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The stars were beginning to ignite and he glanced down at the truck’s gas gauge while there was still sufficient light. Less than a quarter of a tank. He could extend the pickup’s range by emptying the bodies from the bed, but it was unnecessary. There would be no return trip.

Hotaki came over a small rise and saw the encampment he was looking for. There were a few modern lights but most of the illumination was emanating from a bonfire in the central square. Behind were the mountains, black silhouettes that seemed to swallow the universe he’d only recently learned about.

Hotaki rolled to a stop and examined the scene below. The village was simple—a rough circle crisscrossed with dirt roads and low stone houses. It was inhabited by a particularly brutal group of Taliban looking to reassert control. In his mind, it made them worse than the others. Outsiders owed Afghanistan nothing. If they had the power to conquer it, they had the right. These men, though, were murderers. Killers of their own people.

He pressed the accelerator and started down the back of the rise, suddenly free of the deep sadness that had plagued him since the death of his family. By the time he reached the curving wall surrounding the village, all that was left in him was hate.

“Stop!”

A man with an AK-47 appeared from the shadows and approached the truck. Hotaki had the headlights off in order to obscure the corpses he was hauling, but it was unlikely that the precaution was necessary. The guard wouldn’t acknowledge even the possibility of danger. Like the men Hotaki had already killed that day, this one was confident in his righteousness and invincibility.

The young man didn’t even have his finger on the trigger of the weapon when he leaned toward the open window. “Who are you?”

Hotaki answered by shoving a broken bottle he’d found on the floorboard into the man’s neck. Surprise more than fear or pain froze him long enough for Hotaki to pull him partially through the window and hold his head as he bled. The dying man began to struggle, but he couldn’t free the gun pinned between his chest and the door. Instead, he swung his fists uselessly, slamming them repeatedly into the cab’s rusting metal as the life drained from him.

When he finally went still, Hotaki released his body and pushed the truck’s accelerator to the floor. The back wheels struggled for traction before catching and propelling him through the narrow opening in the wall.

The village’s men were right where he expected them to be, huddled around the central fire. They turned when they heard the approaching vehicle, but their eyes were adjusted to the glow of the flames and couldn’t penetrate the darkness beyond. None realized what was happening until it was too late. He plowed into them, pulling some beneath his wheels and knocking others into the fire. The ones who managed to avoid being hit scattered.

Smoke filled the cab as the oil-soaked chassis ignited. Hotaki leapt out, using an American-built AAC Honey Badger to spray the men trying to scurry away. It took only a moment for the pickup to be engulfed and his advantage was lessened by the blinding glare.

A round hit his flak jacket from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. He spun, holding the trigger of his weapon down and sweeping from left to right. The scent of charred human flesh filled his nostrils as he charged forward, dodging the burning logs his arrival had strewn about. More rounds struck his vest, their force trying to drive him back. His thigh was hit but the bullet missed the bone, weakening but not destabilizing his leg. A sudden burning in his neck and the subsequent taste of blood in his mouth heralded the death blow he’d known was coming, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. Not yet.

He suddenly found himself amid the men. The flash from their gun barrels and the roar of automatic fire were all around him. He realized that his weapon was empty and dropped it, pulling the .44 Magnum from his waistband. He knew he was being repeatedly hit but could no longer feel anything.

Hotaki was vaguely aware that he had dropped to his knees and that his gun was again empty, but still he didn’t stop. His finger continued to pull the trigger, tracking on the shifting shadows created by the firelight. Finally, the darkness descended.

God is great.

CHAPTER 45

THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE

ISLAMABAD

PAKISTAN

HE’S there. Next to the kitchen entrance.”

Ahmed Taj looked past his assistant toward a heavyset American man in a dark suit. Having arrived in the country only that morning, he’d already taken command of the Secret Service team tasked with providing security for the American secretary of state. Even the Pakistani detail seemed to be deferring to him—a shameful display of weakness that Taj would deal with later.

“Who is he?”

“Jack Warch,” Kabir Gadai said quietly. “He’s retired now but he was the head of President Hayes’s security when the White House was attacked years ago. Officially, he’s here only as an advisor, but there’s no question that he’s in charge.”

They moved from their position beneath the ballroom’s windows in order to let a banquet table be deposited there. Chairs were being brought in on wheeled pallets, and decorations were going up on the walls. Freshly polished silverware was arranged in velvet-lined boxes and crystal glasses were being held to the light by kitchen staff in search of spots.

President Chutani had spared no expense. This state dinner was to commemorate a new beginning in Pakistan’s long relationship with the United States. And to demonstrate to Chutani’s enemies the strength of his friendship with the most powerful country in the world.

The real outcome would be quite different. Dramatic pictures of Chutani choking on his own blood while American security men drew their weapons would whip the country into a frenzy that Taj would ride to power.

“Will Warch be a problem?”

“I don’t anticipate it. He’s inundated us with questions and requests, but I’ve been handling his demands personally. Obviously, his primary focus is on the safety of the American delegation.”

“What have we given him on Chef Marri?”

“Everything,” Gadai responded, lowering his voice further. “There’s no information connecting the two of you, so there was no reason to make any alterations that could raise suspicion. The entire staff, including Obaid Marri, has already been cleared by the Americans.”

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