Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8)
leaving Bahar in charge of their small flock and providing for his grandmother and sister.His grief had nearly overtaken him, but as the days and weeks went on, his sheik had patiently counseled him, helping him to see the true path. His father’s and his brother’s deaths need not be in vain. God intended to use the event to spur Bahar into action, to help regain his country from the opposing forces of invading infidel armies.
His grief smoldered into a steadily growing anger, giving birth to a flame of all-consuming rage that now dominated his every thought. It was time to join the fight. No longer would he sit passively aside and watch for another tragedy to hit those he loved. No longer would he leave the fate of his country to those who only lusted after power and money.
Across the dirt yard, the rising sun nudged the goats toward the shade of the aluminum awning, their bells rattling a sound that was as familiar to Bahar as the warmth of the sun itself. He loved this simple life. Neither he nor his brother had ever wanted anything else. Despite the political turmoil surrounding them, they had always been happy as a family, part of a long line of goat herders that stretched back generations. And they were good at it. They knew the barren land, the animals, and how to maximize their profit for each.
But everything was different now. Since his family had been taken from him, Bahar had come to different conclusions about the nature of the world, the events of the last two decades, and his personal role in it all.
He wasn’t a boy anymore. He had not been for many years.
It was time to play the man.
“Bahar.”
He set his jaw. He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck. “Yes, Bibijan.”
“Do not be foolish. Nothing will bring them back. Let Allah deal with those who are responsible.”
Behind him, the clock gently chimed the hour.
Bahar huffed quietly to himself and replied as he pushed open the front door. “I am going out. I will return later.”
Bahar rode across the monotonous hardpan for close to an hour before the peaks of the Hindu Kush asserted themselves on the horizon. Behind him, a high rooster tail of dust drifted into a nebulous cloud that dissipated within a steady breeze.
His grip on the steering wheel grew tighter with every passing kilometer, the tension bringing a dull ache into his arms and shoulders. He felt childish for the way his nerves were assaulting him, making him second-guess himself and wonder if he should have just stayed back home with his grandmother.
But there was no turning back now. He was part of a greater whole, an entire series of events that had been set in motion. Should he fail to perform the task given to him, the plan would stall, and they would hold him responsible.
No, he must do this. He would do this.
For the hundredth time, Bahar reminded himself that he had gone down this path for the sake of his country, for the memory of his father and his brother. There was no cost too great, no deed too grand, that was not worthy of the two men he had loved most in this world.
He swallowed hard and cranked down the window of the ancient Toyota Tacoma. The hot wind whipped through the cab and dried the sweat that had gathered on his temples and arms. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax in his seat.
He continued on, the mountains growing higher before him as he entered the outskirts of Kandahar. Pomegranate groves rolled by on his right, dozens of tents belonging to traveling herdsmen—bedouins—on his left. Before him lay the ancient city, tucked in against the foot of the mountains. It had yet to modernize. Unlike Kabul in the distant north, Kandahar had no steel structures; the highest points were the dozens of minarets standing tall across the sprawl of mudbrick buildings that, for the most part, went unpainted. You could almost feel the age of the city as you entered, expecting it to expel a tired creak or sigh. Were it not for the noise and bustle of bicycles, mopeds, tuk-tuks, and cars, then it would take little imagination to think you were living in the eighteenth century or before.
Bahar continued down the main road and slowed as traffic condensed in front of him. He passed the market, turned before he reached his favorite mosque, and crawled ahead for another half kilometer before pulling to the side and getting out. It was midday now, and the sun’s rays were relentless. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he opened the door to a corner cafe and went inside. The room was small and smelled of freshly baked sheer pira and simmering haft mewa. Bahar’s stomach growled. He was hungry. But one glance across the room told him he would have to wait. His appointment was already here.
The man’s head was crowned with a white Kandhari cap and his long black bread hung down over his teacup. Bahar approached the table, pulled out the chair across from the man, and sat down.
The man did not look at him. He reached into a satchel at his feet and then slid his hand across the table to Bahar. Bahar set his hand atop the other man’s and palmed the small device, sliding it off the table and slipping it into a pocket of his pants.
The man took a sip of his tea and finally looked at Bahar after he had returned his cup to its saucer. “You have one hour,” he said.
“Yes,” Bahar acknowledged. It took everything in him not to swallow hard. This was not the time to reveal his unease.
His associate did not smile, but said, “You are doing very well, Bahar. We are happy you have joined us. Since you have, much good has come of it.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
“Complete your task