Kunduz Province, Afghanistan
Kim Manning couldn’t help but think that the only thing worse than driving through Taliban country was staring into the menacing gaze of Asadi’s older brother, Faraz Saleem. He looked so much like Asadi but showed none of the same sweetness and charm. However, Kim also knew that looks could be deceiving. As a petite blonde, who’d made her bones working counterterrorism in the CIA, she didn’t exactly fit the image of a seasoned warfighter.
It was a quality that she had used to her advantage. And it worked particularly in a place run by religious zealots who viewed women as unintelligent and weak. Being underestimated had typically played in her favor, but it was a dangerous game. In Afghanistan, offenses as minor as wearing the wrong garment could result in imprisonment or even death.
For that reason, in addition to her flowing black robe, on the streets Kim wore a niqab, which covered her hair completely and left only a narrow slit to see. Inside the vehicle, she’d shed the head covering but shrugged low in the seat so as not to be noticed by passersby.
The Taliban’s promise of safe passage from the Iranian border to Pakistan meant little in a place where no one accepted rules beyond Islamic sharia law, which meant her life was at the mercy of the highest bidder, a fact that wasn’t lost only on her. It was all too clear to the other man she’d rescued, a former CIA asset turned true-blue American named Reza Bayat.
Unlike Faraz, a criminal, Bayat had been taken hostage and used as leverage over his son, Liam, whom the Iranians had blackmailed for access to a U.S. nuclear weapons facility. With Garrett’s help, their plan to steal five nuclear warheads was thwarted. In exchange for one of the high-level Quds Force operatives he took prisoner, Kim brokered a spy swap that included Faraz.
Given the fractured relations between the United States, Iran, and Afghanistan, the deal was brokered through a third party, a powerful Waziri tribal leader named Omar Zadran. But the terms of the agreement extended no further than the exchange. Once it was made, all bets were off. Kim and the others were fair game for anyone who was willing and able to take them down.
Kim, Faraz, and Bayat rode in the back of a maroon Toyota Corolla, virtually in complete silence. Bayat was in poor health, weak due to torture and malnourishment from his monthslong incarceration at the notorious Evin prison in Tehran. Although beyond grateful for rescue, there was little this shell-shocked grandfather could do but fight off sleep, which always turned fitful.
Conversely, Faraz, in his early twenties, was fit as an ox and keenly alert. His head was always on a swivel in search of lurking danger, a skill that had probably kept him alive in a land where life meant little. It wasn’t lost on Kim that the narrow streets and crowded sidewalks hemmed them in. It would be a perfect place for an ambush as there was little room to escape.
All attempts at conversation with Faraz had been a bust, but Kim gave it another try. “You look almost just like your brother.” She smiled, hoping to generate a little softness in return. “Except for the five o’clock shadow, of course.”
Unlike most men in Afghanistan, who wore traditional garb, Faraz looked every bit the part of someone in the international drug game. Beyond the slicked-back hair and stubble, his outfit was almost comically cliché. He wore linen slacks and a black and gold satin shirt, no doubt a Versace or Gucci knockoff he’d picked up in a place like Istanbul or Algiers.
Faraz kept his eyes trained out the windows. “I don’t have a brother,” he refuted calmly. “Everyone in my family is dead.”
Kim was impressed with Faraz’s English. He had first learned it working as a contractor on a NATO military base. The rest he’d probably picked up in the drug trade. But she was amazed how Americanized he’d become, having never been to the States. He even had the Western inflection and used pop culture lingo. Of course, after two decades in Afghanistan, many of the locals, particularly those who had fought alongside U.S. soldiers, had picked up many of their traits. Wearing baseball caps, blue jeans, and dipping snuff, they were nearly indistinguishable from Kim’s own American CIA paramilitary officers.
“Your brother is alive,” Kim kindly corrected. “He escaped with the help of an American who was at the village during the massacre. I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
“An American?” Still looking out the window, Faraz scoffed. “Was he CIA as well?”
Kim had never mentioned anything about the Agency, but it wasn’t that hard to figure out. Who else but the CIA would be brokering a deal with Iranian Quds Force?
Ignoring the question about Asadi’s rescuer, Garrett Kohl, she pressed on with her case. “Your brother desperately wants to see you. Wanted that for years. I want to take you to him.”
Faraz whipped around, looking a bit frantic. “To the United States?”
Kim wasn’t sure why that had gotten such an animated response, but she decided to play on it. “We’ll fly out from Islamabad, make a couple of stops. But ultimately, we’ll end up in Texas.”
“So, I’m being extradited?” His nervousness morphed into outrage. “Is that it?”
And there it was. Extradition was a word drug traffickers feared most. Unlike other places in the world, there’d be no bargaining, no bribery, nor escape. In America, when you went away, you went away for good. No doubt, he thought he was being set up for prison. His Iranian drug kingpin boss, Naji Zindashti, had likely taught him to avoid American capture at all costs.
Kim quickly shot down the notion. “No, it’s completely the opposite. You’re being given an opportunity for freedom. A life where you can do whatever you want.”
“Not interested.” Another sneer came from Faraz. “Already have that here.”
His reluctance didn’t surprise Kim at all. Orphans who grew up in organized crime knew that nothing ever came easy or for free. And if it sounded too good to be true, then it probably was. The problem was that she had to convince him to go along. He wasn’t her prisoner. If he wanted to stay in Afghanistan, he could stay. But coming back to Asadi empty-handed was unthinkable.
“Faraz, I know you don’t trust me yet. And I don’t expect you to fully believe me anytime soon. But at least think of your brother. Consider this opportunity for him, if not for yourself.”
It was clear by the look on his face that Faraz wasn’t buying a word of her offer. In his world, fanciful stories that tugged on the heartstrings were a way to get someone to let down their guard or lure them into a place of vulnerability. He’d probably used that very technique himself.
Kim continued. “What if you talked to him?” She fished out a satellite phone from her backpack. “Would that change your mind?”
Her plan was to put them in contact only after they’d safely crossed into Pakistan and were back on Omar Zadran’s home turf. But Kim could tell that Faraz was looking to escape. In a bustling city like Kunduz, he could bolt into the crowd and never be seen or heard from again.
Faraz dropped the tough-guy façade as he stared at the phone. It was clear he’d never wanted anything more in his entire life. “I can talk to Asadi?”
Kim gave a single nod. “It’d probably be around dinnertime over there. Maybe we could catch him at the house.”
Faraz paused a moment, still staring at the phone, and shook away the offer. As he repositioned himself in his seat and again stared out the window, Kim couldn’t help but notice he’d glanced down at the door handle. At any moment, he could make a break for it and there’d be nothing she could do. With that terrible outcome in mind, she made another desperate appeal.
“Please, Faraz, talk to him once. And if you have no interest in coming with me to America, I’ll let you out. Wherever you want.” Kim opened the bag again and fished out a fistful of Afghanis, about a thousand U.S. dollars by rough estimate. “I’ll even give you some traveling money. No questions asked.”
Faraz turned back and eyed the wad of cash. He was hungry for it. “For a stupid phone call?” He looked up and eyed her as if she were a total fool. “Hand it over then.”
Kim didn’t know if he meant the money or the phone, but she opted for the latter. It was a hell of gamble for so many reasons, but it was one she had to take. After pulling up the contact info for the Kohl house, Kim pressed the number and keyed the speaker function. With the number ringing, she held her breath.
Part of her was desperate for Asadi to answer, and the other had no idea what to say if he did.
After the seventh ring, Kim was about to give up when she heard that unmistakable voice. It had only been a single word hello, but Faraz instinctively knew it too. His body lost all its rigidity and he seemed to melt back into his seat.
There was no need to coax or prod him. His expression said it all.
As tears welled in Faraz’s eyes and ran down both cheeks, his voice cracked as he whispered, “Badih, is that you?” His hand shook and he nearly lost his grip of the phone. “That really you?”
Kim had never heard Asadi mention the word Badih. Must’ve been a nickname that by happy coincidence sounded a lot like buddy. There was a pause on the other end of the line and then she heard it click, the recognition of a missing piece of Asadi’s soul.
Asadi said his brother’s name like a child, grasping for a lifeline in the dark. “Faraz?”
The young man beside her smiled wide, looking as if he could burst with joy. “It’s me, Badih! It’s me! It’s your brother!”
Asadi cleared his throat and stammered a little, clearly resisting the urge to cry. “Is that—is that really you?”
“Of course, it’s me! Who else?”
“I—I don’t know.” There was a pause on Asadi’s end before he stammered out the rest. “Is this real?”
Kim wrestled back her own tears, but this reunion was almost too much to bear. She was about to take the phone off of speaker to allow them some privacy when their car came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road. Expecting yet another mundane impediment like a stalled rickshaw or an overturned fruit cart, she looked ahead to find their lead vehicle was blocked by a black Toyota Hilux with a Dushka machine gun mounted in the back.
Kim ordered Faraz to duck, just as two men rose up from behind the bed, crewed the heavy-caliber weapon, and turned it on the convoy. As he opened fire on the Nissan passenger van carrying Zadran, her driver threw their car in reverse and mashed the accelerator. But before they’d made it more than a few feet, the gunners set their sights on the Corolla and let loose with a flurry of rounds that punctured the windshield and ripped through the interior.
As tempered glass from the rear window shattered and rained down atop them, Kim threw her body over Faraz, who was beside her on the floorboard. With their driver most likely dead, they could either flee the vehicle or try to get it going. The only option that wasn’t viable in any way, shape, or form was staying in the kill zone. They had to move. And they had to move fast.