barely two months left.”
So Weston and Rodriguez wanted him gone. They didn’t know what he knew, what he’d guessed, what Fowler had told him. They didn’t know what he might have told his family or his buddies in other units. They figured that trying to take him out might be tricky. It wouldn’t look good if another soldier in the platoon went down in some suspicious way. So they were offering him a deal. KAF, Kandahar Air Field. Young was more likely to get shot back home in Oak Cliff than at KAF. He’d be more or less certain to finish his tour in one piece.
“I appreciate that, Sergeant. That’s a generous offer. Thoughtful. But I’ll pass.”
“All right.”
“And know this, too. Ricky wasn’t much of a soldier.” Young stared at Rodriguez until the first sergeant nodded. “Me, I take care of myself. I’ll engage and destroy any threat outside the wire. Any threat.”
Rodriguez didn’t say a word, and they stood looking at each other for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, Young got tired of the staring contest and put his hands on Rodriguez’s shoulders and shoved, shoved hard—
And Rodriguez stumbled back and landed on his ass on the Stryker gravel. He muttered something under his breath that Young couldn’t hear. He popped up like he was on springs and took a half step toward Young.
“You’re gonna regret that, Sergeant.”
“Am I now? Whyn’t you show me?”
But Rodriguez stepped back and smiled. “I don’t have to. Somebody else will.”
“Listen to me, Rodriguez. Soon as I get back to my bunk I’m gonna write my brother and my best friend some thoughts I been having. I’m going to put them letters in envelopes. I’m gonna write on the outside, ‘Only open if I die,’ and then I’m gonna mail them off.”
“Yeah? Good luck with that.”
“Wanna know what it’s gonna say? Just your names, you and the lieutenant, and a note that says, ‘These two did me. Whatever the Army tells you, don’t believe it. And you come back on them.’ And I can promise you that they will.”
“Never seen you scared before, Coleman. Telling fairy tales about how your best friend’s gonna come at me. How’s he even know where I live? He a detective or something? And then he’s hunting me down? Please.”
“I got letters to write, Rodriguez.” Young turned away.
“You go ahead.”
Young went back to the hutch and wrote his letters. For all the good they’d do. He might just have gotten himself killed this morning and he couldn’t see how to get clean. He had no evidence against Weston and Rodriguez. And not only did he not know the name of the SF operator he’d seen with them, he hadn’t even gotten a clear look at the guy’s face.
Nothing else to do, so Young went to breakfast. It was still early, and he was one of the first inside. He loaded up with eggs and hash browns. Normally he was careful about what he ate. Today he didn’t care. He grabbed a couple of Cokes and found a seat by himself in a quiet corner and leaned his head over his plate and did something he hadn’t done in years. He said grace.
PART TWO
12
The hood over Wells’s head gave off a funky odor, sweat mixed with dried blood. If the devil sold perfume, it would smell like this.
“Stand,” Najibullah said. Wells stood. Najibullah patted him down through his
“Lie down.” Wells did. The truck rolled off. It had been headed northeast when it stopped. Now it made a U- turn, back toward Quetta. Wells turned so he was lying against the sides of the pickup bed. With his arms hidden against the walls, Wells flexed his hands and rubbed his wrists together to test the knot. It was loose and the twine was cheap. Wells thought he could cut it on a sharp rock. He stopped moving and closed his eyes and tried to eavesdrop, but the pickup was moving too fast.
The truck swung off the highway and slowed and rattled over an unpaved road. The air cooled. They were rising into the mountains. The road noise lessened, and Wells heard Najibullah. “Won’t Amadullah be surprised? We’ll make him pay if he wants this one.”
So these men were fighting the Thuwanis. Maybe they were Afghans who had moved into territory Amadullah didn’t want to share. Or local bandits defending a smuggling route. Or they blamed the Thuwanis for a drone strike. Whatever the reason for the feud, Wells was caught in the middle. With better information he might have avoided this mess, but the CIA had almost no firsthand knowledge of this part of Balochistan. Americans had barely operated here in decades. The good news was that these men weren’t after Wells. They had no idea who he was, or how dangerous he could be.
The truck turned onto a bumpy track that seemed to be little more than a streambed. After half an hour, it stopped. “Get up,” Najibullah said. Before Wells could move, Najibullah kicked at Wells, dragged him up, shoved him out of the back of the truck.
Wells stumbled on a rock, let himself fall. As he hit the earth, he rolled sideways so his arms were hidden. He worked the twine around his wrists over a rough rock, cutting at the strands, feeling them come loose.
“Stupid cow,” Najibullah said. He kicked Wells. Wells grunted underneath his hood and squirmed up. Najibullah grabbed him and dragged him forward. The ground was uneven, and after a few steps Wells stepped into a ditch and stumbled again.
“Take off his hood,” one of the men in front said. “He’ll slow us down.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“He’s no threat. He’s a stupid Saudi. Take off his hood.”
Najibullah grabbed the top of the hood and pulled it off, snapping Wells’s head back. He found himself on a stony hillside, the sky a bright morning blue, the sun rising to the east, casting long shadows. Wells checked the positions of his captors. The pickup’s driver and passenger walked a few yards ahead. They carried holstered pistols, not rifles. Najibullah stood behind Wells. The thin one, Najibullah’s partner, brought up the rear.
Wells turned to walk and Najibullah caught him with a rifle butt in the side, over his right kidney. This time Wells wasn’t faking when he went down. He rested on his knees, his breathing ragged, the pain swelling with every heartbeat.
“There’s no need for this. I only want to
Najibullah smiled down at Wells. A generation of war had bred countless men like him, sadists pure and simple. “You Arabs come here and play at jihad and then you go back to your fancy houses. And Saudis are the worst. At least Iraqis can shoot. You’re only good for strapping bombs on. Blowing yourselves up. If Allah gives you the bravery to go through.”
“My brother—”
Najibullah cuffed Wells on the shoulder with his AK. “I warned you about calling me that. My cousin went to
