Page 23 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

Tunics. That was what he was seeing slowly approaching the base of the mountain but well around a bend and out of sight.

The men must have come from the north, over and around the mountain, and now he picked out details.

Pakools. Beards. Rifles slung over shoulders and spare magazines dangling from belts.

Were these Taliban? Flowers had said this was last contested place in the whole country.

And we’ve got a passel of kids . He swept his gaze over the approaching mean. Kids whom Shahida’s made into her own little army ? —

The thought stuttered and died as he spotted a tall man bringing up the rear. Along with a rifle, this bandit or Taliban or whatever he was carried a long green tube with a pointed end on a strap which he’d hooked over a shoulder.

An RPG launcher.

Oh, holy God. He must’ve spoken the words aloud because Kazim asked, “What you see?”

“Nothing good.” Dropping back into the driver’s seat, he said, “We got to go.”

“Too far, John.” Kazim clutched at his arm. “We no get there in time to help!”

The kid was right. The moment they barreled from the road onto the dirt, they’d be seen, and those fighters would realize the jig was up.

A warning shot was no good, either. Too far away, for one thing.

For another, any kind of weapons fire would be interpreted as hostile.

The last thing he needed was his people deciding to target him and Kazim.

What was left? How to let his people know there was trou?—

Wait a minute. A spark of an idea. He’d just seen it, he’d pushed it aside, hadn’t given it any thought. Reaching past Kazin, he popped the glove box, pawed around?—

And found the orange flare gun.

“John!” Kazim said. “What you do, John?”

“The only thing I can.” Swinging out of the cab, he raised the flare gun and took aim to the right, away from the mountain and toward the men’s blind side, hoping against hope that Driver and Mac were like everybody else.

The flare would be visible for five seconds and in that time, they would look to the sky first and follow that flame as it fell before trying to figure out where it had come from.

Wouldn’t they? Of course, the flare would probably make the bad guys move even faster.

They would realize they’d been spotted, that the jig was up, and so what the hell, come down screaming and forget trying to sneak around.

Stop, stop! A command he’d heard in his head only once before: when he’d been fifteen and forced to do something he could never take back, that could never be undone. The only way then, as now, was to do what no one else could.

Shoot. His arm steadied, firmed. Shoot already, shoot!

“Cover your ears!” he shouted to the boy and squeezed the trigger.