Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

singularly indistinguishable from anywhere else on the mountainside. Then he spotted the wrapper from a piece of Amrus candy, the traditional Pakistani sweet, snagged by a crevice. A human being had been at this spot. And when he looked up, he could just make out a very narrow trail winding further up the mountain. To an experienced tracker, the trail revealed barely visible signs of recent use. A rock kicked over. A shrub with a tiny broken branch. Just a hint of a boot print in a dusting of sand.

The pair followed the paltry trail ever higher and farther around the mountainside. The morning changed to afternoon as they doggedly continued their climb, taking their time, doing all they could do to remain concealed and watching for any surveillance devices.

And then, by evening, they were high enough that breathing was becoming more and more difficult. The sun sank with a crash beyond the high ridge to the west, plunging them once again into darkness. It was a mixed blessing.

The trail remained barely visible in the moonlight. Beaman and Abdul were forced to slow and were on the verge of stopping, figuring this barely discernible path really led nowhere after all. Had they been so determined to make this climb pay off that they were by now only imagining a trail to follow in the near darkness?

Then Beaman smelled it. The unmistakable odor of smoke. There was a campfire somewhere nearby. Not a forest fire for sure. There was no wood up here, unless it had been lugged up the mountain.

They dropped to a crouch and crawled around the next bend in the trail. There, on a small narrow shelf ten yards ahead of them, sat a pair of fighters, dressed similarly to the ones Beaman had observed last night. They were huddled around a tiny campfire and appeared to be guarding the entrance to a small cave that opened nearby, leading back into the rock wall of the mountain. The men’s AK-47s were lying within easy reach at their sides.

Beaman and Abdul pulled back, concealing themselves, to wait beyond the bend in the trail.

“Fighters with rifles, way up here. That has to be the party we’re looking to crash,” Beaman said in a whisper, his lips near Abdul’s ear. “Nobody else up here.”

The Pashtun guide nodded.

“More likely the guards working the door for the party. I think the real party might be inside that cave.”

“Okay, any bright ideas on how we find out for sure?” Beaman asked.

“Let’s wait a bit until it gets really dark,” Abdul answered. “Those two are thinking they are up here all by themselves. They are not going to be paying a lot of attention and we can probably get a good bit closer.”

The two settled in, occasionally checking on the guards, waiting for an opportunity to get past them or quietly take them out. This was as close as they had gotten to what might be the elusive Prophet in all the time that they had spent searching, chasing false clues, sleeping amid sheep or in shepherd hovels, resting and eating little. This was not an opportunity they could allow to slip by, no matter how long they had to wait before making a move.

The aroma of roasting meat drifted back to where they lay hidden. Beaman raised his head, frowning. His stomach growled. The guards had chunks of meat on a spit above their campfire. They began singing, horribly off-key, laughing, and picking at each other in anticipation of the food getting done and the relative feast that would follow. Both were totally engrossed in preparing their meal.

Beaman nudged Abdul. It was about as dark as it was going to get.

“I’m going to get closer and see if I can maybe figure out what’s going on in the cave that requires a couple of sentries out here. I don’t see any way to do that with those two having dinner over there, but we have to check it out.”

Abdul nodded. It was so dark, Beaman could not even see the expression on his partner’s face or a nod of agreement with the plan.

The SEAL slithered over the rocks, using only the jet-black night for cover. It took him almost an hour to cover the short distance and get close enough to overhear the campfire conversation. Though the dialect was a bit strange, he could still make out the usual gripes and bitches. But some of their banter was of interest.

“...Nabiin moved....” “...left us behind to clean up...” “The big one is underway.”

Beaman was trying to put all this together while figuring out a way to take out the pair without alerting anyone who might be inside the cave.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He dropped behind a boulder, then watched as Abdul casually sauntered into the camp. What the hell was he doing?

As he entered the small circle of light, the Pashtun calmly said, “Shalom,” in a quiet voice, just above a whisper. “In-sha-Allah.”

The pair seemed stunned for an instant. Then they finally reacted, jumping to their feet, scrambling to grab their assault rifles. But they were no match for Abdul. His kukri flashed like lightning, slashing the first guard’s throat and then disemboweling the second, all in quick, clean, smooth strokes of the deadly fighting knife.

Two trained fighters, taken out in two seconds, silently.

Beaman stood, eyes wide. It was the first time he had seen his partner in action. And he was damned impressed.

Abdul waved impatiently for Beaman to follow him into the cave. Just as they stepped into the mouth of the cavern, the first shot rang out, followed by the low, growling rumble of an AK-47 on full auto.

Beaman instinctively dived to the right, firing in the direction of the muzzle flash. He was rewarded with a scream of agony and the clatter of the rifle falling to the ground. A flashlight pierced the darkness from deeper in the cave. Beaman fired a quick shot a