“Look,” Floyd said, pointing through the trees.

  I saw a light and we both picked up pace. My legs had been pummeled by the ascent but the descent had been worse, fighting gravity with every step, resisting the pull of the ground with muscles that had very little left to give.

  I don’t know whether it was my bleary eyes, general exhaustion, or fogged mind, but I didn’t realize our mistake until it was too late.

  The light we’d assumed was the border post was in fact a landing light fixed to the undercarriage of a Hind helicopter, which stood in a clearing not fifty paces from us.

  I motioned to Floyd to stop, and we both dropped into a crouch.

  My senses were suddenly alert. I heard everything: the creaking of branches moving in the wind, the distant hoot of an owl, the brush of pine needles against each other, and the low chatter of men talking in Russian. I saw a unit of twenty in snow camouflage standing around the helicopter. This was the group that had been hunting Floyd, I was sure of it. There was only one chopper. Perhaps the other had left already. None of the men appeared to be injured, so I guessed the first had been used to transport the wounded who would have undoubtedly been caught in the rocket blast. The men were just standing around, smoking and talking. Then the reason for their presence here became clear. A pilot in conventional green fatigues emerged from beneath the aircraft clutching a wrench and spoke to a tall man in snow camouflage. He had the bearing of a commander. They must have been forced to land here and make repairs.

  I signaled to Floyd to go back the way we’d come. The chopper stood between us and the border post. We’d have to give it a wide berth if we were going to avoid being spotted. We moved back slowly and silently, but we’d only gone a few yards when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks: the green glow of infrared goggles pointed directly toward us.

  CHAPTER 63

  THE RUSSIAN BROUGHT the goggles down from his eyes and ran over to his commander. They exchanged some words and the commander took the IR goggles, pointing them in our direction.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered.

  I saw the commander looking directly at us. My heart sank when he lowered the goggles. His eyes shone with the hunger of a predator, and there was a faint smile of satisfaction on his face.

  “Run!” I yelled, and we turned and sprinted east.

  At the same moment, the commander barked at his men, who instantly went from casual soldiers to disciplined hunters. The forest filled with shouts and the crashing of boots, and then came the gunfire. I stayed as close as I could to Floyd because I knew they wouldn’t risk killing him. The gunfire was intended to confuse and intimidate, so I tuned out the fear and harnessed the adrenaline.

  Floyd and I were making good progress. The dangerous part would be when we turned south for the border post. I could see men in camouflage gear tracking us, running through the trees, trying to cut us off to the south. They moved like shadows whipping through the forest. We had to outrun them. The border post was about two hundred yards beyond the chopper. Guards had come out of the building to look in the direction of the gunfire.

  “Come on,” I said to Floyd, and we pivoted south, sprinting through the trees.

  I lifted my legs high to avoid fallen branches and roots, but still I stumbled. Floyd did too, but neither of us fell. Flames burst around us, spitting from muzzles, and bullets shredded the forest, but we pressed through the storm of gunfire, driven by thoughts of the people we loved.

  A man stepped out from behind a tree and swung the butt of his machine gun at Floyd’s face, but I bundled him to the ground and we tumbled at the man’s feet. I jumped up as he swung again, blocked the blow with my left forearm, and drove the palm of my right hand into his chin. His head snapped back and he let out a pained groan. I seized the opportunity to punch his exposed throat. He instinctively raised his hands to the injury and I hit him in the solar plexus, before grabbing his gun and wrestling it off him. I saw two other men coming through the trees, quickly turned the machine gun on them and fired. They went down and Floyd ran over to them. I drove the machine gun’s butt into the face of the man clutching his neck, knocking him out cold. I heard shouts behind me and turned and opened fire.

  I saw shadows scatter as I ran to join Floyd. More gunfire and shouts followed, but Floyd and I weren’t listening. We were running. We broke the treeline at a sprint, racing toward the border post and a group of jittery guards. They raised their rifles and barked commands, but there was no way we were stopping.

  I looked back at the trees and saw the Russian commander run to the edge of the forest. I couldn’t make out his face in the shadows, but I suspected he wasn’t smiling anymore.

  The Pakistani border guards were shouting furiously.

  “Don’t shoot!” I yelled in reply. “We’re Americans. We pose no threat. We need your help.”

  CHAPTER 64

  THE BORDER PATROL officers who staffed the station had taken our weapons. Their commanding officer, a Major Azar Khan, spoke excellent English and told us we were to be held until he had contacted his superiors. Floyd and I were taken to a holding room in the largest of the three buildings at the post. There was one structure on the Afghan side, but it was unmanned and looked abandoned.

  The building we were in was constructed from whitewashed cinder blocks and contained six rooms: an office, a staff room, a bunk room, kitchen, toilet, and a holding room. Located at the back of the building, it wasn’t a cell, but it wasn’t far off. A trio of double bunks lined the windowless interior walls and a small electric heater struggled against the cold.

  Floyd and I sat on bunks near the heater, trying to absorb as much of its pathetic warmth as possible. We’d attempted to persuade Major Khan to give us access to a phone, but the Pakistani commander refused. He was very aware of how easily two American strays hunted by Russian paramilitaries could quickly escalate into a huge diplomatic incident if everything wasn’t done by the book.

  “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” Floyd asked.

  I shrugged. I knew how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy could move. I was desperate to get to a phone so I could let Justine know I was still alive, and I had no doubt Floyd was itching to talk to Beth.

  I heard raised voices beyond the locked door, and then footsteps. A key went into the lock and the door opened to reveal Major Khan. His gray-flecked mustache drooped with disappointment. There was an overwhelming air of apology about him.

  “Are we done?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “There was—”

  He was pushed aside by the familiar figure of the Russian commander. He had a blond crew cut and stood about six-three, looming over the Pakistani officer, who shrank against the wall of the holding room.

  “My name is Nikita Kolokov,” the Russian said. “You are now my prisoners. You will come with us.”

  Two of his subordinates moved into the corridor behind him and he barked a command at them in Russian. I didn’t need to speak the language to understand the order: I was to be killed.

  CHAPTER 65

  “I AM VERY sorry,” Major Khan offered. “There are too many of them for us.”

  “And we pay well,” Kolokov added.

  Major Khan flushed with shame and cast his eyes to the floor. I didn’t care about the motives for his betrayal of us. My only concern was getting out of there alive.

  “Come,” Kolokov instructed, gesturing at Floyd. “Our chopper is ready to take you for processing.”

  Floyd didn’t respond, so the commander stepped forward. I seized my chance. I grabbed Khan’s pistol, popped it free of its holster restraint, drove my elbow into the shocked major’s face, and opened fire on the two Russians in the corridor. My aim was true and both men dropped like stones. Floyd moved quickly as Kolokov raised his submachine gun at me. He grabbed the Russian commander by the neck and drove his head into the whitewashed wall, stunning him. I fired twice, hitting Kolokov in the chest. He clutched at the wounds, which had started to bleed into his gray and white uniform. He dropped to his knees and his eyes went blank before he fell face forward onto the floor.

  “Get his gun,” I said. Floyd took the Vityaz-SN submachine gun from the dead man.

  I discarded the major’s pistol and picked up a Vityaz and two magazines from one of the men I’d shot in the corridor. We moved toward an interior door that led to the open-plan office at the front of the building. The cheap pine door had no window, so we couldn’t see what was happening beyond it, but I could hear movement and someone shouted a command.

  The door opened and the Russian who appeared looked more surprised to see us than we were to see him. Floyd fired a burst that hit the man in the stomach. He staggered back, mortally wounded. Beyond him, I saw half a dozen Pakistani border officers gathered against the wall of the office. I couldn’t see who was holding these men captive since they were concealed behind the door.

  I heard shouts and signaled to Floyd to go low. He ran ahead of me in a crouch and I followed at head height. As we burst through the doorway, I saw three men in snow camouflage swinging their weapons toward us. Floyd picked off two and I shot the third before any of them had the chance to pull the trigger.

  The Pakistani guards were relieved. One started talking hurriedly, but we didn’t have time to listen. We rushed through the office toward the front door.

  There was a rattle of gunfire. Glass shattered and a hail of bullets thudded into the desk next to me. I looked to my right and saw a man shooting through the window. I fired back and he ducked out of sight.

  Floyd and I ran to the front door, splitting to stand flush against the wall either side of it. A volley of bullets burst through the wood. Floyd indicated the window to the right and crept toward it as I grabbed the door handle. He stood beside the window and signaled he was ready. I opened the door. Gunfire started immediately. As bullets peppered the far wall, the border officers ducked for cover behind their desks. I waited for the gunfire to stop before I stepped out. A man who stood some twenty yards away was reloading. I opened fire and he went down. I stepped forward and sensed movement to my right as another camouflaged Russian rounded the corner of the building with his gun trained on me.

  CHAPTER 66

  A SHOT RANG out and the man aiming at me was suddenly spun around and fell facedown into the snow. Floyd had shot him through the window, saving me from certain death. I heard yelling from the treeline. The rest of the Russian unit came running toward the building. I glanced to my right and saw some vehicles parked a short distance away. I ducked back inside.

  “Who drives the truck?” I asked the border officers, miming turning a steering wheel.

  The youngest of the group, a baby-faced guy in his early twenties, raised his hand.

  “Let’s go,” I said, gesturing with the submachine gun.

  He hesitated.

  “Do you want to wait here until the Russians arrive?” I asked.

  He shook his head and joined me by the door. Floyd led the way and we ran outside to be greeted by a hail of bullets. The Russians were aiming closer than they had been previously, perhaps because they were more desperate, or maybe because their commander wasn’t there to rein them in. My heart was pumping adrenaline at a furious rate as we ran from the building toward a small parking area where a trio of vehicles were parked: an old Volkswagen, a Lada, and a Mercedes truck that had been converted into a personnel carrier. Bullets chewed the snow at our heels, but we made it to the truck and took cover behind it.

  Our driver used a fob to open the cab and we all climbed in. He started the engine and we sped away as the Russian paramilitaries reached the border patrol station. The tailgate rattled as it was hit by bullets, and the rear window of the cab shattered, sending glass everywhere. But the engine roared and we were soon out of range of the shooters.

  Floyd slumped in his seat and gave a sigh of relief.

  “Pull over,” I said to the driver, when I was sure a bend in the road concealed us from the paramilitaries.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Floyd asked.

  “We’ll never outrun them in this,” I replied. “We need to be smarter.”

  Our driver stopped and I jumped out, Floyd following my lead.

  “Keep going,” I told the frightened officer, who drove off down the road, eager to get away from men pointing guns at him.

  I indicated to Floyd to move. He did so reluctantly. We ran into the forest, clutching our guns.

  We tracked back, picking our way through the trees as fast as we dared. We were halfway to the border post when we saw the Volkswagen and the Lada speeding past along the road, almost certainly carrying the Russian paramilitaries who thought they were hot on our tails.

  We ran on.

  “You’re not crazy enough to suggest what I think you’re going to suggest, are you?” Floyd asked.

  “So you’ve thought of it too?” I replied. “We’re a couple of pilots. Their commander said the bird was airworthy. Why drive when you can fly?”

  Floyd scoffed.

  We slowed as we neared the clearing. Our escape had thinned the personnel surrounding the chopper. There were now only three guards and the pilot, and all of them had their attention fixed on the border post expectantly. With the chopper now fixed, they were ready and waiting to take to the air whenever the rest of the unit returned.

  I signaled Floyd to move to their rear and we crept between the trees. When we had the chopper between us and them, we broke cover and ran across the clearing. The side door of the Hind was open and I could see the pilot through the gap on the other side. He must have sensed movement because he turned and looked me square in the eye.

  I raised my gun, but he shook his head fearfully. I recognized the look of an honest man who did not want to die.

  He said something urgent in Russian and started running for the border post. The remaining paramilitaries followed, all four men racing away. I guess the pilot had told them they needed to help their comrades. If so, he wasn’t lying.

  Floyd and I jumped through the side door, scrambled into the cockpit, slid into the pilot and co-pilot’s seats, and fired up the engines.

  I looked to my right and saw the paramilitaries turning around, but it was too late. They managed a couple futile shouts and pointless shots before I took to the air. Thirty seconds later, after we had climbed past three thousand feet and were speeding north through the valley, Floyd turned to me and smiled. I responded with a wide grin.

  We were heading home.

  CHAPTER 67

  THE MIL MI-24 Hind was fully fueled and packed with weapons and equipment. Floyd went through the gear bags while I flew north, tracking the contours of the valley. If the mountains had been beautiful when we’d been touching death near the summits, they were even more magnificent now viewed from the comfort of the chopper and in the knowledge that we had come through a situation where survival had seemed impossible. We were alive and on our way home, and that thought alone was all the warmth and rest I needed.

  “I’ve found a satellite phone,” Floyd said, joining me in the cockpit.

  I recited one of the few numbers I knew by heart, and he dialed.

  “Go ahead,” he said, handing me the phone.

  He took the controls. I removed my headset and held the phone to my ear. I heard a long and distant ringing tone.

  “Hello?” Justine said. Her voice sounded weak and strained and I knew from that one word that she thought I was dead. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Jus,” I replied.

  There was nothing but silence and I didn’t know if the line had cut out.

  “Justine?”

  “Jack?” she replied in disbelief. “Jack?”

  “Yeah. It’s me,” I said, and felt a lump rise in my throat. “I guess Dinara and Feo thought we’d been—”

  “They said you were dead,” she interrupted tearfully. “I thought you were gone.”

  “I’m not,” I responded. “We managed to escape.”

  “We? Is Joshua Floyd with you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He’s with me. We’re coming home.”

  “Is Beth there?” Floyd yelled at me above the sound of the chopper.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked.

  Another pause, but this time I knew the line hadn’t gone dead because I could hear Justine sobbing.

  “Jus?”

  “She’s gone, Jack,” she replied. “And the children too. They were taken.”

  “I see,” I said flatly. “Can you connect us to Dinara?”

  “Uh-huh,” Justine said, before putting me on hold.

  “Is she there?” Floyd asked.

  I shook my head. “Justine isn’t at the safe house.”

  His smile fell. Could he sense something was wrong? I felt terrible lying to him, but until I had the full details I wasn’t going to share the bad news. It would only lead to worry, and there was nothing either of us could do about it from here.

  “Jack?” Dinara sounded astonished.

  “Dinara,” I replied. “You bailed on us.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jack. We saw you…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’m kidding,” I said. “You did the right thing. Where are you?”

  “Kabul,” she replied. “Getting ready to go back to Moscow at first light. Where are you?”

  “Kom Valley, near Kamdesh,” I said. “Heading your way. Wait there. We’re a couple hours out. We’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “OK,” Dinara replied. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Jack.”

  “Me too,” I scoffed. “Justine, are you still on the line?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Can you arrange transportation home from Kabul?” I asked.

 

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