Free The Mullah's Storm by Tom Young Page A

movement, no goats, no smoke from a cooking fire. Parson wondered why any kind of sturdy structure would fall into disuse in such a poor country. But there it stood in silence, as if some dread disease had wiped out the population of a busy place. He considered whether to hole up there for a while. In survival school they’d taught him not to hide in an obvious spot. But his choices seemed so limited now.
    “What do you think?” he asked.
    “If the locals aren’t using it, there’s a reason,” Gold said. “Maybe it’s been a Taliban base. But it looks like nobody’s home now.”
    “Let’s check it out. That will at least get us out of the weather.”
    It took longer than he expected to reach the ruin’s gate. The mullah walked slowly, staring at his feet. Parson fought the urge to grab the chain and jerk him along faster. The old man probably couldn’t go much quicker.
    The snow looked broken near the wall’s opening. As they neared the structure, Parson pointed the AK forward, and his suspicion turned to fear when he saw that horses had churned up the snow. Several sets of hoofprints led into the courtyard, and hoofprints led out. Scattered piles of horse dung. Bootprints around the hoofprints. No other sign of life. Utter silence.
    “What’s up with this?” he asked.
    “No idea,” Gold said. “I can’t see any reason for a bunch of riders to go in and out of here like that, especially in this storm.”
    “The fucking Twilight Zone.”
    “Do you want to take shelter here?”
    “Maybe. What do you think?” Parson asked.
    “I don’t get a good feeling, but I’m not sure why.”
    “Let’s just watch the place for a while. Make sure his gag is secure.”
    Parson kneeled behind a jumble of stones, the remains of a wall that had crumbled to the ground. He watched Gold pull the prisoner into a room off a central courtyard. When she settled in, Parson saw only the barrel of her rifle. He checked his watch. Eighteen past the hour. We’ll watch until at least the top of the hour, he told himself. In that time, any bad guys around here should make some noise or show themselves.
    He watched mist from his breath rise above the rocks. Their snowshoe prints mingled with the tracks left earlier, so nothing but his exhalations gave away their position. His fingers hurt now, and he pulled off his gloves and breathed into his cupped hands. He wished he’d brought different gloves. Nomex was designed for fire protection, not cold, and the chill air soaked right through. Parson shivered a little, but at least he wasn’t wet like that first night when they’d splashed through the creek after the shootdown. Back home, he had wanted a bigger house and a nicer car, but now wealth was simply to be dry and not hungry.
    Peering from behind the pile of stones, holding a rifle, reminded him of countless hours in deer stands, waiting for his prey. Centering the crosshairs just behind the animal’s shoulder where the bullet would strike heart and lungs. Telling himself not to pull the trigger unless he had a good shot; you owe that to the animal. Exhale, hold breath, squeeze. The shove of recoil. The deer down where it stood.
    But now he felt more the prey than the predator. Something he had not experienced before, except a taste of it during the escape-and-evasion exercise at survival school. And Parson had approached the training with the same attitude as everyone: This will not happen to me.
    While he watched and waited, he inventoried the tools in his survival vest, things he’d never expected to need. He felt the pouch containing his first-aid kit; he’d already broken the seal. The kit included fishing hooks and line, which struck Parson as wildly optimistic. GPS and radio. He had all his electronics turned off now to conserve batteries. Knife, compass, signal mirror, flares. God, to pop smoke and summon a helicopter. But this storm made it nearly impossible to walk, let alone fly. Planes had crashed by flying