Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

“Now I already asked you to leave,” Ted said.

“We’re sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Eisner,” I said.

Jessie and I returned to the Nissan and jumped in. She started the engine. I watched Ted Eisner eyeball us as Jessie turned us around and drove away from his house.

“He was lying,” she noted.

I nodded. “Pull over once we’re out of sight.”

Jessie continued along the drive until we were almost at the intersection with the road. We were shielded from the house now by a thick screen of pine trees, so she pulled over, killed the engine and we jumped out.

We picked our way back through the trees. I was grateful for the snow, which enabled us to move silently. We followed the treeline around the edge of the parking area until we were level with the house. There was a yard, maybe twenty feet or so, separating the trees from the side of the building.

“Ready?” I asked.

Jessie nodded and we set off, crossing the gap in a matter of moments. We pressed against the wall of the house and worked our way along. We moved to the nearest window, and I glanced in to see a living room full of framed photographs of Ted Eisner in uniform, and caught the polished shine of medals and trophies everywhere. These weren’t for swimming. There was no mistaking this was the home of a decorated veteran.

I signaled Jessie and we crept toward the rear of the house. We passed another couple of windows that gave us views of a bedroom and a corridor. I could see shadows moving against the corridor wall. Ted Eisner was not alone.

We went on, round the back of the house, past another bedroom, until we came to a window beside the back door. I approached it carefully and glanced in to see Ted Eisner sitting in a chair by his kitchen table. He was facing me, but didn’t register my presence. His attention was on the two men in black tactical gear, standing directly in front of him. Both had pistols drawn, and the taller of the two used his to strike Ted’s shoulder. I could almost feel the force of the blow. The veteran groaned as it knocked him out of his chair.

“Tell us where she is,” his assailant demanded. The man had a thick Russian accent.

Ted looked up at the man with steel in his eyes. “Do your worst. I ain’t saying nothing.”

Jessie and I stepped away from the window and moved back along the side of the house. She took out her phone and indicated she was going to make a call, before moving toward the woods. I gave her the “eyes on” signal and returned to the kitchen window. I crouched down and peered through the misty glass.

“Tell me where she is,” the taller of the two men growled. His accomplice punched Ted in the ribs.

The veteran groaned, but said nothing. I heard a phone ring. The tall man answered it. He spoke in Russian, and listened for a moment before hanging up. His mood seemed to have shifted and my hackles rose when I saw him check his pistol.

He said something in Russian, and his accomplice backed away from Ted. I knew what was coming next, and cast around desperately. I caught sight of a woodpile by the back door; buried in one of the logs was a snow-covered hand ax. It would have to do.

I ran to the woodpile, grabbed the ax, pulled it free and barreled toward the back door. Through the glass panel, I saw Ted raise his hands instinctively as the Russian aimed the pistol at his head.

The shorter man registered my presence first, but he wasn’t the immediate threat. I saw him glance at me as I rushed onto the porch and smashed through the back door. Glass sprayed everywhere, and my loud crashing entrance had the desired effect. As the gunman turned in my direction, I threw the ax and it hit him heel first on the forehead, knocking him off his feet and sending his gun clattering across the floor.

His short accomplice, a man with a rough beard and a dirty face, reached inside his jacket, but I was on him immediately, throwing a couple of jabs that knocked him back. He managed to draw his gun, but I blocked him when he tried to bring it round, and it went off by my ear, deafening me on my left side. Silence was suddenly replaced by terrible ringing, but I ignored it and grabbed his arm, twisting it around, causing him to drop the gun. I kicked it away, but immediately sensed movement behind me.

I turned just in time to see the tall Russian getting to his feet. I dived for his gun before he could reach it and turned it on him. He upended the kitchen table, shielding himself from my aim, and both he and the shorter assailant ran through a door into the garage, slamming it behind them.

I checked on Ted, who was alive but dazed, and ran to the door to the garage as I heard the rumble of an engine. The door was locked, so I stepped back and fired three rounds by the handle. The lock popped and I burst into the garage to see a large black Escalade smash through the double doors, taking part of the brickwork with it.

Through the wrecked doors, I saw Jessie reverse the Nissan into the Escalade’s path. She was trying to block the driveway, but the driver of the Escalade swerved and struck the Nissan on the back wing, sending Jessie into a violent spin. The Nissan skidded on the icy snow, twirling like a carousel, until it came to a crashing halt when it collided with a tree. I ran out and fired a couple of wild shots at the Escalade, which was already speeding into the distance, then raced across to the wrecked Nissan, desperate to see if Jessie was OK.

The first thing Floyd registered was the smell. Sweet, ripe and rotten, an almost overpowering stench of manure and livestock. He opened his eyes and saw straw and droppings, and heard the bray of a nearby animal. He raised his head to see a horned goat poking its muzzle through the wooden struts of an interior partition — its lips working the air as it strained to reach the sleeve of his flight suit. Behind the creature were others, gnawing on some kind of meal heaped in a clay trough.

Floyd moved his arm and the goat snorted and joined its fellow inmates. Floyd looked up and saw wooden beams supporting rough boards, a ceiling of sorts, the lines of light that fell between them broken by the movement of people overhead. He could hear their footsteps. Lots of footsteps.

He sat up and looked over his shoulder to see two short stern-faced men in gray shalwar kameez tunics and trousers, standing beyond a wooden gate. Both of them held bolt-action rifles and had pistols holstered in gun belts slung across their chests.

One of them yelled something in Kamviri — the local language, which Floyd was aware of but not enough to understand — and there came an almost immediate reply from someone he couldn’t see.

The more dangerous of the two — Floyd had characterized him so because his face was a criss-cross patchwork of old scars — stepped forward and opened the gate, while his companion kept his rifle aimed at Floyd’s chest. Scarface said something and gestured with his long-barreled gun. Floyd didn’t need a translator. He shuffled toward the two men. He was tempted to disarm Scarface, but there was every chance he’d catch a bullet in the gut for his troubles. And besides, he had no idea what lay outside this building. The people of Nuristan weren’t to be underestimated. They’d been at war with one enemy or another for an almost unbroken period of more than a century. Combat was a way of life, and the CIA briefing on the region had left Floyd with a sense of awe at the ability of these people to structure their lives and society around almost ceaseless war.

When he stepped out of the stall, Floyd saw an exterior door, and another man, about the same height as the first two, but older, with narrow, cruel eyes. He was armed in similar fashion, and when he opened the door, Floyd caught a blast of bitter air. He longed for his flight jacket, but it was nowhere to be seen. Scarface jostled him forward, then directed him through the door leading outside. He was pushed up a flight of stone steps that ran off to the right and was almost blinded by powerful torchlight shone by a figure at the top of the stairs.