Free Gravedigger by Mark Terry Page B

watch your back. The idea was to find the most rational and influential warlord and back him with training, money, and weapons, not necessarily in that order. The joke of it was that “rational” was rarely the best word to describe these mad dogs of the third world. In Derek’s experience, the best words to describe them were “ruthless” and “psychopathic.” At this moment his greatest wish was to return to CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia and kick the shit out of Richard McGee, his boss at the Agency, who had sent him here.
    Johnston was having Noa tell the men that he very much wanted to meet their boss, Mohammad Anwari. The exchange between the men and Noa went on for some time. Finally she said, “I was hoping they would escort us there tonight, but they say they can’t, they have to complete their reconnaissance. But they will escort us there at daybreak.”
    With that agreed upon, the muj thanked them and rode their horses off into the rain and darkness.
    Johnston looked at Derek. “What are you scowling about?”
    “I think I’ve ridden this train before and I wasn’t too happy about where it ended up.”
    “What are you talking about?” Noa said. It was her turn to clean up after the meal. Usually Johnston cooked and she and Derek took turns cleaning and repacking. She was scrubbing at one of the stolen cook pans with a cloth and a bit of sand.
    “Derek’s getting pissy,” Johnston said.
    Derek stood up. “You know what I’m talking about, Jim.”
    “I have a job to do. We all do.”
    Derek stared at him. “Oh fuck it.” He walked away from the campsite into the darkness, the rain cold on his face. Behind him he heard Noa say, “What’s his problem?” and Johnston reply, “Derek’s an idealist at heart.”
    Then he didn’t hear anything else because he walked further up the trail and out of earshot. He let his eyes adjust to the poor light. It was dark, still raining, no stars or moonlight. Behind him he could see the flickering firelight.
    He hiked around in the dark for a while, trying to calm down. The constant rain drove him back toward the camp. Pausing on a craggy overlook, he could see their campsite below him, Johnston and Noa sitting next to the fire talking. Scanning his surroundings, he got a dim sense of the valley spread out below them.
    A flash of light lit up. Another. Then another.
    He started running toward the campsite. As he ran, the distant sound of gunfire followed the flashes of muzzle fire.
    “Don’t shoot me,” he shouted as he raced into the camp. Both his partners were on their feet, AK47s at the ready. “Our buddies down there must have run into somebody. Let’s go.”
    “Derek—” Johnston said.
    And then more sounds came to them. More gunfire. Much more than was likely to be made by a handful of people shooting at each other. Noa was scanning the horizon with the binoculars, but Derek and Johnston were scrambling to throw their gear into packs and running toward the horses. She kicked sand over the fire, caught up her rifle and bag and rushed after them.
    It took only a couple minutes to saddle the horses and get them packed. Flinging themselves onto their horses, they headed up the trail, away from the fight. The fight was growing closer and louder. And in addition to gunfire came the rumbling sound of horses – dozens of them, at least.
    The trail upward was not good for a night ride. Derek wore his night vision goggles and wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Their horses seemed comfortable with the narrow and twisting route, although they refused to move at more than a canter. With a steep drop on one side, that was just as well.
    They hoped to stay ahead of the hostiles, but Derek wasn’t convinced that was going to be possible.
    Behind them came the sound of a horse moving very fast. Derek spun off his horse, knelt and aimed the assault rifle. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus.
    Out of the gloom came the oldest man. Over the horse lay the