Dead or Alive

At the last second the moped swerved right across two lanes and took the exit. Embling, already in the far right lane, simply put on his blinker and followed.

For the next twenty minutes the teenager took them on what could only be a dry-cleaning run-and did a fairly decent job of it, Clark had to admit. They passed the University of Peshawar, the Department of Tourism offices, and the British Cemetery, until finally their subject headed north on Pajjagi Road, passed the Peshawar Golf Club, and again crossed the Kabul Canal. Soon they were on the outskirts of the city. Squares of green irrigated fields appeared on their left and right. Embling dropped back until the moped was a speck of bright yellow.

After six miles, the moped turned west and followed a winding, tree-lined road before pulling into a narrow driveway. Embling stopped a few hundred yards down the road, did a U-turn, then shut off the engine. They waited. This far from Peshawar proper, there were no honking horns and no revving of engines. The minutes ticked by until a half-hour had passed.

Down the road came the sound of a puttering engine. Embling started the car and accelerated for a quarter- mile to the next driveway and pulled in, coasting down the sloping dirt tract until the main road was barely visible through the back window. Ahead was an old barn, its roof partially caved in. Chavez turned around in his seat. A moment later, the top of the boy’s head drove past.

“Your call, John.”

“Let him go. I think we’ve found what we’re looking for. If the boy’s going to check the pickup spot, he’ll be back soon enough.”

And he was, forty minutes later, flashing by their driveway. Moments later the moped’s engine went silent.

“I’d say you’ve found your quarry,” Embling said.

Clark nodded. “Let’s drive past and see what we can see.”

An hour later, back at Embling’s house, Clark and Chavez sat and sipped tea while their host made three phone calls in rapid-fire Urdu. He hung up and said, “It’s a private security firm.”

“Wonder who he’s afraid of?”

What they’d seen as they’d passed the driveway was a white van bearing a white-and-red placard sitting in the dirt turnaround, and next to it a two-story white farmhouse.

“That I don’t know, nor was I able to find out the client’s name. The firm is a fairly recent hire, however. Last week, in fact. Two men per shift, round-the-clock coverage.”

Clark checked his watch. Nightfall was in five hours. He looked at Chavez, who’d already read his partner’s mind. “Let’s go get him.”

“Nigel, I don’t suppose you have any hardware-”

“I do. An alarming array, in fact.”

47

TWO HOURS AFTER SUNSET, Clark turned Embling’s Honda into the abandoned barn’s driveway. He shifted into neutral, shut off the engine, and allowed momentum to carry them down the slope and into the shadow along the barn’s wall. When the car came to a halt, he shifted into park, Chavez turned off the dome light, and they climbed out.

Nigel hadn’t been exaggerating the extent of his weapon’s cache, which he kept in an old steamer trunk in his closet. They chose a pair of noise-suppressed SIG Sauer P226 9-millimeter pistols. Standard-issue sidearm for the British SAS. They’d both spent many hours on the range with the P226. At Embling’s urging, they each grabbed a lead-and-leather cosh. “Never can tell when you’ll have a merciful moment,” he told them with a smile.

Now Chavez whispered, “What’s the plan?”

“Probably be one guard outside, either static or roving, and another inside. We’ll take down the first, then deal with the other when the time comes. Ding, try the cosh first. The fewer bodies we leave, the better.”

“Fine by me.”

They split up, Clark moving west through the trees behind the barn and Chavez following the drainage ditch bordering the main road. “In position,” Clark heard through his earpiece.

That was fast, Clark thought. Ah to be young again. “Stand by.”

He took his time moving through the underbrush, checking for telltales underfoot and low-hanging branches too dark to see. After a quarter-mile the trees began thinning out, and he soon found himself at the north end of the turnaround, thirty yards opposite the driveway entrance.

“In position,” he whispered. “Where are you?”

“End of the drainage ditch, against the driveway berm.”

“I see one sentry. Sitting in a lawn chair at the van’s front bumper.”

“Come again?”

“Sitting in a lawn chair, smoking, facing my direction.” Whoever had hired them was not getting his money’s worth. “Got a Type 56 leaning against the bumper on his right.” The 56 was a Chinese copy of the AK-47. Not the same quality, but certainly enough to worry about.

Chavez said, “I’m seeing one light on, lower level, my side.”

“Dark here. No movement. Go when you’re ready.”

“Roger.”

Even though he knew Ding was coming, Clark didn’t spot him until he was within ten feet of the van’s rear bumper. Ninjas own the night had been Chavez’s old unit’s motto. And he still did, Clark knew.

Chavez reached the bumper, took a peek around the quarter panel, then dropped into a crouch and waited.

“Still nothing,” Clark whispered after a minute.

He got a double-click roger in reply.

Chavez eased back now, moving around the other side of the van and out of sight. Ten seconds later, a shadow appeared behind the seated guard. Chavez’s arm cocked back and came forward. The guard slumped forward, leaning sideways against the van’s grille. Chavez pulled him back upright and crushed out the fallen cigarette.

“Down and out.”

“Roger. Moving.”

They met in the shadows along the house’s south wall. The porch and front door lay to their left. With Clark in the lead, they slid down until the entrance was in view. The inside door stood open, but the screen door was closed. They mounted the porch and got stacked on either side of the door. Now they could hear the faint sounds of television from inside the house. Clark, on the latch side, reached up and tested it. Locked. He reached into his back pocket, thumbed open his knife, and gently, carefully, inserted the tip into the mesh and drew the blade down until he had created a six-inch slit. He closed the knife and returned it to his pocket, then reached through and felt around until he found what he was looking for. There was a soft snick. He withdrew his hand and then sat still for a full minute.

Clark nodded at Chavez, who returned it, then crab-walked across the doorway and slid into position behind Clark, who reached up and depressed the door handle. He opened the door an inch, stopped, then tried another couple of inches. No matter their age or condition, screen doors seemed prone to creaking. Maybe it was the exposure to the elements.

This door didn’t disappoint. At the halfway point the hinges peeped. Clark froze. Chavez scooted forward until he could see beneath Clark’s outstretched arm into the house. He pulled back and signaled clear. Inch by slow inch, Clark opened the door the rest of the way. With his gun leading,