Khyber Run (15 page)

Some men muttered together in Arabic. At this distance I couldn't make out any of their words.

I stretched cautiously under Oscar. If he'd move so I could I get closer to them, which should be easy enough on this broken ground, I'd be able to pick up some information.

He ground his weight into me. A warning not to move. My Pakhtun soul snarled in defiance, but I wrestled it down. The goal lay north of here, not among this patrol of foreign mujahidin.

Two men checked the horses, but the others stayed between us and them. One of the Arabs whispered the dua for climbing a rise. His silhouette blocked the stars. Standing, at the top of a rise. Visible for... I don't know, but too far. Either he was new at the game or he was confident in his patrol's ability to handle whatever came at them. “Perhaps not all the Americans left in the helicopter."

"Certainly, they did. Look—three with saddles and one spare. At least two Americans left in the helicopter. Do you think a third one hides in the mountains alone? Alone, Abdul? He cannot be such a fool."

Another chimed in. “Where is your faith? We asked for the horses, and here they are."

The one on the ridge raised his hands. “Surely we are provided that which we need, mashallah, but providence often requires that we fight for it as well. Faith and foolishness are not measured—listen!"

Past Oscar's heartbeat, I listened. One of the mujahidin coughed. Beyond that, the wind carried harsh, high noises. Like voices scraping against one another. Not human. A dogfight?

"Dogs! Hear them?"

"Yes! That is what drove the horses so far, despite their hobbles."

"Such thoughts are unworthy. The dogs are merely the tool used to drive these horses to us."

Oscar lay on me, his weight and heat and smell embedding themselves from one side to distract me from the stones digging in from the other.

The mujahidin moved away, arguing in subdued tones. Oscar's hand remained pressed to my mouth. I remained still because he was the one who'd been in-country recently, not because he was on top and I was getting any thrill out of that.

Except I was. And the hot ridge of dick pressed into the back of my thigh said some real interesting things about Oscar.

None of which I could afford to pay attention to right now. The mujahidin would be back at daylight to check for any remaining trail. If we stayed here much longer, dew would form and we'd leave a trail in it. Any minute now, the moon would rise. I supposed a talented tracker could track us by moonlight.

But if they hadn't found the gear I'd stashed, and it sounded like they hadn't, we could at least cut sections of from my other shirt to disguise the tread of our American boots. Without that clue, they wouldn't know for a fact we were worth following even if they did see our tracks.

I tried to shrug Oscar off my back. His fingers clamped harder to my face. More to the point, the dick mashed against my leg lost some of its rigidity. Okay, this was not some domination thing; he had a reason to hold me still. So I held still.

A few minutes later, subtle movement whispered nearby, and an eddy of wind brought the scent of someone who'd eaten curry. A rear scout.

The family's tales spoke of rear scouts, of watching to see what came from hiding after a Soviet patrol or a lascar passed. Once my great-grandfather had scouted behind a British patrol; after it passed, a veiled woman with two small daughters had crept from hiding. He'd taken them home, and the younger girl had eventually married my grandfather.

Oscar held me for a period more, although I couldn't really say if the crawling time amounted to three or four minutes or maybe a quarter hour. Sweat stung my abraded face, and numbness crept in from the extremities.

Finally, he eased his weight to the side. Hot breath found my cheek and ear. “Move out."

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I rolled to my back and stretched, disembedding the bridle's buckles and metal rings from my skin, hoping the sounds of my cracking and popping joints didn't carry. When I could trust my feet, I put my mouth to Oscar's ear. “Gear."

He nodded, a scrape of stubble against mine. He had little beard, most of his face being smooth as a Tajik's, but he did have some growth near his jaw hinge and at the chin.

We crawled to the cache, Oscar behind me although I suspected he'd mapped the area in his head and could find it by guess even without my lead. I found the right overhang by scent, horse-sweat in wool. When I made a slight scraping noise, ballistic nylon against stone, a hand touched my wrist, pushed gently. I wasn't sure what he meant, so I scuttled a couple of feet away.

With movement sounds only a lizard might notice, he pulled out what I had cached. He settled the wool saddlebags across my shoulders, atop my pack, then led me across and between and under the rocks, heading downhill most often. He slung the saddle over his own shoulder. That would be a burden, possibly a fatal drag on his energy.

But we couldn't leave it for the lascar to discover when they came back by, or they'd identify us well enough to hunt us down. Too bad we didn't know where the ziarat was. That was the traditional place to stow anything too heavy to travel with.

After my first stumble, I hooked a finger into one of the equipment loops on Oscar's pack, so I could follow him by touch and subliminal cues instead of starlight and guesswork. I held on even after the moon rose, not bothering to justify my actions. Oscar didn't object.

Once in a while, I looked back, checking the toothed horizon and trying to see if we were leaving a trail. I kept looking even though I knew full well that the moonlight wouldn't show me anything. I was doing good to put my feet on the ground without stumbling.

When the dew came, though, if anyone did pick up the trail, we'd be leaving easily identifiable boot treads. I gave the loop a tug, and Oscar stopped. I squatted and touched the rock. Still dry. Not too late to cover our tread. But now that I thought of it, the bandage scissors had gone with Echo. I could cut up the spare shemagh with a knife, but it would ravel and leave its own trail.

I put my mouth to his ear, less to bury my voice than for a chance to breathe his male scent. “Socks over boots. Disguise tread print."

He turned his head and breathed against my ear. “Can you find, no light?"

I'm a sailor. I can find anything in the dark
. And the socks were easy. But I just nodded, my beard stubble scraping him. A shiver went down my back, and my dick tried to stand. I eased it sideways before fingering open the correct pouch.

We walked on until the moon was dead overhead and then found a new nook to huddle in. Oscar leaned into the rock with a sigh. “We'll crash here."

Thanks for asking my opinion
. I just stretched out beside him, though. “Want some jellied sheep brains?"

"Got some?"

"No,” I admitted. So much for getting a rise out of the man. Tiredness settled on me like a blanket.

"What-all did you salvage?"

I pulled a mouthful of water and held it long enough to run through a mental list before swallowing. “My clothes, poncho, liner, a sleeping bag and mat, one bridle, saddle, saddle blanket, and the old-style saddle bag, a sanitary kit, a blister kit, eight meals of halal rations, and a couple more bladders of water.” For water, he'd have only what was in his pack's bladder now. He might not have any food. He was Pakhtun enough not to ask for anything until he was hungry enough to munch live lizards. But I was too Pakhtun to wait for him to ask. “You're welcome to anything you want, of course."

"Anything?"

I wondered at the tightness in his voice. But what did he think, that I'd take the sleeping bag and mat and food, and leave him to sleep hungry and thirsty on the poncho? “Anything."

A hand grasped my dick, which surged to life. “I ask again."

Cupping his hand with mine, I held it in place. “This might not be the right time or place to get all naked and sweaty, Oscar."

"Roger that.” He didn't withdraw his hand. Instead it massaged, pressing, until I moaned. “Half-naked will do. You need to remove the jock, anyhow. We'll be walking a long way, and that'd chafe."

I didn't think so. It was an excuse, though. I'd said the sensible thing. I'd been reasonable. Now my cock wanted to make the decisions for me, and any excuse was good enough.

I shrugged out of my pack while he opened my pants and shuffled them down my hips, then stopped when they entangled my boots. While I worked my way out of my boots, then stripped off my pants, light whispers of noise, no louder than my suddenly harsh breath, told me Oscar was doing the same. I barely remembered to cap my boots with my socks, to keep unwelcome visitors from climbing in.

The compression straps flipped off the sleeping bag, going somewhere in the dark. I didn't care. A calloused hand gripped my ankle, then ran up my bare leg. I shivered. He yanked the leg straight and dropped his weight on me, trapping one knee bent under my belly.

I grinned and flipped him onto his back. He grunted, but rolled away even as I reached for him. My hands closed on bare rock and a pair of boots.

He knocked out my elbows, folding my arms. I twisted to get aim at him, but he held my arms, twisting them behind me like the wings of a roast chicken. My weight, and his, crashed onto one shoulder and the side of my head. My legs—no—
fuck
—I was pinned but good. My pulse pounded under my skin, and my cock ground into a wad of cloth with an inconveniently placed button.

His hot breath gusted across the back of my neck. “Say uncle."

The fuck I will
. “There's ointment for chafing in the bag."

"I got half a mind to do you dry, ‘cause you made me work for it."

I clenched my teeth and strained against him. No-go. He hadn't learned his wrestling in a school gym either. “Not if you ever in your life want a chance at round two."

"Can you find that lube one-handed? Count of ten. One. Two."

"Gotta reach the fucking pack!"

"Three."

Only at
three
did he release my left arm. I snatched the bag to me and ripped it open with teeth and hand while he kept my right arm twisted high behind my back and his weight pinning me from the belly down.

"Nine."

"Here, fucker. Here!"

"A man in your position might speak more politely."

I took a ragged breath. “Here, oh wise and wonderful Uncle. Please take it."

A hand caught mine, but instead of taking the packet of ointment, he stroked down my wrist. Then yanked a loop of cord tight at the wrist. I dropped the packet and twisted, heaving, fighting for real this time, trying desperately to dislodge his weight. But his powerful knees clamped in at my flanks, and he released my right wrist only to reveal a tight bracelet of cord on it too.

My balls drew up tight, proving—if nothing else this night had proven it—that they were not the best part of my brain to trust. I saw stars. “Oh, no, you fucker. No you don't. I don't play bondage games."

"You do tonight,” he said mildly.

The loops jerked my wrists together, too high to give me any leverage to fight him. He knotted the cords with the backs of my hands touching one another. For a moment he let me test them. “Get your knees on the pad, Zu."

Make me, asshole
! I bit back the words right in time. Getting fucked with my knees or my cock on bare rock—even cloth-covered bare rock—would be memorable, but not in the way I liked. “Where is it?"

"Left.” He hooked a hand under my shoulder and around my neck, pulling. I got my knees under me on the pad and forced my muscles to relax, hoping to trick him. Once he relaxed too, I could—fuck, do something. Catch him off guard and get to my blade. Cut free. Then find out how much parachute cord I could lay hands on.

But just as I inhaled, ready to shift my balance, an icy drop fell on my shoulder blade. What? Not rain?

Another drop hit my lower spine. Then hard, wet, callus-thickened fingers slid like a letter opener down my crack and bored into my asshole, burning as they stretched and scraped.

No delicate one-finger, two-finger intro here. He shoved in a cold gob of lotion, jabbing in those two stiff fingers and working around. He withdrew them, then jammed them in hard and deep—shoving a grunt out of my mouth—to smear another cold layer.

I pictured him under me, his brown ass clenching around my cock, and then it wasn't any finger. His cock bored in, hard and hot.

I panted, piecing out the pain in bite-size puffs. It had been a long time since I'd had a man that way. Bahrain, I think. Three...four years ago.

I'd been drunk at the time. Drunk enough I might have passed out before the dude finished. No chance of that tonight.

Oscar grunted and reached around to cup my balls. “This would be easier if you'd relax."

It would be a whole lot easier if I was drunk
. “You relax when you're tied up?"

He laughed quietly and drove that thing right up my ass.

My prostate spit sparks across my eyes. I gasped.

"Shhh.” He released my balls and took a firm grip of my hips. “Rise up a notch."

I obeyed without thinking, shifting around in search of an angle that would make me feel less crammed full. But I
was
crammed full.

As if reading my mind, he eased out, inch after inch. Then he thrust again, jostling my prostate along the way.

Whoa! Yes! But my forehead skidded along the foam pad, thunked against a rock off the end of it.

Oscar dragged me backward to the edge of the mat. “Just lie down, Zu."

So much for a reach-around. But my face wasn't doing too good at supporting the weight of my upper body, especially with those thrusts. So I let him ride me down, his thighs forcing mine wide apart.

His cock felt like it doubled in size. He pulled, dabbed on a little more cold ointment, and thrust deep, grinding feverishly against my prostate while mashing my hard cock into the foam mat.

Oh, that was new. That was good. “More."

"Roger that.” He pulled, thrust, ground, really working my ass, reaching deeper inside me than seemed possible, pulled, thrust, ground, setting a rhythm that lit a deliciously hot glow at the base of my balls.