Alex Berenson - The Shadow Patrol

“Why’d he stop on the saddle?” Alders said.

“Probably saw the bikes, tried to figure it out.”

“And then on the ridge?”

“Maybe he saw the Strykers.” Then Francesca realized. “Could be he’s part of that IED cell.”

“I still hate the timing.”

Francesca didn’t like it either, but the guy looked local. Anyway, if Francesca took him out, they’d lose any chance at Young. “I’m gonna let him roll.”

The guy reached the square in the middle of the village, disappeared behind a mud wall. Francesca could still hear the bike idling. He looked down the road. The Strykers were closing, under three miles out now, steaming up the hill.

“I don’t like it,” Alders said.

Francesca ignored him. The biker was no threat. And if he looked like he was becoming one, Francesca could take him out in seconds. He wasn’t wearing armor. Francesca would have seen it under his gown.

A minute later, if that, the bike emerged from the square. Now it was coming back north. Now the guy who’d been riding was on the back. A teenage kid was up front. The branches were gone. The passenger was holding some kind of bag.

“Told you,” Francesca said. “Dude’s ACF”—anti-coalition forces—“all the way. Getting out of Dodge before the cavalry gets here. Bet you a hundred bucks I catch him planting an IED back at the hut and I take him then.” Francesca liked that idea. Watch him now, kill him later.

“He stops on the saddle, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“He’s not stopping.”

The bike came up the road, its little engine humming chugga chugga choo . Francesca let it come, didn’t even scope it. He was staying focused on the Stryker convoy, less than two miles away now. He wanted to hit Young quick, soon as he had a clear shot. Weston and Rodriguez, too. Snip those loose ends. If Alders got pissed, so be it. The man couldn’t exactly file a complaint with CID. But Francesca figured Alders wouldn’t be upset, not after what he’d said in the truck. Alders had turned out to be stone-cold after all.

The bike disappeared from sight as it approached the ridge. Then it was on the saddle. It slowed, might even have idled for a second. Then it revved and disappeared down the back side toward the Arghandab, its engine fading.

“Told you,” Francesca said. “No problem. Show’s about to start.”

When the bike got to within fifty yards of the ridgeline, Wells tapped Razi’s arm. The kid downshifted. Wells stood, put his hands on Razi’s shoulders. Razi nodded to Wells’s unspoken command and tapped the rear brake lightly as they hit the saddle. Wells kicked his right leg over the seat and jumped.

He landed cleanly. Even so, he felt like someone had put a spike through his left foot. He grabbed the pistol and two grenades. He stuffed the grenades in his gown pockets, ducked behind a tree close by the road. Behind him, the motorcycle’s engine revved as it rolled away down the hill. Wells had offered Razi the bike in trade for the one-minute ride from the village to the saddle. The deal was more than fair, aside from the chance of sudden death by sniper. Though Wells had kept that risk to himself. Anyway, Francesca had stayed quiet and the bike was Razi’s now. He’d earned it. Wells hoped he had fun with it.

Wells didn’t think Francesca or Alders would leave their nest to investigate a passing motorcycle, especially since they could hear it disappearing. But he stayed behind the tree for fifteen long seconds before standing and stalking east, up the hill, pistol loose at his side. He scanned for the nest, the glint of metal, the shadow cast by an arm or leg. Nothing. He heard the Strykers now, their big engines rumbling. They must have reached the village.

Then he saw the streambed and the mulberry bushes.

THE STRYKERS were so big that only two could park in the central plaza. The third and fourth stopped at the edge of the village, a hundred meters away. Francesca focused on the two in the center of town.

“You ready for this?” he said to Alders. “Blue on blue?”

“It is what it is.”

The Dragunov’s scope was marked with chevrons and graphs that formed a primitive but effective range-finding system. Francesca marked distance to target at 525 meters. The black burqas were limp on their clothesline. The breeze had stopped.

The lead Stryker’s ramp inched down. One by one, men stepped out. Francesca watched through the scope. Americans. With American uniforms and helmets and M-16s and M-4s. No. Not Americans or Talibs. Not friendlies or enemies. Targets.

Weston was fifth man out of the Stryker. Soon as his feet touched dirt, he started directing traffic. He sent two men to the eastern edge of the square, spread the rest around the Stryker. They were loose and relaxed, Francesca saw. No one expected trouble. For just a moment, Weston looked up the ridgeline, like he was trying to spot the nest. But his eyes slid by Francesca and kept right on going.

Francesca moved to the second Stryker. The ramp had dropped. Two men out already. A third emerging. Rodriguez. So Young was in there, too. Young was in Rodriguez’s squad. He’d be out in a matter of seconds.

Even better, here came Weston, walking over to Rodriguez. “Three for the price of one,” Francesca said.

“It is what it is,” Alders said again.

Francesca wondered whether Alders thought he had some profound wisdom there. Because he didn’t. But Francesca didn’t argue. They’d come to the silent moment before the lightning. Francesca steadied his hands, slowed his heart. He thumbed down the safety, put his eye to the scope, slipped his index finger through the trigger guard.

And he waited.

Young walked down the ramp, took a half step onto the muddy ground. Francesca’s finger tightened on the trigger—

Young turned and walked back into the Stryker like he’d forgotten something. Rodriguez stepped toward the ramp. He seemed to be yelling. Probably asking Young what the heck he was doing, telling him to get his butt out of the truck.

Then Francesca felt as much as heard a presence behind them. A scuffling on the dirt, leaves crackling. He couldn’t explain exactly how he knew. But he knew .

“Check the six,” he whispered to Alders.

“What?”

“Now.”

Alders didn’t argue. He reached for his AK, pushed himself to his knees, turned—

And then everything happened at once.

WELLS CLIMBED to the streambed and angled down. Following the draw would give him the best chance of spotting the nest without being seen. Forty meters from the bushes, the streambed dipped between two refrigerator-size rocks. Wells walked between them. Another step and he could see almost to the ridgeline. A brown blanket. And two pairs of sandaled feet side by side. His first glimpse of Francesca and Alders, not face-to-face but face-to-foot.

Wells took another step, raised his pistol. And suddenly the man on the right sat up and turned. Alders. Holding an AK. His mouth popped open as he saw Wells.

Wells pulled the trigger, a quick one-handed shot. He didn’t have time to aim. The bullet caught Alders high in the chest, close to the shoulder, and pushed him down. Wells fired again, missing. A geyser of dirt exploded up from the streambed. Alders grunted in pain and kicked himself backward toward the ridgeline, cutting off Wells’s angle.

Wells stepped forward, but Alders put up a couple wild shots so Wells couldn’t charge. Wells shifted his aim to Francesca as Francesca pulled in his legs. Wells fired twice and missed both times. Only one for four now. Alders returned with the AK. This time the shots were close, and Wells threw himself down to the streambed. At this range, even a half-aimed burst could connect.