scan for the threat.
“Son of a bitch, they flanked us.”
He flinched at the loud squelch of an old bullhorn. “Place down your weapons.” The man, who spoke the southeastern Indo-Iranian language of Pashto coughed into the microphone, “We are the Afghan Local Police. Lay down your weapons. We only wish to speak with you.”
“Pashto, he’s a local. What are your thoughts?” Batya’s question seemed uncharacteristically naïve.
Justice understood her nervousness. She’d downplayed her concerns of being a female Jew in a fanatically conservative portion of the Muslim country. She knew the odds if captured—she also knew what they’d do to her.
Justice released his grip on the rifle—it hung against his chest as he lifted both hands above his head.
“Not like we’ve got much choice.”
Batya agreed and raised her gloved hands in surrender.
Justice whispered for her attention as they each exited the Jeep on different sides, “Any signs of aggression and we battle these fuckers. I’d rather die in combat than kneel as they saw off my skull.”
She sighed. Her hand lingered on the console—he touched her.
He fought the sensation of the terrible feeling he had brewing inside. He’d have to stay cool to deflect their suspicions. How they hell would they explain being in the midst of this massacre?
“I’ll signal by saying something in Yiddish. I doubt they understand that tongue,” Justice said and then flashed a quick smile. “Lets do this.”
Each remained on opposite sides of the Jeep. It would allow at least one to begin shooting from behind cover. It soon wouldn’t matter—they were surrounded. Justice scanned the horde to spot the leader—not the highest ranking, but the leader—the influencer. He’d trained enough foreign forces to know that those with rank or high positions were seldom respected by their troops. It wasn’t uncommon for them to be killed by one of their own during a battle with opposition forces.
Justice spotted him. The man was razor thin, but his eyes shone like lightning and the rare glimpse of teeth presented straight and white. Immediately, Justice knew this man must have spent time in the United States or somewhere with quality dental care to sport those choppers. Out in this territory, clean, straight white teeth were impossible.
“United State Security Forces,” Justice spoke past the others and directly to the man. He stood about a foot and a half taller than most of them, so it wasn’t difficult to avoid their chatter.
“Speak with Jabar. He is ALP leader,” the man said in Pashto. His eyes shifted toward an overweight slob dressed in a ridiculously ornate uniform. Medals clanked from streaming ribbons, and a sword jabbed at everyone who stood behind or beside him.
“I’m speaking with you—the real man in charge.” Justice’s words were direct and forceful.
“No, you must speak with him. In Pashto or Dari. He speaks no English.”
Justice smiled at the man’s courage for speaking English and thought he had an ally. “He speaks no English? Then how can he command a British and US-trained police force? Fuck him—I want to speak with the boss. You.”
Justice felt a mushy grip fall flaccid upon his left bicep. He suspected it was Jabar, so he hesitated before turning his attention toward the man. It was a total show of disrespect.
“Can I help you?” Justice asked in a broken Dari dialect.
Jabar sucked in his gut. The flashy uniform and stolen medals looked crumpled on his paunch frame. The commander looked up to face Justice—neither backed down.
“I am Afghan Local Police commander Jabar bin Hamid. You will speak only to me. I am in charge of this district and in charge here today. Do you understand me?” His fat fingers looked like stuffed sausage rolls as his right forefinger waggled inches from Justice’s face.
“Yes, commander. I will speak with you.” Justice inched closer to tower over Jabar. “We are here on behalf of
“Son of a bitch, they flanked us.”
He flinched at the loud squelch of an old bullhorn. “Place down your weapons.” The man, who spoke the southeastern Indo-Iranian language of Pashto coughed into the microphone, “We are the Afghan Local Police. Lay down your weapons. We only wish to speak with you.”
“Pashto, he’s a local. What are your thoughts?” Batya’s question seemed uncharacteristically naïve.
Justice understood her nervousness. She’d downplayed her concerns of being a female Jew in a fanatically conservative portion of the Muslim country. She knew the odds if captured—she also knew what they’d do to her.
Justice released his grip on the rifle—it hung against his chest as he lifted both hands above his head.
“Not like we’ve got much choice.”
Batya agreed and raised her gloved hands in surrender.
Justice whispered for her attention as they each exited the Jeep on different sides, “Any signs of aggression and we battle these fuckers. I’d rather die in combat than kneel as they saw off my skull.”
She sighed. Her hand lingered on the console—he touched her.
He fought the sensation of the terrible feeling he had brewing inside. He’d have to stay cool to deflect their suspicions. How they hell would they explain being in the midst of this massacre?
“I’ll signal by saying something in Yiddish. I doubt they understand that tongue,” Justice said and then flashed a quick smile. “Lets do this.”
Each remained on opposite sides of the Jeep. It would allow at least one to begin shooting from behind cover. It soon wouldn’t matter—they were surrounded. Justice scanned the horde to spot the leader—not the highest ranking, but the leader—the influencer. He’d trained enough foreign forces to know that those with rank or high positions were seldom respected by their troops. It wasn’t uncommon for them to be killed by one of their own during a battle with opposition forces.
Justice spotted him. The man was razor thin, but his eyes shone like lightning and the rare glimpse of teeth presented straight and white. Immediately, Justice knew this man must have spent time in the United States or somewhere with quality dental care to sport those choppers. Out in this territory, clean, straight white teeth were impossible.
“United State Security Forces,” Justice spoke past the others and directly to the man. He stood about a foot and a half taller than most of them, so it wasn’t difficult to avoid their chatter.
“Speak with Jabar. He is ALP leader,” the man said in Pashto. His eyes shifted toward an overweight slob dressed in a ridiculously ornate uniform. Medals clanked from streaming ribbons, and a sword jabbed at everyone who stood behind or beside him.
“I’m speaking with you—the real man in charge.” Justice’s words were direct and forceful.
“No, you must speak with him. In Pashto or Dari. He speaks no English.”
Justice smiled at the man’s courage for speaking English and thought he had an ally. “He speaks no English? Then how can he command a British and US-trained police force? Fuck him—I want to speak with the boss. You.”
Justice felt a mushy grip fall flaccid upon his left bicep. He suspected it was Jabar, so he hesitated before turning his attention toward the man. It was a total show of disrespect.
“Can I help you?” Justice asked in a broken Dari dialect.
Jabar sucked in his gut. The flashy uniform and stolen medals looked crumpled on his paunch frame. The commander looked up to face Justice—neither backed down.
“I am Afghan Local Police commander Jabar bin Hamid. You will speak only to me. I am in charge of this district and in charge here today. Do you understand me?” His fat fingers looked like stuffed sausage rolls as his right forefinger waggled inches from Justice’s face.
“Yes, commander. I will speak with you.” Justice inched closer to tower over Jabar. “We are here on behalf of
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