Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (2 page)

It was already too late to run.

Frozen with terror and disbelief, Anita held agreeably still as the two men grabbed her with practiced moves by the arms and legs and had her on the floor of the moving van within seconds. Only then did the shock succumb to reflex. She managed one scream before the duct tape secured her mouth shut. Her kicking legs and flailing arms were soon defeated by even more tape, and it accumulated, binding her body tighter and tighter until the movement to breathe was all she could voluntarily perform. Her face was kept toward the floor until a dark cloth covered her eyes and was secured around her head along with her long hair. Only then was she flipped over.

A voice hissed in her ear, “Relax, pretty, there’s nowhere to go now, and in case you haven’t figured it out yet, this is a kidnapping.”

She whimpered and tears flowed under the scarf over her eyes and she barely noticed the straps being tightened around her body, securing her to the hard board. The van took several turns and the men were forced to hold the board in place as they worked to prevent her from sliding around the metal floor.

After what seemed like forever to her, but was actually only a few minutes, the van turned down a narrow alley and came to a sudden stop. After the noise and violence of the last few minutes, she found herself surrounded by silence as the men left the van as one, slamming the doors shut behind them. She struggled against the straps and tape but soon accepted defeat. An attempt to rub the cloth from her eyes also proved futile. She forced herself to calm down as she was dizzy from the lack of air and her rapidly beating heart. She listened intently for any sound of someone passing by. The distant sounds of traffic were all she could make out. She had no idea where she was or how long she had been gone. Did her friends even know what had happened? Were they calling her father? The police? Why was this happening to her?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of a key in the lock of the driver’s side door. Anita yelled against the tape across her face and struggled in vain against the straps. The van rocked as a heavy man entered and sat behind the wheel in the still warm seat. Her hopes of rescue died a quick death when he spoke.

“Sorry to disappoint, little girl, but I’m just the chauffeur.”

The van was started and put in gear and Anita slid across the floor to impact the side of the wheel well as it took the turn out of the alley. She heard the horns of rush hour traffic as the van weaved in and out, cresting hills and bouncing through potholes. The board absorbed most of the impacts with the walls of the van, but it did nothing to prevent the tape from tearing at her skin where it had been so quickly applied. Anita ground her teeth against the pain until the ride smoothed on what could only be a freeway. The relief was short-lived as the van pulled off after a few minutes and bounced down a poorly maintained road. The sounds of loud music could be heard along with equally loud voices. Eventually, the van briefly stopped before pulling into a small garage. Only when the door was down did the engine shut off and the driver exited. Anita lay in silence once again for a moment until more voices preceded the opening of the back doors. Hands grabbed the board, and she was lifted out, only to be carried inside and up some stairs, before being roughly deposited on the floor.

“You two get out.”

Anita felt their footsteps as they left only to then hear the voice again.

“Listen closely. You’ve been kidnapped. You do as we say and follow the rules, you’ll live to go home someday. If not, life will become very unpleasant for you. Do you understand?”

She managed the slightest of nods.

“My knife is sharp. Don’t move while I cut the tape. I’ll place a towel over your head. You’ll cover your face completely when we knock on the door and keep it covered until we leave. The radio stays on at all times, you will never touch it. We’re always watching. You understand?”

Despite her fear, Anita managed another nod without crying. The knife made rapid work on the tape and she felt the pressure decrease as her body was freed. The towel came down on her head as promised and all light was blocked out. The straps were removed except for the ones holding her feet. She heard a heavy grunt as the man got to his feet and walked to the door. A radio came on, blaring loud music and startling her, yet the volume could not cover the creaking of the door as it opened and closed. The sounds of several locks being thrown quickly followed and only then did she dare attempt to move. Her shaking hands covered with tape managed to find the towel and pull it and the scarf from her eyes. She found herself in a small room with an equally small bed. One heavy door appeared where her ears had said it would be, another showed a small and filthy bathroom beyond it. A window covered in a tattered blanket let in just enough light around the edges and through the thin fabric that she could make out the grid-work shadow of metal bars. A tile floor long in need of cleaning matched the peeling paint on the walls. The sounds of a busy street could be heard three floors below. Her fingers and manicured nails found the tape on her mouth and she pulled it free only to let out a pent-up sob. She stifled it in fear it would anger her kidnappers. Undoing the leg strap, she rose on shaking legs and walked to the bed. Sitting down, Anita began crying softly and picking the tape free from her skin. Surely this wasn’t really happening to her. Any moment now her father or the police would come through the door and take her home.

Wouldn’t they?

•      •      •

“Khalid, let’s go!”

Hanni gave Tariq a look that shut him up before turning to check on his friend Khalid. While only a few months younger, his friend had trouble on the steep climbs, always falling behind as they neared the top. The other boys laughed at him and his weakness, but such remarks drew the wrath of Hanni, whose size was enough to ensure his friend was left alone.

“You okay?”

Khalid nodded and caught his breath.

“It’s your turn tonight?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“No.”

Hanni grimaced at his friend’s sharp reply. He should not have asked and hurt his pride. He looked away and listened as Khalid caught his breath. It only took him a moment, as it usually did. He never got winded on the road, no matter how far they walked. Only on the climbs.

“Ready?”

Khalid nodded and set off after the other boys and the small group of goats they were after. Hanni followed his friend without a word, automatically adjusting his pace to match his.

Khalid eyeballed the far ridge to the west as he and his friend fetched the goats down from the highland grazing site. Squinting against the setting sun, he could just make out the American firebase and its many satellites. Soon he would break away from the goat herd and his friend Hanni to sneak off to the hiding place of the AK-47 the village boys all shared. Tonight it was his turn to fire at the Americans. Something they were paid to do by the Taliban soldiers who occupied the valley. As far as he knew, none of his friends had ever hit any of the soldiers. But his family was poor and the Taliban commander had promised two dollars a day for any boy in the village who would do so. Khalid had actually come to like the Americans, as did his father. They had paved the road during the winter lull in the fighting, and now a truck traveled twice a week to the neighboring villages to make trade easier. The existence of the road also took the percentage of each trade out of the hands of the village elder, something he did not agree with. So, while the elder may have wanted
some
Taliban influence to keep him in his position of power, the people themselves were leaning toward the Americans.

As a result, Khalid’s short ration of ammo would not really come anywhere close to the fire base. The Taliban paid him to shoot, not to necessarily hit anything. It was merely to harass the Americans, to remind them that they were far from home and not wanted here, at least by some.

It was dark enough now and the human eye had a difficult time adjusting between the still sunlit sky and the dark ground, something he had learned at a young age. He waved to his friend and broke away through the cypress trees, his teenage legs adjusting to the rugged terrain with no thought. Moving from shadow to shadow he kept the trees between himself and the always watching eyes on the far ridge. Working down a small draw he reached up under the exposed roots of a tilted cypress and retrieved the rifle. An old can sat next to it and he pried the lid off to reveal twenty 7.62 rounds for the AK. Ten fewer than last week. Perhaps the Taliban were rationing for a big attack? Or maybe they were running out of money? Either way, it was not much of a concern to him. He’d been born in the Korengal valley, and he would most likely live there until he died. He had never known a time when his country wasn’t at war.

He pulled the empty magazine from the rifle and with a callused thumb slowly pressed the rounds in, one by one. The magazine was old and the spring did not offer the resistance it should. The rifle would often jam when he fired it, but twenty rounds would only take a brief moment to discharge. He would fire at one of the outposts tonight before hunkering down behind some cover to wait out the return fire. Then a long nap before the early morning chill would wake him. He would then make his way home, circling wide to enter his village from the opposite side. It would be a long night, but he had taken the money.

Tonight he would use the wall. Sometime before he was born, the previous occupants of the village had a logging operation in the valley. It had long since been shut down, first by the Russians and then by the Taliban. The small mill had been surrounded by a low wall to prevent erosion, and it had since fallen to rubble, leaving only one long stretch still standing. Khalid left the draw on his belly and crawled his way through a spur before reaching trees he thought thick enough to hide him from the Americans. He knew they could somehow see in the dark and had been warned to keep something between himself and them at all times. Feeling safe now, he picked himself up, and holding the heavy rifle, made his way up the ridgeline.

•      •      •

Specialist David Zemmler had been in-country for eight months and had tracked over the same ground Khalid was now traveling more than once. It was very familiar ground. As a result, he knew just where to train the new LRAS night scope they had mounted yesterday morning.

The new scope was a vast improvement over the old one. Despite the fact that it ate batteries at a rapid rate, the sensitivity and range were worth it. The first night they had used it they had almost called everyone out to stand to. Every night-crawling animal prowling the valley had glowed like a beacon, making them think the Taliban were massing for a full assault. Fortunately, cooler heads had prevailed. Now more familiar with the new scope’s capabilities, Zemmler scanned the valley for people. The law in the valley was that anyone seen outside the village after dark was considered the enemy. He turned the scope to scan toward the sawmill again, but before he got to it he noticed a large heat source moving slowly up the ridge in its direction. Playing with the zoom, he focused in closer to see one man with the familiar walk of one toting a rifle. His arms moved as if connected, or holding something with both hands, and he did not reach out to the trees to help him up the steep slope.

“Hey, Johnson.”

Johnson picked up his head from where it had been resting on his arms and rubbed the stubble on his head. Two of their platoon were assigned to each shift, but only one could use the scope at a time, so the other usually banked up some sleep. Now his was being interrupted and he was annoyed. He leaned his head back against the wire cage full of dirt and rock and gazed up at his partner.

“What?”

“Wake up the sarge. I got a hadjji sneaking up the ridge toward the sawmill.”

“Rifle or radio?” If the man was carrying either one, the rules said he was a fair target.

“Rifle.”

“Okay, I’m on it.”

He rose from his spot behind the hesco and walked toward the main bunker. Less than half a minute had passed before Sergeant Daly was gazing through the scope. He watched silently for a few moments while Zemmler and Johnson waited.

“I’d say he was heading for the sawmill, too. Probably likes the cover of the wall. We took fire from there a couple weeks ago and the mortar crew has it preset in their computer now.”

“Should we light him up?”

Daly thought about it for a few before he replied. “Let’s wait till he gets there and then have the Charlies drop some HE on him. The captain will want us to go up there and tear down that wall if the hadjji’s use it for cover again. Be easier to just drop some rounds on it and save us the climb and a lot of work.”

“Okay.”

Zemmler exchanged a look with Johnson. No fun for them tonight. The mortar crew would get all the fireworks. But the sergeant was smart enough to get the job done and save them some work at the same time.

“I’m going back to my rack. Wake me up if you need anything.” He walked away, scratching his ass through his boxers. Even at night it was hot here, they all wore as little as possible. He stopped before he had gone three steps and turned.

“Hey, Zemmler.”

“Yeah, Sarge?”

“Don’t need to wait for him to shoot our way. Soon as he gets there, just drop it on him.”

“Okay.”

•      •      •

Khalid had gained the position he wanted and was surveying the wall from behind a tree before he moved out into the open. The corner was the best spot he decided. It would give him cover from two directions.

Not wanting to crawl anymore, he sprinted across the open area and flopped down behind the wall. Fumbling with his clothes, he pulled up his sleeves and prepared to lay the rifle over the top of the wall.

A strange whistling sound moved through the trees to his ears. The wind was blowing, but he had never heard it sound like that before.

•      •      •

“He’s there, whenever you’re ready.”

After waking up the mortar crew with the radio and telling them the target, the last few words were their sole contribution to the night’s activities. They watched for the flashing impact of the high explosive rounds already on their way to the sawmill.