Zeb Carter Series Boxset Book 1: Zeb Carter Series Boxset, #1

Contents

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Books by Ty Patterson

Zeb Carter

Acknowledgments

Dedications

Untitled

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

The Peace Killers

Dedications

Untitled

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Epilogue

Burn Rate

Acknowledgments

Dedications

Untitled

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part II

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

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Zeb Carter Series Boxset 1 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Warriors Series

The Warrior, Warriors series, Book 1

The Reluctant Warrior, Warriors series, Book 2

The Warrior Code, Warriors series, Book 3

The Warrior’s Debt, Warriors series, Book 4

Warriors series Boxset, Books 1-4

Flay, Warriors series, Book 5

Behind You, Warriors series, Book 6

Hunting You, Warriors series, Book 7

Zero, Warriors series, Book 8

Warriors series Boxset II, Books 5-8

Warriors series Boxset III, Books 1-8

Death Club, Warriors series, Book 9,

Trigger Break, Warriors series, Book 10

Scorched Earth, Warriors series, Book 11

RUN! Warriors series, Book 12

Gemini Series

Dividing Zero, Gemini Series, Book 1

Defending Cain, Gemini Series, Book 2

I Am Missing, Gemini Series, Book 3

Wrecking Team, Gemini Series Book 4

Cade Stryker Series

The Last Gunfighter of Space, Book 1

The Thief Who Stole A Planet, Book 2

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Zeb Carter, Book 1

The Peace Killers, Book 2

Burn Rate, Book 3

Terror, Book 4

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This is a series of novellas that link to the Warriors Series thrillers

Zulu Hour, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 1

The Shadow, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 2

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The Texan, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 4

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Acknowledgments

No book is a single person’s product. I am privileged that Zeb Carter has benefited from the input of several great people.

Molly Birch, David T. Blake, Tracy Boulet, Patricia Burke, Mark Campbell, Tricia Cullerton, Claire Forgacs, Dave Davis, Sylvia Foster, Cary Lory Becker, Charlie Carrick, Pat Ellis, Dori Barrett, Simon Alphonso, Dave Davis, V. Elizabeth Perry, Ann Finn, Pete Bennett, Eric Blackburn, Margaret Harvey, David Hay, Jim Lambert, Suzanne Jackson Mickelson, Tricia Terry Pellman, Jimmy Smith, Theresa and Brad Werths, who are my beta readers and who helped shape my book, my launch team for supporting me, and Doreen Martens for her editing.

Dedications

To Michelle Rose Dunn, Debbie Bruns Gallant, Tom Gallant and Cheri Gerhardt, for supporting me.

To the women and men who explored new lands and those who ventured into space.

Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are just targets; nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back.

— Heraclitus

Chapter One

‘I have a particular talent.’ The speaker was young, in his mid-twenties. He was dark-haired, brown-eyed and stood ramrod straight.

He was casually dressed—shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, belt around his waist—as he stood in the room in front of five seated men in suits. All of them had a presence.

The speaker guessed they were men who decided on war; how it was fought and where. He knew he was looking at military men. That had been made clear before the interview. Now, on observing them, he guessed they were three- or four-star generals, or their equivalents from the Navy or Air Force.

No names had been exchanged when he entered the room, in an anonymous-looking building in DC.

He had looked it up. It was occupied by various private companies and also rented out rooms by the hour.

‘What talent is that?’ said a balding man, as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

It had been a long day and they seemed to be nowhere near making a decision. That’s what it felt like to the speaker.

‘Finding people, sir.’

Several suits snorted.

‘The military has enough of such soldiers, son,’ a silver-haired man spoke. ‘We don’t need another one.’

‘And killing them, sir. Killing those who are threats to us.’

That stopped them.

Those who were good in the killing arts weren’t uncommon in the military, either. Or on the outside, in the private-sector world.

But the way the young man had spoken struck them.

He was utterly confident, without being arrogant. He was calm, his voice so soft they almost had to strain to hear him.

It was rare for men of their seniority to come together and interview candidates. Most men or women would have felt intimidated by them, even without knowing who they were, what rank they held.

Yet, the man facing them seemed unaffected.

He stood, arms crossed behind his back, legs spread apart slightly and looked them in the eye.

No hesitation. No fidgeting.

Many of the previous candidates had been arrogant. One had boasted about the kills he had made. The panel had shown him out quickly.

A squat, suited man picked up the speaker’s folder and rifled through it. Somalia. Iraq. Lebanon. Israel. Greece. London. Belfast. Several redacted portions, to which they had access.

The current candidate had been to several of the hot spots of the world.

He had led units. He had worked independently. He had been in hostile country, undercover for months.

He spoke several languages fluently.

A superior had jotted a comment. Has an ear for languages. In just a few weeks, in a new country, can speak well enough to get by.

He was a master sniper. He had won several unarmed-combat trophies. Those who knew him, respected him.

The man lingered on the last country the candidate had been to while in the military.

Afghanistan.

He whispered to his peers. The file was passed around.

‘We didn’t know we had Superman in our ranks,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.

The candidate’s reaction astounded them.

He unbuttoned his shirt, all the while looking at them.

‘What? What are you doing?’ the suit roared.

The candidate didn’t stop.

He removed his shirt. Removed his vest.

And then pointed to a badly healed wound just below his heart.

‘I don’t think Superman has such a scar.’

‘You think this is a joke?’ Silver Hair rose. ‘Do you know who we are? Just because you aren’t in the military, you think you can get away with such behavior? You are walking that close to the edge, young man.’

The speaker finished dressing and stood smartly, waiting for the outburst to finish.

‘Yes, sir. And I apologize for offending you. I meant no disrespect. Way I figure, you have been sitting there all day, listening to other candidates like me. You are trying to decide who’s the best person for the job. You made a comment. I do not know if you were serious. I could have said something. Lots of words, but I thought you probably have had enough of words, and hence my action.’

He paused a beat. ‘I will understand if I am not selected. For whatever you have in mind.’

The suits did the bent-heads-whispering-furiously thing again.

‘You are not afraid?’ the balding man asked him.

‘Yes, sir. I am.’

‘I don’t mean that stunt you pulled off,’ the man waved. ‘I mean in the field.’

‘I am often afraid, sir.’

‘And yet you came here.’

‘I was told it would be a good idea to offer my services to my country,’ the candidate said, smiling sardonically.

‘You know you won’t get paid?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Driven by noble intentions, no doubt,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.

The candidate didn’t rise to the bait.

‘You know what this is about?’ The balding general threw an irritated glance at the interruption.

‘I can make a guess. You are looking for an outside contractor. That means whatever you are planning is high-risk and has to be deniable. I was told your candidate should speak Pashtun. Right now, Afghanistan is our hottest spot. Maybe you’re thinking of rescuing those three Delta operators. Using someone like me?’

Silence in the room.

‘You are still bound by the declarations and non-disclosures you signed,’ Silver Hair barked.

‘Sir,’ the speaker said, smiling fully, ‘I am sure you vetted all the candidates before interviewing them. None of us would have been in this room if we were in the habit of running to the nearest newspaper, TV channel, or website.’

More silence.

‘That’s the most hostile terrain in the world,’ squat suit said, shifting in his metal chair. ‘The most dangerous fighters out there.’

‘Yes, sir. I have been there. I have fought them.’

‘Indeed, you have. And you still want to go back? Assuming that’s the operation. You could die.’

‘I don’t mind dying, sir.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Silver Hair said brusquely. ‘You are willing to go on something that’s pretty much a suicide mission. Involves no payment, no fame, no movie or book deal out of it. Why? Love of country?’

‘I was Delta. Those men are Delta, sir,’ the speaker said, as if that explained it all.

‘You could be tortured.’

‘I have been tortured, sir. Quite a few times.’

Silence.

The men stared at him.

He held their eyes.

‘You like killing?’ Silver Hair said, no inflection in his voice.

‘No, sir.’

‘What do you like?’

‘Saving people, sir.’

A clock ticked somewhere. A chair scraped.

Outside the small room, faint voices could be heard.

The bald man spoke finally. ‘Someone will let you know.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he squared his shoulders and turned to leave.

‘A moment?’

‘Sir?’

‘Why did you leave Delta?’

‘I was getting promoted, sir. That meant a desk job.’

‘You don’t like management? The administration side of operations?’

‘I do, sir. But not if it’s what I have to do all day.’

‘You like the money as a private military contractor?’

‘I am a mercenary, sir,’ a smile ghosted over his lips and disappeared quickly. ‘There’s no need to use fancy words. To answer your question, I do, but I don’t do it just for the money.’

‘What’s your name? All the folders are anonymous.’

‘You don’t have to share it, if you don’t want to,’ he added quickly.

‘Zebadiah Carter, sir.’

‘Zebadiah. That’s quite a mouthful, son.’

‘Everyone calls me Zeb, sir.’

And Zeb Carter left the room.

Chapter Two

Sori.

It was a small village in the Badakshan province of Afghanistan.

The region, nearly seventeen thousand square miles, was spread across Afghanistan and Tajikistan, with two major mountain ranges defining it.

The Hindu Kush mountains that ran in the northeast of Afghanistan, and the Pamirs, which were more on the Tajikistan side.

Noshaq was the highest peak in Afghanistan, rising well over seven thousand meters. Foladi, to the southwest, rose to just over five thousand meters.

The region’s terrain soared sharply to the skies and fell away to valleys. In the winter, snow blanketed the peaks and lower lands, cutting it off from the rest of the country, from the rest of the world. Avalanches were common, sometimes destroying entire villages in one blow.

Travel by horse or donkey was the most common mode of transport in the mountains. A villager owning such an animal was considered to be rich.

Even in such an environment, with several small villages in the district, Sori stood out.

It was not just high up on a mountain, it was perched on a cliff.

A dirt path, two feet wide, skirted the steep descent and snaked through the village. A rugged vehicle could climb the rubble road, its wheels kissing the sides of the steep drop.

Even then, the vehicle wouldn’t be able to go inside the village. The driver would have to park a mile away, and to return, do a heart-thumping U-turn.

It wasn’t unheard of for grown men and women and children to fall off the cliff in the dark, never to be seen again.

The village didn’t have more than two hundred people at any point in time, most of whom farmed the poppy fields in the valley below.

Poppy.

It was the main cash crop in Badakshan. It was what made Afghanistan the world’s largest opium supplier.

Badakshan was at the heart of the narcotics trade in the north of the country.

Its valleys and plains had the poppy fields. Its villages had factories that turned the harvest into heroin.

Several villages across the province and in other parts of the country, acted as marketplaces, where smugglers and sellers met. The drug changed hands and, in return, American currency or weapons were accepted in payment.

A significant amount of the heroin produced in Badakshan traveled to Europe, through Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Central Asia.

The immediate beneficiaries of the narcotics trade were the farmers, but they were paid a mere pittance.

The biggest beneficiaries were the traffickers, the drug mafia.

And the Taliban.

The terrorists extorted tax from the farmers. They received tax from the smugglers for safe passage of the drugs.

They extracted a price for the import of chemicals needed by the factories.

The Taliban were everywhere, siphoning off money from Afghanistan’s narcotics manufacturing and supply chain, because they had realized that as long as there was a demand for illegal narcotics, there was money to be made. And that money could fund their terrorism.

And so, back to Sori.

The village was home to one of the province’s heroin-producing factories.

Farmers, when they weren’t tending to their poppy crop, helped out in the manufacturing.

The village had huts made of mud bricks with holes in the walls for windows. No sanitation.

One of the largest houses was where the drug was produced. Black sheets covered the windows. The stench of chemicals filled the air and permeated the hamlet.

But the villagers didn’t care. Poppy growing gave them a living. Working in the factory gave them a semblance of daily wages.

And even if they wanted to escape, they couldn’t.

Because the Taliban ruled Sori.

Chapter Three

The terrorists had effectively captured the village. To protect it, they said, but the villagers knew they were protecting it for the traffickers who ran the factory and the distribution.

It was not just Sori that the Taliban controlled. They also controlled Mir Darreh and Raghi, the nearest villages, lower down in the valley. There was no other hamlet within a ten-mile radius.

That control and isolation made it an ideal location for both the terrorists and the drug-runners. The former made Sori their camp from which they descended and waged their war against the Westerners. The latter turned the poppy harvest into heroin in the village and smuggled it out to Tajikistan.

The Delta team had been in the valleys hunting for a Taliban commander, Atash Mohammed. The five-member team, led by Chick Roderick, had drifted from village to village in the guise of aid workers.

They had spent two months in Badakshan, keeping their eyes and ears open for any information, any clue, on the warlord.

There were just five because a larger presence would give them away.

The Americans could have shelled the mountains to flush out Mohammed. And maybe that would have worked, but it would have also increased civilian casualties. And, who knows, Mohammed could disappear in one of the many caves in the mountains.

The U.S. Army had learned this the hard way. Earlier, coalition forces consisting of Afghans, Norwegians, Germans, Italians and troops from several other European countries had mounted two operations in Badakshan province to flush out terrorists.

Each operation was successful but after the coalition forces left, the surviving terrorists regrouped, more joined them and they disappeared back into the mountains, from where they waged their war.

Back home, the generals considered their options as they studied the operation, the focus of which was to take out Mohammed, who ruled over the northeastern region of the country.

Eliminating him would cripple the Taliban in the region and achieve a secondary purpose of damaging the narcotics flow from the region.

The generals talked to other coalition army leaders. They talked to the Afghan army.

All agreed it would have to be a small, nimble operation. It wasn’t as if Mohammed surrounded himself with men. It was a guerrilla war he was waging. Sure, he commanded more than a hundred and fifty terrorists, but they were scattered throughout the northeastern provinces.

All intel said that Mohammed had twenty, at most, thirty men with him at any point in time.

Use the terrorists’ tactics against them, the generals agreed. Send in a small, highly mobile force.

But first, they had to know where Mohammed was based.

There was no point in sending an attacking force to comb through the mountains.

So, they sent a recon team.

And that was how Chick, Bud Rohr, Kelly Hobson, Quincy Mayo and Travis Lefkowitz were in Badakshan.

They carried IDs from a prominent charity. They drifted from village to village, trying to pinpoint Mohammed’s exact location.

In the second month, they heard about Sori and about several bearded, armed men in the village, one of whom, their snitch whispered, commanded particular respect.

Okay. That, too, wasn’t uncommon.

Chick plied the informer, Sohrab Humayun, with drink and pulled out several photographs of various Taliban commanders.

Humayun unhesitatingly fingered Mohammed’s picture.

‘You’re sure?’ Chick looked searchingly in the black eyes opposite him.

‘Yes, sir.’ The snitch’s teeth were dark and stained. He ran what passed for a general store in Raghi. It was the largest in the region, and he frequently went up into the mountains with supplies. He was a well-known figure in the community.

‘How long?’

The informer shook his head. He didn’t understand.

‘How long will he be there? How many men does he have? What are his movements?’

Humayun said it would take him a few days, maybe as much as a week, to get that information. He couldn’t ask the terrorists straight out, could he?

The informer returned in ten days. Mohammed rarely left the village, he told them. Instead, he used burner phones and messengers to communicate.

He told the Delta team everything that he knew. His eyes dilated when Chick casually drew his Glock and placed it on the table.

‘I don’t play both ways,’ he said, shrinking away from the gun.

‘We know,’ the team leader said, and left it at that. Message delivered and received.

The operatives went to Sori the next night.

They drew up to the base of the mountain on which Sori’s shabby buildings rose, in the aid organization’s Jeep and started climbing.

They avoided the narrow path that wound up to the peak and took to the rocky hillsides.

They wore dark clothing: tonbaan, the long baggy pants worn by Afghani men, with a perahaan, the loose shirt that dropped to the knees. Armor beneath their shirt, boots instead of the chaplee that the local men wore.

They split up, maintaining comms contact. Moving easily, their weapons on their backs. HK416s, Glocks, blades, ammo, blood packs, grenades.

Chick and Bud would approach the village from the front. The rest would enter from behind. They would draw a detailed layout of the village.

Sure, they had maps of the village. Choppers had flown over Sori several times. They had produced high-res images.

But the informer said there were several secret alleys concealed by the almost-touching overhanging roofs of the houses. Some of those could be routes to escape to tunnels and therefore, the night recon.

During the day, they would hide themselves on the side of the mountain and mount a vigil in hopes of getting eyes-on confirmation of Mohammed.

They hadn’t climbed halfway up when their plan went south.

Chapter Four

Concentrated firing broke out from behind several large rocks above them.

‘COVER!’ Chick hissed and dove behind an outcrop.

His HK slipped to his hands. Took out a shadow that was racing down.

He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw numerous figures running down the mountain.

Firing filled the dark of the night. Five Delta operatives against what seemed like hundreds of Taliban.

The Afghans had the high ground. The Americans were disadvantaged not just by numbers but by terrain.

‘FALL BACK!’

They could still make it to their Jeep, on which heavy armaments were hidden.

More terrorists went down as Chick and his men laid down lethal fire and then a fighter leaped over his cover. The operative chopped him down with a hail of rounds.

More men appeared and Chick swung, fired, knocked and thrust his HK. In his peripheral vision he saw Bud and Kelly were similarly occupied. He couldn’t see Travis or Quincy.

A blow to his temple brought him to his knees.

Why haven’t they killed us? he thought, just before he lost consciousness.

The Taliban wanted hostages. Mohammed wanted to make Sori impregnable. What better way than to hold American prisoners in the village? Any U.S. or coalition attack would be hampered by the operatives’ presence.

Zeb ran through Central Park. New York. Home.

He had returned from DC the previous night and had gone about his day, which started off with a run.

He knew what had gone down that night in Sori. Everyone knew. The Taliban had made a big deal of the capture of the operatives.

Quincy and Travis had escaped. They had started retreating as soon as Chick had given the order. Loose stone underneath their feet had made them slip and the momentum had carried them down quickly.

They both were hit while escaping. Quincy took a round through his left thigh. Travis had his upper right arm perforated.

But they had managed to struggle back to the Jeep, chased by Taliban. Quincy took their vehicle off the rutted path as the terrorists opened fire.

Rounds struck it, as he drove deeper into the woods.

He saw the fallen tree too late. They crashed into it, their heads knocking against the windshield and lost consciousness.

An animal herder found them an hour later, as dawn was breaking.

The U.S. forces and coalition forces had both mounted rescue operations. Three of them, with heavy airfire to support ground troops.

Mohammed and his men disappeared into the caves of the mountains, along with their captives.

Meanwhile, the Taliban made a show of laying out bodies on the ground and inviting the world’s press to view them. Civilian casualties, they said, killed by the barbaric Westerners.

Two months had passed and no progress had been made to rescue Chick, Bud and Kelly.

The terrorists posted their pictures occasionally. Gaunt, haggard bodies; marks on their faces to hint at torture.

The Americans tried diplomatic efforts. They failed. The Taliban were well entrenched in Badakshan. Mohammed was a highly popular commander. There was no way they were going to release the prisoners.

Zeb took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He upped his pace. In, out. In, out. Smooth, long paces that covered the ground effortlessly.

After a few minutes, he saw three figures in the distance. Two large men, a smaller one beside them.

Bwana, his ebony face breaking into a smile when he turned to see who was following them. Bear, built like a mountain, with a well-trimmed beard and Roger, handsome like a model, a Texan who didn’t let anyone forget it.

Zeb joined them and they ran in silence for a while, comfortable in one another’s company.

All four were former Delta operators. Friends. All of them were pursuing similar careers on leaving the military.

Private military contractors.

All were choosy about the assignments they accepted. Nothing that would risk national security. No operation that would harm innocents.

Zeb was freshly returned from Russia, where he had taken care of a prominent mafia boss who was smuggling NATO weapons: an assignment sponsored by one of the three-letter-acronymic agencies in DC.

‘How did it go?’ Bear rumbled. He was referring to the interview.

‘They said they would let me know.’ Zeb briefed them quickly.

The unusual request had reached him through a military contact, a colonel who sometimes offered him work.

The brief said the Pentagon was looking for an exceptional operator. Someone who was independent, not a current serving member in the armed forces.

‘Delta has enough operatives. There are the SEALs. Other specialist units. Why me?’ Zeb had questioned.

‘Not just you. I am reaching out to a few other people.’

‘How many?’

‘Four others. Similar background to yours.’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Can’t, or won’t? You’ve known me long enough.’

‘It will be cold,’ the colonel relented and then clammed up.

Zeb’s friends hadn’t applied because they didn’t speak Pashtun. That was one of the requirements the colonel had specified.

‘You really think we’ll send just one person? On a rescue mission?’

‘If it is what we think it is … yeah. All other approaches seem to have failed.’

‘I am sure you’ll be selected,’ Bwana grinned.

Two heads nodded in agreement.

They knew their friend.

They knew what Zeb Carter was capable of.

Chapter Five

The suits considered the five candidates. All were impressive. Their files were thick with their exploits in distant locations in hostile situations. The details included their missions while in the military, as well as operations as private contractors.

One had been in a team that took out an African dictator who had started a regional conflict. Another had eliminated a Mexican drug lord.

‘Don’t like him,’ Silver Hair said dismissively when they discussed Zeb Carter. All files were labeled numerically in interviewing order. Number Five had ZC scribbled on it. He was the only candidate of whom they had asked a name.

‘He’s got an attitude. He’ll stick out like a sore thumb in ’Stan.’

‘He’s been in covert operations. He was in-country, under cover, in Libya for a year,’ Squat Suit said in defense. ‘I am sure he knows how to conduct himself when deployed.’

‘He’s a loner. You’ve seen his file. Works well in a team but prefers to work alone.’

‘He will be alone in ’Stan,’ the balding man sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘Quit griping, Klein. You didn’t like the stripping act? Well, I did. It showed unconventionality. A willingness to do some lateral thinking and lot of that will be required if he goes.’

That stopped Klein, the silver-haired man. They were all equal but Speer, the bald suit, was more than that. He was rumored to be liked by the president. If that was true … ‘He knows more languages than the others,’ Klein accepted, grudgingly.

‘Yes. Pashto, which all of them speak. But Carter also knows Farsi, Tajiki and Pamiri. Which is important.’

Because Badakshan had more Tajiks than Pashtuns. There were Pamirs and Uzbeks as well.

‘I like that Libya operation,’ Squat spoke up again. ‘He lived as a goat herder. Got close to Waseem al Hamad’s camp in the desert. Took him out one night. Escaped. No support, nothing from us,’ he shook his head admiringly.

Speer sensed the shift. ‘We’re all agreed? Carter?’

A chorus of yeahs.

‘I’ll speak to Kilmer. He’ll progress.’

Kilmer, the colonel, met Zeb in a café in Foggy Bottom, two days later. Both were in civilian clothing, but their short hair and erect postures hinted at their military backgrounds.

The officer waited until their server brought their order. He poured steaming coffee into two cups and pushed one toward Zeb.

‘You look well,’ he said, casting a critical eye over the younger man. ‘I heard the Russian job went well.’

‘Was it through you?’ Zeb looked at him curiously through gently rising wisps of steam. ‘Another middle man offered it to me.’

‘Not me,’ the colonel said firmly. ‘We like the outcome, obviously,’ he said drily.

He took a long pull, looked around casually and then reached for his briefcase. He opened it and pulled out a thick file.

‘Atash Mohammed. Everything we have on him and on Sori, Badakshan, that Delta operation. The job’s yours. If you want it.’

Zeb didn’t open the folder. ‘Those men … I recognized one of them. Speer. He’s the commander of SOCOM. I reckon the others were his peers. If the military wanted to send someone like me, an expendable resource, why interview us?’

He spoke with no bitterness. He had been in the game long enough to know how it was played. Mercenaries were disposable resources.

‘That was Speer’s idea. He has this thing about honor,’ Kilmer sighed heavily. ‘Zeb, you know chances of success … of survival on this operation are low. Practically nonexistent. What can one man do that the U.S. military couldn’t?’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Well, Speer wanted him and the others to look the men in the eye. And to live with their decision, if the selected candidate never came back.’

‘They make such decisions regularly.’

‘The difference is, this time, you will be on your own. No air support. No comms support. No U.S. involvement. Total deniability. You can back out,’ the colonel said, eying the untouched file.

‘What happens if I do?’

‘Nothing, to you. Speer and the others will not go to the other candidates. They won’t go second choice. We’ll have to figure out how we can rescue our men.’

‘That might take a long time.’

‘Yeah.’

A motorcade of vehicles rushed past outside. Police escorts and outriders clearing the way for black SUVs and limos. Traffic scattered and regrouped when the convoy had passed.

Life in DC. Politics was in the air.

‘Something else struck me.’ Zeb’s words drew the colonel’s attention back.

‘What?’

‘I was thinking Mohammed kept our operatives alive because having them would protect him. Their presence will constrain our actions.’

‘Yes. That’s what we believe, too.’

‘But that hasn’t stopped him from killing other prisoners. Remember Hawkins? Jones?’

The Taliban commander had executed two captured American soldiers the previous year. The killing had made headlines around the world. It was followed by intensive bombing and ground operations by U.S. and coalition forces in Badakshan province.

Mohammed had escaped into his caves and had survived.

‘He is a master strategist. And a survivor.’ He looked up sharply. ‘He, the Taliban, aren’t negotiating with us for a prisoner exchange?’

Kilmer shook his head. ‘Nope. That would never happen.’

Zeb’s frustration showed in his voice.

‘So, why are our operatives alive?’

Chapter Six

Zeb and Kilmer thrashed it around for another hour. Neither came up with any answers.

Zeb took the folder and rose. Kilmer rose, too.

‘There’s one more thing,’ the colonel said, stopping him. ‘In about a month’s time, five weeks precisely, coalition forces will begin a significant assault on the Taliban. On all fronts. Kandahar. Badakshan. Everywhere.’

Zeb knew what he meant. Any rescue attempt would have to happen before that. Otherwise, not only would escape be more difficult, there was a real chance Mohammed would execute the prisoners.

‘You aren’t making this easy, are you?’ he grinned as he followed the colonel out.

‘We wouldn’t have come to you if it was,’ Kilmer retorted.

He gripped Zeb’s forearm and looked deep into his eyes.

‘Come back. Alive. With them.’

Zeb reached his place in New York’s Jackson Heights neighborhood that evening.

He ducked inside a Korean supermarket on the way, bought rice and soup and cooked dinner in his apartment.

He ate by the window, watching the city go by, down below. He rinsed and washed, then opened the file and started reading.

He turned off the light at one am and went to sleep.

At five, he was up and heading out to Central Park.

The fresh air reinvigorated him and when he was on his second lap, he decided to leave for ’Stan.

Just like that. Which was the way he operated, because he had no one to answer to, no spouse or partner to consult.

On returning home, he opened a hidden compartment in his wardrobe and extracted a large box.

In it were thick wads of cash: U.S. dollars. British pounds. Euros and the currencies of several Middle Eastern and Asian nations.

The file that Kilmer had handed him contained several thousand Afghanis, the currency of the country. Zeb had more of those in his box.

He considered them for a moment. The American dollar was universally accepted in the troubled nation but there was no point flashing them at a tea vendor. He removed a thick bundle of the local currency and stowed the box away.

He stashed his Glocks away, too. He wouldn’t need them. He would procure arms locally.

He went to another compartment and withdrew several passports and identification documents. Rifled through them swiftly and separated out a blue passport: Afghani, suitably torn, with worn documents to accompany it.

He slapped it all together in a duffel bag, along with his American passport.

He went to the bathroom and emerged an hour later.

His brown hair was now black.

The beard he had started growing right after the interview was black.

As were his brown eyes.

His teeth were stained, as if he chewed naswar, the powdered tobacco that Afghanis routinely stuffed in their mouths.

He took one last look around the apartment and left.

Caught the night flight to London.

At Heathrow, he went to the restroom and emerged a half-hour later as Akmal Rahman: black tonbaan, black perahaan, a white waaskat, waistcoat. Large nose and misshapen ears.

Rahman—Zeb, in his Tajik guise and with prosthetics to change his features—went to the Pakistan International Airlines counter and bought a return ticket to Islamabad.

‘Business, sir?’ the woman behind the counter said with a smile.

‘Business. I am an importer,’ he told her.

After eight hours of flying, he was in Pakistan the next day.

At the busy airport, he took in the various odors and sounds. Stale sweat, perfume; Urdu, English, Pashtun, Hindi, Arabic.

He searched for a PIA window and bought a ticket to Kabul.

‘Business or pleasure, sir?’ The woman scrutinized his documents carefully.

‘Home,’ Zeb said. ‘I am going home.’

Three hours later, he was in Kabul.

He rented a Jeep at the airport and drove through noisy, traffic-laden streets to Karte Sakhi, a neighborhood adjacent to Kabul University.

New construction alongside old. Neoclassical feel to many houses. Warm colors. Stone, brick and masonry.

He stopped outside a metal gate and jumped out of the Jeep.

A couple of passing women, in full face veil, gave him curious looks. They hurried on when he looked back.

The gate opened noiselessly and closed behind him.

He entered the still house, climbed to the upper floor and in the bedroom, bereft of furniture, knelt.

He fingered a corner of the floor and pressed a natural looking scratch on the surface.

It was a fingerprint scanner designed to look like part of the floor.

Several tiles slid back to expose an armory.

Glocks, mags, a couple of Benchmade, several grenades, two HK416s and ammo for them, two sniper rifles, two grenade launchers … enough weapons to start a small war, or finish one. He drew out night vision goggles, or NGVs, blood packs and medical kits. Several pieces of body armor followed.

He stripped, put on armor and got back into his clothes.

He grabbed several more pieces of protection and helmets and, after wrapping them in cloth to keep them from clanking together, stuffed them all in a case.

He closed the compartment and checked the various security devices in the house. Concealed cameras, motion detectors, it had them all.

Zeb owned or rented several such houses in the hot spots of the world. Cairo, Mogadishu, Gaza, Bangkok—all had a weapons cache and comms equipment. Feeds from these locations went to his Jackson Heights apartment. Alerts came to him if any house was broken into.

So far, not one had been.

Janitors, people he had cultivated over a period of time and trusted, visited the houses regularly. They cleaned them, maintained them and gave the appearance that large companies owned the premises.

He dumped the case in the rear of the Jeep and padlocked it. Shut the metal door.

And set off to Badakshan province.

Chapter Seven

Zeb went through his cover as he drove.

Akmal Rahman was originally from Raghi. His family were traders. They bought vegetables from local farmers and sold them in the village markets as well as in more distant towns. They were comfortable but not wealthy.

A good cover had to be truthful to a large extent.

The Rahman family did exist in Raghi. They were vegetable and farm produce traders. They had been so, for generations.

There was a male child, Akmal Rahman, in the family. He had been sent to Kabul and from that point onwards, the truth and lies started to converge.

The real Akmal Rahman had died when he was twenty-one. He had joined a militia gang and had been killed in a shootout with another gang.

As far as Joe or Jane Public in Afghanistan was concerned, if he or she cared enough, Akmal was in London. For higher studies.

His uncle, Abdul Rahman, was a prominent politician in the ministry of transport. He knew Zeb well. The American had done several favors for the minister. Over time, the two men had grown close.

It was Zeb who had gotten the story of Akmal changed. It had been easy, because he, Bwana and Roger had been first on the scene.

He had recognized one of the dead men and had called the minister. He had asked him to come alone.

On seeing his nephew, the politician had been broken. Then pragmatism crept in. His career would be destroyed if it was known the young man had been a militant.

Zeb promised to keep quiet about Akmal’s killing.

It wasn’t difficult. The Delta operatives knew how the country worked. A favor to Rahman of such magnitude meant that the politician would be indebted to them forever.

The story was that Rahman was in Britain.

The killing?

Only the Delta operatives and the minister knew that one body was missing when the police arrived and neither side would talk.

As Zeb drove towards Raghi, four people met in Kabul.

They were in the minister’s office, late in the evening, when all the officials had retired for the day. The minister came down to escort them past the security measures. Not that there were any of consequence.

At a nod of his head, the security detail let the three visitors in: two men and a burqa-clad woman.

The minister took them up his private elevator and gestured them to seats.

He poured tea for them, and when they had been served, he went behind his desk.

Before he could speak, the woman lifted her veil. ‘No one ever asks who your visitors are?’ Atash Mohammed wiped sweat that had beaded on his forehead. ‘I should have come without this dress.’

The Taliban commander was heavily bearded, with unruly hair and eyes that moved constantly. A scar above his left eyebrow gave him a sinister look that helped reinforce his savage reputation.

‘No one dares to even meet my eyes,’ the minister boasted. ‘What is the status?’ he turned to the other men.

‘We are almost there,’ said Vladimir Bykov, a lean, clean-shaven Russian with sinewy arms, shrugging. ‘The final batch will be extracted, processed and packed. Two weeks, maybe three more. Many of my people are on site. How are you explaining that?’

‘Expert contractors. Not that anyone will ask me,’ the minister turned to Colonel Jesse Tucker, an American. ‘Your corridor will be ready?’

‘Yeah, all will be taken care of when the time comes. What about our men?’

‘They are safe. Well.’ Mohammed spoke good English. His tone was insolent; he didn’t try to hide his contempt.

‘You were to release them,’ Tucker said heatedly. He was in his uniform. Of the visitors, he alone had no fear of being seen in public with the minister. They met often to discuss security matters.

‘Will happen. Once the consignment leaves. I am releasing some more pictures to the media. Proof that they are alive. Unharmed.’ Insolence in his voice.

The minister intervened quickly before the discussions got out of hand. ‘Mohammed has given us his word. We should accept that.’

‘He gave it before, too. He didn’t stick to it.’

‘I release them now and you will bomb us. Consignment cannot leave,’ the Taliban commander said, his eyes gleaming. He had a point and he knew it.

‘We are talking of just a few weeks. The rewards are huge. Which is why we are here,’ the minister said, adopting a conciliatory tone that got to the soldier.

The American nodded stiffly, and the conversation progressed.

They discussed logistics. How the consignment would move.

Mohammed and his men would escort it to the Afghan border. From there, Bykov would take over. The American and the minister would ensure that no U.S. or coalition forces would be on its route.

They all had a role to play. The upside was enormous, which was what had brought them together in the first place.

The American and the terrorist were on opposite sides. The Russian had his own side. The minister was looking out for himself.

Greed made them put aside their hostility. Avarice got them working as a team.

‘Anything else?’ the minister asked as he stood up, signaling a close.

‘Yeah,’ Tucker said, remaining seated. ‘My people are making a rescue attempt.’

‘When?’ Mohammed asked sharply, leaning forward. ‘How many men? Air support?’

‘They are sending one man.’

‘One man? What can one man do?’ the terrorist scoffed.

‘His name is Zeb Carter.’

Chapter Eight

‘He was Delta. Now he is a mercenary.’

‘Delta! I have three of them. Killed more,’ Mohammed sneered.

The minister waved him to silence. ‘What can he do?’

‘He has a record. That’s why they sent him. It needn’t have come to this,’ the soldier flared, ‘if this terrorist had released our men.’

‘Colonel,’ Bykov’s voice was soft, and yet it had the desired effect.

The red flush on the Taliban commander’s face faded. The American unclenched his fists. The minister let out his breath.

‘That is in the past,’ the Russian continued. ‘We should focus on the now. You have anything more on this man?’

‘No,’ the colonel shook his head reluctantly, ‘my contact … he says this man is a lone wolf operator.’

‘You don’t know when he is coming?’

‘No. He might already be here.’

‘The American knows nothing,’ the Taliban man whispered, not so sotto voce.

He fell back and raised his hands placatingly when the Russian turned furious.

‘This is how he looks,’ the colonel pulled out several photographs from a pocket and circulated them. ‘He speaks Pashtun well.’

‘We will find him,’ the terrorist said, fingering the image. ‘He will come to Badakshan and to Sori. We will be waiting for him.’

Zeb also knew Dari and a smattering of Uzbek. That wasn’t in his file. No one knew of that but for his closest friends.

Those languages would be of more use to him in Badakshan because the Tajiks in that province spoke Dari, though many of them understood Tajiki.

The plan fell into place as he drove out of the city early the next day. The roads were good, courtesy of foreign aid and at that early hour, five am, there wasn’t much traffic.

At eight am, he had his first halt.

It was involuntary.

He was following the AH76 towards Baghlan. Green perahaan and tonbaan on his body, sneakers on his feet, and a checkered red and white shemagh across his face. Just his eyes visible.

His Jeep, green too, was covered with a film of dust. He had the window down despite the cool air.

Traffic started bunching, slowing him down and when he peered out, he saw nothing but a long line of trucks.

‘Police,’ a trucker spat. ‘Americans.’

Zeb nodded understandingly, as if Americans and police were synonymous.

He saw it was a military checkpoint. Several armored vehicles and large military trucks had formed a choke point through which all vehicles passed.

Afghan soldiers were inspecting papers and questioning drivers before they were let through.

Americans, too, he recognized, when he got closer. Several armed soldiers, alert, clutching their weapons.

A soldier held out his hand for Zeb’s papers. He handed him the rental documents. Maybe it was something about the Jeep, but a few U.S. personnel came closer.

‘Going where?’ the bearded Afghan demanded.

‘Faizabad,’ Zeb replied in Farsi.

‘Why?’

‘Boss’s work,’ Zeb shrugged.

The soldier handed back the papers and was waving him through when an American whistled.

‘What’s in that box? In the back, buddy?’

Zeb put on a stupid grin.

‘No … English,’ he replied brokenly.

‘Can you step out?’

Three Afghans covering him. Two Americans. A third soldier joining.

‘What’s up, Steve?’

A female soldier: Lieut. Chloe Sundstrom. 82 nd Airborne.

It took all of Zeb’s iron control to show no sign on his face.

The same blank grin as he stepped out. Hands in the air.

‘Box in the back,’ Steve told her. ‘Can you open it?’

Zeb looked at him, uncomprehendingly.

‘Box. What’s in them?’ an Afghani snapped in Farsi.

‘Guns.’

‘What?’ the soldiers tensed. Their weapons raised. The few onlookers who had gathered, scattered.

‘Papers,’ Zeb explained. ‘In Jeep.’

‘Show them.’

He moved unthreateningly to the glove box and removed a sheaf of documents. Went to the back, opened the box and waited while the Afghans inspected the weapons and compared them to the list on one of the papers.

Rahman … Minister … his weapons. He heard snatches of conversation between the Americans and the local soldiers. Sundstrom had her head cocked, half-listening, eyeing him curiously.

‘Call it in,’ she said, her green eyes on him.

They called it in, their shoulders relaxing when the voice on the other end confirmed that Akmal Rahman was the minister’s nephew and that he was transporting licensed weapons to their family home in Badakshan.

‘Go,’ an Afghani thrust his papers back and waved him through.

Zeb bobbed his head in supplication. Thanking the minister for not revealing that Akmal had studied in London and would have known English.

He took one last look at the petite woman, who had turned to the other American soldiers.

‘Last tour, Chloe?’ one said.

‘Yeah. Will be going back in a month. For good.’

And then they were behind him, receding into the distance.

Chloe here, fancy that!

He shook his head at himself.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. ’Stan was a large country, but the world of U.S. soldiers was small.

He had first come across her in Helmand. They shared the same mess, and he and his friends had seen how she had affected Bear.

The large man was one of the best operatives Zeb had come across, but at heart, he was painfully shy. He had never told her how he felt and now he was in New York, and she was here.

Hope’s not lost. It’s her last tour. Will tell Bear when I am back.

His smile faded.

If I am back.

Chapter Nine

He reached Keshem in the evening with no further incident and hit more traffic, due to road building.

As he slowed to a crawl, he looked up.

Another hour to darkness.

He preferred to reach Raghi during daylight.

Make a night camp.

Decision made, he swung off the asphalt road, following a gravel path that took him around the town and in the general direction of his destination.

He stopped when he was away from habitation of any kind and under the stars, had a cold meal, checked his Glock and settled back in his Jeep.

He went through his plan again.

Find out where Mohammed was. Find where he’s stowed the captives.

Infil. Extract. Exfil.

It wouldn’t be so simple as that. There would be no flag or mark over the location where the prisoners were held. The terrorists wouldn’t be parading openly.

Or maybe they will. In that part of the country. All the farmers fear them. The politicians are in their pocket.

Will Mohammed still be in Sori?

He thought so. Intel said he was still in the region. The remote hamlet was one of the most impregnable ones in the province.

He has already survived attacks. There’s cave cover. Why would he leave? I’ll have to check out all the villages in the vicinity. In the dark.

What if he isn’t there? Or what if the intel’s wrong, and someone else has the soldiers?

Zeb smiled in the dark when the answer came to him.

He would work covertly, searching the villages. At the same time, he would stir the waters a little.

He would hit the terrorists where it hurt them the most.

He would attack their drug factories and shipments.

That’ll draw them out. They’ll come out of hiding, hunting for me and when Mohammed emerges, I can backtrack or question him.

Just before he fell asleep, another thought struck him.

Maybe I should be a drug smuggler as well. Demand to work only with the source, Atash Mohammed. No middle men.

He liked it. He would splash money. That would get him attention and word would reach Mohammed and hopefully draw him out. Getting the terrorist to come to him was preferable.

He pulled a thin blanket over himself and snuggled deeper into his seat.

The thrumming of engines woke him.

Two am, the dial on the dash told him.

Zeb was parked in a thicket well away from any roads, or whatever passed for them.

No houses around.

The sound came closer.

He reached behind and grabbed the weapons that he had removed from the box, once out of Kabul.

A McMillan TAC 338, sniper rifle, an HK and his Glocks. He swiftly strapped the handguns to holsters on his thighs.

Stuffed mags in his pockets, took a helmet and climbed out of the vehicle.

He went into the thicket, away from the noise, which was now very close. Found a small depression in the ground, just behind a bush and settled there. One hundred and fifty yards away from his vehicle.

The TAC went to his shoulder, its Night Force Mil Dot scope to his eye and he waited.

Two vehicles came roaring. Soviet-style armored carriers, their lights cutting tunnels through the darkness. They followed the same nonexistent route he had taken.

They squealed to a stop when the beams fell on his Jeep.

An engine revved and one of the vehicles moved to the front of his, boxing it in.

Silence for a moment, then four men spilled out: two from the front, two from the rear, weapons trained on the Jeep.

All armed. All long-bearded, in loose robes.

‘Come out!’ one man ordered in Farsi, his voice carrying clearly through the night.

He repeated the command in Pashtun when no reply came.

He went forward cautiously and peered through the window.

Straightened, when he saw the front was empty. He went to the rear and looked inside.

‘No one inside,’ he called out.

More armed men jumped out of the vehicles.

Six in all. Two drivers stayed inside, smoking, by the looks of the red dots glowing near their mouths.

Eight men.

He couldn’t see inside the vehicles. There could be more.

‘There’s something in the back,’ a gunman exclaimed.

The bulk of the arrivals crowded at the rear while two men watched, their weapons in front of them.

‘Break it open,’ a tall man said, heavier than the rest. He seemed to be in charge, because the others slammed the butts of their weapons against the door and broke through the lock.

Hands reached inside and pulled out the crate.

They nearly dropped it from the weight.

‘What’s inside?’ the leader asked.

Three men shook the crate and listened.

‘Weapons?’ one of them said, hopefully. ‘There are no markings.’

‘Open it.’

The crate didn’t give. It was designed for extreme handling.

‘Put it in my vehicle,’ Tall Man said impatiently and shaded his eyes as he looked in the darkness.

His face was lit by the headlights. Zeb’s finger caressed the trigger. He didn’t know who the men were, but he didn’t like them.

Four men carried the crate to the vehicle behind the Jeep, while the commander spoke softly with other men.

They nodded, split and went to the vehicles.

Zeb’s lips tightened when they returned, dragging one man from each vehicle.

The prisoners were bound and gagged. They shook their heads furiously and dragged their heels on the ground, their desperation and fear showing clearly in the lights. Both men bearded, straggly haired, in dirty clothing.

Tall Man raised his weapon.

‘Let’s kill them here and dump their bodies in this Jeep.’

Chapter Ten

Zeb scoped the captured men. Neither of them was the Delta operatives.

They thrashed on the ground and tried to roll away desperately.

Rifle stocks were slammed into their backs, and they groaned loudly.

‘Do it. We were thinking of dumping them somewhere anyway. This way, the Jeep’s owner will be suspected.’

Tall Man kicked one of the prisoners in his head. He took aim and Tall Man’s head exploded.

Shocked silence for a moment. The killers watched his body fall.

Then hands reached for guns.

The armed men yelled and dove away. Shots sprayed in the dark, many of them going above Zeb’s head.

He had the advantage of darkness and surprise.

He made quick use of it.

He worked methodically, picking off the men as they sought cover, some trying to jump inside their vehicles, others ducking around it, changing mags without conscious thought.

The drivers started their machines. Dust flew in the air as wheels scrabbled for purchase.

The next moment, both vehicles went spinning when Zeb shattered their windscreens and took the wheelmen out.

A cry from behind a vehicle. A leg sticking out. Zeb fired. A body flopped into view and twisted spasmodically when Zeb emptied his mag into it.

He slapped in a new mag and waited.

Eight men down in thirty seconds. The strangers had no chance. Zeb had used the terrain and the vehicles against them.

Still, he waited. Any of the men could be playing dead.

Time ticked. The Earth continued hurtling in space, silently, indifferent to the activities of its residents.

The two vehicles were stuck in dirt, their wheels spinning uselessly.

Half an hour. Then an hour.

A moan. One of the prisoners, who raised himself up and looked around wildly.

‘Who’s there?’ he shouted in the dark. ‘Help us.’

Zeb didn’t reply.

He took in the entire scene. The Night Force tracked behind the vehicles, to the route they had taken.

Nothing moved. No lights pierced the darkness.

He got up silently, slinging the McMillan behind his back, a Glock coming to his hand and approached the vehicles.

He went to the left one cautiously, gun held in front, alert for the slightest move.

The driver was dead.

As were the strangers around the vehicle.

Same story at the second.

He was conscious of the prisoners staring at him. He didn’t look in their direction.

He bent over the fallen men and snapped their pictures with his phone and only then did he turn to the captured men.

‘Who are you?’ one man’s lips worked, his eyes wide in fear.

‘Who are you?’ Zeb asked back, in Dari.

‘We are farmers,’ the prisoner tried to stand and flopped back when the Glock moved. ‘I am Nawid Ghani. He’s Parwiz Noor. We are from Badgozar.’

‘It is one hour away from Keshem,’ the second prisoner said, finding his voice. He shivered in the cold and propped himself up with difficulty.

‘Who are they?’

Both men gaped at him. They had come close to dying and yet that one question stunned them.

‘You don’t know?’

Zeb waited.

‘They are Abdul Malek’s men.’

One of the Taliban warlords