The Shadow Patrol

“Razi.”

“You know how to ride, Razi?”

Razi squared his shoulders. “Of course.”

“Then you can have it.”

“What?”

“The bike. You can have it. I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re not funny. You’re stupid.”

Wells raised a hand. “Allah cut out my tongue if I’m lying. Let me tell you what I need.”

When Wells had explained, Razi shook his head.

“Why do you want this?”

Wells nearly told the kid not to ask, then decided the truth would work better. “There are men hiding in those hills. I want to get to them and this is the best way.”

“Then what?”

Wells heard the rumble of the Strykers’ diesel engines in the distance. They couldn’t be more than five or six minutes away. “Yes or no, Razi? Yes or no?”

The kid looked at the others. He didn’t want to seem scared in front of them, Wells thought. Peer pressure worked every time.

“Yes.”

Wells stepped off the bike. He pulled off his bag and the branches that had covered it and tossed the branches on the ground. Razi took his place at the handlebars. Wells slid in behind him and put the bag between them and rested his hands on Razi’s shoulders. Without a word Razi put the bike in gear and turned them around and took them back up the hill. Wells was glad to find that the kid rode smoothly.

As they emerged from the square into the sun, Wells peeked at the eastern slope of the saddle. He saw a big boulder that might have been Francesca’s nest, and a couple of thick shrubs. But he couldn’t look too closely and risk tipping off Francesca. Instead he tucked his head into Razi’s shoulder and visualized what he would do when the bike reached the ridgeline.

29

Francesca watched the Strykers come up the road through the open fields. They dwarfed the crummy mud houses and everything else they passed. They were a ways off, but they would reach the village soon enough. They were moving twenty-plus miles an hour, faster than Francesca had expected, especially since the lead Stryker had to push its mine roller up the hill.

Still, they were running a few minutes late. On a routine mission like this, somebody always fell behind schedule. Not that the schedule mattered. The village was tiny. The platoon wouldn’t run across many motorcycles. The guys would hang out for a couple hours, knock on some doors, get back to FOB Jackson in plenty of time for dinner. Another mission complete. Another day closer to home.

Then Francesca heard the whine of a motorcycle engine. It was close by, coming up the hill behind them, the same road they’d ridden up. The bike sounded small, a couple hundred cubic centimeters. The engine was revving high, like the rider was in first gear. It made the last turn, reached the saddle, stopped. Alders started to get up, but Francesca put a hand on him to keep him down. A few seconds later, the bike moved on, to the edge of the ridgeline. It idled even more briefly, like the rider was looking over the ridge down at the village. Then it moved south.

“What was that?” Alders said.

Francesca raised a finger to his lips and scooted forward as the bike came into view. It looked to be a Honda knockoff with a 250cc engine, just like the two they’d passed on the way up. A bunch of branches hung off the back, like the bike had a wooden Afro. The motorcyclist was a big guy with a big beard and a brown shalwar kameez.

“Why’d he stop on the saddle?” Alders said.

“Probably saw the bikes, tried to figure it out.”

“And then on the ridge?”

“Maybe he saw the Strykers.” Then Francesca realized. “Could be he’s part of that IED cell.”

“I still hate the timing.”

Francesca didn’t like it either, but the guy looked local. Anyway, if Francesca took him out, they’d lose any chance at Young. “I’m gonna let him roll.”

The guy reached the square in the middle of the village, disappeared behind a mud wall. Francesca could still hear the bike idling. He looked down the road. The Strykers were closing, under three miles out now, steaming up the hill.

“I don’t like it,” Alders said.

Francesca ignored him. The biker was no threat. And if he looked like he was becoming one, Francesca could take him out in seconds. He wasn’t wearing armor. Francesca would have seen it under his gown.

A minute later, if that, the bike emerged from the square. Now it was coming back north. Now the guy who’d been riding was on the back. A teenage kid was up front. The branches were gone. The passenger was holding some kind of bag.

“Told you,” Francesca said. “Dude’s ACF”—anti-coalition forces—“all the way. Getting out of Dodge before the cavalry gets here. Bet you a hundred bucks I catch him planting an IED back at the hut and I take him then.” Francesca liked that idea. Watch him now, kill him later.

“He stops on the saddle, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“He’s not stopping.”

The bike came up the road, its little engine humming chugga chugga choo. Francesca let it come, didn’t even scope it. He was staying focused on the Stryker convoy, less than two miles away now. He wanted to hit Young quick, soon as he had a clear shot. Weston and Rodriguez, too. Snip those loose ends. If Alders got pissed, so be it. The man couldn’t exactly file a complaint with CID. But Francesca figured Alders wouldn’t be upset, not after what he’d said in the truck. Alders had turned out to be stone-cold after all.

The bike disappeared from sight as it approached the ridge. Then it was on the saddle. It slowed, might even have idled for a second. Then it revved and disappeared down the back side toward the Arghandab, its engine fading.

“Told you,” Francesca said. “No problem. Show’s about to start.”

30

When the bike got to within fifty yards of the ridgeline, Wells tapped Razi’s arm. The kid downshifted. Wells stood, put his hands on Razi’s shoulders. Razi nodded to Wells’s unspoken command and tapped the rear brake lightly as they hit the saddle. Wells kicked his right leg over the seat and jumped.

He landed cleanly. Even so, he felt like someone had put a spike through his left foot. He grabbed the pistol and two grenades. He stuffed the grenades in his gown pockets, ducked behind a tree close by the road. Behind him, the motorcycle’s engine revved as it rolled away down the hill. Wells had offered Razi the bike in trade for the one-minute ride from the village to the saddle. The deal was more than fair, aside from the chance of sudden death by sniper. Though Wells had kept that risk to himself. Anyway, Francesca had stayed quiet and the bike was Razi’s now. He’d earned it. Wells hoped he had fun with it.

Wells didn’t think Francesca or Alders would leave their nest to investigate a passing motorcycle, especially since they could hear it disappearing. But he stayed behind the tree for fifteen long seconds before standing and stalking east, up the hill, pistol loose at his side. He scanned for the nest, the glint of metal, the shadow cast by an arm or leg. Nothing. He heard the Strykers now, their big engines rumbling. They must have reached the village.