The valley floor south of the village was sectioned off into more than forty farm plots, each varying in size and shape, none larger than a quarter acre in size, and each of them enclosed by a waist-high stone wall. There were a number of trees between the farm plots and the buildings, and Gil judged that from ground level the snipers would probably not have a clear view of his approach. This would allow him to creep within two hundred yards of their positions — the effective range of the subsonic rifle ammunition he would use to silently remove them from the game board.
There were various stables and mangers located south of the village as well, and Gil had already made a mental note of the route he would take to reach the horses. Luckily, the goats and sheep were not allowed to roam free, and he hadn’t seen or heard a single dog all day. With luck, this meant that canines were few and far between. A dog could see ten times better than a human in the dark, and there was something about a shadowy figure in a combat crouch that put your average dog in the mood to bark its ass off. Gil thought of Oso and smiled. He was in no mood to shoot a dog tonight.
As the light continued to fade, his attention was drawn abruptly to a building located on a small rise in the center of the village. He lifted the Remington and watched through the night-vision scope as six armed men gathered on the roof. At least four more took up positions on the ground below, and electric lights came on inside and out. A pair of pickup trucks appeared out of nowhere and began to unload half a dozen men each.
“Shit,” Gil muttered, watching as the building quickly took on the appearance of a well-defended command post. “He got himself caught!”
He continued to watch, and a few minutes later, a band of twenty men appeared, making their way down the alley toward the stables where the horses were kept. Each man led a horse from the stable into a square paddock where they began to saddle them up.
Swearing like the sailor he was, Gil made ready for a quick departure. Even from this range and elevation, he wouldn’t stand a chance against the HIK with just three hundred rounds between the Remington and the M4. All they would have to do would be to use their trucks and cavalry to outflank him, and then, once he was good and surrounded, they could zero his position with a mortar and burn him down. There was no way of knowing whether Forogh had been made to talk yet, but there was no point in waiting around. Everybody talked sooner or later, and Gil didn’t figure on Forogh giving up too many fingers before he told them what they wanted to know.
Forogh tightened the horse’s girth strap and pulled himself up into the saddle.
His uncle Orzu mounted up next to him. “Can you still ride, Nephew?”
“It hasn’t been that long, Uncle.” Forogh switched on the infrared strobe hanging from his neck by a lanyard. He couldn’t see the light that it emitted even in the dark.
“Good!” his uncle said with gusto, reining the horse around. “Before this night is over, you may have to ride to save your fruit!”
Forogh’s uncles and cousins laughed.
“You’re sure no one can see that thing but the American?” one of Forogh’s other uncles asked.
Forogh held up the strobe. “It’s working now. Can any of you see anything?”
Satisfied that the instrument could be trusted, Orzu tapped his heels against the horse’s flanks to set it walking. “Remember, don’t place it before the shouting starts.”
“I won’t, Uncle.”
The column rode out of the paddock, each man with an AK-47 across his back, their extra magazines hidden beneath their cold-weather clothing. They rode two abreast up a slight incline toward the river, then turned north up a dirt lane, passing before a row of concrete houses on the left toward an intersection shaped like a T turned over on its left side. The top of the T ran north to south, and the bottom ran east to west through the center of town past the well-lighted command post.
As Forogh and the others started to cross the T, Orzu led them within a few yards of a deserted-looking, ramshackle building where the east-west lane came to a dead end.
Four gunmen came pouring out of an open doorway and began shouting for them to get away from the building, aiming their AK-47s at the column and kicking at the horses. General pandemonium ensued as Forogh’s uncles and cousins all began shouting back at them, intentionally creating chaos.
Orzu sat defiantly in the saddle haranguing the HIK men to stop kicking their horses, threatening to trample them if they didn’t get out of the way.
“This is not your village!” he shouted down at them. “We go where we please here!”
More HIK came running down the lane from the command post a hundred yards away.
A door opened on the far corner of the lane, and Aasif Kohistani hurried outside followed closely by Ramesh, the brute who had cut off Sandra’s finger.
During all of this confusion, Forogh pretended to lose control of his horse and sidled backward up against the building, tossing the strobe up onto the flat-top roof.
“What is going on out here?” Kohistani demanded. “Why are all of you mounted and armed? Where are you going?”
Having seen Forogh place the marker, Orzu raised his hand as a signal for his men to settle their horses and end the tumult. “We’re riding north to timber country. There’s work to be done.”
“Now?” Kohistani said in dismay. “It’s dark!”
“Of course it’s dark!” Orzu said with a hearty laugh. “Do you expect us to cut illegal timber by the light of day?” This brought a guffaw of laughter from his nephews and brothers.
Orzu knew that Kohistani knew almost nothing about the timber-smuggling industry that was so rapidly deforesting the Afghan landscape, and thus would likely believe about anything he was told, within reason.
“But… but what about your tools?” Kohistani said.
“You think we carry all those tools back and forth with us, Kohistani? Why don’t you come with us? It will do you good to try working for a living!” Again came the haranguing laughter from his cohorts.
Kohistani was immediately angry to be insulted in front of his men. “I see then, Orzu Karimov!” he shouted over the laughter. “I see! Then since you are cutting illegal timber, you will obviously need to pay a higher tax. Otherwise word could get back to Kabul of your illegal activities!”
Orzu feigned indignant anger. “Since when does the Hezbi collect taxes for the Karzai government in Kabul, Aasif Kohistani?”
“Why, the Hezbi does no such thing,” Kohistani replied with a smile, believing he’d gotten the last laugh. “I merely state that a higher local tax will be required to prevent Karzai from learning of your illegal exploits… Now go if you’re going! Get your men and these stupid animals away from here. You know very well this area is out of bounds.”
Hating the Hezbi cleric, Orzu was tempted to say more, tempted even to trample the man to death, but it would not serve their purposes to delay further. The building was marked, and there was no sense to risk an open confrontation that might result in bloodshed. He turned in the saddle, calling for his brothers and nephews to follow him out of the village.
Kohistani stood in the road watching them go.
“We should move the woman now, Aasif,” Ramesh said. “If the Americans are watching from above, they may have seen enough to know the command post is a decoy.”