The Mullah's Storm by Young Tom

Author:Young, Tom [Young, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 2010-09-07T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Parson followed the tracks through welts of drifted snow. The footprints wended up a slight rise where birch trees stood with white trunks like the bleached ribs of some giant dead thing. He came to a spot where the tracks narrowed close together, three sets of large prints around a set of small ones. Snow tossed and stomped. No blood. Some minor struggle, Parson guessed. Maybe she kicked one of them in the balls.

The tracks continued more or less straight across a cut where mist seemed to have rolled down the mountains and collected. Visibility dropped to near zero. The fog and fine snowflakes filtered the daylight so that it seemed late dusk, though Parson’s watch read just after two in the afternoon. He had reset his watch from Greenwich Mean Time to local Afghanistan time. The luminous dial glowed like a distant moon until he covered it again with his parka sleeve.

Parson stopped and looked around. The mist hid all terrain features. He saw nothing but snow at his feet and the swirling ice fog. The village and the special ops team were about four miles behind him now.

A chill came over him and he trembled slightly, more shudder than shiver. He thought how he’d never get more alone than this. Never farther from home. At least he knew what to do. Better to lose comfort than purpose.

He opened his lensatic compass and took a bearing. The tracks were leading roughly two-three-zero, though he could see only about four steps ahead. Why southwest? Parson wondered where they were taking her. Were they fleeing aimlessly? Probably not. He hoped not. It would do no good to find them all frozen to death.

Parson followed the trail one step at a time, wanting better visibility, not getting it. He saw what looked like a heavy bank of mist ahead of him. As he took more steps, the thing grew solid. The wall of a mud-brick hut.

Parson froze. Waited for a shot.

You stupid motherfucker, he thought. At least they can’t see through this shit any better than you can.

He wanted to drop to the ground. But now movement could give him away. He held his breath, held his rifle. Thumbed the safety and the click sounded like a thunderclap.

No noise, no movement ahead. Maybe if he saw the enemy he could make a snap shot. Bring up the M-40 like shouldering a shotgun to take a pheasant on the rise. And you better make it good, he thought. If you miss and have to chamber another round with this bolt action, those bastards will be on full auto. Mow your ass right down.

He waited eternal seconds, minutes. No sign of bad guys except the footprints. Parson eased himself down on one knee. No sign of anybody. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, drew the Colt. He pulled back the hammer and held the .45 in both hands, ignoring the pain in his wrist. Then he moved up to the wall.

The tracks diverged there, some going left around the house, some going right.

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