Collateral Damage (12 page)

He nodded once, but she could tell he was conflicted about leaving. And he was remote now, already pulling back from her emotionally in case her decision didn’t go the way he hoped. That made her feel even worse. “You’ll call me if you need anything?”

A fresh wave of tears blurred her vision. “Yes, thanks. Love you.” She did, with all her heart, and it was important he know that, no matter what happened later.

His expression softened slightly but his gaze remained wary. “Love you too.” He didn’t smile or try to touch her again.

Watching him walk away, a bolt of fear shot through her. She was seized with the sudden urge to call his name and sprint after him. If she did he’d be waiting to catch her when she jumped into his arms, then he’d drive them away from here, away from her crazy family. An impulsive part of her wanted to say to hell with them. She would marry Liam and they’d spend the rest of their lives together.

It would mean losing her sister forever, and never seeing or speaking to her family again.

Honor slipped her hand into her pocket and curled her fingers tight around the ring hidden there. In the end, loyalty to Charity and her guilty conscience kept her rooted in place. She stayed where she was, dreading the thought of what was waiting for her on the other side of that door behind her. And even more terrified that the awful decision looming before her had already been made.

Seated at a desk in a bombed-out schoolhouse in a village high up in the mountains of the tribal region, Safir scanned his laptop. The device was heavily encrypted, giving him security and the time he needed to gather his intelligence. Anyone trying to trace his location via the satellite feed he used to remotely access his social media accounts and e-mail would be bounced around Afghanistan and Pakistan, and possibly farther than that. They’d never lock onto him.

He was careful and methodical, two traits that allowed him to be effective. Since the onset of this war he’d known his role was not necessarily as a martyr of Islam, but as a new kind of leader in this ever-evolving struggle.

His plan would take the fight from the battlefields of Afghanistan and Pakistan and make it global, hitting the U.S. and their coalition allies at home by attacking both soft and hard targets. Malls. Large public events in major cities that drew a large crowd. Professional sporting events. Police stations. Military installations. Public transportation. Government buildings.

And, in time, the coup de grace: A catastrophic cyber attack that would shut down the power grid and cripple the financial systems, paralyzing the West.

But first he had a decisive blow to strike against the Americans.

They deserved their fate, delivered by him and others unwilling to allow the U.S. to control the world with their morally corrupt and greedy agenda. Safir saw it as his duty to give them a taste of what innocent Muslims the world over had suffered at their hands. Islamic Law, even the Bible, dictated that an eye for an eye was just punishment, and that’s precisely what he wanted to exact from the enemy.

Revenge. The opportunity to settle a personal score and avenge his family.

That and his hatred of what the intelligence agencies had done to him were the core of what drove him to pursue this holy war, rather than stay in the UK and make a comfortable living as a software designer for a company on the Forbes List.

The chance to hit America where it hurt the worst, and where it feared the most, was an unquenchable fire that burned deep in his belly.

He was only weeks away from making it happen.

Safir sat up straighter and cracked his neck from side to side, pushing back the anger trying to bubble its way to the surface. Since the attack on Bagram yesterday afternoon he’d been getting continual updates from various sources throughout the region and others scattered around Europe and North America. People heavily invested in their fight, who were eager to punish the West for their treatment of Muslims.

All the attackers had either been killed or captured, exactly as he’d expected. The local Taliban commanders had insisted upon the brazen daylight attack to show their men were unafraid and willing to become martyrs. Safir had used the opportunity to study the Americans’ response, and then gauge how the rest of the world reacted. He’d been neither surprised nor disappointed by the result.

With a few commands typed into the program he added the last of the video clips he’d edited earlier. Mostly scenes taken from smart phones during the attack, showing the attackers’ bravery in the face of overwhelming enemy force and superior firepower. He’d chosen the clips carefully and spliced them together into a video adding music and poignant lines from the Holy Quran.

He played it back twice and made some adjustments, making sure that all the metadata from the shots were removed before sending the file to the various social media sites he utilized. Within a few hours the video would be circulating around the globe, picked up by the media, intelligence agencies and supporters alike.

Pleased with the end result and confident that this latest piece of propaganda would garner them more sympathy and funds from abroad, Safir packed up his few items and left the schoolhouse. Outside, the sun was sinking behind the mountains. Three of his most trusted men were standing guard at the top of the trail that wound its way up the hill from the rugged road below where the truck was waiting. His lead bodyguard, Anwar, was dragging a man up the hill toward them. The man’s hands were bound behind him and he had a hood over his head.

“What’s this?” Safir asked Anwar in Pashto.

“Caught him watching us then trying to sneak down the mountain. He had this in his pocket.” His bodyguard handed him a badly creased piece of paper.

Safir unfolded it and scanned the contents. It named the village he was standing in, and the number of men Safir had with him. He nodded at Anwar and the man pulled the hood off the prisoner. “Who sent you,” Safir demanded in a cold voice.

Probably a year or two younger than him, the man shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. “No one. I heard people up here and came to investigate.”

“For the Americans.”

The man shook his head, his expression growing frantic. “No, please—”

Safir drew his pistol and shot him between the eyes. Anwar gasped in surprise and dropped him. The man hit the ground with his eyes half-open, his arms still secured behind his back.

Holstering his weapon, Safir turned and headed down the trail. “Get rid of him,” he said over his shoulder to Anwar. He had no tolerance for would-be spies. After Rahim’s death, they were being as careful as possible.

His best friend, Qasim, gave him a questioning look but didn’t say anything about the murder. “It’s done?” They’d met at university two years ago. They both had family from the same region in Pakistan and when that drone strike had collapsed the apartment building last June, it had killed dozens of innocent men, women and children in addition to the high-value-target the U.S. had been hunting.

Dozens of innocents including members of both Safir’s and Qasim’s families.

After that, their bond had been permanently cemented and they’d both vowed to go back home and support the fight. But their sympathies to the jihadist plight had quickly garnered the attention of the CIA and MI6.

“It’s done,” he answered with a nod. He was still angry that someone had been paid off to spy on him. At least the man was dead. By nightfall they’d have more than enough money in their offshore accounts to pay Omar and the insider they needed to mount this next attack.

Qasim gave a satisfied nod and walked to the truck. He climbed into the back beside Safir and waited while Anwar disposed of the body. They were about two kilometers down the steep, bumpy road when Safir’s satellite phone rang. Anwar directed the driver to pull over. Safir stepped out and walked a short distance away behind a group of large boulders at the side of the road to offer concealment while Qasim and Anwar stood watch, brandishing their AK-47s.

“My contact says we have someone sympathetic to us on the inside,” the man said in Urdu when Safir answered.

He’d been waiting weeks for this confirmation. “How reliable is this source?”

“He has never failed me before.”

“Does he work at the base?”

“Yes. He works for the Americans.”

Did he. “Doing what?”

“Menial things, mostly labor, cleaning.”

“And who is this sympathetic person?”

“An American soldier.”

Safir’s interest sharpened, but he was still skeptical and he wanted clarification. “He’s in the Army?”

“I did not ask. Perhaps the Air Force. It doesn’t matter.”

No, it didn’t. “He’s willing to help us in exchange for money?”

“Yes. Five hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

A significant amount of money, but surely not enough to buy his cooperation in something like this. It had to be a trick. “And for that he’s willing to commit treason against his own people?” It made him suspicious.

The man grunted. “I don’t know why he’s willing but he obviously needs the money and I don’t care why. All I am certain of is that this is a great opportunity for us.”

“Agreed. How do you plan to proceed?”

“I’ve asked my contact to get more information about him, and how he wants to do the money exchange. It will have to be done on base in a casual setting so as not to raise suspicion.”

Safir wasn’t convinced it would work, but it was worth a shot. “And then?”

“Once I have the intelligence I need from him, I can begin my preparations.”

Sounded promising. “What time frame are you aiming for?”

“As soon as possible.”

The man’s confidence and enthusiasm were a welcome change from the low morale Safir had been dealing with for the past few weeks. Stepping into Rahim’s shoes had not been easy and aside from the security issues, lifting his followers’ spirits proved the most difficult. They all supported and rejoiced in the foreign attacks happening abroad by their fellow jihadists and the continued combat deaths of coalitions forces still in Afghanistan. It wasn’t enough. And after today’s defeat, a decisive victory was more important than ever.

Safir gazed out across the wide valley below. The dying rays of the sun glowed along the edge of the western horizon, painting the landscape blood red. The same color of the blood they planned to spill in America with this next critical operation. “Contact me once you have a plan in mind and I’ll review it.”

A taut silence crackled over the line for a long moment. The seasoned and well-respected commander was known as a lone wolf who didn’t like to involve others and certainly hadn’t answered to anyone since he’d taken command of his men. But he was well aware of what Safir could offer if they worked together. “All right,” he grudgingly agreed, and hung up.

Safir followed the others back to the truck. Qasim was quiet but Safir could tell his friend was curious about the conversation. He’d fill him in later, when they were safely hidden away. As they reached the valley floor the driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Where shall I take you?”

“To the drop off point near the village where I stayed last night.” He, Qasim, and Anwar would stay in Behzad’s village one last time.

The man frowned. “Is that wise? Staying in one place for more than—”

“It’s fine. One more night won’t endanger us any more than we already have been.” In fact, it was likely that three or four more stays there wouldn’t be a problem. This area was so remote that no enemy patrols had been sighted in over three weeks. Probably why they’d had to send a spy up here.

As long as he did what he could to limit his exposure to drones and satellites, he’d be fine. Unlike Rahim, he wasn’t in this fight for the fame and the glory. Besides, he liked the old man Behzad. Staying amongst the villagers and their strict interpretation of Islam was a comfort. It reminded him of the family he’d lost, the old-fashioned values he’d been raised with that he was now fighting to defend.

He would avenge them soon enough.

****

Liam covered a yawn and sat up straighter on the bench seat as he added another plate to the leg press machine. He’d slept for shit last night and though he was tired enough to attempt a nap this afternoon, he knew it was pointless. His mind was going a million miles an hour and had been since he’d left the hospital yesterday afternoon.

He’d thought about going to see Honor at her B-hut, then thought better of it. He’d seen her injuries with his own eyes so he knew she’d be okay, and she’d made it clear she’d wanted him gone. Maybe in a couple days he’d reconsider it. Right now he just wanted to stop thinking about her and clear his head before the mission tonight. Because soon enough he’d be out hunting the cell responsible for the attack yesterday.

The gym was busy as always, nearly every machine occupied. He did five sets of ten, gritting his teeth on the final set as the damaged muscles in his left leg screamed in protest. By the time he was done he was coated in a thin layer of sweat and his legs felt weak. He got up to stretch his back and walk around a bit to loosen the muscles in his thighs, and noticed someone walking toward him.

Ryan Wentworth, a combat controller he knew from around Bagram. The guy had raised some eyebrows when he’d gotten together with a female Spectre pilot. Ace was a Senator’s daughter, and one of Honor’s hut-mates.

Wentworth nodded at him and Liam nodded back, wiping at his face with a towel while the other man approached him. “Hey, man,” he said to Liam, pausing next to him. “Heard I missed some excitement yesterday.”

“Yeah. You just get back in?”

“About an hour ago.” He twisted the cap off a water bottle and took a pull. “So, Honor hopped on the minigun, huh?” At Liam’s nod he grinned. “Knew I liked that girl.”

Liam knew he didn’t mean anything by it, and was well aware that Wentworth’s loyalty lay with Ace. He still didn’t like hearing him talk about Honor with that kind of intimate tone. “She did great.” And he couldn’t stop thinking about her.