Six months. Collins and No Name said I’d be done in six months. I could be home by Christmas if I play my cards right. Or…maybe I’ll spend the holiday in France. If Lisette will even talk to me.
“Guillermo!” Shapur breezes into the room. The years haven’t been kind to the kid. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was closer to fifty than thirty. His face is puffy, his skin greasy in the heat of June. “Salam alaikum. I thought you were dead, my friend.”
“That’s what I wanted you to think.” I rise, my right hand over my heart, and nod. Shapur returns the gesture. “Abdul Faruk put a price on my head. I had to lie low in Zanzibar for a while. Lucky for me, most of his men were idiots.”
He chuckles, his head thrown back. The thick scar across his throat came at the hands of two of Faruk’s goons, and it didn’t heal well. “Now, you have returned. Who told you of the Amir’s death?”
“I have my sources. Any idea who finally got to him?”
“Much has changed since we last saw one another, Guillermo.” He sweeps his gaze over the richly appointed sitting room. Plush, embroidered cushions surround the low table. A thick rug adorns the polished tile, and I’ve seen no less thanfourservants in the thirty minutes I’ve been here. “The Amir ceded much power these last few years.”
“To you?”
He answers with a smile.
For fuck’s sake. Shapur is going to take credit for Faruk’s death. Stupid on an epic level. Or…shit. No. It’s brilliant. The CIA needs him to take over running guns, drugs, and girls in the region. If I can help sell his bullshit story, half his potential competition will run screaming.
The young girl brings a fresh pot of tea. Shapur refills my cup—as is tradition—and offers me a bowl of sugared almonds.
“Manana,”I say and pop two of them into my mouth. My teeth are practically buzzing now.
“Your Pashto has not suffered for your absence. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“I’ve kept tabs on you, Shapur. After I helped you in Kabul,” I gesture to his neck, “I felt…it was my duty. With Faruk gone, the opportunities for a man withambitionare endless. And all who stand behind such a man will share in the glory.”
Shapur’s brown eyes light up, and he leans forward. “I owe you my life. Whatever you want, you have only to ask.”
“I’ve been out of the game for five years. I want back in.”
* * *
Eleven Months Later
The truck jerksto a stop outside a small warehouse on the outskirts of Kabul. The five men under my command heft their Kalashnikovs and form a semicircle behind the vehicle.
I lower the tailgate and loosen the tarp hiding a dozen women from view. “Out! Quickly.” Repeating the order in Pashto and Dari, I glare at Shapur’s latestshipment. They’re terrified. And way too goddamn young.
The men shove at them, herding them into the warehouse where they’ll be stripped, photographed, and held for days before going to auction.
I can’t protect them. Not here. But tomorrow, I’ll lose myself in Jalalabad’s shopping district and leave the auction address at a dead drop. I don’t know if the CIA can save the girls or not. But Pritchard swore they’d do their best.
Inside the warehouse, the girls huddle together, eyes downcast, utterly silent, as one of Shapur’s grunts kicks a box of white bras and panties at them. “You will put these on. Now.”
Another sets up a digital camera on a tripod in front of a black tarp.
The closest girl has green eyes that haunt me. She’s not local. I can’t watch this.
“Don’t let me lose my soul, Pritchard. That’s all I ask.”
It’s too late. With every shipment, every competitor Shapur asks me to threaten or kill, another piece of me dies. It doesn’t matter that this is the job. That Shapur Khan is the least of all the evils in Afghanistan. That the CIA might be able to use him—if he’d ever take a goddamn meeting with them. I’m still here. Five months after No Name promised they’d get me home.
Every night, I dream of Lisette. I wonder what she’s doing. If Mateen is healthy. If she’s happy. If she’s thinking about me.
“Now,kussi!”Obalesh shouts. The slap reverberates through the warehouse, and I whirl around to see the green-eyed girl on the ground, holding her cheek.
“Do not damage the merchandise!” I shove him back, waving at Jaabir to take his place. The girl weeps, her abaya bunched up around her knees, and her headscarf askew. “What is your name?” I ask, taking a knee next to the girl.
“Veda.” Tears carve pale rivulets down her dirty cheeks. She’s trembling so much, she can barely speak.
