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Jalal Malik CIA…Legit? Clean?
Her contact responded several minutes later:
Born in the US to first-generation Afghans who escaped Afghanistan and Taliban rule thirty years before and earned their US citizenship. Malik speaks fluent Pashto and joined the CIA to give back to the country that saved his parents. Now working to uncover a mole in the US government, who is feeding information and arms to the Taliban. Ahmadi is his trusted informant.
With Ahmadi in her sights, Kyla could have picked him off any time that day and disappeared. However, she couldn’t pull the trigger, not when her gut told her something was off. Ahmadi wasn’t dangerous to the US. In fact, his willingness to help the US find the traitor within made him an asset and put him in danger of Taliban retaliation. Why had he been targeted for extermination?
She’d followed him home to ask him that question. By the time he’d returned to his home, darkness had settled over Kandahar.
Kyla ducked into the shadows of the wall surrounding Ahmadi’s home, where she stripped out of the white thobe and trousers and tucked them behind a stack of stones. Then she pulled herself up and over the wall, dropped down into Ahmadi’s yard and watched for her chance to corner the target.
That chance presented itself within the hour.
Ahmadi’s wife had gone to the bedroom. Ahmadi stepped out his back door onto the hardpacked dirt within the stone wall to smoke a cigarette.
Kyla slipped up behind him, clamped her hand over his mouth and pressed a pistol with the silencer attachment to his temple. She lowered her voice and spoke in Pashto, “Tell me why my government wants you dead.”
He stood still, making no attempt to fight back. “Who is your government?”
She nudged his temple with the pistol. “The same government who sent your guest at tea.”
He nodded and switched to English. “Perhaps we are getting too close to the truth,” he said in a whisper.
Kyla released the man and stepped back, her weapon trained on Ahmadi’s chest as he turned to face her, his hands raised.
“I am not your enemy,” he said.
“Then why would my government send me to kill you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “For the same reason I had tea with another citizen of your country. One of your own is playing for the other side and has sent you to do his dirty work.”
“What do you know that would make someone put a hit out on you?” she asked.
“If you will not kill me, I will tell you what I told my guest at tea.” Ahmadi’s eyes narrowed as he awaited her response.
Kyla lowered her weapon. She could still kill him if he made a move to hurt her.
Ahmadi drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking again. “I received the name of the man who has been coordinating shipments to the Taliban. He goes by…Abaddon.”
“Abaddon?”
The man nodded. “The meaning of the name is destruction.”
At that moment, Ahmadi’s wife called out in Pashto, “Are you expecting a delivery? A van just arrived in front of our gate.”
Ahmadi glanced toward the house.
A knot of foreboding formed in Kyla’s gut. “Call your wife to you.”
Ahmadi frowned. “Why?”
“Just do it. Now.” Kyla turned and slipped between the wall and the house.
Behind her, Ahmadi called to his wife.
Through the windows, Kyla could see Ahmadi’s wife moving toward the back of the house.
Kyla slowed at the front corner and peered through the wrought iron gate at a dark van parked on the street. A door opened, and a man dressed in dark clothes and a ski mask dropped down.
