The Mullah's Storm Read Free Page A

read: GOLD.
    “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
    “Then get your stuff and keep it light,” Parson said. “Just your rifle and ammo. Layer up your clothes as much as you can.” He hated what Fisher wanted him to do, but now this sergeant and the prisoner were his responsibility.
    Parson went to Fisher and held out his left fist. Fisher tapped it with his own fist. It was the same gesture they used when they ran the Combat Entry checklist.
    “I got the first round when I see you again,” Fisher said.
    “No cheap stuff, either,” Parson said.
    He put on a desert parka and pulled a black watch cap over his head. He wished he had snow camo now, but C-130 crews flew over so much varying terrain, it was impossible to dress for all of it. On the flight deck, he retrieved charts from the nav table, folded them into small squares. He found Luke’s backpack filled with flight manuals. Parson dumped out the books and put the charts and two first-aid kits in the pack. He also picked up two sets of night-vision goggles, Luke’s binoculars, and three Meals Ready to Eat. From his own flight bag he took a package of charcoal handwarmers and three bottles of water.
    He looked around the cockpit for anything else that seemed useful. He noticed Jordan’s pistol still holstered on the copilot’s survival vest. Parson took the handgun. He looked down at Jordan one last time as he shouldered the backpack with his good hand.
    In the cargo compartment, he found Gold searching the pockets of the dead civilian. She took some paperwork from the man’s coat, looked into the lifeless face. Then she unshackled the mullah’s feet. Parson had no training on how to handle prisoners, but he knew he and Gold and the mullah had to move. Right now.
    “Tell him he’s going for a little hike,” Parson said as he sat beside the mullah.
    “I did. He says he’s not going anywhere.”
    Parson felt a jolt of anger hit him like voltage. My friends are dead because of you, he thought, and you’re going to give me an attitude? I don’t fucking think so.
    He pulled up the left pant cuff of his flight suit. Reached down to his boot knife, unsnapped the leather sheath. He withdrew a four-inch dagger as he grabbed the prisoner’s right thumb.
    Using his injured hand, Parson jammed the blade deep under the mullah’s thumbnail. The mullah shrieked, shouted something in Pashto. Parson swore. He felt as though he’d rammed a white-hot nail through his cracked wrist. He twisted the knife and ground his teeth as his own pain tripled.
    “Stop it,” Gold said. “Sir.”
    The prisoner jerked his hand away and began jabbering and sobbing. Gold tried to examine his bleeding thumb, but he wouldn’t let her.
    “He says he’ll go with us,” Gold said, “but it matters little because the flames of hell will consume you.”
    Easier than I expected, Parson thought. Everybody understands pain. Bet he’s inflicted his share of it.
    Parson could see Gold didn’t like what he’d just done. It probably violated all kinds of laws. And it was the first time he’d ever really hurt someone. But it was hard to care about that with people dying around you. Parson looked back at Fisher. He seemed satisfied enough. Parson nodded at him, turned to Gold: “Time to move.”
    Gold took the chain from the prisoner’s legs and locked one end to her wrist. She spoke in Pashto, but the mullah did not respond. She picked up his right arm and fastened the other end of the chain to his wrist. Parson could not see all of the man’s expression because of the black goggles covering his eyes, but he did notice the mullah’s lips curling as if he’d inhaled some foul odor. Guess you don’t like a woman putting you on a leash, Parson thought. Serves you right.
    “He’s going to have to see to walk with us,” she said.
    Parson removed the goggles from the prisoner’s face. The mullah blinked but did not look around. One eye seemed dull and focused on nothing. It was