This was step one. Now to deal with the voices, which were growing louder. More distinct. They were speaking Pashtu. During his time in Afghanistan he had come to learn the difference between the two major languages, Pashtu and Dari. Dari was a derivative of Farsi, spoken primarily in Iran. These men were definitely speaking Pashtu, which meant two things to him.
They were locals of some sort — either Pakistani or Afghan — which meant that he had a window of opportunity. It was small, almost negligible, but it was there. Al Qaeda were ruthless and very careful. Local tribesmen, even the hostile ones, however, were often careless. If his captors had left him in the temporary watch of two local Pashtuns, then perhaps he had a chance.
He fumbled with the zip-tie handcuff, removing it from his left hand as well by turning the jagged edges sideways and pushing them through the opening, like a trash bag tie. He swiftly lay back down, his hands behind his back, as he heard the men approaching the door.
“Garrett,” the voice called. It sounded more like “Garreeett.” “Garreeett,” again came the voice. He heard the door opening, feet falling toward him. He saw two men, the lead man carrying a candle in one hand, and amazingly, protecting it against the wind with the other. He had no weapon. Before he could get too excited, though, he noticed the man’s partner was carrying an AK-47 at the ready. Both men wore the traditional headdresses common to any number of indigenous tribes. They moved like silent ghosts in their flowing robes.
He lay still until the man with the candle knelt down next to him, the flame licking at the dark night, burning up the oxygen in his small room. The man’s face was half lit, half dark, like a theater mask. He saw his beard flowing a few inches from his chin and dark eyes that looked as friendly as burning coals.
“What now?” Zach asked, sounding sleepy and groaning just a bit. “Let me sleep.”
“Time to die.”
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but certainly he was not excited to hear this man utter those words in almost perfect English.
He surprised himself, though, with the quickness with which he moved. He accelerated off the floor, drove the candle up, ramming it into the hot coal that was the man’s left eye. Pushing him upward and toward the man’s backup, Zach used him as a shield, feeling him both scream at the burning candle in his eye and at the AK-47 rounds now punching into his back.
He released candle man, who was now simply dead weight, and lunged over his body to slip the zip-tie cuffs around the neck of the rifle-bearing man. Pulling back on the wrist holes, he surged and crisscrossed his arms, feeling the man’s neck snap.
He picked up the AK-47, checking the magazine. He felt around each man for more ammunition, finding none, but securing a six-inch knife.
He moved through the door into another dark room and slid silently toward the corner. He waited a few seconds. When he heard nothing, he moved toward the outside door. Opening it, he looked through a small crack, enough to tell him morning was no more than an hour away. To the East, the slightest hint of light was beginning to crest the massive mountain peaks, leaving in its wake a cloak of darkness, for the time being, to the West.
He had to risk it. He had to move now. It was his only option.
He went back into the room in which he had been held and removed the robe from the man whose neck he’d snapped. He took the turban as well.
Dressed the part, he moved back into the front room. Minutes had passed. Gunfire would have been heard from miles away along the narrow valleys of… wherever the hell he was. The thought stopped him momentarily. Which way should he flee? Regardless, he needed to move.
He stepped from the mud hut, looked to his right, and saw nothing but mountains climbing into the black sky. To his left he saw a stream about one hundred meters away, knifing its way through a valley that was more akin to a fjord. Jagged spires of rock shot upward, denying any movement anywhere but along the valley floor.
To his rear he heard voices. Excited voices. Speaking Arabic.
He fled west, toward the decreasing light. Walking at first, he picked up the pace as he moved toward a small footbridge that spanned a creek about forty yards wide. Clear water spilled and tumbled across the rocky bottom, rushing toward his left. If he was in Pakistan, he would be moving toward Afghanistan. If he was in Afghanistan, he would be moving toward some coalition military base eventually.
Crossing the bridge, he could sense others watching. Nothing happened in these remote tribal villages without someone, if not everyone, noticing. Not unlike Small Town America, there was little chance of Zachary escaping his predicament without interruption.
The footbridge swayed and the water rushed beneath him. Taller than most of the local inhabitants, he was sure he would not go unnoticed. Bounding onto the rocky far bank of the creek, he spied a trail that led toward the westward peak. The trail followed a gorge with water sliding down the middle of the crevice, melting snow from the top of the mountain that fed into the rushing creek.
Zachary grabbed at a large boulder, pulling himself up onto the trail. His robe and headdress all might have bought him a minute or two, but the sandals he took from the rifleman, while uncomfortable, were helping him scale the slippery incline.
Just get moving on the trail, he kept reminding himself.
He was about one hundred yards into the steep draw, the village opening to his back, the trail narrowing to his front. Away from the sounds of the rushing water, he could again hear the pitch of voices, more excited. Then one voice above all others seemed to focus the group.
Zachary had not looked back. Never look back, the famous motto. Now was a time to live by that credo. Focused, he pulled again at rocks and scraggly trees sticking out from the massif. The only thing that gave him mild comfort was the AK-47 strapped across his back beneath his flowing robe.
The focused voice began screaming. Shots rang out, but not near him. Darkness began to encompass him.
He was two hundred yards up the valley now and moving more quickly. Three hundred yards up, the climbing got tougher. Hand over hand in some areas.
A quarter mile, he guessed. Still the gunfire, but nothing close. Were they executing the other tribal members responsible for watching him? His breathing was labored, but only because he lacked food, energy. His adrenaline kicked in, though, and supplied the glycogen to his muscles to keep him moving.
An hour later he was cresting the ridge of the mountain. He had to be ten thousand feet high, he figured. He paused, resting, breathing hard, and looked back at the trail he had just climbed.
Unbelievable. From his vantage, it appeared that he had scaled a cliff. Perhaps he had.
Looking west, with the sun now creeping over the mountains, he could see for miles. What he saw was jagged mountain ridgelines, capped with white snow, lined up as far as he could see, like a set of waves coming in off the north shore of Hawaii, massive, white tipped, forbidding.
He pulled the robe around him, glad that he had it for the extra bit of warmth it would provide tonight. He watched his breath crystallize in a fine mist. For the first time he allowed his mind to unlock from the task at hand.
Amanda. His men. His family. Riley. What else in life was there? For a few minutes he savored his relationships with his warriors. The bond they had formed over so many years, so many missions. Living a life in pursuit of nobility, the cause, the righteousness of what they did for a living. It was a good way to live… and to die. Hell, it was the only way he could live. His life had to have meaning beyond the paycheck. He had to feel like he was saving the world. That’s how he’d operated ever since coming back into the service.
Then there was Amanda. His heart ached for her, not because of his loss, but because of hers. He had tucked away the injustice of it all so many years ago. The burden was too difficult to carry exposed, too heavy. Watching his relationship with Amanda morph from doting father and daughter to manipulative and destructive player and pawn caught him so off guard that for a couple of years he couldn’t fathom it.