Free The Maverick Experiment by Drew Berquist

Afghanistan assumed a Western face meant you were rich and in Afghanistan for charity. The only way to shut them up was to pay them or buy what they were selling.
    Derek was still dressed in man-jams, the American term for a shawwal khamis , but ultimately, his beard and garb would disguise the fact that he was Western only for mere seconds. He had appeased the kid, but his time was getting short. Although Westerners were becoming more common here, they still were always threatened, and being out and about for long durations was never wise. Fortunately, Derek had his team close by and Shafi was supposed to arrive any second.
    A white Toyota Corolla pulled up and stopped in front of the fruit stand, giving a slight honk. Derek peered in the window and got in.
    “Hello, sir.”
    “Hey, Shafi. Salaam alaikum. Chetor hasti? ”
    “I am good, sir, thank you. Are you fine?”
    “Yes, I am fine. Listen, thanks for meeting me. Let's get out of here.”
    Derek reached to his throat piece.
    “Alright, guys, we are rolling. I'll pass you in a second; just fall in behind.”
    Shafi was a short but muscular man. Though he was only twenty-nine years old, he was balding, and his constant smile showed what years of poor dental care could do to an Afghan's mouth. Still, his street smarts and confidence were the characteristics Derek had grown to appreciate. Shafi would treat you as family—kill for you, if necessary. He was as loyal as they came.
    “So, Shafi, where we headed?”
    “To my home. Is that OK?”
    “Sure. Have you made any progress in the house search?”
    “Yes, sir. I found a good compound for you in Ud-Khail. But first we will eat at my home.”
    Derek knew Ud-Khail was an area of Kabul known for police corruption and for being the home to many Taliban members and facilitators. “So, Ud-Khail, huh? Still a hot spot for Talibs?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Shafi with a smile.
    “Huh. So you wanted to throw us to wolves right away, did you?”
    “No. This is a part of Ud-Khail which is not so bad. It is safe. I promise. I will stay with you. First we will eat, though. I made the omelets you used to like.”
    “That will be good, buddy; that will be good.”
    The two sped down Jalalabad Road toward Shafi's house as the other vehicle followed a good distance behind. Shafi lived in a village known as Arzan Qimat near Pol-e-Charkhi prison.
    Jalalabad Road was one of the better-kept roads in town but was known for being hostile and had been the site of many IEDs and other incidents. Being in low-visibility vehicles would help Derek and his team, however. They would be safe and unlikely to encounter problems.
    At least, Derek hoped so.

    Monday, January 25
Arzan Qimat, Afghanistan
Shafi's Residence
1839 Hrs
    The men sat cross-legged around several platters of food in Shafi's guesthouse. It was Afghan culture to sit on rugs on the floor and lean against pillows as they drank tea and conversed. Tonight, Shafi had prepared a feast for the men, and they sat laughing and drinking for hours. The meal had consisted of lamb and chicken kabobs, rice, some okra, and the omelets Shafi had referred to. Derek knew the omelets had eggs, onions, and spices, but he was not certain what else was included, nor was he sure he wanted to know.
    “Hey, dude, is that you on Shafi's wall over there?” asked Carson.
    “Sure is. Shafi and I go way back. We've done some things that we'll take to the grave.”
    Shafi was a resource that neither the Afghan NDS nor the US government had ever fully tapped into. He was a forward-leaning, operationally trained officer who spoke several languages, including Dari, Pashto, Urdu, Bengali, Hindi, and some Arabic. He could blend in to several environments and act the part. Not to mention that he had contacts everywhere, it seemed. He was a gem, and Derek had always known it.
    “Well, I won't ask about that; just don't ask me to get involved later tonight,” laughed Carson.
    “Uh-huh. Funny, man. No, the