Red Warning (Lieutenant Ahmadzai Thrillers Book 1) by Phil Halton

Author:Phil Halton [Halton, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2024-01-17T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 29

Back in the office, it felt like all eyes were on me as I went to check for messages in my cubbyhole. I pulled a piece of yellow notepaper from it, on which was scrawled a message.

Ahmadzai - Suspected drug smuggler held by police in Surobi. Assistance from CID requested. Car available.

The note was signed by the Colonel, whose door was closed. I went to grab my hat from my desk.

“Let’s go,” I said to Saboor, seated at the desk across from mine. “We have a hot tip.”

He looked sheepish. “The Colonel gave me a task before he left.”

“What task?”

“A report for the Minister…”

The other cops around us froze, all listening intently to what I might say.

“Let me know if you need any information,” I said as I jammed my hat on my head and walked towards the stairs.

Parked behind the building was the division’s one remaining car. The driver sat inside, dozing. I rapped on the window, and he woke with a start.

“Do you have a full tank of gas?” I asked as I walked around to the passenger side.

“No, lieutenant sahib,” said the driver, a young Hazara man with a wispy moustache.

“We’ll need to fill up before we drive to Surobi,” I took the logbook from the glove box and began to fill out our information. The previous entries were chicken scratch, barely legible, and with little more detail than the mileage.

“Do you maintain this log?” I asked.

“I get help,” said the driver as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the clogged street. Not far from our offices was a gas station that was used to serving the police. We pulled up to one of the pumps. The driver got out and opened the hood, making a show of checking the oil, and wiping the dipstick with a rag he kept in the trunk. I watched him in the mirror and saw that he put a jerry can on the ground beside the attendant, who filled it as well as the gas tank. The driver capped the fuel can and put it in the trunk. The attendant gave me a chit to sign for the fuel. It was for more than the car’s tank could hold, but I signed anyway, giving the driver a sidelong look.

“It’s in case we run out on the road,” he said.

We pulled out of the station and back into traffic, fighting our way towards Pol-e Charki and onwards to the east. I rolled the window down a little and lit a cigarette. It was only forty miles or so to Surobi, which would be a few hours with traffic.

As we made our way to the edge of the city, the traffic thinned and began to be composed of mostly trucks and the occasional bus. The driver worked hard to pass everyone in front of us, weaving in and out whenever he saw an opening, and we made good time. The high plain of the capital gave way to a series of narrow valleys and switchbacks, my ears popping as we descended.

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