to dry off on the other side.”
Thomas slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and put a foot in the stirrup, hoisting himself onto the back of the stallion. “Let’s go for it.”
He only had one bag, and he’d kept it in the overhead through the flight. Nice and convenient. The commuter flight had been neither, Vic reflected, pushing his way through the crowded terminal. But, business was pressing. Their last target had arrived home.
A sharp ringing jangle caused him to jump and he retrieved his cellphone from a pouch at his waist. “Hello.”
He listened for a couple moments, then announced. “Good. I’ll meet you in thirty.”
Adrenalin seemed to flow through his tired body as he hung up. Things were coming together…
Estere had been right. The waters were ice-cold, flowing down from snow-capped mountains in the north. He could feel it soak through his combat boots and thick socks as Bahoz plunged on into the turbulent stream.
She rode ahead, a dim form in the darkness on the back of the grey. Deeper now, and the horse let out a neigh of protest. Thomas shivered as the water crept higher, eddying around his legs. The chill touch of death. There was no way to know how much longer the black would be able to keep his footing on the streambed. Then…
They were nearly to the center of the stream when it happened. One moment she was riding before him, the next he saw her horse stagger forward, its front legs flailing for traction.
Time seemed to slow down. He heard Estere scream, saw her clutch at the bridle as the current swirled around her, tearing her from the saddle in agonizing slow-motion.
“
Reach her.
His horse lurched to one side as he stepped into deep water, suddenly without footing and swimming for his life.
He could barely descry Estere in the darkness, a bit of flotsam tossed on the water. Out of reach.
Chaos. He felt Bahoz writhe beneath him, the stallion struggling against the current as it bore them both downstream.
And then she was gone. He pulled hard on the reins of the black, endeavoring to regain control, his eyes searching the night.
In vain…
The mountains were quiet. Unnaturally so, Hamid thought, making his way to the perimeter of camp. Perhaps it was nothing more than inbred prejudice against the traditional enemies of his ancestors, but he would be glad when they were safely back in Baghdad.
Sergeant Obregon was on watch and turned to confront Hamid as he approached. “Oh, it’s you, sir,” he acknowledged, lowering his carbine. Hamid chose to ignore the hostility simmering there under the veneer of civility. Some things had to be overlooked.
“Any sign of the Kurds?”
“That’s a negative,” Obregon replied, gesturing toward the NVGs that hung around his neck. “Everything’s quiet.”
“I had noticed. I was a Ranger, once.”
The sergeant turned toward him, a curious expression in his eyes. “You were? Where did you serve?”
“Afghanistan in the early days, up in the north with General Dostum. Tiger 02 of Task Force Dagger.” A grin spread across Hamid’s face as he continued. “Tasked with an Agency liaison in the spring of ‘03, just before I rotated out from my last tour. Most arrogant, irritating sonuvagun I’d ever met. So I know how you feel.”
He turned to see a look of surprise in Obregon’s eyes, protest and denial rising to the lips of the sergeant. “Sir-I don’t-”
Hamid put up a hand to stop the flow of words. “There’s no need, sergeant. I understand. Just don’t let it get in the way of our mission. Agreed?” he asked, extending his right hand.
The sergeant hesitated, then he reached out to take it, grinning as he did so. “Good enough…”
There. In the darkness. He saw her for a brief second in time, her upturned face white against the dark waters, close at hand. So close.
He pulled hard on the reins with a strength born of desperation, feeling the stallion fight the surging water.
An upthrown hand in the water and he reached out, the water tearing at him as he leaned from the saddle. Their fingers touched and then parted, her body drawn just out of reach by the torrent.
Again, and he leaned forward, seizing her hand in a frenzied grip. Her fingers felt cold and lifeless in his grasp. A dead weight.
She wasn’t going to help him. He wrapped one arm around the thick neck of the swimming stallion for support, using the other to pull her toward him. Pain flowed through his veins as the current swirled around them, nearly pulling his arm from its socket.
He couldn’t remember having ever been so cold. Another hard jerk and she lay across the saddle in front of him, his numb fingers seizing the reins once again.
Whether she was dead or alive, he knew not.
“Now, Bahoz,” he whispered, urging the horse toward the side of the stream, out of the current. The stallion was tiring of the fight. Another few moments and they would be swept downstream, swept to destruction.
The impact jarred Thomas to the bone, the flailing hooves of Bahoz striking once more upon the rocky streambed. Almost.
The black shot from the water with a mighty lunge, bearing his double burden and coming down with a crash in the more torpid waters near shore.
Thomas buried his hands against the warm neck of the stallion as they splashed to shore, the body heat restoring his benumbed fingers.
Safety.
He slid down from the back of the horse, his legs seeming stiff and useless. He reached up and took her limp body in his arms, staggering toward a clump of bushes a few feet from the swollen stream.
So weak. So cold.
His legs gave out from under him half-way there and they crumpled to the ground, bodies entwined together. Tears fell from his eyes as he leaned over her, hands cradling her cold, lifeless face. The end of all dreams…
