Page 55 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

“If you want. He’s probably worth more than all those American dollars. Besides, how many different dead Americans do you think there can be?” Amu asked.

“Oh,” Sarbaz said, mopping Shahida’s spittle with a sleeve, though a gobbet still clung to his beard, like a squashed rust-colored tarantula. “I have learned to take nothing on faith, especially when it comes to Americans.”

John hadn’t been this cold since he was a fifteen-year-old kid, scared to death, his mouth dry as a desert and his heart knocking so hard that his pulse pounded like a timpani.

Breaking into the school’s gun safe had been easy, given that he was the team’s junior varsity captain.

It was the getting into position, slipping down the school’s dark basement corridors, listening to the chaos overhead.

He heard everything, too. Even muted, a scream was still a scream—and a gunshot still a gunshot.

The journey up the path had been not only frosty but uncomfortable because he’d had to ride behind Shahida so no one watching might spot him. This meant hours spent bouncing up and down on the bony rear end of a yak and hoping his muscles wouldn’t seize up when it was time to move.

His only solace: the certain knowledge that Driver would probably end up just as sore, if not more so.

Slipping off the yak’s behind when the small caravan reached that rockfall had been a relief, but he’d had no time to work out the kinks.

Instead, he’d ducked behind the rocks and waited, gritting his teeth against the pins and needles and pain as his muscles twitched and cramped and the feeling returned.

His back, he thought, might never be the same.

Of course, if they all ended up dead, his back would be the least of his problems.

What they were all banking on was Sarbaz’s guards attention remaining focused on the caravan.

So, he had waited, motionless, eating a bit of snow every now and again as Dare had taught him so as to remain about as invisible as a sniper could be under the circumstances.

He was relatively warm, though, having slipped into white sheepskin trousers, shirt, hat and coat.

His balaclava was black, but he’d wound white cloth over his face.

Top it off with a pair of sheepskin mittens, and he was virtually invisible.

The two bugaboos had been his binoculars and his rifle.

At the Dushanbe Airport—and given everything that had happened in between now felt like centuries ago—Ustinov provided him with an Mk22.

A great rifle…if you’d like brown. Against all this snow, the weapon would be easily spotted against a white background.

Which mean he’d had to improvise. A lucky thing, actually, that he’d appropriated Harvey’s kit, because there were several rolls of white surgical tape.

Amu’s people had plenty more white cloth, too, which he tore into strips and then taped to his weapons muzzle.

He did the same to his binoculars and decided it would have to do because there was no other choice.

When he finally did move, the day was sliding into twilight which made the going a hundred times more difficult.

He went as quickly as he could, climbing an alternative path to a higher ridge, praying that, as the day waned, he wouldn’t misjudge and put his foot down on thin air.

They hadn’t thought about that enough and the going was slow.

Chipped from rock by centuries of Markhor goats, as narrow as a straw in places, the trail was narrow and discontinuous.

Goats being goats, the animals could leap across breaks and gaps or onto boulders.

He couldn’t, which meant slithering around, trying to find a detour that would get him into position ahead of Amu’s arrival.

He would need time to set up, time to settle down.

Time to plan his shots.

He had managed, barely, making it to a shallow saddle where he set up and waited.

So far, luck was with him and his view was good.

He’d actually counted on that because, thanks to him finally ending up as John Worthy from Wisconsin and within spitting distance of the Rust Belt, he knew a lot about mines: how what was being mined and where determined how the mine was constructed.

Sarbaz’s was a drift mine operation. In other words, the mine had a horizontal entry, one into which people could simply walk instead of descending down a vertical shaft.

There could be any number of tunnels in there, but this mine was exactly like the aqueduct: a single, very wide entrance.

Again, standard because there would have to be a large staging area for men and equipment.

The one thing he had not factored in quite as well, though, was the time of day. As in, no light when it counted.

You’re an idiot. Sheltered beneath a white sheepskin, John watched the show through his binos: the men leveling their rifles, Shahida’s hysterics.

Poya, hanging back behind Amu—and he studied that strip of white cloth Amu had tied to a willow pole very, very carefully.

The way it snapped. The way it curved. The moments when it went limp.

The white flag had been his idea. With no spotter, there was no other way to truly judge the wind, how it might swirl and eddy in that space.

The staging area in front of the mine also faced east, which meant that by this time of day, the entrance was sheltered and the shadows growing thick.

Everything gathered there wore clothes that were brown or green or black.

In fact, the light was growing so dim, John was surprised no one had a flashlight or a torch or even a candle.

Although Amu said that in winter, the mine was down to a skeleton crew, he’d assumed there would be generators.

Maybe this was Sarbaz’s idea of economy?

He wished now that he’d thought to ask for a night vision riflescope, but if wishes were fishes…

Nothing at that staging area stood out, except that flag.

Still, he had a good idea of where people were in relationship to one another.

If the staging area was a bandshell or half a clock, then the entrance was at ten, two of Sarbaz’s men were at eleven and two at one, with Sarbaz at noon.

Or midnight, if he was lucky. Amu and Kur, that yak with Shahida and the body lashed to it were bunched together at about four, which is where the trail emptied into the staging area.

So far, so good.

His rifle was always set up on its bipod legs, and now, he lowered his binos with exaggerated care, mindful that a stray flash in the gathering darkness might draw attention he didn’t want, and they couldn’t afford.

Then, he dropped into a squat alongside and then stretched out onto his stomach and embraced the rifle.

He did this gently, the way Dare had taught and, as an adult, the way John might a lover.

He breathed in, then out, then in again and out again, and then Dare’s voice, from long ago, floated through his mind.

You got to be ice, son. To do this job, you got to be stone .

I am ice , he thought now. His left hand rested on the barrel beneath the scope, his right alongside the trigger. The rifle’s stock was cold against his right cheek. I am stone.

He moved his head to bring his right eye in line with his scope.

At once, what he had viewed through his binoculars leapt into view, only closer than before because the scope was more powerful.

If he’d wanted, he could’ve drilled in, so he looked at only a piece of a person: an eye, an ear.

But he needed to be able to see a bit more, where people were placed, the distance between them, and so had dialed back to give himself a better view.

When it came time, he would have to quickly change settings.

Which he knew he could do. He had, after all, done this before.

Just not here.

The plan was simple: get a visual on Flowers and Meeks, take out Sarbaz and his men, pop-pop-pop, one right after the other. Doable, but he would have to be very fast, dial in, make his shots, and then pray that any more of Sarbaz’s people who might come running could be taken care of by Amu and?—

His thought broke off as he spotted light and then movement and then realized that the light was moving.

The man who’d disappeared into the mine emerged first. He held a candle which seemed strange, but then John remembered what Amu had said about the mine not using generators in winter because there weren’t as many men and so no need for as much power.

Setting his candle on a rocky shelf about shoulder height, the guy took up position again to Sarbaz’s left.

More flickers now as three people moved into view. Two moved stiffly and their hands were bound.

Flowers and Meeks. At least they were still alive.

Both men’s hands were tied behind their backs.

There was a dark splotch on Meek’s left shoulder and more blood on his left sleeve.

Flowers limped behind, and one whole side of his face was swollen, the eye blacked shut, as if someone had clocked him a good one.

A rifle butt, maybe. John watched as their guard crowded them both up against a far wall.

Two last people emerged. One had a rifle.

The other, shorter and slimmer, carried a candle and had a pack slung over a shoulder.

The mine’s doctor? A reasonable guess and a woman, given what looked like a veil.

Well, good. That meant Shahida had sold it.

Distracting everyone with the need to shut Shahida up was part of the plan, too.

She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that.

Create a distraction, a disturbance, get Sarbaz and his men to let down their guard just for a few seconds.

And then it’s showtime. He pulled in an even breath and let it out and then breathed in again, stilling and centering himself as the mine’s doctor turned to speak to Sarbaz. Just a few more ? —