Against All Enemies Read online

  Behrang remembered feeling his cheeks go hot with embarrassment. “How will I know when it is eleven o’clock?” he’d asked.

  Charlie’s eyes softened at the question. “Do you know how to read a watch?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Behrang could read Shakespeare. Of course he could read a watch. There had been a time when he’d actually owned one. He’d had to trade it for a blanket last winter.

  Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Charlie slid his own watch off his wrist and handed it to the boy. “Here,” he said. “Take this one, courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

  Behrang also looked around for witnesses. “Your uncle will be upset that you gave away such a gift.”

  Something in those words made Charlie laugh. “Not this uncle,” he said. “My Uncle Sam is a very generous man.”

  The way Charlie laughed made Behrang wonder if he was being mocked.

  “It’s fine,” Charlie assured him. “I am not laughing at you. One day, you will realize why that is funny. Please take it.”

  “Then how will you know when it is eleven o’clock?”

  “I will know. I have many watches.”

  Behrang nearly didn’t go to that first meeting. All through the night before, he’d asked himself why he would want to expose himself to even the smallest risk in order to help one of the men who’d invaded his country. To be caught was to be killed in the most horrific way.

  In the end, though, he remembered his father’s impassioned speeches about principle. Principle and convenience are nearly always enemies, his father had told him. As are principle and safety. One cannot be without principle and call oneself a man.

  Those words had so angered Behrang’s mother. She’d called them arrogant. Could she possibly have known when she’d said, “Ideas like that will get us all killed one day,” that she had foreseen the future? Father had insisted that Behrang’s sisters, Afrooz and Taherah, go to the secret school in the basement of the old doctor’s building so that they could learn and one day become doctors themselves. Such things were just not done. Not anymore, anyway.

  Behrang had been only seven years old when Satan crashed through their door and tortured and killed his family, yet the sounds of the screams still echoed in his head every night. The image of the blood spray from their severed throats occupied the darkness when he closed his eyes.

  If Charlie could avenge that—if there was even a tiny, remote chance that Charlie could kill the men who’d ravaged his family—then any risk was worth it.

  Now, all these meetings later, as Behrang leaned against the Coca-Cola signpost among the sea of merchants and customers, he worried what might happen after this meeting with Charlie. Once they had their prize, what would become of his American friend? After Satan was dead, would they need Behrang anymore? Charlie had promised to make sure that Behrang would be sent to a safe place, but Americans were famous for making promises that they never kept. Father had been a lover of history, and he had told his family how the Americans had abandoned their friends in Korea and Vietnam and he had heard stories of the people they’d abandoned in Iraq and more recently in Kabul. They promised to be trustworthy, and then they just walked away.

  Surely, Charlie was the exception. They’d shared too many laughs—too many meetings that had less to do with the information Behrang brought than with just sharing time together—for Charlie to turn his back.

  Surely.

  Dylan Nasbe adjusted the shemagh at his neck and straightened his kameez so that he would look just so as he waded into the crowded bazaar. His heart raced as it always did when he mingled so close to the enemy. Because of the pressing crowd, he did his business without comm gear because even the smallest earbud could be seen in a crowd that was pressed this tightly.

  He was also unarmed, at least by any reasonable measure of such things in a war zone. Again because of the tightness of the crowd and the resultant ease of casual notice, his only weapon was a hand-sized Smith & Wesson Bodyguard pistol, which he wore strapped tightly to his chest, virtually inaccessible through the shirt of his kameez. To draw it would require lifting his shirt and exposing his belly to expose the gun. Not a stealthy action in this part of the world.

  Conscious that his accent was not always spot-on, and unable to tell the difference when he slipped out of dialect, he tried to say nothing, and as a rule, that was easy. In a crowd, a smile was usually enough. With his blue eyes camouflaged—he still blushed when he remembered the day Behrang had pointed out to him that he had forgotten his contact lenses—he felt most self-conscious about his size. This was a part of the world where people barely subsisted, where heavily muscled chests and necks were the kinds of anomalies that brought suspicion. Suspicion, in turn, brought death—preferably to the suspector rather that the suspectee, thus the S&W .380. As a hedge, he wore clothes that were too big, hoping that the extra fabric would make him look fat.

  Afghanistan was a beautiful country when it wasn’t on fire or cluttered with corpses. While the roads sucked beyond all comprehension, the landscape could be beautiful. On days like this—market day—the village became a stunning display of colors and aromas as vendors displayed their wares and hawked customers. The air seemed fat with the perfumes of fresh cardamom, cilantro, mint, and coriander, which combined with fresh flowers and cooking lamb and chicken to form a kind of atmospheric flavor that Dylan considered unique to this part of the world.

  He prided himself in not understanding Afghan culture in too much depth—certainly not beyond the measure that was necessary for him to do his job. More than a few of his Unit buddies obsessed over the cultures into which they inserted themselves, but Dylan considered it a liability to become too deeply involved with anything that it was ultimately his job to destroy.

  As far as Dylan was concerned, this entire mission was a waste of blood and treasure. The instant politicians declared their intent to surrender and walk away, every soldier left in harm’s way became a pawn, and every drop of blood spilled became a crime. But he was a soldier, and his was not to reason why. His was but to accomplish the mission and get the hell out.

  Fifty meters ahead, he saw the Coca-Cola sign that was his destination. Yesterday, a surveillance drone had picked up the image of the broken bicycle in the ditch on the eastern side of the roadway leading into the village—the sign from Behrang that he had new information—and thus here he was, a week earlier than their routine meeting.

  Just as it was a mistake to become too attached to the country it was your job to destroy, so was it a mistake to become attached to people who lived there. Success in war required a unique brand of mental disengagement. Success at Dylan’s level of the game—the United States’ most elite warriors—it was that and more. Sources of information were not friends, even though you made them think they were. They were assets to be exploited until they were dry, and then they were to be cast aside in favor of newer, fresher sources of even more valuable information. Dylan had done the drill a hundred times, maybe a thousand.

  But he’d never before worked with an asset who was a kid—much less a kid with huge eyes and a bright smile and an infectious laugh. There was a toughness about Behrang that Dylan found inspirational. Life had dealt him the worst possible hand, yet the kid adapted. He survived. He’d learned to be angry without being bitter.

  And in a few weeks, if a thousand things went right with nothing going wrong, Behrang would be safely in the United States. If another million things went right with nothing going wrong, he would be the newest member of the Nasbe family. After nearly twenty years in the army, Dylan had racked up a lot of favor chits, and he was cashing them all in on this one. He’d gotten the endorsements he’d needed from the Army, and another from the CIA, and now it all hung on a signature from some bureaucrat he’d never met from the Department of Homeland Security. Apparently, they knew more than the CI-freaking-A about terrorist threats.

  It was a one-step-at-a-time process, and the idea had been in
circulation for five months now. His wife, Christyne, was on board, and she assured him that Ryan was okay with it, too, though she discouraged Dylan from speaking to Ryan about it. That relationship was . . . complicated.

  If Behrang bore the news that Boomer anticipated, the first step in the plan would launch immediately—getting the boy to safety. Once he’d been able to find out the location of the Taliban command structure, Behrang would disappear with the Unit’s help to Pakistan, and from there, through a dizzying series of transfers, to foster care in North Carolina.

  But first, Behrang needed to deliver. The Agency’s endorsement made that as clear as crystal. As the chief of station had told Boomer to his face, “This isn’t a charity case, my friend. This is a business relationship. The boy needs to earn his way to asylum.”

  Boomer believed that this would be the day when Behrang did just that.

  Moving through this crowd was an exercise in capillary action—human peristalsis, maybe. He kept willing himself closer to the Coca-Cola sign, and he got steadily nearer. His approach was complicated by the fact that he didn’t want to appear too focused. People noticed when others were trying to move to a particular location, and by noticing, that drew attention toward the target. Just try staring at the ceiling sometime and see how long it takes for others to wonder what’s so interesting up there.

  Afghanistan was a vigilant country. Constantly on the lookout for threats, residents had developed an instinct for sniffing out anything that was out of the ordinary, and once sniffed, that became the focus of attention and fear. Thus, Dylan pretended to shop. He kept his hands to himself and his mouth shut.

  He’d closed to within fifty feet of the Coca-Cola sign when he caught his first glimpse of Behrang through spaces in the crowd. The boy leaned against the sign munching on a plum that dripped juice down his chin and onto the front of the rag that he called a shirt. He, too, kept a disinterested air about him, the posture of an orphan hoping not to be noticed.

  Dylan was still thirty feet away when the commotion started behind him. The crowd surged toward him, nearly knocking him off his feet as people clogging the street hurried toward the sidewalk. To Dylan’s left, a merchant’s booth toppled over in the push of the crowd.

  Not especially tall by American standards, Dylan was nonetheless taller than the average Afghan. As he stretched to his full height to see what the fuss was all about, his heart nearly stopped.

  Satan was here. The highest of high-value targets was right friggin’ here.

  Behrang noticed the change in the rhythm of the day before he saw what caused it. The loud, vibrating sound of the assembled shoppers and merchants dipped suddenly, and then silence washed over everything. People parted from the street to move off to the sides. Someone might have screamed, but maybe it was just a loud gasp.

  Instinctively, he wanted to run, but he stopped himself. To run was to get shot—if not by the Taliban or one of their sympathizers, then by a hidden American soldier or orbiting drone. As far as he could tell—and Charlie had confirmed it, though not in so many words—anyone who ran was automatically considered to be guilty, and therefore could be vaporized by a missile fired from so far away that no one knew it was coming until the shrapnel and body parts flew.

  So he stayed where he was. What was the right move here? Should he gawk like all of the others, or should he pretend to be disinterested as he had been doing?

  The best strategy was to blend in, so he pushed away from the Coca-Cola post and craned his neck to see—

  Satan.

  Fear twisted Behrang’s insides as evil incarnate emerged from the crowd and walked right toward him, as if he knew exactly who he was looking for, and exactly where he could be found.

  Blending no longer mattered. Running mattered. Survival mattered. He spun around to sprint into the countryside, but the path was blocked by another of the Taliban leaders. This was one whose name Behrang did not know, but he’d seen him in Satan’s shadow many times. The man grabbed Behrang by his shirt and lifted him off his feet. The boy kicked to get away, but the man’s grasp was too tight.

  “Behrang Hotaki!” Satan yelled, silencing the crowd. “You stupid, stupid boy. Bring him here to me.”

  The arms that grasped Behrang around his middle clamped around him like an iron ring. The boy kicked and wriggled in an attempt to get away, but the grasp didn’t weaken.

  A wide circle formed around Satan as villagers and vendors alike watched with wide eyes. The man whose face Behrang could no longer see carried him into the center of the circle and dropped him onto the gravel road at Satan’s feet. Pointy rocks ravaged his hands and his knees on impact.

  “You are your father’s son,” Satan said in a voice so loud that it was clearly meant to be heard by everyone. “But you do not learn from your mistakes.” From somewhere under his clothing, Satan produced a long, curved blade. Its razor-sharp edge gleamed in the bright sunshine. Behrang recognized it as the blade that had cut the throats of his mother and his sisters.

  “This boy has betrayed me!” Satan said. “He has tried to kill me, and he has tried to kill you as well. I have shown mercy to him all these years, and this is what I receive in return.”

  The man who had carried him here now grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him erect, even as he stood on the backs of his knees to keep him from standing.

  “No!” Behrang said. “No, it’s not like that. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Satan’s eyes brightened as he stroked his thick black beard. He smiled. “Is this truly how you want to spend this moment?” he asked. He’d lowered his voice now. It was only the two of them talking. “Do you really want your last words to be a lie?”

  Behrang’s mind raced for something, anything that might save him. Ahead and to the left, he saw a man push himself through the crowd to the edge of the circle. The familiar face looked frightened. Angry.

  Hope bloomed in Behrang’s chest. “Charlie!” he yelled. “Help me!”

  Three Years Later

  Chapter Two

  Jonathan Grave concentrated on his sight picture, forcing himself to ignore the heat of the afternoon sun that threatened to strip the skin off the back of his neck. In Virginia in July, the tropical sun was part of the deal. He lay on his belly on the mulchy forest floor, the forestock of his 7.62 millimeter Heckler & Koch 417 supported on a stack of three beanbags. He pressed the extended collapsible stock against his shoulder and split his attention between what his naked left eye could see and the ten-times magnified circle from the Nightforce Optics sight that dominated the vision in his right eye. Somewhere out there in the woods, roughly a hundred yards away, a target would present itself.

  Soon.

  Jonathan told himself to watch his breathing and to relax his hand on the rifle’s pistol grip. When the target showed itself, it would take only a slight press from the pad of his right forefinger to send the round downrange. After that, it was all physics. He watched the movement of the grass for wind speed, and the—

  His naked eye caught movement left to right, and he brought his scope to bear in time to see the black silhouette of a man streak from one tree to another. The target was back behind cover before he could commit to a shot, but at least now he knew where the son of a bitch was. If he moved again—

  There! The target darted back to the left, taunting him, but Jonathan was ready for it. He led by a couple of feet and released a round. Then a second. The woods echoed with the rolling sound of the gunshot.

  “Did I get him?” Jonathan asked.

  “You were behind him by five inches on the first shot and probably twelve on the second.” The critique came from his spotter, a giant of a man named Brian Van de Muelebrocke—aka Boxers—who had saved Jonathan’s ass more times than anyone could count.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Would you like me to show you the scars in the trees?” Boxers monitored the action from Jonathan’s right, his eye pressed to a Leica spotting scop
e. “Would you like a warning for the next one?”

  Jonathan felt his ears go hot. “No, I don’t need—”

  The target darted out again from behind a tree, and Jonathan fired two more times. He knew even as the trigger broke that he’d yanked the shots wide.

  “If I’m ever a bad guy,” Boxers said, “will you promise to be the sharpshooter who takes me out?”

  “Bite me.”

  “No, seriously. I’m tempted to go ride the target,” Boxers went on. “I can’t think of a safer place to be.” As he spoke he pushed the joystick in his hand to the right, sending the target out of hiding again.

  This time, Jonathan didn’t bother to press the trigger. He knew better.

  “Hey, Digger,” Boxers said. “How ’bout I give you a baseball bat and you can beat it to death.”

  Jonathan released his grip on the weapon and squatted up to a standing position, leaving the 417 on the ground. “Okay, Mouth,” he said, cranking his head to look up under Big Guy’s chin. “Let’s switch places. I’ll take a turn at the stressful work of pushing buttons. Let’s see you hit Zippy.” The target—Zippy—was a converted tackling dummy that Jonathan had mounted on rails that could be laid just about anywhere. Powered by a remote-controlled electric motor, Zippy was a great training tool.

  Boxers grinned. “Look at you bein’ all threatening and shit. Do you want me to shoot with my eyes open or closed?”

  Jonathan held his hand out for the controller, and Boxers gave it to him. Big Guy settled on his belly behind the rifle. The back of his T-shirt read, Never run from a sniper. You’ll only die tired.

  “Let me know when you’re ready,” Jonathan said.

  “That’s your call, not mine—”

  Jonathan jammed the joystick to the left, and the target took off while Boxers was still speaking. The 417 barked twice. Half a second after each blast, Jonathan heard the faint pang! of a solid hit.