WARRIOR (CROSSFIRE SEALS, #5) (12 page)

“Our apologies, ma’am,” Mink said.

“No need. We women enjoy your male banter,” Vivi said, smiling.

“Going off already, Ma’am?” Lucas asked, eyeing the small suitcase Jazz was carrying.

“I have to pick up somebody and then I’m off.”

“Last night’s little melee brought out all the tribal family branches looking for that girl. Vivi wants to get to her before they do. I’d like the three of you to come with us. While she’s doing her thing, I want you all to get to talk to some of the men there, see if you can get any info about the Cob’s network. I’m going to talk to the
jirga
.”

The
jirga
was the elected tribal heads. Getting on the
jirga’s
good side was always the key to cooperation with the tribal families. Right now, they needed some of them to look away while they conducted some searches for the stolen Stealth parts.

“Aye, sir! We’ll meet you outside with our gear.”

––––––––

K
it had done her research for their investigative report. Intellectually, she understood the concept of
swara
. In this part of the world, the Pashto people had a custom called
pashtunswali
—taking revenge to maintain honor. This was viewed as justice.

Their investigation into the Pashto singer’s death report was based on the suspicion she was murdered because of this custom. She had publicly divorced her husband a year ago and went back into performing publicly, something deeply conservative Afghan and Pakistani men deemed as unseemly. Therefore her death came as no surprise to many people here. Although she was an immensely popular singer, the opinion that her murder was justified was accepted, with little moral outrage.

Sean Cortez had told her he wanted to dig deeper, to get the investigative piece to resonate about culture and deep tribal beliefs, and how change was difficult for Pashtun women. The topic was a timely one because of the recent push by Afghan and Iranian women for small changes, such as driving a car by themselves and even getting an education. Also, the one incident of the girl who had bravely fought against her elders because she wanted to go to school had made international headlines. Sean wanted to show more, to get the readers’ imagination fired up about how these women were committing acts of bravery everyday by doing what would seem normal and mundane for those living outside this culture.

Kit was just as eager to use their Internet radio program as a platform for international women’s issues and had studied her butt off on the subject. However, no amount of research prepared her for the words pouring out of Minah’s mouth.

The girl looked so young. The matter-of-factness with which she told her story was chilling and disquieting. The first part was how she became a young bride. Her brother killed a rival tribal family’s son. They wanted his death avenged and she was given as payment to stop more bloodshed. She told them that one day, when she was playing with her toys, her mother had sat down and told her she was going to be a bride of
swara
, as payment for her brother’s crime. She was to be held in dishonor for the rest of her life and must prepare her life as someone on whom her new family would look down. For the rest of her life, she would be a reminder of the member who was lost and would be treated accordingly.

She stopped every minute or two so Joanna could make a quick interpretation and give Kit time to ask questions, but Kit found herself turning away to hide her tears. She felt so sad for the girl and helpless regarding her plight. Besides the interview, what could she do?

“What do you want to do now?” she asked, through Joanna.

The reply was quick. “Go to school, like Malala Yousafzai*. I want to drive a car.” Minah patted her chest. “I want to be me.”

Kit nodded. Such simple answers, yet so many obstacles. Her mind was working furiously, laying out any options for the young interviewee. Could she perhaps make her the focus of the article and get international attention for her plight, just like Malala? But it had to be done quickly because of her circumstances.

The laptop buzzed an incoming signal. Sean must be checking in. Joanna leaned over and clicked open a window on the screen. Sean’s face appeared, slightly blurred from the bad lighting and odd angle from his tablet.

“I’m not too far away but the
jirga
is insisting I talk to them first. You need to ask about the husband or intended. Not sure whether they’re formally married or not,” he said.

“Okay,” Kit said.

“I’ll check in now and then. The
jirga
’s information is useful too.”

He cut off before she could reply. She turned to Minah. “Your escape,” she said, trying to lead the girl to the ceremony itself. “Tell me how it was possible. I’d imagine it must have been very difficult to run off.”

“I thought so too, but it was actually quite easy,” Minah told her. Her voice became excited, her gaze animated. “There was this man from the other family. Unlike the others, he was kind to me. He gave me something to eat, asked how I was. I told him I didn’t want to be there because everyone hated me. I wanted my toys. I wanted books. He was very kind. He brought me a book and then he asked me how good I was at climbing ropes.”

Kit frowned. “Why did he ask you that?”

Minah shrugged. “He came one more time after that and told me if I wanted to run, I must follow his instructions. He said, when things go crazy during the peace agreement ceremony, when my family and my....” She paused, looking away for an instant. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “When my family and the other family come together, there would be a lot of things happening. He asked me to keep looking at the wall to the back and when I see a rope coming down, I was to wait until the men climb down. Then when everything is happening, I can climb up and make my way down to this camp.”

Kit and Joanna exchanged glances. “He gave you all these instructions,” Kit reiterated. There was something more happening here than just a peace agreement between two tribal families. When the girl nodded, she asked, “What about the men climbing down from the wall? Were they your friends?”

The girl shrugged again.

When she didn’t say anything, Kit tried a different question. “So, from your story, this man who helped you. Did he have a name? No? Okay. He obviously helped you, right? So what did these men do for you?”

“They were men with weapons. Many of them. There was a big fight. Bang! Bang, bang, bang! I wasn’t afraid. I’ve heard guns go off before. My mother has shot guns before too. Big. Men. Big. Guns.” She said the last four words in English and looked at them proudly.

Ah. There had been some kind of skirmish. “And they helped you run to the wall and you climbed it,” Kit said.

Minah shook her head again. “No, they were fighting. I just ran. No one helped me.” She paused, frowning, as if remembering something. “No, the man on top of the wall, he helped. He pulled me up. And he was a Westerner. Not local.”

Whoa. Kit leaned forward. She glanced over at Joanna. “Ask her whether all the men who helped her were Westerners.”

The girl nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, they were Westerners. Dressed all in black, with black guns and face all streaked like fierce warriors. I don’t know who they are but they were after some people. Not from
my
family.” She said the last sentence firmly, as if to affirm she wasn’t part of the other tribal group. She gripped her scarf nervously, tying and untying it. “Everyone is angry with me now. My own family, the teachers here, the
jirga
. They told me being disobedient like this is very bad and I bring shame to my family, running off. Is it wrong? Do you think everyone hates me?”

“Of course not. We don’t hate you,” Kit said. Haltingly, she pointed to herself and said in Pashto, “I will help.”

Joanna turned to her sharply. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. How are you going to help her?”

“International exposure. Something. We have to try, Joanna.”

“Yeah, I know, but you can’t tell her that. She’s too young to understand how long that might take.”

Minah grabbed her hand and said, in English, “Thank you. Want go school. Malala, my heroine.”

She was nodding at Kit and Joanna, waiting for their confirmation that they understood her English and she beamed when they nodded back.

“Ask her where she can stay while we get help for her. I mean, her family is mad at her. What’s her family name? And the other family too. We’re going to have to make sure we don’t accidentally talk to the wrong people.”

Kit wrote down in her notebook. The names are all so long and difficult to remember. Malala, the girl about whom Minah was talking, was the name of the brave little girl who lived in the Swat Valley, who was shot because of her activism promoting education for women. Kit was now more than a little worried about the same fate happening to Minah.

She muttered to Joanne. “Back home, we’re trying to get our girls to stay in school and not marry young. Over here, it’s the complete opposite. They shoot at girls who want to go to school!”

“Education is dangerous, my friend. And an educated female is even more so,” Joanna murmured back.

“I’m going to make that the headline of our piece,” Kit told her.

The laptop screen came back to the live feed, with Sean’s face peering in, his voice urgent. “Get out of there. Over. Get out of there, Kit. There are two vehicles heading your—fuck!”

There were some fuzzy images—houses shown sideways, running feet, scenery going by at odd angles—on the screen, like someone holding on to a moving cam and running. At the same time, Kit heard high-pitched voices out in front and the unmistakable squealing of tires. Then—a crash. People were shouting and screaming. Then, angry male voices.

They all jumped out of their seats. For one second, Kit stood there, her mind blank, indecisive.

Hamidah’s head popped in, her eyes filled with fear. “They are here for her!” She pointed at Minah. “You have to go with them before they kill us all!”

Kit snatched up her laptop and backpack. She looked around her. There were no windows from which to climb out.

* * *

T
he moment Jazz made the turn and entered the refugee camp area, they all smelled it. The acrid smoky smell of burning. Something was on fire.

Everyone was running in one direction, pointing and shouting—men, women, children. Lucas hung his head out of the window, craning his neck to look beyond the gathering crowd.

“I suppose there’s no fire department to call,” he commented.

“We’re supposed to meet with the comptroller at the office,” Vivi said. “I’m sure no one is there right now.”

“We’ll follow the crowd but the vehicle is moving too slowly. Cumber, you guys get out and see what’s going on. If it’s a big fire, ‘com’ me. I’ll radio for help.

* * *

“I
s there a back door?” Kit asked, striding towards Hamidah.

“Yes,” the woman replied. “In the kitchen.”

“Kit grabbed Minah’s hand. “Let’s go!”

Once they were out of the classroom, the shouts were louder, followed by horrific crashes, as if people were kicking down doors and furniture. There were shrieks from the women and children. Kit recognized some of the words.

“Stop!”

“Help us!”

What was happening out front? Surely Minah’s family wouldn’t hurt innocent women and children.

The three of them rushed along, following Hamidah. There seemed to be an endless array of corridors leading to the back. Turning a corner, their flight came to an immediate halt. Black smoke wafted out of the doorway in front of them. The kitchen was on fire.

***

L
ucas looked over the heads of the men in front of him and swore.

“That’s the school,” Lucas told Mink, lengthening his strides. “Radio back to Jazz. Tell them the school’s on fire. I overheard Vivi saying the girl she’s picking up is inside. Come on, let’s get over there.”

He pushed several onlookers out of the way. Some of the men were pulling out hoses. Others were standing in line with buckets.

As he ran nearer, he gave the surroundings a quick inspection. He didn’t like what he was seeing. There was a big truck blocking the front of the school building. Another smaller truck had rammed through what looked like the remains of the entrance. A pile of wood was burning brightly near the front steps, but that couldn’t be what was causing so much panic among the women standing in a group and screaming.

As he reached the fence, the damage to it let him know it too had been rammed by something large—like a truck, for instance. And at the same instance, he saw the weapons in the men’s hands.

“Mink,” Lucas said, pulling his weapon out.

“I see them. Informing Jazz right now,” Mink said, from behind him.

“Counted about ten. Three are defending the entrance. A few of them don’t look Pashtun,” Dirk observed. “They look...different. Body language is different.”

“I say we go up there and make it three less,” Lucas suggested. The people around him were already parting for them, as if asking them to do something.

“Jazz says fire truck is coming but it’ll take a bit. It’s at nearby village. Careful, though, bro. We don’t want to cause an incident,” Dirk said.

A shriek from behind interrupted them. A woman was running towards the school. “Oh, my daughter! My daughter’s inside!”

There was a loud pop, then an explosion. Everyone, used to sudden explosive devices, immediately jumped for cover. Lucas started running.

“That came from the school,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I think that clarifies an incident is in progress.”

* * *

H
eart in mouth, Kit swerved around, pulling Minah along. Did they use gas to cook in here?

“Run! We’ve got to get out of here.”

“But the men in front!”

“There isn’t any other way, Joanna! If they have gas back there—”

They retraced their steps. Hamidah was in hysterics, praying and sobbing. The smoke was already getting thicker and soon they would be choking on it if they didn’t hurry. Kit grimly wondered whether she was going to make it out alive.