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298 GH OS T RE CON
troops to the fight, while pulling the rest back to Sang-
sar to help ensure his escape.
But I was unaware of those facts as Hila took me
through the concrete pipe. Had I known that Sangsar
would be swarming with at least two, maybe three hun-
dred of Zahed’s best trained fighters, I might’ve given
the decision more thought.
But I was blithely unaware.
And Hila had assured me that the fat man kept only
two or three guards around him at all times.
Not three hundred.
Far ahead, my light finally picked out the edge of the
pipe, which led directly into another tu
about three meters long.
The air was filled by other scents I couldn’t quite dis-
cern: incense, cooked meat, burning candles, some-
thing. And then I paused, glanced back at Hila. “Here?”
She raised an index finger, and her gaze turned up.
I nodded. The concrete pipe had led to a tu
I believed emptied into a basement.
With a gesture for her to remain behind me, I shifted
farther into the tu
down and slowly lifted my penlight.
“Whoa . . .” The word escaped my lips before I could
stop it.
We were in a basement all right, a huge one. Fifteen-
foot-high concrete walls rose around the perimeter, and I
estimated the depth at more than one hundred feet. The
place had been converted into a subterranean warehouse,
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299
with long rows of opium bricks, crates of ammunition
and guns, and more MREs, along with dozens and
dozens of wooden boxes whose contents were a mystery.
I shifted to one box and opened it to find a bag
labeled in English: ammonium nitrate fertilizer. I
snorted. Fertilizer for making bombs.
At the back of the basement rose a wooden staircase
leading up to a door half open, flickering light wedging
through the crack. When I looked back, Hila was right
behind me. She hadn’t held back like I’d asked.
I glanced up at the wooden planks and ceiling, listened
as people shifted and creaked overhead. Hila’s breathing
grew louder. I leaned down, grabbed her wrist, and led
her along a row of opium bricks, then crouched down at
the back.
“Zahed is up there?”
She nodded.
I thought of the Predator, of somehow getting a signal
off to that controller, getting him to bomb the whole place
while we escaped back through the drainage pipe. Simple.
Clean. The only problem was I couldn’t confirm that the
fat man was up there. I wanted to see him for myself.
“Is it a house up there?”
“Yes. He stays in a big room.”
“All right.” I didn’t think I could get more out of her,
and she wanted to come with me.
“No,” I told her. “You stay here, be quiet, and wait
for me . . . okay?”
She looked about to cry.
300 GH OS T RE CON
“Please . . .”
“Okay.”
As I stole away, shifting quickly from row to row of
crates and opium bricks, I asked myself, What the hell am
I doing?
The door at the top of the staircase creaked open, and
two Taliban fighters came charging down the stairs with a
purpose. I tucked myself deeper into the crates and just
watched them jog through the basement and head straight
into the tu
between two crates now. She’d heard them but she didn’t
move. Perfect. That kid had a lot of courage, all right.
I gave myself a once-over and tightened the shemagh
around my face. I was about to step forward and mount
the staircase when I thought better of it and shifted back
to my spot. I was panting. What the hell had just hap-
pened? Had I just chickened out? I wasn’t sure. I dug
into my pocket, ripped down the shemagh again, then
do
to activate the device.
The monocle flickered, came to life, but the HUD
showed no satellite signal. I was still too deep. I removed
and pocketed the unit, then took several long breaths. I
checked my magazine, my second pistol with silencer,
was ready to rip open my shirt to expose the web gear
beneath and the half dozen grenades I carried.
Once more, the door above opened, and three more
Taliban fighters came ru
the basement, on their way toward the tu
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301
I kept telling myself that if I waited any longer, the fat
man would be gone. Either he was up there right now
packing his bags, or maybe it was all for naught. Maybe
he’d already left.
Well, there was only one way to find out.
My arm was stinging again as I hustled up the stairs—
a reminder that getting killed was going to hurt. Oh,
yeah. I shivered and passed through the door.
A long hallway stretched out in both directions. A liv-
ing room lay to the left, with tables, chairs, even a very
Western-looking leather sofa and flat-screen TV mounted
to the wall, all very posh despite the mud-brick walls.
Candles burning from wall sconces lit the pathway to my
right, where a large kitchen with bar and stools, again
very Western, was set up beside another eating area.
Someone shouted behind me. I turned to him, a guy
about my age with a salt-and-pepper beard.
He asked me something, then asked me again.
I shook my head. He shoved me out of the way and
jogged down the hall. I ran after him. “Wait!” I cried in
Pashto. “I need to see Zahed!”
But he kept ru
the kitchen as something or someone moved behind me.
I whirled.
Hila stood there, pistol in one hand.
“I told you to stay down there!” I cried through a
whisper.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see Zahed! I know
where!”
302 GH OS T RE CON
She grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the hall-
way ahead.
I grabbed her by the mouth, pulled her into the
kitchen, then ducked down beneath the bar and stools. I
rolled her over, my hand still wrapped around her mouth,
and said, “If they see you, they’ll kill you.”
She didn’t move.
I slowly removed my hand.
“You have to go back,” I told her, pointing down
toward the basement.
She shook her head.
I gestured to my eyes. “If they see you, they will kill
you.”
“I know what you said. I don’t care. I am dead already.
To my family. To everyone who knows me. Let me help
you. Let me get revenge against Zahed.”
The decision pained me. If I dragged her along, the
second we were spotted we’d be accosted, maybe even
shot. I could concoct some story, but I didn’t like that. I
didn’t want her around. I couldn’t bear to see her get
killed, not after what had already happened to her.
I told myself that if I could save her, maybe it all
meant something. Maybe I wasn’t just a puppet whose
strings were being pulled by asinine politicians.
But she could save me time, get me to Zahed more