“Where are the villagers?”
“Taking cover. Be careful, around here every civilian has a gun.”
Lopez grunts. “Dawn’s breaking. We can hold them off until help arrives.”
He’s right. The sky is lightening. The air is cold, and tendrils of fog creep along the surface of the river. The stones on the riverbanks glisten.
The radio crackles. “Five-Five Kilo, this is Two-One Alpha.”
Ballard snatches the handset from its cradle. “Go ahead, Two-One Alpha.”
“We have UAV eyes on your poz.”
Of course, General Anthony would have tasked a drone to loiter over Kagur. From the moment the exfil from LZ One went bad.
“Give us the news,” Ballard snaps.
“Estimate one hundred Taliban infantry approaching from the north, larger caravan one mile behind.”
“Damn.” I grab the handset. “What about air support?”
The general’s voice comes on the air. “This is Two-One Actual,” he says. “Those Talis have SAMs. We cannot risk exfil by air.”
“Two-One Actual, request immediate gunship support.”
“Negative, Five-Five Sierra.” The general’s voice assumes a tone of finality. “You are on your own.”
I toss Ballard the handset. Robyn stares at me, open-mouthed.
Back to the doorway. Bullets spray from the right and splinter the frame. I duck back inside. With cries of Allahu Akbar, Taliban rush across the bridge. Other Taliban, the vanguard of Shahzad’s main body, are firing from our side of the riverbank.
“Fuck.” Ballard drops the handset and turns back to the window. Rains fire on the Talis crossing the bridge. One man falls, then another. The Talis on the other bank provide a base of fire. The ones coming on our side are free to maneuver against us.
“Not going to wait for another hundred and fifty Talis to get here,” I say. “Ballard, Trainor, run for that house. I’ll follow. Lopez, you’re rear guard.”
Ballard needs no urging. Shouldering the radio, he squeezes past me. He’s through the door and running like hell. Robyn starts to go, but I hold her back. “Wait till he gets there, he’ll give us cover.”
More Talis rush the bridge. Emboldened by covering fire from their comrades on our side of the river. I raise the M110 and fire. Another two crumple onto the bridge’s planks.
Gunfire spits from the house under the steps. Ballard has reached the strong point and cleared it. I grab Robyn by her plate carrier and push her out the door. “Go,” I tell her.
Sprinting without the burden of a heavy ruck, Robyn covers ground quickly. One hand on the door frame, I step into the open and run after her.
AK47s fire from both sides of the river. Once again, it’s like we are on the X, sitting in an L ambush. Ballard and Lopez fire their HK416s in response. Accurate, aimed fire.
I’m gasping, running with the weight of a sixty-pound ruck on my back.
Robyn cries out, pitches face-down.
I drop to her side. Grab her shoulder, roll her over.
“I’m hit,” Robyn says. Her eyes are glassy.
“Can you stand?”
Bullets snap around us. I put my arm around the girl, help her to her feet. She’s walking like a zombie.
Fuck it. I let my rifle hang from its sling, sweep Robyn over my shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and lurch the remaining fifteen feet to the door. The muzzle flash of Ballard’s weapon is blinding. Inside, I drop Robyn on the floor.
“Where are you hit?” I ask.
“In the back.”
I roll her over, examine her plate carrier. There is a hole in the canvas, a dent in her back polyethylene plate. I can stick my thumb in the damn thing.
But—the bullet did not penetrate.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “Plate stopped the round. You got blunt force trauma.”
It was a hell of a shot in the dawn light. Center mass, between her shoulder blades, a bit to the right of her spine. There is a chance her right scapula’s cracked, but I doubt it. Whatever injury she has, it isn’t as bad as having her heart and lungs shot out with a high-powered rifle.
A hell of a shot—or dumb luck.
Lopez charges through the door. “Damn,” he gasps. “They are right on my ass.”
“This is not looking good, chief.” Ballard continues to fire single shots. He is picking off Talis crossing the bridge, but he cannot stop them all. Through the door, I can see a large force approaching from the riverbank. They are fanning out, investing the village.
We’ve been lucky. AK47s on full auto are inaccurate. Muzzle climb makes the weapon all but uncontrollable. The shot that nailed Robyn was the lucky shot to end all lucky shots.
“Do we run for the hills, chief?” Ballard drops another mag. Reloads, thumbs his bolt release, fires. A man fully integrated with his weapon.
I take a breath. Raise my rifle, dial the scope to 3.6x, scan the Taliban massing in the village.
Shahzad. If I can find him, I can end this with one shot.
“Either of you guys make Shahzad?”
“Negative,” Ballard says.
Lopez scans the village with his optical sight. “Negative.”
Ten minutes ago, I was thinking of running for the hills. Now all I want to do is kill the Taliban leader.
There he is.
The man in the photograph. Al Qaeda’s ally in Afghanistan, Abdul-Ali Shahzad looks more like a priest than a warlord. Long gray beard, karakul cap. Sharp, black eyes. Eyes that look like they are staring right into me every time he glances in my direction. He’s standing in the doorway of a house, a hundred yards away. Waving, barking orders.
I lay the crosshairs on his head, adjust my holdover.
Shahzad gestures. I swing my rifle to see what is occupying his attention.
My blood runs cold.
It’s a Tali, AK47 slung across his chest. Over his shoulder, he carries an RPG. The rocket is pointing right at me. Its warhead can crack the stone wall of this house. Not sure it will penetrate, but I can’t take the chance.
I squeeze off the round. There is a puff, a bright pink mist. The man with the RPG drops.
Swing my rifle back to cover Shahzad.
The warlord is gone.
23
Zarek’s Entrance
Kagur Village
Wednesday, 0630
I
