The Shadow Patrol (29 page)

29

F
rancesca 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

W
hen 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.

Then he saw the streambed and the mulberry bushes.

* * *

THE STRYKERS
were so big that only two could park in the central plaza. The third and fourth stopped at the edge of the village, a hundred meters away. Francesca focused on the two in the center of town.

“You ready for this?” he said to Alders. “Blue on blue?”

“It is what it
is.”

The Dragunov’s scope was marked with chevrons and graphs that formed a primitive but effective range-finding system. Francesca marked distance to target at 525 meters. The black burqas were limp on their clothesline. The breeze had stopped.

The lead Stryker’s ramp inched down. One by one, men stepped out. Francesca watched through the scope.
Americans.
With American uniforms and helmets and M-16s and M-4s. No. Not Americans or Talibs. Not friendlies or enemies. Targets.

Weston was fifth man out of the Stryker. Soon as his feet touched dirt, he started directing traffic. He sent two men to the eastern edge of the square, spread the rest around the Stryker. They were loose and relaxed, Francesca saw. No one expected trouble. For just a moment, Weston looked up the ridgeline, like he was trying to spot the nest. But his eyes slid by Francesca and kept right on going.

Francesca moved to the second Stryker. The ramp had dropped. Two men out already. A third emerging. Rodriguez.
So Young was in there, too. Young was in Rodriguez’s squad. He’d be out in a matter of seconds.

Even better, here came Weston, walking over to Rodriguez. “Three for the price of one,” Francesca said.

“It is what it is,” Alders said again.

Francesca wondered whether Alders thought he had some profound wisdom there. Because he didn’t. But Francesca didn’t argue. They’d come to the silent moment before the lightning. Francesca steadied his hands, slowed his heart. He thumbed down the safety, put his eye to the scope, slipped his index finger through the trigger guard.

And he waited.

Young walked down the ramp, took a half step onto the muddy ground. Francesca’s finger tightened on the trigger—

Young turned and walked back into the Stryker like he’d forgotten something. Rodriguez stepped toward the ramp. He seemed to be yelling. Probably asking Young what the heck he was doing, telling him to get his butt out of the truck.

Then Francesca felt as much as heard a presence behind them. A scuffling on the dirt, leaves crackling. He couldn’t explain exactly how he knew. But he
knew
.

“Check the six,” he whispered to Alders.

“What?”

“Now.”

Alders didn’t argue. He reached for his AK, pushed himself to his knees, turned—

And then everything happened at once.

* * *

WELLS CLIMBED
to the streambed and angled down. Following the draw would give him the best chance of spotting the nest without being seen. Forty meters from the bushes, the streambed dipped between two refrigerator-size rocks. Wells walked between them. Another step and he could see almost to the ridgeline. A brown blanket. And two pairs of sandaled feet side by side. His first glimpse of Francesca and Alders, not face-to-face but face-to-foot.

Wells took another step, raised his pistol. And suddenly the man on the right sat up and turned.
Alders.
Holding an AK. His mouth popped open as he saw Wells.

Wells pulled the trigger, a quick one-handed shot. He didn’t have time to aim. The bullet caught Alders high in the chest, close to the shoulder, and pushed him down. Wells fired again, missing. A geyser of dirt exploded up from the streambed. Alders grunted in pain and kicked himself backward toward the ridgeline, cutting off Wells’s angle.

Wells stepped forward, but Alders put up a couple wild shots so Wells couldn’t charge. Wells shifted his aim to Francesca as Francesca pulled in his legs. Wells fired twice and missed both times. Only one for four now. Alders returned with the AK. This time the shots were close, and Wells threw himself down to the streambed. At this range, even a half-aimed burst could connect.

“Drop it!” Wells yelled.

Alders answered with another three-shot burst. Wells raised the Makarov, fired two shots blindly. Six gone now from the pistol’s ten-shot clip. But he needed to keep Alders and Francesca down. Wells had them pinned and facing the wrong way. They wouldn’t want to go over the ridgeline and expose themselves to the soldiers in the village unless they had to. But if Francesca could get himself and his rifle turned around, he’d have a serious firepower edge.

“Last chance!”

No answer. Wells raised himself to his knees, shifted the Makarov to his left hand. With his right, he reached into his gown for a grenade.

* * *

ALDERS WAS HIT BAD,
Francesca saw. The right side of his gown was already inked with blood. His big front teeth were chomping at his lower lip as he tried to keep quiet. Francesca had no idea how Wells had tracked them here. The answer hardly mattered, not
now.

Down in the village, the Strykers had taken cover. If Weston had any sense, he would delay as long as he could, give Francesca a chance to work this mess out for himself. But eventually he would have to send a couple squads up here to search the ridgeline. Francesca needed to be gone by then. He would have a tough time explaining why he was up here carrying a Russian sniper rifle.

He had to take out Wells and get back into the Arghandab. Let Weston and Rodriguez run his corpse over with a Stryker until it was unrecognizable. Meanwhile Francesca would get back to the grape hut and call in a medevac for Alders, tell some story about how he’d gotten pegged while he was out taking a piss. It wasn’t a great plan. It left Young alive. But Young had no evidence and wouldn’t be big on talking anyway, not after he saw his buddy Wells get creamed.

“You win,” Francesca said. He squeezed Alders’s hand. “We surrender.” Wells was too close for Francesca to tell Alders what he planned. Even a whisper would carry. He’d just have to hope Alders got it. Alders winked. Good enough. Alders turned and pushed himself up with his good hand. Francesca grabbed the Dragunov and got ready to launch himself over the ridgeline. He would spin and stand and fire through the mulberry bushes. He wouldn’t have much of an angle and he’d be shooting uphill. But he had a sniper rifle against a pistol and that should be enough.

* * *

ALDERS STOOD UP
unsteadily from the streambed, every breath a struggle. His right arm dangled uselessly. He wasn’t holding the AK. Francesca was still hidden. Wells was on his knees, holding the grenade low and close against his body so Alders couldn’t see it. As grenades went, the RGO-78 wasn’t great, a modern version of an old Russian design. It weighed about a pound and looked like an oversize green egg with a ridge in the middle. If Wells could drop it within five meters of Francesca, it would be lethal.

“Francesca!” Wells yelled.
“Now!”

“He’s coming,” Alders said. “I promise—”

Alders was talking too much, covering, and then Wells heard Francesca scrambling at the edge of the streambed.
Wells put the grenade to his teeth and pulled the pin and released the handle and tossed it up, aiming for the ridgeline. The grenade arced high, end over end, desperate and beautiful as a field goal try with no time left. Wells knew as soon as he threw it that he’d left it short.

“Grenade,” Alders yelled. “Grenade!”

Alders dove. Wells went down, too. These RGOs kicked fragments thirty meters.

Boom.
The explosion echoed off the hills, louder than a single grenade had any right to be. Alders cursed and Francesca screamed and Wells crawled down the streambed on hands and knees, the stones scraping the burn on his leg. Alders came to his knees and raised his trembling left hand. Shrapnel had cut open his arms, and the front of his gown was black with blood. His mouth was a hole in his beard. He would be dead in an hour unless one of the Stryker medics down the hill could stanch the bleeding.

“Yield,” Alders said. In English.
Reminding Wells that he was an American. An American soldier. In his eyes, Wells saw the truth of the surrender. No trick this time. Suddenly the Makarov weighed a thousand pounds. Wells had never killed an American.

“Tell me the truth. Why you were here.”

“You know
why.”

“Say it and I’ll let you live.”

“Coleman Young. Please.”

Alders had given up any claim to mercy with the false surrender. He’d given up any claim when he’d come here to murder Young. Wells raised the pistol.

“You said—”

I lied,
Wells thought. He squeezed the trigger. Twice. In the chest. Alders slid against the side of the streambed and his dead eyes accused Wells.

In the silence, Wells could hear Francesca’s ragged breathing.

“Alders,” Francesca said from just beneath the ridgeline. Wells couldn’t see him or the Dragunov.

“Francesca. Tell me who you’re working
for.”

“You gonna let me live, too?” Francesca giggled. “That what you’ll do for
me?”

“I’ll do you a bigger favor. Kill you now. No trial, you don’t spend fifty years in Leavenworth. Go out like a man. Your parents, your buddies, they never know you’re a traitor.”

Wells reached into his gown for his second grenade. Would Francesca move left or right along the ridgeline to protect himself from more grenades? Or would he stay close to the streambed for the most direct shot with his rifle? Yes.
He’d stay close, try to end this now. Wells grabbed his second grenade from the gown. His last grenade. His extra Makarov magazines were back in his bag, too. He was down to two rounds.

“Fair enough,” Francesca said.

Wells pulled the pin on the grenade. If he left it short, the ridgeline would protect Francesca. If he put too much on it, it would slide down the hill. Wells didn’t throw it. He rolled it down the dry streambed, hard. Then he jumped out of the streambed and dove down behind a rock and waited for the explosion.

It came too soon. The grenade had blown before falling off the ridgeline. Even as the echo died, Francesca yelled, “Missed.” Wells raised his head and saw Francesca standing up, spinning, holding a rifle chest-high, where he could get an angle and fire up the streambed. Francesca snapped off three quick shots before he realized Wells had moved. But Wells had no angle either, and with only two rounds left, he couldn’t afford to miss. He waited, expecting Francesca to hide under the ridgeline again.

Instead, Francesca stepped forward. He went to one knee in the streambed next to Alders’s body. He swung the Dragunov slowly left to right, covering the trees and rocks on both sides of the streambed. From where he waited, he couldn’t see Wells. But Wells still had no angle on him, and they were only about twenty-five meters from each other, and Wells would have to give up his cover to move.

“Americans dressed like Afghans killing each other with Russian guns,” Francesca said. “How about that?” Wells had the crazy thought that Francesca sounded like Keith Jackson calling college football. “I know you’ve only got a couple rounds left in that peashooter, Johnny. Make ’em count.”

Wells reached out, felt the edge of a rock with his fingertips. He reached for it, couldn’t get to it. He inched down, quietly. Let Francesca talk. The Dragunov swung side to side, never stopping. Francesca was waiting for any move, any sound.

“I
heard
Alders surrender. How do you shoot a man, he’s got his hands in the air, he’s begging for his life? Tell me that.”

Wells got his hand around the rock, found it was the size of a baseball. Just right.

“Tell you what, Johnny. I’ll tell you who I’m working with. And when you meet him in hell, you tell him the Shadow sent you there. And be sure to ask him about the missiles, will
you?”

Moving only his arm, Wells flipped the rock high into the air. He didn’t care where it landed as long as it reached the other side of the stream, the downhill side. It bounced off a tree and landed on the scree with a crack,
and Francesca swung the Dragunov around toward
it—

Wells came to his knees and lifted the Makarov and squeezed the trigger twice, knowing these were his last two rounds, knowing that if he missed Francesca would finish
him—

He caught Francesca once in the chest and once in the belly. The shots spun Francesca sideways and he fell against the side of the stream beside Alders. He tried to bring the Dragunov back around on Wells, but couldn’t. The muzzle dragged uselessly on the ground. Wells stood, jumped down, walked to Francesca, knelt beside him. The shots had caught him high and low. Ugly wounds, probably mortal. Francesca put a hand on his stomach and looked dumbly at the blood trickling through
it.

“Who you working
for?”