Jaabir struggled to pull free of Deion’s grasp. “He’s outside. Watching.”
“Watching for what? Is it the Taliban?” Realization dawned on him. “It’s not Azim’s men. It’s Al-Qaeda.”
Jaabir nodded his head. “Yes. We must not let them find us. They will kill us all.”
“Why?” Valerie asked.
“Because,” Koshen spoke, in heavily accented English, “Azim was to deliver me to a safe house in Pakistan. Abdullah promised that if General Azim did not keep me safe, Abdullah would have him killed. Now they will kill you and parade your body through the streets as proof of Azim’s treachery.”
Deion let that sink in. Neil and Valerie were concerned, Nancy was angry, and Jaabir scared, but Koshen showed no emotion. “Koshen, can you stop this?”
Koshen shook his head. “Why would I?”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Valerie said.
Valerie’s words struck a nerve. He promised her she would be safe. “Clark, can you get us an exit?”
“No go,” Clark said. “There’s no pathway out. You’re in a defensible position. They enemy will be there in five. They’ll have AK-47’s and RPG’s. You’re going to have to hold your own until the cavalry arrives.”
“How long?” Nancy asked.
“Twenty minutes,” Clark responded. “Delta has their new deployment orders and they’re bringing Rangers with them.”
Nancy rushed up the stairs and they heard her footsteps pounding across the floor, streams of dust falling through the floorboards and catching the light from the bare bulb. She came back soon after with the duffel bag full of ammo and equipment. “Wazir is gone,” she said.
“He is old,” Jaabir said with a shrug, “but not very brave.”
Nancy snorted. “Smartest man I’ve met today.” She opened the duffel bag and passed out ammo clips and grenades.
Deion grabbed an extra handful for his MP4. “Jaabir, you can run, but they’ll probably catch you. You’re better off with us. Your choice.”
Jaabir shook his head. “I do not have a choice. If they catch me, they will kill me.”
“Val, you and Nancy take the first floor, Neil and I will take the roof. Jaabir, guard the rear.”
Nancy pointed to Koshen. “What about him?”
“Koshen, if you have anything else to tell us, now is the time. Why did Abdullah target that base?”
Koshen licked his lips. “There was a man that he blamed for killing his wife. That is why he targeted the base.”
“He wasn’t after the drone?” Nancy asked.
“No,” Koshen answered. “Abdullah wanted the man to pay for his crimes.”
“Where is he?” Deion asked. “Where is Abdullah?”
Koshen smiled sadly. “You will never find him.”
Eric was finishing the after-action report when Barnwell knocked on his door.
“Got a minute?” Barnwell asked.
The words on his computer screen swam in and out of focus. He shoved the keyboard away. “I could use a break.”
Barnwell took the chair across from him and placed a metal lunch-box on the desk. “Writing up the Denver affair?”
He shrugged. “This place runs on paperwork.”
Barnwell laughed. “Don’t I know it.” He opened the lunch-box and withdrew two plastic cups and a bottle, pouring three fingers in each glass. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
Eric glanced around. There were Colt M1911 parts strewn about the coffee table in front of the couch. Except for that and the boots in the corner, the room looked as it had when he arrived. He shrugged. “No sense in it.”
Barnwell grinned. “Fair enough. Now, drink up,” he said, passing one of the cups to Eric.
“This part of the after mission therapy?” Eric asked.
“Think of it as two men shooting the breeze. Sorry for the Scotch, I know you’re a beer man.”
He lifted the cup and took a long sip. The smell reminded him of peat moss, but the liquor burned his mouth, then warmed everything on the way down, settling as a fire in his belly. “Normally I’d pass on the Scotch, but in this case….”
Barnwell smiled and took a drink from his own cup. “How’s the arm?”
Eric gingerly flexed his right arm. “It’s good. They stitched me up and gave me a pain patch.”
“That’s more than a pain patch. In twenty years, they’ll be in every pharmacy in America,” Barnwell said. “It dramatically speeds up the healing time and cuts down on the scar tissue.”
“The muscle is still sore,” he said.
Barnwell laughed. “What do you expect? Miracles? Tell me about Denver.”
“You want me to lay down?”, he asked, pointing to the gray fabric couch against the wall. When Barnwell did not respond, he shook his head. “It didn’t go well.”
“I know. I was with Clark, listening. And, this isn’t therapy. Do you know what I do here?”
He knew Barnwell was the base shrink, but the man’s fatigues were devoid of insignias or rank. “You work directly for Smith. I’ve seen enough paperwork with your name on it to know that you unofficially run the place. What’s your story?”
Barnwell smiled and took another drink. “I was a soldier once, a long time ago, during Vietnam.” He paused. “I was something of a promising student, a doctorate in psychology at twenty-one. I was about to attend medical school, get my doctorate in Psychiatry. My whole life was mapped out.” He paused to take another drink, this one a long pull from the cup.
“Didn’t work out that way?” Eric asked.
“No,” Barnwell said, laughing. “Instead of attending medical school, my deferment was denied. I attended basic training, like everybody else, but instead of continuing to Advanced Individual Training, I was deployed to Vietnam. I was put in charge of a psychological operations unit, reporting to both Army Intelligence and the CIA. My doctorate research had caught Fulton’s attention. He recruited me into the Office, and I spent the rest of the war waging psy-ops. When the war was over, I became his right-hand man.”
“That’s why you don’t wear rank?”
“Very perceptive,” Barnwell said, toasting him with his plastic cup. “You have a knack for reading people. Yes, I could still claim rank if I wanted, but there’s no need, and it’s my petulant way of poking my finger in Fulton’s eye.” He shook his head. “When Fulton isn’t here, I’m his proxy.” He trailed off, then realized his drink was almost empty. He leaned forward, poured himself another, and settled back. “So, now that you’re done stalling, how was Denver?”
“A cluster. The thing with Fletcher—”
“Yes?”
He paused. “Things went sideways and we’re no closer to the caesium.”
“And John?” Barnwell prompted.
“He saved my life,” Eric admitted. “Fletcher had the draw on me. I was so busy trying not to kill him that it almost cost me my life.”
“Is that why you’re upset?”
It was his turn to laugh. “I’m not upset, Doc.”
“Then why are you about to break that cup?”
He looked down and noticed the plastic cup between his fingers, squeezed almost to the breaking point. “Huh.”
Barnwell smiled. “Not so unusual. You were in a highly stressful situation. It’s not the same, is it?”
“What?”
“I think you know.”
“It is different,” Eric admitted. “It’s easy in Afghanistan or Iraq to distance yourself. Everything looks different, smells different. The people, they don’t look like you. But Denver? It’s home.”
“I understand. Completely. We’ve put you in a very unique position. Tell me about John. How did he perform?”
“He did exactly as he was trained.”