When no answer met the shouts, Range snatched up the M4 and swung back from the door, weapon trained on it as feet slapped the stone floor.
“American? American!” someone bellowed in alarm. Panic. The door flung open and a boy of maybe fifteen saw the weapon and leapt back. “No shoot! No shoot.”
What the heck? Range angled it down. “Who are you? What—”
“Altair.” He patted his chest, eyes wide. “Hurry! Hurry. They take her,” he said in Pashto. “Zaki said to find you. They take Kasra.”
The words would not process. “What? Who?”
“Men. Many men!”
Always one to verify intel—especially when it came from a kid he didn’t know from Adam—he rushed down the hall. “Zaki! Kasra!” When no answer came, he started gearing up and looked at the teen. “How many?”
“Ten, twelve.” Altair shrugged.
Sliding on a tac vest, he snagged his Sig. Tucked it at the small of his back. Clipped the M4 to the vest.
“Please hurry. They kill her because imam say she is harlot.”
Heart in his throat, Range rounded on the teen. “Where? Show me.”
They hurried into the dark night, the kid running and Range doing his best to keep up but also move tactically. Pay attention to corners, clear them, watched second levels and rooftops.Around another corner he spotted the mosque. They entered via a main door, then banked right instead of heading through the intricately carved lattice that separated the front from the sacred area of worship.
The teen was about to bust open a door.
Range caught his shirt. Dragged him back. “Is there another door to this room?”
Altair shook his head frantically. “Hurry, please. They kill her?—the imam said so.”
Not wanting this kid to get hurt, Range motioned him back. “Go. Out.” He waited until the kid shuffled away. Stretched his neck. Wished he had a team, especially when he didn’t know what was on the other side of the door.
God … help me.
Cries and yelps came from within, followed by meaty thuds.
He cursed himself for not grabbing a flash-bang. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the door and slid into the room. Windows on the far side. Floor-to-ceiling wooden divider screens to his three.
Men shouted at him, barking about defiling their mosque with violence and bloodshed.
Promises, promises …
In Pashto, he ordered them to get on the ground, his gaze sweeping, taking in the small room that had a dais at the front. Four men stood there, watching him with keen interest, their attention bouncing to the floor—Kasra. Curled in a fetal position. Hands and face bloodied.
A man kicked her in the side.
Ticked and ready for blood, Range stalked forward. “Touch her again and it’ll be the last time you touch anyone.” As he swept toward the front, half the men backed up. “Kasra.” Two meters separated them. “Kasra, can you get up?”
“Yes,” she groaned, rolling onto all fours.
“No!” A man with a turban and nice clothes produced a handgun and brought it to bear.
In response to the threat, Range fired a short burst.
Shouts went up as the body dropped to the carpeted floor, the remaining three Muslims huddling. One shoved another man forward to secure Kasra and slid behind him. Two human shields.
“That was foolish,” the coward said.
“What was foolish was pulling a gun,” Range said. “If I see another, I won’t hesitate to drop everyone in here.” Staring down the sights of his M4, Range adjusted position so nobody could come up behind him. Sensed the men who’d scattered regrouping on his three. Sidestepping, he worked his way closer to Kasra.
