Free Renegade (2013) by Mel Odom

were foreigners and foreigners got noticed in Parachinar, no matter how desperately they tried to fit in. Yaqub still did not know what the CIA team’s objective was, but that did not truly matter. His objective superseded their goal.
    Now that he had the missile launchers, Yaqub needed the bait to set his trap. The American spies could serve as a distraction.
    Standing inside a small store on the corner of the street across from the CIA agents, Yaqub saw Borisov step out onto the street. Once Yaqub had explained the Russian’s part in the subterfuge, Borisov hadn’t been enthusiastic, but he had agreed.
    Yaqub turned to Hasan. “Remember, warrior, that you are doing God’s work, that you are smiting his enemies.”
    “I will.” Hasan seemed more calm now that the moment was upon them.
    Yaqub remembered that feeling too, when the first Russian soldierhad settled into the sights of the old single-shot rifle he had carried into battle. He could still remember the man’s face—the young features before the bullet had struck him, and the bloody ruin that it had become. Over the years, his appetite for the blood of his enemies had only grown stronger.
    “Do not meet their gaze, Hasan. Look at their hands, their bodies, the way they stand. Eyes can lie to you and make you the fool. But a man’s body will reveal his truth to you.”
    “I know.” The boy gave a small nod. “You have taught me.”
    “Today will be the proof of your ability to be a warrior in God’s name.”
    “I know this also.”
    “Then do not fail. And do not kill the Americans unless you have to. I want them alive.”
    “It shall be as you say.”
    “Good. Then let’s go.”
    Hasan, looking small and frail, followed Yaqub. Yaqub had chosen the boy for his task because he looked so vulnerable—not even the slightest hint of beard growth—and yet he was a crack shot, one of Wali’s finest pupils. Yaqub had instructed the boy’s faith, but Wali had coached him in handling guns and knives, intending him to be a bodyguard for their leader in public places. Hasan would be able to pass as his son, not another man.
    Borisov stood his ground at the corner. “Five of them. Just as you said. Three American agents and two Pashtuns.”
    “Good. What have you told them?”
    “That I was supplying you with munitions.” Borisov started walking back into the building. “They were not surprised. I have history of doing such business. Sometimes I have sold to the CIA when agents needed weapons that would allow them to blend into the surrounding countryside.”
    “Do you know any of these men in the room?”
    “No.”
    That was good. That meant they would not be able to read Borisov in any way.
    “It occurs to me that I will need to have a reason for surviving this encounter.” Borisov crossed the big room and headed up the narrow steps against one wall.
    “If asked later, you can say that you were ransomed back to your companions.”
    “Just make sure that you really sell this. I do not want to appear on the CIA’s terminate-on-sight lists.”
    “All will be well. Draw your weapon as we discussed. I will take care of the rest.”
    “Wali is across the street?”
    “Yes. With a sniper rifle. No harm will come to you.” Yaqub followed the Russian up the steps with Hasan at his heels.

    Stomach knotting as he watched the action playing out from the control center in Creech Air Force Base, Captain David Carter presented a calm exterior to his cyber team. Everyone in the room knew what the stakes were. Zalmai Yaqub was near the top of the most wanted al Qaeda terrorists. If they could bring Yaqub down, alive or dead, it would be a feather in Carter’s cap, a certain commendation in his file.
    In his late thirties with neatly cropped brown hair and freckles, Carter was one of the oldest people in the room. Most of the cyber specialists piloting the unmanned aerial vehicles were just out of high school or in their early twenties.
    When the UAV