Sabotage: Beginnings (3 page)

Al bin Tosk protested, but in reality it was his insolence that caused what would happen next. He’d be the last of them to go. Tension ramped up, as did Ben’s desire for satisfaction—operational and sexual. Everyone was stricken in disbelief as Ben jerked and directed Al bin Tosk and the two remaining council tribesmen into the tiny grove of trees. They were all fastened immobile against the trunks with the bite of cloth and leather straps.

Their meeting location had been carefully selected by Ben to be strategic as well as symbolic. Atop the ridge just north of the Khojak Pass, about eighty kilometers northwest of Quetta in Balochistan, their carcasses would be found within a day or so because of the mountain’s popular ridgeline passageway. It was the best way to travel between Pakistan and Afghanistan—especially for terror networks looking to avoid boarder checkpoints.

As the black-bag scientist back in the States had trained him, Ben began the process of killing. His goal was no longer information gathering—it was perception control. He’d been taught that people have a small window of opportunity to tell the truth about what they know. Once that window was gone, effort was wasted.

The next phase involved making a statement. Otherwise, the CIA would appear weak or merciful. Ben had become indifferent about killing enemies of the United States. What he hadn’t anticipated was the extra benefits that came with the freedom to operate on a level unaccountable to any one else. The stark reality that if he were captured, his nation would disavow knowledge of him, stirred a thirst for living his life with a real sense of finality.

Al bin Tosk was now a victim of Ben’s thirst. He fainted for the fifth or sixth time. Ben enjoyed slapping him harder each time until he regained consciousness. Actually, Ben couldn’t wait to get his hands on him. By now the eldest tribal leader was begging to talk but it was too late. Ben’s gut had become filled with the flavor of flesh he’d devoured from the last two men. He reveled in the fact that his delight in cannibalism horrified Sunni and Al bin Tosk. It would help make Sunni’s message to his tribe that much more vivid.

“Just get it over with. Kill me now.” The old man still assumed he had the authority to give orders.

Ben had stripped the three men completely naked earlier. Now he jammed his bloody KA-BAR into Al bin Tosk’s left thigh. He heard—and felt—the scraping thud as it embedded into the large femur bone. Al bin Tosk passed out. Again.

Another bruising slap to the face, and Al bin Tosk muttered through swollen lips and cracked teeth, “I’ll tell you. Just let me free.”

Coward. I hate cowards. Die with honor.

“I’m going to allow Sunni to go free after I kill you. He will tell your people what he witnessed. Someone from your tribe will tell me the truth.”

His loosened jaw wobbled side-to-side, “Kill him instead. I’ll go back and tell my people. They won’t listen to him,” Al bin Tosk pleaded.

Sunni’s eyes opened wide. Ben assumed it was at the news he’d be freed but it should’ve been over how cowardly his senior mentor was.

“What a horrible leader you’ve turned out to be. You offer to sell out Osama bin Laden, your country’s benefactor.” He twisted the blade’s tip deeper into the man’s thigh. Al bin Tosk ground his teeth until Ben heard snapping sounds. “You sit on your sunburned ass while your fellow councilmen are killed, and now you want to condemn this younger man to death so you can deliver a message,” he whispered as he yanked the knife from Al bin Tosk’s thigh.

“Please send me,” Al bin Tosk cried louder. “Please.”

“I’ll send you,” Ben mocked. “I’ll send you to hell.”

J
ustice realized the
sun would set soon. He cautiously hustled to maneuver into position before light was lost. Unhappy about Batya calling the shots on this phase of the mission, Justice respected her specialization as a long-range sniper.

“Assassin is more like it,” he bitched.

Low crawling over jagged terrain wasn’t his idea of a good time, but it sure beat continuing to argue with that hardheaded woman. Justice mashed his lips closed; toxic combinations of sand, dirt, dung and scorpions littered Pakistan’s terrain. He snugged his olive drab scarf just beneath his eyes. The wind goggles had become dry-rotted in the elements. He knew the special operation’s adage that
two is one, and one is none
held true almost every time, but stranded in the harshest of elements didn’t always jive with headquarters rhetoric.

Justice remained close to the ridge. He could actually still see Afghanistan’s Kandahar region over the crest. Sun beamed off the light colored dirt floor—he closed his eyes and tried to muster tears before reopening them. He imagined what the region’s founder, Alexander the Great, must’ve thought as he traversed the new land. Justice couldn’t be sure, but he’d be willing to bet he thought it was a total shit hole.

He rolled onto his left side to allow the heat that had blistered through his TDU clothing to escape back into the camel-scented atmosphere. The long-range scope showed he was still about a quarter mile from his destination. He spotted Batya on the level cliff as they’d agreed. She looked to have the crossing guards in her sights. The plan was for her to take out two of the three terrorists with long-range headshots. The third would flee. Justice would intercept him before he signaled for help or got away.

The Khojak Pass was a popular passage route for terrorists moving back and forth between both countries. Despite Pakistan’s Prime Minister’s pledge to fight the Taliban and help capture Osama bin Laden—the nation had done nothing to help. The border checkpoint was a farce. Manned by possible terrorists, they served as lookouts against US and coalition forces. They’d be better off dead.

Physical discomfort was something Justice had learned to set aside. It was part of Delta’s and the CIA’s Special Operations Group training. The ability didn’t come easy, but he’d need to rely on it during this mission to survive. The sun increased intensity. Even though the hellish heat of the day would fade at sunset, evening’s brisk cold was a few long hours away.

He felt his body beginning to slow under the strain of moving stealthily for so long. Tattered hands and knees ached like hell, but were a better alternative than detection.

At last, he arrived. One—two—three gulps from his canteen and he stole a moment to rest before giving Batya the signal. Justice laid flat onto his chest. Each jagged stone jutted into his gut and legs, and he felt every one. If earth had ever wanted revenge upon humans for trampling across it, this was the spot for the payback. The original three guards remained in place but in a makeshift camp about two hundred yards on the Pakistani side of the ridge, another three-man crew waited down the slope.

Son of a bitch. This is going to turn into a firefight.

His foot twitched—anxious about whether Batya would understand his signal to wait. He soon felt nervousness detonating like small explosions throughout his body.

He tried to spy her with his single-lens scope, squinting to shield his eye from the relentless sun’s rays. Unsure of how to communicate with his partner, Justice aimed the scope toward the sun and watched the tint reflection dance across desert sands. Straining to see, he watched as the bright blip disappeared over the cliff. Had she seen it?

The heat baked him—without shade in the rocky highlands, he risked dehydration and exposure. Their plan hadn’t calculated for three more bogies. Neither did his water supply. Sun scorched, he rested his face atop both gloved hands. He focused on his breathing to conserve energy, but breaths came at a price—lungs burns with sandy hot air. Consciousness faded as the hours drug on. He felt like a hog at one of his Cajun culture’s
boucheries
.

A flash of light stung his right eye. He blinked and it was gone. He rocked his head over sore knuckles. There it was again—bounced on his chest and back across the sandy-coated terrain. It was her. His pulse quickened. It was time to react, but to what?

Justice mustered his will to survive. The extended exposure had tapped his reserves. He softly pounded the soil with a gloved fist to vent his aggravation—he knew better than to let himself go so far. He’d allowed the assignment of partnering with a female to distract him. He wasn’t adverse to females—he’d grown up with a kickass bayou girl who was more capable than most men. Krystal “Voodoo” Laveau was a neighborhood kid that tagged along with he and his six brothers.

Batya Cohen was nothing like Voodoo, but he could sense she was just as deadly. Maybe he understood the implications of a Jewish woman alone in the heart of a Taliban controlled Muslim nation. He’d be her only ally, and not much good if he succumbed to heat stroke.

Justice eased to his left side and slid his short-barreled submachine gun around his shoulder. He twisted against the silencer, screwed on tight to the tip of his barrel. Shakily, his right index finger clicked the muted weapon from safe to single select fire. He began to rock and flex his entire body, cranking up blood flow to his extremities. He didn’t know what or when, but he did know for sure that Batya Cohen had a plan. He had to be ready to join her.

Now he saw four bogies huddled beneath the watchtower’s ladder. There wasn’t anyone in the elevated observation deck. The other two had either left or were down by the canvas hide lean-to. He, Batya, and the watchtower formed the shape of the letter “L.” Justice had flanked them to intercept anyone who escaped Batya’s sharpshooting.

Slow, methodical breathing and reinvigorated blood flow had energized Justice—he was ready. It was now up to her initial action.

Patience, Justice. Patience.

He heard the strong accent of a Middle Eastern man. “You there. Come from hiding with hands above your head.”

Justice’s heart skipped more than a few beats. What the fuck had just happened between resting his eyes and getting caught by the enemy? Capture meant abandonment by his government.

He heard the distinctive bolt action of an AK47 racked only feet away from him. “You. American. Stop hiding like a dog. Come out now.”

Justice swallowed hard, but nothing slid. His throat burned like sandpaper over open skin. His swollen eye hadn’t gotten any better but he squinted enough to see three figures. Two males, dark-skinned with a mash-up of clothing that he assumed were uniforms. The other was female—Batya. He eased his finger off the submachine gun’s trigger.

Justice purposely presented a weakened appearance—even more so than reality. He towered over the smaller guards. He tried to spy Batya’s condition, but it was hard to tell. How could she have been captured without even firing a shot? Had she been working with them all along? Had he been set up?

Damn it Justice. Get your mind off her ass, and back in the game.

Fuck it. Justice had to worry about Justice. Neither Batya nor his agency would or could save him now.

“Hello ladies,” he said. He wanted to determine whether they actually spoke English.

They didn’t respond. Batya surrendered a slight grin. They pointed their rifles and nodded with dark looks, he figured mostly out of fear.

“Where you taking me?” he asked with more force. He knew the fate of captured Americans. Daniel Pearl had been a civilian journalist, a neutral party, and that made no difference. They’d have a field day if they knew Justice was a CIA covert operative. He’d have to react soon—very soon.

“Why?” he mouthed to Batya. His head ducked with shoulders hunched to disguise his true size.

“Better at close. Too many to take out,” spoken in a chopped blend of Yiddish and English while she feigned coughs into her palm.

Justice heard the unmistakable rattle of an AK47’s wooden stock as it struck a solid blow behind Batya’s skull. She tumbled to the hard earth, but rolled onto her side to absorb the impact of an unforgiving terrain. Justice clinched his fist into hammers of fury. He stopped walking. The terrorist behind him shoved him in the back, but nothing budged. Justice knew better than to extend a hand to Batya for help—they’d take it as a sign of weakness. He wasn’t even sure if they’d discovered she was female.

Batya stumbled as she stood. Her listing left shoulder rammed into Justice and he listened for a cue to attack. Other than a low grunt, he heard nothing—maybe it wasn’t a tumble on purpose—maybe she really was injured.

His guard screamed in his native tongue, but Justice understood every word—move or he’d be shot. Justice shrugged because he knew they’d not shoot him. Not yet anyway.

They passed beneath the guard tower. It was empty and Justice sighed in relief. Even a mediocre shooter on higher ground could be deadly during an escape attempt.

He glanced quickly to Batya, but she glared, blinked three times to signal that Justice should look to the East. He grunted, “Fuck,” as he was struck between his shoulder blades. He was shouldered in the lower back as they crossed over the ridge and headed downhill. Three other terrorists waited beneath a tattered lean-to tent.

How the hell can they stand sitting around a campfire in this heat?