"Three more days, my love. Only three days and we will be one," he said.
She twisted her face into pout. "I don't know. I think I might change my mind."
Kharzai raised an eyebrow and forced his face into a serious expression, "If you change your mind now, I’ll strap on a shaheed vest and throw myself into a train."
"Then I will have to marry you. You're too cute to blow yourself up!"
They laughed. He held the door open and she walked into the house. Their eyes locked as she passed, like magnets unable to resist each other. The door closed behind her, breaking the bond. He walked to the car, practically floating above the ground, opened the trunk, and retrieved a suitcase of files and photos. Most of the images were already in the hands of the CIA and ISI, and counter-ops were already working on defensive measures.
As he lifted the heavy case, his cell phone bleeped with an incoming text message. Kharzai set the case on the lip of the open trunk and pulled the phone from his pants pocket. He thumbed the text message button and read the words on the screen.
Impact imminent…DUCK!
A bright hiss screeched in the distance, growing louder fast. His heart leaped into his throat and he started for the house. He opened his mouth, shouting for the boys to run, but the words were shred in midair, his breath torn from his lungs as the house erupted with an earth-shattering roar. The force of the explosion threw him back and over the car, and he landed in the dirt with a brain-rattling impact. He willed his stalled lungs to expand and suck in air, then pushed himself onto his feet and stumbled forward.
Where the house had stood was a heap of shattered bricks and splintered wood. Clouds of dust slowly settled over the rubble. Terrified villagers peeked from inside their homes, looking first at the destruction then up to the sky, praying more bombs were not on the way. Dazed, Kharzai stumbled into the ruins searching, praying that she had stepped out the back door, or by some miracle had been protected. He froze, his eyes locked on a piece of bright orange linen that glowed in sharp contrast to the shattered brick and charred wood. He moved toward it and saw her stockinged foot twisted beneath a large mass of crumbled stone. He started to reach down, to dig her out. A glimmer of gold sparkled two meters away — her necklace. He stepped toward it and reached down to pick it up, hands trembling, tears welling up in his eyes. As he pulled on it, a stone rolled aside, revealing strands of long brown hair that wavered in a breeze that kicked up low to the ground. He glanced back at her foot and instantly realized that Leila's hair and necklace were entirely too far from her feet. His stomach lurched and he struggled to force himself to a place of detached calm. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the hair as close to the source as he could, refusing the urge to dig her body out, not wanting to see her face, only moments before full of life and beauty, now mangled in death. He would only hold on to the memory of the living woman he loved. He tied the lock of hair into a knot around the gold chain and pushed them into his pocket.
Kharzai walked into a Lahore coffee house, the acrid smell of tobacco smoke and strong coffee stinging his nostrils as he crossed the mostly empty room to a table in the far corner. A deeply tanned Caucasian man looked up from the table and acknowledged Kharzai's approach. He started to rise, but Kharzai's expression advised him to stay seated.
"You were supposed to wait for my signal, Michael," Kharzai growled.
"We had the house on satellite,” Michael said, “and knew we would only have one chance."
Kharzai grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him up from the chair.
“We gave you a warning message,” Michael sputtered.
“You killed a bunch of kids!” Violence punctuated Kharzai's voice.
The CIA man's face twisted in expectation of getting hit. Kharzai dropped him back into the chair.
“Blame the Taliban, not me!” Michael straightened his collar, looking nervously around. “They’re the ones who hide among civilians!”
“You could have waited until my signal.”
The man rose to his feet. “Al Gwahari would have slipped away again. It was worth…”
Kharzai rammed his fist straight into the man's nose. Blood sprayed across the man's white shirt and he stumbled backwards, knocking the table over and falling to the floor.
"You killed my wife, you bastard!"
The man rose to his knees and touched his face. He winced and looked down in horror as blood continued to pulse from his nose and spread over his hands.
"Jesus! You broke my nose!"
"You’re lucky you still have testicles, you son of a bitch.” Kharzai picked up a napkin from the table and wiped the blood from his knuckles. “Tell your boss that I’m out."
"You can’t quit.” Michael said in a liquid, nasal voice. "You’re in too deep — they won’t let you go."
Kharzai stared down at him in a barely controlled rage.
"Tell them I am dead. And if anyone comes to find me, they will be too."
Chapter 2
Lonnie Johnson made a sound like a hiccup that got interrupted halfway up her throat. Her eyes bulged, then narrowed to tight slits, and she strained back in her chair, screwing up her face. A chubby dark-skinned girl behind the register looked up and said something in Spanish to a teenage cook at the grill next to her. He turned towards Lonnie, eyes wide, a concerned look on his face.
Her husband, Marcus, swallowed a mouthful of beans and rice. “Are you all right, honey?”
“Dios,” muttered the grill cook. “You chokin’, lady? Should I call 911?”
She shook her head, but didn't say anything. The half-dozen customers in the restaurant stared at her. She released the tension with a whoosh of air and opened her eyes wide.
“I’m fine. My baby's just doing spinning hook kicks in response to the salsa.”
“I don’t ever want to get pregnant,” the girl behind the counter said with a noticeable Mexican accent.
“I told you not to eat the spicy green stuff,” Marcus wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Between that and all the kimchi you keep putting down, you’re going to burn a hole in your stomach.”
“The kimchi is genetic. I am Korean; therefore, I eat kimchi.” Lonnie pulled her straight black hair behind her head and secured the ponytail with a scrunchie. “And as far as I can tell, whoever makes this salsa must have some Korean blood in them, too. I love this stuff.”
“Yeah, well, baby does not.”
“The little one better get used to it,” Lonnie replied. “Taco King is what I crave.”
Taco King was real Mexican cuisine, made by real Mexican immigrants, not like the big chain restaurants or fast-food garbage endorsed by a Chihuahua. With a style somewhere between fast food and full service, however one defined it, the food was amazing. Lonnie Johnson, eight months pregnant, could not get enough of it. The fact that Anchorage had two of them, as well as several good Korean restaurants, made their stay in the big city tolerable. Neither she nor Marcus particularly enjoyed staying in Anchorage for any length of time. The city of nearly half a million felt like an overcrowded metropolis in comparison to their hometown of Fairbanks three hundred and sixty miles to the north, population fifty thousand. And since Taco King had a store in Fairbanks Lonnie’s cravings could easily be satisfied at home.
Marcus stuffed half a soft corn tortilla filled with lengua — broiled beef tongue — into his mouth. A spot of sour cream stuck to the corner of his lip, bright white in contrast to his milk-chocolate brown skin. He spoke while the food was still in his mouth.