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“Salaam,” Rapp said, touching his free hand to his heart. While his Dari might be marginal, he had perfected the art of hiding his American accent behind an Iraqi one. That typically created enough confusion to keep everyone from shooting at once. But not always.
An old man who appeared to be in charge was the first to speak. “Who are you? Show yourself.”
Rapp eased the bag to the ground and slowly unwound the scarf from his face. Again, the result would be ambiguous. Dark eyes, beard, and sun-damaged skin.
“I was sent for the people you’re holding,” he said, nudging the bag with his toe. “I brought money.”
“Then it was a trick,” the old man responded, pointing in the direction of the abandoned village Rapp had attacked. “You knew we weren’t there.”
“Yes.”
“A warrior who fights with his head and not his heart.”
“I fight with whatever weapons are necessary.”
The old man turned his attention to the bag. “We’ve already been promised payment.”
“From the politicians,” Rapp said, spitting on the ground with disdain that he didn’t have to fake. “Cowards waiting to betray you from five thousand kilometers away. I came here in person with money in my hands. Better than a promise from men with no honor, don’t you think?”
“We aren’t being paid to release our hostages,” the man said.
Rapp nodded at the confirmation that his and Kennedy’s suspicions were correct. “You’re being paid to kill the man coming to rescue them.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no reason for it anymore. Give me the hostages and take what I’m offering. Use it to make a better life for your families.”
“No!” a kid on the right blurted. “Are you blind? It’s Malik al-Mawt.”
The angel of death. A nickname the Taliban pinned on him when he’d operated there.
“I haven’t been that in a long time. And there’s no reason for me to be it again. You fought for your country, and I fought for mine. I killed your brothers, and you killed mine. But that’s over now.”
“It’s over for you,” the old man said. “You go back to your rich country and live like a king while my people starve.”
“We gave you every opportunity to build a future. You rejected it. You fought among yourselves, you fell back on tribal bigotry, and you cheated each other. If you want to blame someone for your situation, look in the mirror.”
Rapp scanned the faces in front of him, trying to hold back the memories. He’d been in a similar position on one of his first trips to Afghanistan. But back then he’d had better knees and a hell of a lot more youthful illusions.
Scott Coleman lay on his stomach in the dirt, moving only his eyes. He hadn’t understood the shouted statement coming from the center of the village, but the tone was clear. After a five count, though, still no gunshots. A second miracle happened a few seconds later. One of the two men guarding the stone building he was watching wandered off to see what the commotion was about.
This whole plan was nuts, but somehow it seemed to be playing out exactly as Rapp predicted. He’d said the men in the village wouldn’t empty their rifles into him when he came waltzing into town. That at least some of the men guarding the hostages would abandon their posts to exercise their curiosity. And that everyone would get out of this with their skin. Of course, that last one remained to be seen.
He slid back and circled to the rear of the target building. Based on a brief flare from around the wall, the remaining guard had just lit a cigarette. A consolation for being left out of the party.
The former SEAL slipped along the wall until he could see around its edge. The guard was no more than seventeen, with a smooth face that illuminated every time he dragged on his smoke.
Rapp wanted this to all go off without breaking too many dishes. For better or worse, the war was over, and he didn’t want to revisit it. Coleman was more ambivalent, but he had no desire to kill this kid.
Unfortunately, his nonlethal tool kit was nearly nonexistent. Improvising, he picked up a rock and eased around the edge of the ancient structure. The darkness was fairly deep in that corner of the village and the kid had blown his night vision with the cigarette, so things went reasonably smoothly. The rock contacted his skull with a dull crack that wouldn’t carry very far, and he dropped to the ground. Not sexy, but effective.
After propping him next to the door, Coleman flipped down his night-vision monocular and entered. In the northeast corner, he could see the two Americans asleep on the dirt floor.
“Time to get up,” he whispered.
They both immediately woke, but were slow to move. The reason was easy to see with the benefit of light amplification. One was wearing an explosive vest with various wires leading from it to his companion. An antenna was visible above one of the charges, but the location of the remote detonator and whose finger was on it were impossible to say. Probably one of the men currently being chatted up by the newer, gentler Mitch Rapp.
“Is someone there?” one of the men mustered the courage to say.
