For a second, the scene made no sense. She heard a helicopter, saw an Mi-17 landing on the road in front of the vehicle. Dust billowed from under the rotors; grit ticked against the windshield. Her older escort, who had sat beside her and had seemed so calm, took a handful of her hair and scarf with one hand. With another he held an AK-47 under her chin.
He jerked her by the hair so that her face turned toward the helicopter.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed.
Beretta drawn, Parson jumped from the helicopter, landed hard and flat-footed on the soles of both boots. He saw a door open on the Land Rover, and a man pulled Sophia out of the backseat. The turbaned bastard had her by the hair with one hand, and with the other he jammed a rifle barrel against her neck. Shouted in Pashto. Sophia gestured with her hands out, palms toward Parson. Stop, stay calm, she seemed to say. The driver sat frozen at the wheel.
Behind Parson, the crew chief trained the door gun on the Land Rover. Those terrorist degenerates had to know that if they shot Sophia, that gun would cut them into halves and quarters. But then it would be too late for her.
Parson aimed at the man holding Sophia, notched front sight into rear sight. He longed to put a round through the Talib’s head and drop him. But at this range, maybe twenty yards, the distance was too great for that kind of precision with a pistol. Too much risk of hitting Sophia.
He didn’t want the crew chief to be a hero, either—for the same reason. Parson took his left hand off his weapon. Held his hand out toward the helicopter, hoped the crew chief would take his meaning: Hold your fire.
It sounded like Sophia was yelling in English; Parson couldn’t hear her over the helicopter noise. He glanced toward the cockpit, made a slashing motion under his throat. Rashid was peering forward, hands on the cyclic and collective. His helmet visor was up, boom mike across his lips. He appeared to give an order. The rotors and engines stopped, but the APU howled on.
Better, but still loud. At least Parson could understand Gold now.
“Don’t shoot,” she yelled. “It’s all right.”
“Bullshit it’s all right,” Parson shouted. “Tell that bastard to drop his rifle or I’ll kill him.”
Gold spoke to the man in Pashto. Whatever she was saying, it was too many syllables for Parson’s simple command. Somebody was going to die here. He saw little way out of this without bloodshed, most likely starting with Sophia.
The man yelled at her, a long string of Pashto. Jerked her by the hair again, tipped his chin toward the Mi-17.
We’re not a fucking debate society, Parson thought. Just let her go and maybe you’ll live.
“He helped me,” Gold said. “They’re bringing me back from a meeting.”
“What?”
“Durrani,” Gold yelled. “They took me to Durrani. They’re just bringing me back.”
“How do I know he didn’t just tell you to say that?”
“For God’s sake, Michael, nobody needs to get shot here.”
The man with the AK shouted again in Pashto. Gold answered with long sentences. Parson racked his brain, tried to think of a way to defuse this. But he hadn’t heard enough to give him the confidence to lower his pistol.
“You violated orders,” Parson said.
“I know it,” Gold shouted. “I’m sorry. But they gave me information, and if you guys start shooting, I won’t get to tell you.”
What the hell was this all about? Parson inched closer, tried to shorten the range. Shooting still seemed like a good idea to him.
The man yelled in his own language, and Gold shouted, “Stop! He says don’t come any closer.”
Shit. So that wouldn’t work. What else to do? Parson thought of something.
“Does he speak any English?” Parson asked.
“What?”
“Does that son of a bitch speak any English?”
“Only a little, I think.”
Good. Maybe something he could use.
“If you’re not telling me the truth,” Parson said, “if he’s just making you say all this, then use the duress word.”
Apple. The duress code this week was apple.
“I’m not under duress, Michael,” Gold said, “other than having an AK-47 in my face.”
Parson thought for a moment. She wasn’t tied up. Perhaps that meant something.
“Okay,” Parson said, “tell him I’ll put down my weapon. But if he shoots you, that door gun will rip him apart, and I’ll bury the pieces in pig blood.”
“I’m not going to tell him that. Just put down your pistol. Please.”
Parson considered the situation. A man was holding a gun to Sophia’s neck, but she insisted he didn’t mean to harm her. About a mile up the road lay the village and Sophia’s Humvee. She’d said they were bringing her back. And the Land Rover had been heading in that direction when Parson spotted it from the air.
He saw just two choices: trust Sophia, like he always had, or take a long, crazy shot with a handgun and maybe hit her. Not hard to do that math.
Parson put his Beretta on safe. Eased it down slowly, placed it in his thigh holster.
The man with the AK kept the muzzle at Gold’s carotid artery until Parson brought his hands back up, spread his fingers to show them empty. The man lowered his rifle. He held it one-handed at his side, let go of Gold’s hair. Then he looked at Parson—a hard look but not necessarily one of hate. The man seemed to take Parson’s measure, decide what to think of him.
With several words in Pashto, the Talib addressed Gold. She closed her eyes, let her shoulders relax. Spoke several words Parson could not understand. What else could they possibly have to talk about? Then they nodded at each other like they were drinking buddies, for God’s sake.
Gold stepped toward the helicopter. The Talib sat down in the Land Rover and closed the door.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Sophia said as she reached his side. “I should have known you’d come after me.”
Parson didn’t know what he wanted more, to explode in anger or to question her about what she’d just done. Was it worth her life? Was it worth her career? Instead he asked, “What were you two saying at the end?”
“He said, ‘Your Bible says there is a time to kill. This is not that time.’”
“What the hell would he know about that?” Parson asked.
“He also said he wants to watch us leave. My vehicle is right up there.” Gold pointed to the village. “I’ll drive us back, and you can yell at me all the way to Mazar.”
That sounded good to Parson. Maybe the yelling part, but mainly the exit—getting out of here before things got even crazier. And more dangerous.
Parson climbed back into the Mi-17, put on his headset, pressed his talk button, and said, “Sergeant Major Gold and I will drive back in her Humvee. Go ahead and start up, and take off when you see us pull out.”
“We wait for you,” Rashid said.
“Just orbit over us as we drive. Keep an eye on the road ahead of us and behind us. I’ll have my survival radio on. Call me on the guard channel if you see anything. I still don’t trust these bastards.”
“Never,” Rashid said.
“Oh yeah—call back to command post and tell ’em we found her,” Parson said. “See you back at Mazar.”
Parson unplugged his headset from the interphone cord, picked up his helmet bag. He kept on the headset for hearing protection as Rashid’s crew started engines. With Sophia beside him, he walked up the dirt path toward the village, audio cord dangling at his waist.
21
At the village, Gold opened the driver’s door of the Humvee and sat behind the wheel. Parson took the passenger seat and did not speak. She wished he’d say something, but he only removed his headset, placed it on the floor, and looked through the windshield.