“Hang on…” After a few seconds, he continues. “According to Wikipedia, she’s still there. But I can have Dax make some calls.”
“Don’t bother. I’m out. Or I will be in a few hours.” Saying the words aloud makes them real, and I pull my knees up and drop my head into my hands. “Fuck.”
“Ask, and I’ll call McCabe.” Ford’s confident the K&R firm out of Seattle can help me, but he doesn’t know the shitstorm I’m about to be caught up in.
“After what he did to Amir Faruk? If McCabe or any of his people step one toe over the border, they’re signing their own death warrants. Besides, I still have work to do.”
“What work?” The strain in his voice belies the casual question. “You had Wren decrypt a hell of a lot of data, Nomar. Names. Bank accounts. Routing numbers. Payment amounts that are suspiciously familiar. Shapur Khan took over the flesh trade after Faruk’s death. And you’re his right-hand man.”
“Was,” I snap. “And it was fucking killing me. The goddamn President of the United States asked me to work the kid. So we’d have a friendly face in Afghanistan. And I did it. I’ve moved guns, drugs, and so many girls, I’ll never be whole again. They’ve been stringing me along for months now. Telling me they’re working on an exfil plan. That they just need another few weeks. But three days ago, I had to deliver an eighteen-year-old girl to Shapur’s house because her fathersoldher off to be married sight unseen.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Thing is, he’s actually a halfway decent guy. I think he’ll worship that girl for the rest of his life. But there was one with green eyes in the last group to go to auction, and all I could think about…” My voice falters, a lump clogging my throat.
“She’s back in France,” Ford says softly. “The transplant worked. Mateen’s healthy. He’s been working with a private tutor the past few months so he can start school in the fall with other kids his age.”
I don’t have any right to ask if Lisette’s happy, so I settle for the next best thing. “Does she have everything she needs?”
He huffs. “If you’d bothered to call more than once in the past year, maybe you’d know the answer.”
“Ford…”
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters to himself. “After Faruk…died, Wren spent weeks siphoning money from his accounts. The ones she could find, anyway. Ripper emptied the rest of them in September. Ry and Dax sent two million to Lisette and there’s another five million in trust for Mateen.”
“Five…million?”
“It would have been more, but Lisette told us if we put any more money into her accounts, she’d stop sending Joey pictures of Mateen.” He sighs, and I wonder how much the kid’s grown since I left. “You should call her, man.”
God, I’d give anything to hear her voice. To see her. To hold her. But until I’ve atoned for every one of my sins, I don’t deserve to eventhinkabout her, let alone talk to her.
“I need the data Wren got off Shapur’s hard drive.”
Ford gives me the hacker’s number, and I program it into my phone in case I need it after tonight. “Come back home,” he says when I tell him I have to go.
“There’s so much blood on my hands, I’m drowning.” The words crack, and my eyes start to burn. “Don’t look for me. Don’t send McCabe. Promise me.”
“Can’t do that—”
I slam my head back against the wall, using the pain to fuel my resolve. “Goddammit! I’m not fucking around here, Ford. As soon as I get what I need from Wren, I’m going dark. I have to. Let me do this. Please.”
“On one condition,” he says. “Non-negotiable.”
Exhaustion hits me so hard, I can barely speak. “What is it?”
“Every six months, without fail, you send up a flare. Let me know you’re alive. If you’re even a day late, Ry and his team will drag you back here trussed up like a Christmas goose.”
I don’t have a choice. Ford’s as stubborn as I am, with a whole family of men and women willing to risk their lives because he asked them to. So I agree, and when I end the call, I wonder if I’ll live long enough to talk to him again.
* * *
After a few hours of sleep,half a canteen of water, and the last of the dried meat I bought at the market in Kandahar, I connect to a secure email server and upload single photo, along with two words.
“You’re welcome.”
Musa’s death wasn’t pretty, but it was quick. I severed his carotid artery while he slept. The bastard bled out within seconds of opening his eyes.
Now the CIA has no reason to wait. They can wrap up Musa’s assets in a pretty pink ribbon and deliver them to Shapur’s doorstep. Hell, he thinksMusakilledme—thanks to the carefully staged pictures I took of myself, bloodied, in a shallow grave in the middle of the desert. And sent from a phone I stole off one of Musa’s men a few months ago. If Shapur really did consider me a friend, he’ll be so fucking grateful to the CIA, he’ll listen to anything they have to say.
