Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (2 page)

Fantastic. Apparently corporate sponsorship had traveled all the way to rural Afghanistan.

I peered out the arched doorway into the late evening sky. Nothing moved. A slight breeze whistled through a sparse copse of ash trees. Somewhere a small rodent scuttled away as the laughing cackle of hyenas tore through the air. Nothing human moved in the dead of night.

I stepped out of the doorway, pausing. I still had the keys clenched in my hand. I could turn around, return to the cell before anyone missed me, and save Fariya.

Reflexively my fingers went to the hollow in my neck, but my mother’s amulet wasn’t there. I thought of Fariya, her commitment, her sacrifice. My promise. Was I really going to do this?

I was.

I took a tentative step, then another. I stared up at the clear night sky, orienting myself by the constellations. I needed to travel east. Fariya’s village was ten miles away. I had minimal time to make my way there, steal food, clothing, and weapons, and be gone.

Using their primitive yet effective warning system, I kept track of the painted white rocks marking the border between safety and sudden death, and kept clear of the painted red rocks, indicating land mines. I stared hard at the ground, looking for other footprints to lead me in safe passage.

Soon I was running, a loping awkward gait from the still tender wound in my right leg. But I was free.

For the first time in two weeks, I was free.

TWO

September 1, Afghanistan

6:00 am

Arabic letters in peeling paint over the arched wooden doors proclaimed this the village of Zaman Khalili.

I crouched behind a gooseberry bush and surveyed the walled compound. Behind me and to the right was a giant field of freshly harvested poppy plants. The bulbous cheerful heads bobbed in the morning breeze.

The sun would rise soon. Light had begun to bleed up from the rocky desert.

Fariya’s sandals had been too small for me, so I'd left them behind. Now my bare feet were raw from the harsh, unforgiving sand and miles of agony. I glanced behind me again, to be sure I wasn’t leaving giant bloody footprints like a big, fat arrow pointing to my position.

I assessed the compound but couldn’t wait much longer. Just as Fariya had described, a six foot high wall circled the living quarters, the only entrance and exit, the enormous locked gates.

The sun had crested the horizon and soon the village would wake for the day.

And the guards would be posted.

I needed to get in, get out, and get gone.

So far, Fariya’s directions had been perfect. I found the small dip in the ground along the far wall where children snuck out to play.

I slid head first into the depression in the ground. If I hadn’t been nearly starved for the last two weeks, I would have gotten stuck. As it was my butt barely cleared the bottom of the wall.

When most of my body had emerged on the other side, I lay bowed in the hole with my right cheek flat on the cool morning sand, maintaining surveillance. Waiting, watching. A snake, hopefully not poisonous, slithered along my burkha trying to absorb some of my body heat. I ignored it.

My main problem right now was the dogs.

Not ‘cute, cuddly be-your-best-friend’ dogs. But ‘get-too-close-and-I’ll-rip-your-head-off’ dogs. These dogs would not be domesticated or friendly.

I sniffed the air. No tea brewing yet. I had some time.

After locating Fariya’s home from her description, I wriggled the rest of the way in, and slid up the wall, brushing the dirt from the front of the blue garment. I tiptoed toward the clay building, trying to ignore the painful burning of my feet.

With luck, Fariya still had a pair of her husband’s shoes or sandals.

I peered into the dark cell of a room. All night long, I’d traveled in the open space, thankful to be out of my purgatory. Thankful to breathe fresh, clean air. Now an irrational fear of going inside gripped me.

My heart thumped against my breastbone, shaking the sides of my ribs. I forced myself to reach for the shovel propped against the open doorway and watched with detachment as my bony hand trembled; angry blue, purple, and yellow welts circled my emaciated wrists.

The shovel seemed unbearably heavy. In early morning air, the village sheep bleated and doves cooed. The sounds forced me into action. If I didn’t haul ass, Fariya’s sacrifice would be for nothing.

I owed her.

From the doorway, I counted paces, five to the center of the small room and then turned left as she’d instructed, and paced off another five steps.

The hard-packed ground looked as though it hadn’t been disturbed since the hut was constructed, but Fariya had sworn her father-in-law had weapons buried in the main room. I jabbed the hard dirt and pain sang up my left arm.

I couldn’t dig until I stabilized the bone.

Using my toe, I marked the spot with an X then prowled the spartan room. In the corner sat a wooden crate of supplies, marked with symbols of the United States Military Civil Affairs Battalion, a goodwill package designed as a part of
Operation: Rebuild
to deliver aid to the villages and ensure cooperation against the Taliban and al-Qaeda.

I opened the crate and found a long wooden spoon. In a basket on the other side of the room near the pallet, I unearthed a long strip of fabric woven into stripes of brown, ocher, and deep blue. Hopefully, Fariya didn’t need it.

Crafting a makeshift splint, I awkwardly tied the wool, criss-crossing along the spoon until my arm felt immediately better.

I hustled back to the X and started digging, ignoring the zing of pain every time the shovel hit the hardened dirt. The process was slow, and I could only trust the cache wasn’t buried deeply.

The small village came to life as I worked at the hard earth. Then a gong tolled and all activity stopped.

Morning prayer
.

I huddled beneath the single window, a small oddly-shaped hole in the middle of the wall. Melodic chanting resonated in the morning air, taking me back to my childhood and a yearning for the simple pleasure of listening to my mother sing.

Although I didn’t have a prayer rug, I knelt on the hard-packed dirt and bowed to the West.

Musical voices raised in thanks and praise hummed in the air.

I couldn’t chant. It might give me away.

Instead, I gave thanks for my freedom, I gave thanks for my life. As I glanced at the shallow hole I’d dug, in the shifting dirt and sand, a burlap bag with the outline of guns caught my eye, and I gave thanks for the weapons to aid my escape.

As the gong tolled again, signifying the end of prayer time, I crawled over to the shovel and scooped at the dirt again and again.

I dug faster, praying no one would look in Fariya’s hut while she was away at work. A dog barked and women in burkhas bustled quietly past the window, not far from me.

With short strokes of the shovel, I uncovered the hidden stash. I pulled out the burlap bag and emptied the contents onto the dirt floor.

The bag contained a virtual United Nations of firepower. Two Russian rifles. One AK-47, a Kalashnikov 7.62 x 39 mm assault rifle weighing in at nine and a half pounds without the magazine. No way could I carry it.

An AK-101, a compact assault rifle, standard for NATO forces. Much lighter. And there were more of the 101 cartridges buried with the weapon.

Two handguns. One Italian pistol, Beretta 92G, with no safety, used by the French military, a little over two pounds. And lastly, an Austrian Glock 17, a favorite of the Afghan National Police force, and a full 12 ounces lighter than the Beretta.

I hoped I didn’t need to use any of them because the recoil just might knock me on my ass and I didn't know if I could even hold the damn thing to fire it.

No way could I bring all four. I couldn’t carry them all. Carefully I lifted the AK-101 rifle out of the bag.

I didn’t see the "jingles", a cascade of little bells attached to the stock, until I heard them jangle. I held in my breath, waiting for discovery.

As I crouched low to the ground, I heard another jingle and my pulse stuttered again. I realized it wasn’t from the weapon I had, as my fingers were still slick with sweat and gripping the jingles on the AK. A guard patrolled by outside, his bells masking my own thumping heart.

When he was past the window, I carefully removed the bells, then lifted the smaller, lighter Glock 17 out of the shallow hole. Sweat trickled between my breasts as I tried to keep my breathing slow and even.

I laid the weapons in a Keffiyeh scarf and fashioned a sling to carry the assault rifle and handgun. Quickly I scraped the dirt back over the bag with the remaining weapons and then pulled a small rug from the corner to cover the slight impression.

Rummaging through Fariya’s bride trunk, I found a pair of men’s sandals and slipped them on my abused feet.

The pungent scent of Chai tea drifted in the air. My stomach growled in response. The aroma of sizzling sheep’s meat from a wood-burning fire assaulted my senses. My mouth watered but my stomach revolted.

I swallowed hard, hoping to keep down the little bit of rice I’d eaten last night. I needed all of my strength to survive. I put the pre-wrapped package of bread and dried fruit she had left for me in my pocket. I would eat later.

The women would be serving the men, then the children, and it seemed a perfect time to escape. Now that the sun was up I could slip out of the walled complex with little notice.

Most everyone should be in the main compound area eating. There would be guards posted at the massive front doors and the back area, but Fariya had promised that the East side of the complex would not be well-guarded. The current group of men forced to be drug mules were gone, so the guards would be very young men, in their early teens and the least experienced.

I skirted the edge of the compound, almost to my exit point, when a dog started barking furiously.

Shit
.

Had the dog somehow noticed me? Smelled me? I wasn’t moving with my usual agility or speed, but I hadn’t thought I was that out of place.

Perhaps the dogs had caught my scent, as my body still carried the stink of the prison.

Someone approached. My body quivered with tension as I continued to walk slowly. A wizened old man scurried past me with a worried expression.

As if he recognized me, he reared back. Then, he grabbed me, whispered harshly. I only caught every other word, he spoke so quickly.

“Fariya...sacrifice...don’t let...catch...go, go....”

I nodded, thinking him demented as I pretended to be Fariya and trying to pull away, until the content of his rambling penetrated.

His eyes were tortured. “Go...before...find...here.”

Realization dawned. He knew who I was. Which meant Fariya had told someone of her plan.

He knew who I was. And he was telling me to go before they found me.

A sonorous bang, bang, bang, ripped through the morning chatter. Male shouts pierced the air.

A cry rose from the center of the compound.

“
Amreekees
.”

Soldiers. American soldiers were here.

THREE

Americans. Soldiers. Here.

For a moment, my spirit soared. I could be out of here and on military transport home in a matter of hours.

Back in my townhouse in Alexandria, back in my cramped little cubicle in Georgetown, back in Jordan’s arms.

Jordan.

My heart beat faster. Maybe we still had a shot.

Our last words, right before I was captured, had been stilted, awkward. But Fariya’s love for her family highlighted the emptiness of my personal life. I needed to let go of my fears and take a chance with him.

First I had to get the hell out of here.

My impulse was to scale the wall and sprint for the ground convoy trucks. I picked up my pace, making a beeline for the unguarded side wall.

A sunburst of joy spread through me. I could go home.

The sudden rattle of metal detectors as the Special Forces guys searched the compound for weapons grated on my ears. Then, the bark and growl of the dogs and the commands from the Spec Warrior leader drowned out the annoying noise. The additional sounds and distractions made my escape easier.

As I climbed to the top of the wall one-handed, I protected my arm as best I could. I straddled the two-foot-wide wall, hugged the flat top to keep my profile low, and canted my head to listen as the soldiers raided the compound.

They were calling to each other in some sort of code, but I wasn’t close enough to hear actual words. The general mood seemed to be relaxed, the villagers ignoring the soldiers, except for the kids begging for pencils and pens.

The fact that they were here so soon after my escape nagged at me. What were the odds that they would be inspecting this compound, on this day, at this time?

I dropped down on the other side of the wall and fell off-balance. The muffled landing stung my sore feet as if I’d pressed thousands of tiny shards of glass into my soles. I bent into a crouch, the sling with the rifle banged against my back and jabbed into a semi-healed bruise over my kidney. White spots danced in my eyes. I held still, desperately trying to clear my vision.

The rough wool of the burkha abraded the cigarette burns on my arms. The frantic words of the old man beat in my ears, pounding at my thoughts.
Fariya, sacrifice
.

Something was not right.

The paranoia I’d experienced and disregarded right before my capture came raging back. If these soldiers had been in the area, why hadn’t they come to get me out of prison? In those two long weeks, why hadn’t the CIA facilitated my release?

Two weeks.

Two fucking weeks.

I eased the Glock out of the homemade sling and clutched the weapon in my right hand, thankful my left arm was broken, not my right.

I couldn’t shoot for shit with my left hand.

I needed to find a place to conceal myself until after the Americans were done in the compound. If I could make the run to the poppy fields, I could hide there. Assuming they weren’t here to plow them under. The plows must be coming since the village showed signs of American aid.