Rules of Betrayal Read Free

the school. A second truck came alongside. Moving backward, then forward, then backward again, the trucks battered the wall until it collapsed. Then they moved to the next wall and did the same, until the school was no more.
    Afterward, his men walked among the rubble, gathering books, maps, and any learning materials they could find and dumping theminto a pile. When they finished, he hauled a jerrican from his truck and doused the pile with gasoline.
    As he was about to light it, a boy ran forward. “Stop,” he pleaded. “We have nowhere else to learn.”
    Haq eyed the brave child. He was interested not in the boy’s words but in the fiberglass cast on his left arm. To the best of Haq’s knowledge, there was only a rudimentary clinic in the village. In his country, broken limbs were set in plaster, not fiberglass. He had seen this advanced medical treatment only once before. “Where did you get this?” he asked, touching the cast.
    “The healer,” said the boy.
    Haq’s ears perked up. He hadn’t heard about a healer in these parts. “Who is this healer?”
    The boy looked away.
    Haq grabbed the child’s jaw in his immense hand, the sharpened nails raising welts on his cheek. “Who?”
    “A crusader,” someone shouted.
    Haq spun. “A crusader? Here? Alone?”
    “He’s traveling with an assistant. A Hazara who carries medicine for him in a bag.”
    “Is the healer American?” asked Haq.
    “A Westerner,” came an answer. “He speaks English and some Pashto. We didn’t ask if he was American. He cured many people. He fixed the khan’s stomach and repaired my cousin’s knee.”
    Haq released the boy, shoving him backward. His heart was racing, but he hid his anticipation beneath a veil of anger. “Where did he go?”
    An elder pointed toward the mountains. “There.”
    Haq looked at the foothills that rose and eventually formed the massive mountain range known as the Hindu Kush. Tossing the lighter onto the pile of books, he walked back to his truck, paying scant attention as the flames climbed into the sky.
    “Go,” he said to the driver. “To the mountains.”

2
    Jonathan Ransom woke and knew that something was wrong.
    Bolting upright, he pulled his sleeping bag to his waist and listened. Across the room, Hamid, his assistant, slept on the ground, snoring. Beyond the shuttered windows, a camel brayed. Outside, a pushcart rolled past, its arthritic axles in need of oil, followed by a trio of voices raised in conversation. The cart, he had learned during his week in the village of Khos-al-Fari, belonged to the butcher, who was presently transporting his daily supply of freshly slaughtered goats to the town bazaar to be displayed hanging from tenterhooks in the front of his stall.
    The cart continued down the hill. The voices died away. All was silent but for the ghostly roar of the Gar River churning through the nearby gorge.
    Jonathan remained stock-still, the frigid air stinging his cheeks. It was only mid-November, yet in the steep, inhospitable foothills of eastern Afghanistan, winter had arrived with a vengeance.
    A minute passed. Still he heard nothing.
    And then the crack of a rifle. A single shot—high-caliber, judging by its report. He waited, expecting more gunfire, but none came, and he wondered if a hunter had taken one of the big-horned Marco Polo sheep that roamed the mountainside.
    It was almost five a.m. Time to begin the day. With a grunt, he unzipped the sleeping bag to his feet and stood on the dirt floor. Shivering, he lit the kerosene lamp, then hurried to pull on a second pair of woolen socks and a beat-up pair of flannel-lined cargo pants.
    A camp table in one corner held a washbasin, a jug of water, a cup with his toothbrush and toothpaste, and a washcloth. Jonathanpoured water into the basin. The water had partially frozen overnight, and islands of ice floated on the surface. He washed his hands and face, then ran the washcloth over his body, scrubbing vigorously to stop