Collateral Damage (20 page)

Which meant he had to get the hell out of there, because that was stupid fucking knee-jerk emotion talking. He needed time to think things through. Even if he was willing to forgive her and try to trust her again, logistics made a relationship impossible for now.

She was leaving for the other side of the world in two days. He had a war to fight here and he didn’t know when or if he’d be going back stateside.

And, the sad truth was, sometimes love simply wasn’t enough to keep two people together. So he would make this as final and humane as possible, put them both out of their misery this time.

“Take care of yourself,” she told him before he could continue.

He made himself nod once.
Go. Leave now before you hurt her more or commit to something you’re not ready for yet.
“You too,” he managed.

With nothing left to say, he turned and walked out into the cool night air, aware with every step that he was once again leaving his heart behind with her.

Safir accepted the hot cup of tea from Behzad with a smile of thanks and settled cross-legged on the rug spread on the dirt floor with his back to the wall. These day he couldn’t relax without having clear lines of sight to all exits in the room—and the only one in here was the narrow, rectangular doorway formed by an outline of rough mud bricks. Anwar was outside along with several of Gulab’s fighters. Qasim sat to Safir’s right, dividing his attention between the door and the meeting.

“I have more men to fight the next battle,” the warlord said to him in Pashto as he sipped at his own tea.

Behzad retreated to the far side of the room, a silent, stoic presence. Offering his home as a meeting place without getting involved in their business or expecting anything in return. Safir had decided he would hire the man to be his eyes and ears in this part of the tribal region in northwestern Pakistan. He could certainly use the money it would bring, and it would give him and his family some much needed security. Maybe even an easier life.

Safir turned his attention to Gulab. “How many?”

“Twenty-nine. Your latest videos have been very helpful so far.”

He seemed surprised about that. “It’s also raised almost a million U.S. dollars since it went live. More than enough to buy the weapons and supplies you wanted and pay for everything else I have going on.”

The man’s battle-hardened features went slack with surprise for a moment. “I did not realize…”

Safir shrugged. “We have many supporters the world over who are willing to help us get what we need. It’s my job to make sure we reach others like them who are sympathetic to our cause.”

His various contacts and other jihadists around the world, along with mainstream media, had made the video of the attack on Bagram go viral within two days. Even now, money from admirers and those who believed in their cause sent a steady stream of funds into the offshore accounts Safir had access to. Buried in a series of shell companies, of course.

Gulab appeared awestruck by the news. Or maybe simply the dollar amount. “You will make more of these videos?”

“Of course. But I have an important project to complete first.”

The man’s expression turned sly and curious. “Such as?”

“Something that will bring the war to the Americans’ doorstep.” He’d been working on this for months with Omar, one of the best hackers money could buy. The operation would blow a hole in U.S. security and strike a devastating psychological blow to the country.

If everything went as planned.

The inside man Safir’s people had secured was on the payroll, and via the Afghan local working on base, had been extremely helpful in providing details for the attack thus far. Safir had made certain that the man wasn’t linked directly to him, and he would continue to monitor the situation with extreme caution from afar.

“God is good,” Gulab murmured.

“Yes,” Safir said for the sake of ease, though he silently disagreed. If God was so good, then why were his people still suffering under the tyranny of the U.S.-led coalition? God would not bring back his dead relatives or heal the warriors injured while fighting in His name.

No, religion was merely a part of this, a tool to unite them against a common enemy. Once a man had nothing left to lose, power and revenge were all that really mattered, the only things worth fighting and risking his life for.

The radio on Qasim’s hip squawked. He rose and exited the house before answering it. Safir continued to listen to Gulab’s plans for operations in the area over the next few weeks, not really caring about any of it. All his focus now was on the upcoming attack in the U.S., involving technology that was way beyond this man’s or any other warlord’s comprehension.

Qasim appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, his expression grave. “We need to move, right now,” he said to him in English, the use of it and dire tone making Safir’s stomach grab.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Americans have been to some villages close by, asking about you. They know you by name and have been showing pictures of you.”

Safir wasn’t all that surprised, but the news still sent a frisson of fear snaking up his spine. Ever since the latest American Chinook helicopter had been shot down the area had been crawling with enemy forces. Intelligence agencies had stepped up their efforts to identify him.

His name and face were circulating in the news and on posters and he now had a sizeable bounty on his head. The American media were calling him “Rahim 2.0”, which he found both flattering and insulting at the same time. He was so different from his predecessor, better, and had access to technology Rahim hadn’t been interested in.

“All right.” He got to his feet and thanked Gulab before turning to Behzad, now standing near the far wall. “Thank you once again for your hospitality.” Reaching into his pocket, he crossed to him and withdrew a wad of Afghan currency then held it out to him. Probably more than the old man earned in a year, and more than enough to improve his and his family’s living conditions.

Behzad’s eyes widened and he shook his head, his long gray beard brushing the front of his tunic. “I cannot accept this.”

Safir took one chapped, leathery hand and pressed the money into it, curling the old man’s gnarled fingers around it. “It’s the very least I can offer to repay you for your kindness.” And he’d offer more later when he came back next and asked him about sending him periodic reports from the area.

The old man’s eyes grew wet. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Safir smiled and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are most welcome, Uncle. I appreciate your friendship.” He was an honest, hardworking man. He deserved far more than this bleak existence and if Safir could help him, he would.

“Safir,” Qasim said impatiently from the doorway.

“All right, I’m coming.” He left the house with Anwar and Qasim while Gulab stayed behind to organize his men. Safir followed behind the other two as they took the narrow dirt path down toward the valley floor. They’d left the truck parked in the remnants of an old shed down the hill, out of sight from prying enemy eyes.

“Do we have a safe route back to the border, or do we have to use one of the safe houses tonight?” he asked Qasim in English so the other man wouldn’t understand.

His friend walked a few paces ahead of him down the dusty trail, directly behind Anwar, AK-47 held at the ready and his head swiveling back and forth as though he expected the enemy to jump out at them at any moment. “Not sure yet. Waiting for word from one of my—”

The roar of an explosion tore through the air behind them.

Safir’s heart shot into his throat as the shockwave blasted out and hurled him off his feet. He slammed into the ground in a heap, his ribs taking the brunt of the impact and knocking the breath from his lungs. No sooner had he landed than another explosion shook the ground. Struggling to his side, he wheezed in a thin breath of air as he took stock. His ears hurt and his head was ringing from the percussion.

“Safir!” Qasim was reaching for him, the whites of his eyes showing all around the irises.

He tried to answer his friend but couldn’t get anything out. Strong hands grabbed him beneath his armpits and began dragging him backward toward the hillside. Seconds later Qasim’s worried face appeared above him and Safir realized Anwar was the one dragging him. The man hauled him into the recesses of a shallow cave and quickly took position in front of him, putting himself between Safir and the opening.

Qasim dropped to his knees beside him, his expression anxious, dirt and thin streaks of blood streaking his face from where he’d scraped it on the ground. “Are you hurt?” he demanded in English.

Safir managed to shake his head, feeling nauseous as he did so. “No,” he wheezed, attempting to sit upright. Qasim helped him up and propped his back against the rock wall. “Wind knocked…out.”

The concern on his friend’s face eased but then he swiveled toward the cave entrance. “What happened?” he said to Anwar in Urdu.

“Something exploded back at the village,” he answered, his gaze trained in that direction.

Qasim peered past him out the opening and swore. Safir slowly got to his knees and crawled forward to risk a glance up toward the village. Fires were burning up there and already he could smell the acrid stench of the smoke.

Qasim pushed him back with a solid hand planted on his chest. “They’re still out there somewhere. Maybe they’ll call in another bomber—”

“It wasn’t a bomber,” Safir snarled, causing Qasim to look at him sharply. A bomber for such a small target? At such a high altitude that no one had seen or heard it coming through the clear evening sky? No. “That was a drone strike.” A laser-guided missile launched from a drone, maybe directed here by one of the men hunting him.

He settled back on his haunches, his entire body feeling bruised and a deep, lethal rage building inside him. “We have to go and see if Behzad is alive,” he said to them in Urdu.

Qasim made a scoffing sound and responded in English. “That’s just what they want, for you to come out into the open.” He eyed the darkening sky warily. “They might already have found you.”

If they had and launched a strike on this cave, his death would be quick and he’d likely never even know what hit him. Maybe he hadn’t been their intended target. Maybe they didn’t realize he was here. Still, knowing there were drones in the area made fear lick over his suddenly cold skin. Had they been hunting Gulab, or him? Just like his family, he wasn’t safe anywhere with eyes in the sky hunting him.

“None of us have any electronics on us except for the one satellite phone and the battery’s not even in it. The only way they could have found us is by human intelligence or satellite.” Which was highly plausible. More and more, he was convinced that he wasn’t the intended target.

This time.

He’d tried to keep the meeting brief, not wanting to put Behzad at risk, and now… He swallowed as guilt filled him, a foreign emotion he dismissed as soon as it formed. He was the leader now and there was no time for things like guilt.

“We’ll wait here for another hour and then move out. I’ll call someone to come pick us up in a different vehicle,” Qasim said.

“No. We stay for an hour then go to the village.” Although anyone wounded in the strike would likely be dead by then.

Qasim blew out a frustrated breath and raked a hand through his hair. “You have a death wish now? You know about the money they’ve offered for you. Even men you considered your allies might turn you in.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that now.”

His friend shook his head, his mouth tight. “Why is Behzad so important to you? Gulab is likely dead, and all of his men with him—but you don’t care about any of them. So why the old man?”

“Because he reminds me of my grandfather,” he snapped, shooting a quelling glare at his friend. “The only person who ever really gave a damn about me. He raised me until I was twelve, then used his life savings to send me away to a better life in the U.K. A farmer, like Behzad.”

Qasim shook his head. “There’s no way he survived that, mate. You know that. And even if he did, we don’t have a doctor or supplies with us.”

“I have to see.” It was his responsibility.

His friend muttered something under his breath and turned back to stare out the opening of the cave. They sat in eerie silence as the agonizingly slow minutes passed. There were no more explosions, no further sounds coming from up the hill. Finally Qasim gave the signal. On wobbly legs Safir ran back to the village, the other two men flanking him. He stumbled when he saw the first body part lying on the ground.

What was left of an arm, the flesh charred and peeling away from the bones.

Bile rushed into his throat. Safir covered his nose and mouth and continued on, already turning numb inside. He’d lost family and friends to this same kind of weapon. Yes, he’d killed men; shot them or stabbed them. That kind of violence didn’t bother him because those men were traitors.

This was different. Yet again a drone strike had taken innocent lives that the U.S. didn’t give a shit about. He’d seen the carnage on videos online and heard about it from survivors but he’d never seen it up close before.

More body parts littered the ground as they neared the village. The explosion had cleaved away part of the hillside, leveling the mud brick houses that had stood here only an hour before. Blackened corpses lay scattered about the rubble, some poking out between gaps in the scattered rocks and stones. The acrid stench of the smoke combined with the burned flesh made Safir’s stomach roll.

“Here,” Anwar called out from up ahead.

Safir rushed over. In the light of the flames licking at the wreckage he could see pools of black liquid shining. Blood, he realized. One of the pools thinned out into a trail that led away from the rubble of what had been a house.

Heart pounding, Safir rounded the pile of rock and brick to see Qasim and the bodyguard bent over a figure lying on the ground. Without them saying a word he knew it must be Behzad.