WEST OF COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“Where is your “hijab?” Pasha asked in the darkness, as he caught up to her halfway up the incline.
Zahra sighed, already regretting the decision to rescue him. But in spite of her hatred for what this man represented, she had a mission to complete.
That, however, didn’t mean she had to put up with the asshole.
“Really, Pasha? I just saved your miserable life and that’s all you have for me?”
“I am grateful, Zahra, but it is still the law,” he said.
“Yeah, well … good luck with that.”
Before he could reply, she whispered, “And clamp the chatter, would ya? They’re right behind us.” Then she once more bounded up a steep incline.
He caught up to her again, and they continued in silence for another thirty minutes, scaling on all fours, using roots and outcrops to hoist themselves, finally reaching a ledge roughly a thousand feet above the ambush.
“They know we’re up here,” she said, thoroughly soaked in perspiration in spite of the cold temperatures, peering over the edge. She couldn’t see anyone but she could hear distant rustling noises. “They’re tracking us.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said.
She turned, glaring at him in the moonlight. He could be attractive if it weren’t for his dumb-ass beliefs, which made him look as grotesque as her uncles. “What are you talking about? We may hold the higher ground, but we’re outnumbered, with limited ammunition.”
“Not for long,” he replied, reaching for his radio
She placed a hand over his. “No radios. That’s how they found your jihadist ass in the first place.”
“Not this time, Zahra,” he said, pulling away. “Not this time.”