CHAPTER 60
Mullah Massoud grinned as he and Simonov barreled down on the men who had stolen the American woman from him. Their vehicle had been destroyed, but there were still survivors returning fire. He prayed that he would find the woman there. He didn’t care if she was injured, as long as she was alive. He and the Russian both had too much invested in her to allow her to slip through their hands.
As they drew closer, the accuracy of the person shooting at them improved. Whoever it was, he was very good with a rifle. Massoud pounded the roof of the truck and yelled at his soldier to make sure he didn’t shoot the woman or their fellow Taliban down below.
The commander was going to teach whoever this was a very painful lesson. You didn’t steal from a man like Massoud Akhund. All he had to do now was to keep them pinned down until they ran out of ammunition; then he and his men would move in.
Simonov slowed their truck to a crawl to allow the soldiers from the checkpoint below to move up and apply pressure. Hot shell casings tinkled onto the roof of the cab as Massoud leaned against the roll bar and kept firing in short bursts.
It was during a break in the shooting, when the soldier ejected his spent magazine and fished for another, that Massoud realized that the marksman near the flaming wreckage below had stopped shooting at them. It was also at that time that he heard an explosion from behind.
Looking into his side mirror, he saw the trucks behind him erupting in bright yellow flashes. “Move! Move! Move!” he yelled at Simonov.
The Russian, who had been transfixed by the spectacle behind them, popped the clutch and leaped forward. Though neither of them could see any aircraft, they knew they were under attack from above.
Simonov pushed the truck as fast as it would go, as the hand of death came racing up behind them.
Both he and the Taliban commander were so mesmerized by what was happening in their mirrors that they didn’t realize how quickly they had closed with the burning hulk of the truck in front of them that had been RPGed.
The Russian tried to brake but lost control. The truck bounced against the high rock wall on the right side of the road and then slammed into the flaming wreckage.
The last thing that went through Sergei Simonov’s mind as he went through the windshield and was killed was his son Sasha.
Mullah Massoud was ejected from the passenger window as the vehicle flipped over and rolled several hundred feet down the road.
He regained consciousness for only a moment. Blood poured from his nose and ears. Though his eyes refused to focus, he thought he could see daylight. Off in the distance he heard his brother calling him to prayer.
As the sun’s rays grew brighter, his body was beset by cold and grew numb. Zwak’s voice seemed to move farther away as the life drained from his body.
Standing above him were two shapes. They were men with guns, foreigners; probably Americans. Massoud Akhund opened his mouth to tell them that they would never triumph in Afghanistan.
The Taliban commander wanted to mock them for their arrogance, but nothing came. Nothing but deep, impenetrable, bottomless darkness.