WARRIOR (CROSSFIRE SEALS, #5) (15 page)

“Okay,” Kit replied wrapping her head scarf more securely. She slowed down her gait and let Lucas stay in front of her.

“Been reading up on the customs around here,” he said, approvingly.

“Don’t get used to it,” she warned. Over here, women walked behind the men. Intellectually, she accepted the cultural differences, but it was still tough emotionally. She had seen it with her own eyes how, when they’d first landed in Karachi, the men leered at women who were alone, sometimes walking very closely to make her uncomfortable. They would even peer into any cars that had a lone woman in it, as if they had a right to check her out. Sean had told her they didn’t do that so much in Mingora, the capital of Swat Valley, where they’d been heading, where women were more traditional.

Lucas gave a low chuckle. “Trust me, Cupcake, I’d rather be behind you watching your pretty ass.”

Her first glimpse of women walking around covered from head-to-toe, with the magnificent mountains as a backdrop, was a cultural shock. How on earth did they not trip over, carrying children and shopping bags, and not being able to see? And yet they looked perfectly natural, walking around in the fields or following their male relatives if they were out in town.

“I really hope it’s either your men or my team,” she said, looking at his back.

There was already a slight change in his demeanor. Straighter stance. Bigger presence. So damn male, even while carrying her pink bag.

––––––––

S
hahrukh read the instructions from T’s note, which Vivi Verreau had passed on after the meeting in the US war room. Out of habit, he stroked his chin as he considered his options. The beard had to go soon. The merchants he was meeting at Karakoram wouldn’t be expecting a dirty mountain gun-slinging insurgent-type buyer. For some reason, they expected those men to want the bigger things, not the small sophisticated item in their possession.

He leaned back against the brocade pillow and took a sip of the coffee set on the low table next to him. He savored its strong, pungent taste, took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. A few hours’ sleep would be nice.

“Tired?” A woman’s voice floated from the direction of the door.

Shahrukh opened his eyes. He studied the figure at the entrance. “You look so docile, so traditional, Zerya.” he finally remarked, replying in the same Kurdish dialect she used. “Maybe time can change a person.”

She smiled and she suddenly looked the same, in spite of those world-weary eyes. “That’s funny coming from a man who is looking more like his Kurdish self than the usual suave New York image he’s adopted.” She came closer, the bangles on her wrists and ankles tinkling. “Yet, I know you haven’t changed. Still looking for broken pieces of treasure. Still playing the game, I bet.”

Shahrukh shrugged. He hadn’t been in “The Game” for a few years now. There was no harm in letting Zerya think he was still with the treasure hunting organization. His “new” life with the commandos at Command Center the last few years had been even more secretive than when he was one of those working for The Temple.

“Life is a game,” he said.

Zerya shook her head. “No, it is not. But we forgive you, since you’ve been brought up by frivolous Western ideals. Your adoptive parents have taken your soul away from the Kurd people.”

Shahrukh laughed. He’d heard that line so many times since his teenage years when he was “returned” to his people, it no longer hurt him. He had nothing to prove any more, except maybe to keep a promise to an old woman.

“All Kurds away from Kurdistan have lost a little of their souls,” he agreed in his usual non-committal fashion when dealing with family matters. “As have you. Being among a smattering of Kurds while surrounded by Pathans is hardly your style.”

“Is that the reason for your visit, then, Rukh? Just curious why an old lover is hidden away here?”

Shahrukh leaned back further into soft backrest, contemplating the woman standing so serenely. There was a time he’d been in love with Zerya. She was everything he wasn’t—absolutely sure of her place in the world and intensely dedicated to family and honor. He was the total opposite, feeling out of place among his own people and not as sure about his place in a family who had lost him in a war, and now that they’d found him, demanded things from him he didn’t understand. Growing up with his adoptive parents, he’d wanted brothers and sisters with whom to play and quarrel. Then, fate had given him back his lost family and he’d returned—with the blessings of his parents—and he’d found himself among brothers and sisters with whom he’d no emotional attachment. Zerya, the neighbor’s daughter, had been the only one who understood him. Or, so he’d thought.

She casually sat down, leaning over to refill his cup. “Or maybe,” she continued softly, switching to speaking French-accented English, “you’re, as usual, looking for other people’s treasure instead of your own?”

Shahrukh smiled. “Sharp as ever,” he said, in English. “Always using everything as a weapon. I half-expect you to be carrying a machine gun under that skirt. Tell me, why aren’t you in Paris with the rest of your unit of
Peshmerga
fighters?”

Warrior blood flowed in generations of Kurds. The Kurd Resistance allowed women to join their ranks and as a people, they’d been at war for centuries, fighting for a land for their people.
Peshmerga
—those who confront death—was the fighting force beloved by the people and feared by the enemies.

“The CIA has informed us there was danger ahead, that some leaders are targeted for assassination. I was one of the few ordered by my superiors to disappear for a while.” Her voice held a trace of bitterness. “So, here I am, in the middle of nowhere, unable to do much but...entertain.”

“Liar,” Shahrukh softly chided back.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, relaxing further into her seat as she bit into a pomegranate. “This is Afghanistan. As a woman, all I can do is stay inside here and be protected. What else could I be doing?”

“Documenting pieces of a Stealth airplane that is being slowly dismantled, perhaps? Trying to either sell or buy parts in the great bazaar of Karakoram, perhaps?” Shahrukh asked.

She slowly chewed the fruit, licking the juice on her shapely lips. Her almond-shaped eyes held amusement as she searched his for clues. “Ah. The downed Stealth at the border. Like I’ve asked before, why do you keep going after someone else’s treasure and yet never profit from it? All those treasure hunters you work with, aimlessly running around picking things up and exchanging information—do you ever want to use them for yourselves? Or your people?”

And there lay the core of contention between his old lover and him. She was all about their people and fighting for land. It was something noble, a way of life to which their clan was dedicated. He’d not lived up to her dreams of being a clan elder’s son, one who would pick up the mantle of blood and glory for revenge and justice.

“Actually, I have,” Shahrukh said. “I used The Temple’s many treasure quests as a way to look for the lost diamond.”

“Bah. You listened to your grandmother’s silly stories about diamonds and maps instead doing something tangible.” Zerya sighed then propped her head up with a hand. “Quests. Those people call it “The Game.” You joined a bunch of mercenaries who called themselves treasure hunters, looking for antiquities for collectors. Life, death, and honor, Rukh. No game in those three things.”

He couldn’t blame her for sneering at his former job. It wasn’t quite as shallow for him. The Temple had roots with an ancient tradition that went as far back as the Kurds; in fact, their histories were intertwined and that was one of the reasons Shahrukh had joined them. Surely, with all the treasure quests these people were looking for, they would have some clues to help him find his diamond.

But he wasn’t here to explain about history and the Templar Knights to Zerya. Explaining that it was his way of returning honor to his family and clan would be a waste of time. Zerya never believed his grandmother’s stories, anyhow. And if she ever found out he was actually now part of the US government, she would probably see it as a betrayal.

“Treasure is all about value,” he said. “It’s my quest to find what is of value to me, hence my way of life.”

“And Stealth parts are valuable to you, how?” Zerya asked, amused again.

“Not all its parts. I want to know the name of the seller to look for a certain part.”

After Shahrukh had reached the site and given the mortally wounded pilot a password, the dying man had imparted a secret with his last breath. There was a special missile on board, painted with a newly-designed cloaking paint that made it untraceable to radar. That was the weapon he needed to find.

“Is that why you were seen with Yakob?” Her smile was sweet. “Don’t worry. No one but us knows you’re anything but an ordinary Pathan trader.”

Spies. Everywhere. He wondered whether she knew Yakob had been detained and perhaps was now trying to negotiate his freedom by giving back some of the parts he’d stolen or bought. Everything technological taken from the Stealth, big or small, was worth something in the market and everyone wanted to make a profit. Some for revenge. And yes, some for honor.

“Yes,” Shahrukh replied easily. “He told me he was going to buy it at Karakoram. You have the name of the seller and I need it.”

Zerya leaned over and placed a hand on his thigh. Her kohled eyes gleamed with feminine invitation. “And what do you have for me and my freedom fighters?”

* * *

L
ucas scanned the area. They weren’t exactly in the danger zone but it was the Afghan-Pakistan border, where the situation was nebulous. If he was right, they were close to the crossroads, where everyone with vehicles had to travel through, from mountain passes to the cities, and vice-versa. On any given mile, one might bump into Pakistani border troops, Afghan soldiers, tribal warlords who had been de facto rulers in these mountainous regions for centuries, and freedom fighters from various factions, all moving around traveling merchants, refugees, herders and border farmers.

This was, in his opinion, the most eff’ed up place in the world, with a people living on two sides of a border trying to survive. They had been doing it for thousands of years, it seemed. Why not another thousand? He’d been in the military most of his life, so warfare was nothing new, but he did feel for the normal, everyday folks who had to go through their daily lives facing possible bombs from any and every side.

A truck with a cloud of dust behind it came into view. He motioned to Kit to stay off the trail and stick by the thick bushes. If they were Pakistani soldiers, they would leave an American soldier alone. Certain tribal militia would most likely pass by without more than a glance because they had made agreements with some of the US commanders who had visited them. There would also be the assumption he was probably not alone, which was a good thing.

The truck slowed down as they came nearer. The dust made the sunlight hazy as it floated all around them. A figure jumped off the truck and started charging, screaming an almighty war cry.

“Get down!” Lucas shouted back at Kit, hoping she was already hiding somewhere.

If these people had wanted to kill him, they would have shot him already. He crouched lower, waiting for the running man, and slowly straightened up in surprise as the dust settled and the running figure loomed larger..., or actually, smaller. It was a child coming full speed at him and it wasn’t a war cry. It was more like, “Yah! Yah! Yah!”

A woman screamed. Then another figure jumped off the back of the truck.

“Daner! Daner!”

There was an urgent stream of Pashto and some other language Lucas didn’t recognize but since the man was unarmed, he stayed where he was. No sudden moves to panic anyone in the truck.

The kid stopped a few feet away and his big green eyes stared up at him.

“Meri-kan!” He yelled at the top of his voice. “Meri-kan! Meri-kan!”

“Hey, hey, no shooting. Friends! Friends!” The man coming after boy finally reached them and scooped the boy into his arms. He looked at Lucas apologetically and said, in a heavy accent, “Sorry! He’s just boy. Play with soldiers, always stupid. Sorry!”

The boy’s expression was earnest. He made the sign of a gun with his forefinger and thumb. “Bang! Bang! Me-rikan! Me-rikan dead!”

The adult said something sharply at him but the boy was obstinate, repeating his phrase.

“Sorry! We go now!” The man backed away.

Lucas frowned. “Hey, wait. What language did you just speak?”

The man just shook his head, while continuing to back away. “We mean no harm. We are from small tribe and my son, he is too friendly with soldiers.” He paused, looking behind Lucas. “But you better go fast. It’s not safe for you and the woman. Taliban behind us.”

The boy started struggling. “Taliban! Bang! Bang! Me-rikan dead!”

“Wait! Why does he keep saying Me-rikan dead?”

The man shook his head again. “He’s a boy. Nonsense, you know? Go now. We all have to go!” Then he added in Pashto, “
God be with you
.”

As the man hurried back to the waiting truck, the boy looked over his father’s shoulder and pointed his “gun” at him again. His green eyes were fierce.

“Bang! Bang! Taliban! Forty-mike-mike! Me-rikan dead!” He covered both his ears as if he was hearing something, then shouted back in perfect American English, as if he’d heard the phrase hundreds of times, “You tell Me-rikan, ack-ack, bang bang!”

Lucas stiffened. What the— Those were military slang words! “Hey! Hey!” He yelled.

The man turned his head and spat. His expression was just as fierce as the child. His English came out in staccato notes. “You stay away! Go back to your friends! Taliban coming, you understand? You cannot save my son. Get lost! Bastard!”

The man threw his son into the arms of a waiting woman in the back of the truck and hauled himself up. Seeing the boy starting his struggles afresh, Lucas kept coming after them. The woman was talking in a stream of urgent sentences to the child, her tone full of admonishment. The truck started rumbling off again. The little boy shook his head and looked back at Lucas, his expression obstinate and determined.