Unforgettable by Eric James Stone

Author:Eric James Stone [Stone, Eric James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Military
ISBN: 9781476781082
Google: BZz9rQEACAAJ
Amazon: 1476781087
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2016-01-05T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

From the darkness behind the flashlights, a voice jabbered at me in Farsi. I raised my hands and said, “American. Anyone speak English?”

“You have money?” a man said.

“Better than that,” I said. “I have MasterCard. I can get lots of money at a bank, but only if I’m alive. You understand? I’m worth a lot of money alive.”

The rifle barrel remained steady on me as another man came into the light and searched Uncle Ali’s body, pulling out the wallet and removing the rest of the cash. I was next. After pocketing my cell phone, he found my passport and wallet. His tone of disgust was evident when he only found a few thousand dinars—maybe ten dollars’ worth in all—in the wallet.

“MasterCard,” I said. “You understand MasterCard? ATM?” My only goal at this point was to get them to keep me alive. Plans for escape would have to come later.

“I understand,” said the man behind the flashlight. “We take you to ATM.”

My captors searched Uncle Ali’s car. I caught some glimpses of them and realized they were not wearing uniforms. These men were not the border guards.

With a cry of triumph, the man who had taken my phone and wallet pulled my carry-on out of the back seat. He opened it and strewed my clothing and toiletries across the desert sand. There must not have been anything worth taking, because he kicked the carry-on and rejoined the others.

As they marched me across the sand, I glanced over my shoulder at the dark figure lying on the ground. Uncle Ali was dead because of me. He’d been a friendly man, and as far as I knew he’d dealt fairly with me. He didn’t deserve to die.

But then, most people who died didn’t deserve it.

The edge of a flashlight beam caught a uniformed arm lying sprawled in the dirt. Whoever these men were, they were not afraid of killing Iranian border guards.

Rough hands shoved me into the back seat of a large, dark Mercedes that might have been new in the 1970s. These guys were obviously not professionals, as they did nothing to restrain my hands and feet—although they were safety-conscious enough to make me buckle my seatbelt. Instead, one of them sat in the back seat to my right, his rifle pointed at my belly. The other two got into the front seat.

They didn’t start driving, though. We sat in the car for around fifteen minutes before headlights appeared from the Iraqi side. Soon I could hear the rattling engine of a tractor-trailer rig. After some shouted conversation back and forth, the Mercedes pulled out in front of the truck and led the way deeper into Iran.

They were smuggling something. Killing Uncle Ali and kidnapping me were merely crimes of opportunity.

As we drove through the night, I couldn’t help wishing I were back in Uncle Ali’s car—no headlights, no seatbelts and all. That had been much safer.

I also found that it was possible for my mind to simultaneously hold two very opposite thoughts: I’m glad Yelena’s not here and I wish Yelena were here.

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