Free The Mullah's Storm by Tom Young Page B

into Afghanistan’s cumulogranite clouds.
    Parson found a compact of camo face paint in light green, dark green, and black. Useless in this winter expanse. Magnesium fire starter. Water-purification tablets. Multitool with pliers and screwdrivers. His Beretta, of course, and extra magazines. He’d added the magazines on his own. He knew Army troops who’d survived extended firefights; they said their lesson learned was you could never have too much water or ammunition.
    Taken together, these things in his vest hinted of desperation. To need them, Parson thought, meant you were in about as much trouble as you’d ever encounter. It couldn’t get much worse. Down to nothing to lose. And now the world itself gone but mountains and snow and the enemy.
    He looked across the courtyard and examined the ruin. A series of rooms, some open to the sky, gave off from the courtyard on three sides. The larger ones, with wide doorways, he guessed to have been stables for horses or camels. So you could bring your load of silk or silver or whatever in here, Parson thought, and rest your animals while hiding from the bandits outside. This country had always been dangerous for every soul in it.
    When the minute hand on his watch reached the top of the hour, he stood painfully, placed his hands on his knees. Still no sign of anyone else. At Gold’s hiding spot, he saw little beyond the doorway. He clicked on his flashlight as Gold and the mullah stood. The room contained nothing but scattered straw.
    “Let’s see if we can find anything useful,” Parson said.
    Gold nodded and pulled the prisoner down the walkway and into the next room. She unlocked the cuff from around her wrist and held the chain in her hand, rubbed her wrist.
    This time Parson’s flashlight revealed a wooden table, with no other furniture in sight. A wicker basket sat atop the table. Parson shined his flashlight into the basket. It was filled with dried fruit. He picked up one, held it to his nose. It smelled faintly sweet.
    “What are these?” he asked.
    “Dried mulberries, I’d guess,” Gold said.
    Parson raked his fingers through them, looking for signs of mold. Seeing none, he picked up another mulberry, sniffed it and bit off part of it, rolled the fruit around on his tongue.
    “Not bad,” he said. “Wonder why somebody left these?”
    “Maybe because they left in a hurry.”
    Parson didn’t like the sound of that, but he was too tired and cold to ponder the mystery of hoofprints and food left behind. He dug into the basket, gathered a fistful of berries, and handed them to Gold.
    “Might as well take off his gag and let him eat some of these,” Parson said. “I don’t have any more MREs.”
    “If they’re bad, at least we’ll all get food poisoning together,” Gold said, chewing. She untied the gag and gave the mullah some fruit. He ate in silence.
    “Keep an eye on him,” Parson said. “I’m going to look around.”
    Back out on the walkway, he found it snowing harder. He noticed a lump in the snow on the stone path. He nudged the mass with his foot. The white powder fell away to reveal empty plastic packaging with English lettering: “Sony InfoLithium Camcorder Battery.”
    Now he didn’t know what to think. Had GIs just been here? He knew Special Forces teams sometimes used horses in Afghanistan. What damned awful luck to miss them. He put his hand on his radio, thinking to ask AWACS about nearby friendlies, but he decided to explore first.
    When he stepped into the next room, it smelled different, not the same mildew odor as the first two. A little foul, not strong. He played his light across the room. What he saw brought him to his knees.
    Black blood covered most of the stone floor. Amid the pool of drying blood, a body. In an American flight suit. Headless.
    Parson leaned forward and retched. He vomited what little he had in his stomach, bile and masticated fruit. He blinked his watering eyes and looked again. So much blood. He