds to his legs that he had suffered when he was rescuing Jergens.
Jergens. The rest of his men. What had happened to them? On the landing zone the last thing he remembered was a wild-eyed man leaping over him onto the ramp of the MH-47. Then everything had gone blank.
He felt his face grow cold against the bare floor as he shifted. He wanted to pray. He wanted to be able to place his hands together and pray to God for his men, that they were okay, that they had made it back to the base safely. He also thought of his brother, Matt, and Riley, his soul mate. Were they aware that he was alive? Were they suffering believing he was dead? Was anyone looking for him or was he presumed dead?
He did the best he could do and laced his fingers behind his back. He went deep into that place in his mind he had carved out long ago, before this or the Ballantine mission or any of the tight spots he had encountered. His silent prayer floated from his mind like a leaf blowing in the autumn wind.
Then, landing like a feather atop a gentle stream, the prayer carried on.
CHAPTER 32
Riley Dwyer looked at herself with a mixture of despair and amusement in the mirror of the master bathroom of her Dilworth home. The house was just off Tryon Street in a swank row, maybe about a mile from her Charlotte office. The location was ideal, especially for a single woman. Tryon Estates was near all the trendy eateries, and Southpark Mall was twenty minutes away.
“You’re getting old, Dwyer.” She ran two slender hands along smooth cheeks, noticed her freckles, as prominent as ever, and sighed. She was being dramatic. She knew deep inside that she was pretty by even modest standards; most men considered her beautiful. Her mid-thirties were agreeing with her from a health standpoint, but these last few days were impossibly difficult.
She grabbed a scrunchie, knotted her thick hair into a ponytail, and then leaned over to tighten up her running shoes. Though it was getting dark, she really needed to burn some energy to clear her mind. There was still no word on Zach’s funeral. No one seemed to know where Matt was, so she had called Karen, his sister. She was equally unaware of Matt’s location or when Zach’s remains would be ready for the family. She hated that word “remains.” It begged the question, how much of him was really left?
She shuddered as she visualized the helicopter exploding and burning, imagining the fear and terror he must have felt along with that of his men. Where do we find such heroes, she wondered? So many men lost, so many families torn apart, so few who truly understand the sacrifice. She didn’t pretend to know the trials of a soldier, though she understood full well the anxiety of loving one.
Riley walked into her foyer, where she paused in front of her small print replica of Thomas Cole’s Voyage of Life. She had all four paintings, arrayed from childhood to youth to adulthood to old age. She pondered her own life, visualizing herself in the boat with the broken till about to tip nose first into the rapids spiked with knife-edged rocks.