Sacrifice (18 page)

She concentrated on the sound of his footsteps, trying to discern something from them. He was walking at a steady, ground-covering pace. Not running, but not dawdling either. She suspected he was keeping pace with her, perhaps 30 yards back. Close enough to keep an eye on her, but distant enough to stay out of her awareness.

Or so he thought.

She heard a faint electronic bleep, probably a cellphone, coming from his direction. And at that moment, she sensed a quickening of pace, his steps coming closer together, each footfall landing with authority as he moved in on her.

There could be no doubt in her mind now. He was coming for her.

Ashraf felt his heartbeat increase as he moved in on his target, gripping the pistol tight in his pocket. He had conducted many such lifts in the past, and always felt a rush of excitement with each new experience. Sometimes his target fought back, sometimes they meekly surrendered. Occasionally they tried to talk their way out of it, while others simply stood there, frozen with shock, unable to comprehend how their world had changed so suddenly.

But one thing remained constant. He was always successful.

The rumble of an engine at high revs told him Faraj was approaching the junction in the van. The noise of the vehicle would alert his target, would capture their attention. He or she (he wasn’t ruling anything out at this stage) would be focused on the incoming van, seeing that as a possible threat, never knowing that the real danger was coming from behind.

Headlight beams spilled across the road, and a few seconds later the white panel van shot around the corner from behind a crumbling sandstone wall, tyres clawing at the ground. Faraj turned the wheel hard left, steering the van straight for the target, headlights on full power.

This was it. With several quick strides, Ashraf covered the last few yards to his target, drawing out his pistol just as the van screeched to a halt beside them. Even though he too was dazzled by the beams, he knew Faraj would already be climbing out of the driver’s door, ready to assist him if the target put up a fight.

Ashraf smiled. Somehow he didn’t think that would be necessary.

Jerking the weapon from his pocket with practised ease, he raised it up, ready to bring it down on the back of his opponent’s neck.

Then something inexplicable happened.

His target spun around to face him, as if his approach had been expected all along. He caught a sudden whirl of fabric, then a flash of something bright and metallic, and suddenly his hand went numb as something bit into his wrist. The Makarov fell from his grasp as warm blood began to flow down his arm.

Shocked as he was, it took him a moment to realise that a blade, wielded with expert precision and merciless force, had severed the nerves and tendons in his wrist.

Anya was no longer concerned with the small wiry man who had tried to take her down. She had disarmed him with her first strike, noting in passing that he had been armed with a Makarov PM, a simple eight-round automatic ideal for jobs where concealment was more important than accuracy or firepower.

Either he had intended to threaten her into submission, or to use it as a crude club to knock her unconscious. Neither option would have served him well, but personally she had never seen much logic in using a projectile weapon for hand-to-hand combat.

Still, he was more or less out of the fight now. He wouldn’t be using that hand again without reconstructive surgery, and she thought it unlikely he had another weapon on him. Judging by his sharp intake of breath, the first waves of pain had just reached his brain. Soon he would either try to flee, or take her on one-handed.

Again, neither option would end well for him.

The driver of the van was still a concern, however,
and one that had to be dealt with quickly, while she still had the initiative.

Grabbing at the face mask of her
chadri
, she yanked the cumbersome garment off and hurled it aside, glad to be free of its claustrophobic embrace. She could move and fight properly now, and though she was armed only with a fixed-bladed knife, she felt it was more than suitable for the task at hand.

The takedown man had elected to fight her, either hoping to distract her until his companion could get into the fight, or because he wanted revenge for his injury. He swung a hard, snappy left hook that she was obliged to dodge, though it provided her with the perfect opportunity to catch his arm while it was overextended and twist it backwards.

He tried to turn with the motion, but she was faster than him, and within a few moments, she had the arm locked behind his back. She heard the ragged growl deep in his throat as he tried to throw her off, but straight away she knew it wouldn’t succeed. He wasn’t nearly strong enough to break such a hold, and though she considered herself far from physically powerful, she had the advantage of leverage.

Now that she was facing the van again, she was afforded her first glimpse of the driver as he lumbered into view, the vehicle visibly springing upward on its suspension as his weight departed. Even in the glare of the headlights it was obvious he was a big man, tall and broad, his frame bulked out with solid muscle.

He was holding something in his right hand. Something long and curved at one end. A crowbar.

Anya had never enjoyed taking on big men like this. Trying to punch or kick upward reduced her effectiveness, and a couple of good hits in return would be enough to take her
out of the fight. She preferred to ambush them from behind, but failing that, she would have to get creative.

She had wasted enough time on the takedown man. Exerting more pressure on his left arm, she drew back her right and struck a sharp blow with her elbow, targeting the overtaxed shoulder joint. There was a dull crunch as it gave way, followed by a howl of pain from her would-be abductor.

By now certain he was out of the game, Anya shoved him aside and turned her attention to the giant of a driver, quickly assessing the threat.

He was 6 foot 5 in height, 250 pounds, maybe forty years old. He held the crowbar as though he’d been using such things his entire life, his brute strength allowing him to easily wield such a heavy weapon.

His eyes flicked to the knife in her hand, no doubt weighing up his chances of getting stabbed. She was only a woman, in a country where women were kept cowed and weak, and his experience would tell him she was easy prey. But he had seen what she had just done to his companion, and now a hint of doubt would be creeping into his mind.

He would swing first, using his superior reach and strength to take her out quickly, wanting to stop her before she could use that knife. She knew that if he did manage to connect with that crowbar, such a blow would shatter bones like dry twigs.

She saw the tightening in his muscle-slabbed shoulder, the changing angle of his arm as the great body readied itself for the crushing strike.

He was smart enough to use a backhanded strike. Swinging the bar like a baseball bat would take precious time to draw his arm back, to build the momentum he needed. Time she could easily use to close the distance.

Still, this was her only chance.

Gathering herself up, she rushed straight for him just as he brought the weapon around with vicious force.

But instead of trying to block it, she ducked beneath the deadly strike, the heavy bar scything through the air mere inches above her head.

The knife leapt out, plunging into the back of his right leg, piercing the fabric of his jeans, his skin, the muscle beneath and finally severing his Achilles tendon. He tried to turn to face his adversary again, using the momentum of his fruitless swing to aid him, but found that his leg was no longer able to support his weight. He fell to his knees, blood staining his jeans.

Whirling around, Anya closed in and delivered a hard kick to his groin. Hardly an honourable tactic, but fights like this weren’t about honour – they were about survival.

With a look of complete shock, the giant buckled over and fell into a muddy, fetid drainage ditch running along the side of the road.

Anya leapt on him before he could collect his wits, grabbed a handful of thick curly hair and yanked his head back hard to expose his throat.

The idea that a single quick slice is enough to cut a man’s throat is pure fantasy. The reality for Anya had proven more difficult, dangerous and far more unpleasant.

Utilising the knife as a crude saw, she went to work with grim efficiency. The blade bit into the skin with the first slice, but it wasn’t until the return stroke that she heard the gurgling hiss as his windpipe was opened.

Two more powerful saw-like thrusts cut right through the windpipe and severed the arteries in his neck, releasing a pumping spurt of blood. Her work done, Anya released her grip and stepped back to avoid the
worst of the spray. She observed the results with cold, emotionless eyes.

The giant flailed and convulsed before her, his blood mixing with the mud around him, soaking his clothes, while his hands scrabbled at his throat as if they could repair the damage. There was no screaming. He was incapable of making such sounds now. All he could muster was a sickening gurgle that came not from his mouth, but from the ragged hole in his neck.

She saw the wild, panicked look in his eyes. It was the look of a hunted animal. It was a look she had seen in many men who were about to die.

And die he did. He lasted another twenty seconds or so before loss of blood and oxygen took their inevitable toll. His struggles grew weaker, his movements less meaningful, until at last he slumped forward, face down, one hand pawing aimlessly at the mud until that too stopped moving.

For a couple of seconds Anya did nothing, just stood there breathing deeply, allowing her heart rate to return to normal and her thoughts to clear. The time for swift, aggressive action was over. She needed to be calm and logical now.

The van’s engine was still running, the exhaust belching steam and grey smoke. Nearby, the takedown man was groaning, trying to raise himself from the ground on two crippled arms without success.

This had been no casual mugging, it had been an organised attempt to lift her. But organised by whom? Who even knew she was in the country, apart from Drake?

She needed answers, which was why she had kept one of her would-be attackers alive. For now, at least.

Sheathing the bloodied knife, she strode over to the
injured man and kicked him in the ribs, sending him sprawling on his back. Unfazed, she knelt down beside him and quickly rifled through his pockets.

There was some money, mostly in Afghanis but with a few American dollars mixed in. No wallet, credit cards or ID, which didn’t surprise her. Men like him went into such jobs sterile and untraceable.

In his inside jacket pocket she found a cellphone, which she shoved in her trousers. She would take a closer look at it when she had more time, but right now the priority was getting off this street. Even in a neighbourhood like this, such a confrontation would arouse attention, and the last thing she needed was for the ANP to show up.

‘You American whore,’ the man hissed, his voice strangely breathless and lacking in tone. It wasn’t until she saw the jagged scar on the right side of his throat that she realised why. It was no surgical scar, but a traumatic shrapnel wound that had partially destroyed his larynx, for ever altering his voice.

He had spoken in Pashto, one of the two dominant languages in Afghanistan. Still, Anya said nothing in response. She would do her talking soon enough, and she would make sure he did his.

Leaving him for a moment, she walked over to retrieve the gun he had dropped during their brief fight. Making sure the safety was engaged, she changed her grip on the weapon slightly. It was less effective for shooting, but much better for what she had in mind.

She still didn’t approve of using guns in this way, but since there was nothing else to hand, she would have to make do.

The man stared at the weapon, fear in his eyes now. He looked as the giant had done in his final moments – like a hunted animal, cornered, about to die.

Still saying nothing, Anya swung the weapon hard and delivered a heavy blow to his left temple. Enough to put him down for a time, but not enough to kill him.

No sooner had he slumped sideways than she produced a couple of plastic cable ties from one of her pockets and used them to bind his hands behind his back. With one shoulder dislocated and the other hand crippled, she doubted he was capable of harming her, but there was no need to take the risk.

Straining under the weight, she managed to hoist the unconscious man up and half-carried, half-dragged him over to the van. He smelled of tobacco and cheap cologne, neither of which could disguise the underlying odour of stale sweat.

He wasn’t heavy, but the human body is an awkward shape for carrying alone, especially when it isn’t cooperating, and she was perspiring by the time she reached the vehicle.

The panel door on the side was unlocked. A final heave was enough to get the unconscious man up over the edge, after which she released her grip and allowed him to fall onto the bare steel floor.

She left the giant where he was. He was far too heavy to move, and she already had what she needed.

Slamming the door shut once more, she settled herself in the driver’s seat, glanced at the dashboard to familiarise herself with the make and model, then pushed the reluctant stick into first gear and drove off at a steady pace.

Drake was feeling tired and strung out by the time he made it back to the Agency compound at Bagram. The journey north from Kabul had passed without event or mishap, despite his being stopped several times at ANP checkpoints for a game of twenty questions.

Much as he hated to admit it, he was running on empty. It must have been at least 48 hours since he’d had anything approaching a decent sleep, and his body was starting to remind him of that fact with increasing urgency.

Still, there was no thought of resting yet. His mind was buzzing after the day’s events, not to mention the fact that they were a day closer to Kourash’s deadline and no closer to finding Mitchell.