Private Rogue

Chapter 27

The osprey was lit up by flames dancing within the fuselage. Floyd was drawn toward a figure standing in front of the wreckage. He knew who it was before he reached her. He wanted to call out, to warn her to step away from the inferno, but he had no power over his body and drifted like an automaton. As his wife turned toward him, Floyd saw tears in her eyes and her face was riven by distress.

“The children...” she cried, but Floyd heard no more.

He was woken from the nightmare. It took him a moment to bridge the gap between dream and reality.

John crouched beside him, the concern on his face clear even by moonlight.

“We need to go now,” he said. “There are men moving through the town. Mercenaries. I think they’re looking for you.”

Floyd got to his feet and hurried across the large living room to the window that overlooked the valley. He could see torch beams swinging to and fro in the shadows of the men wielding them as they moved from house to house further down the mountain. Outraged cries and aggressive commands filled the air.

“Get dressed,” John said, handing Floyd some clothes. “Chris is downstairs getting the horses ready.”

Floyd pulled a pair of woolen trousers over his shorts, and slipped a cotton tunic over his head, before putting on a heavy Soviet coat badged with the hammer and sickle. John was similarly dressed. He handed Floyd a pair of Nuristani riding boots and pulled on a pair himself.

Floyd heard more cries in Kamviri in the distance, and demands made in Russian.

“We don’t have long,” John said.

He pulled back the corner of a rug to reveal a trap door. He opened it and led Floyd down a run of wooden steps to the stables. Chris was checking the saddle on a large horse.

“They’re ready,” she said. “Supplies and gear.” She pointed at three backpacks at the bottom of the stairs. “Yours is the blue one.”

Floyd picked it up and shrugged it on.

Chris grabbed a coat from a peg near the door and put it on. She and Floyd slung packs on their shoulders, and she took the reins of a gray horse and led it to the stable door. The horse’s hooves scuffed and clopped against the door.

“This one’s yours,” John said, giving Floyd the reins of a brown mare.

Floyd patted its muzzle and followed Chris. Floyd brought up the rear with a brown and white stallion.

Chris paused by the door. “We lead the horses out on foot east along the alley. When we reach the main road, we mount up and head south. Got it?”

Floyd nodded.

Chris switched off the stable light and opened the door. The hinges creaked, the horses snorted excitedly, and John’s stallion pawed the floor. Floyd had never been so conscious of noise and tried to will the world into silence. He hardly noticed the blast of ice-cold air that hit him as Chris moved into the alleyway.

She looked both ways, then signaled to Floyd and John to follow. Voices drifted up the mountainside. They were close, perhaps only a few houses away. Floyd’s horse tried to move back into the stable, but he patted her flank.

“It’s OK,” he said, and led her along the alleyway, past the neighboring house.

John followed and the three of them walked without saying a word, aware of people waking in the surrounding buildings. Floyd’s breath formed clouds in the chill, and steam rose from his horse’s nostrils. He realized he had no idea what time it was, that his watch must have been taken along with his flight jacket when he was sentenced to execution. It must have been late because the people who came to their windows looked stunned by sleep and annoyed to have been woken by commotion in the town. A few looked at the trio leading their horses and nodded, but most had their eyes turned toward the other end of the alleyway, which seemed to be where the trouble was happening.

A voice yelled in Russian. Floyd glanced over his shoulder to see the silhouette of a man in the light of the torches. He was looking their way.

“Come on. They’ve seen us,” Chris said, mounting her horse.

The man at the other end of the alleyway yelled as Floyd and John climbed into their saddles. Chris urged her horse forward and Floyd’s followed its lead. He hadn’t ridden for years and gripped the reins tightly. He looked back to see John following, behind him a cluster of torchlights and figures running toward them.

The horses’ hooves pounded with greater urgency, and clouds of vapor swirled around their heads as they gathered speed.

Over the beating rhythm of the hoofbeats came a sudden, ugly crack. Then another. And another.

“They’re shooting!” John yelled. A moment later there was another volley and he cried out in pain.

Floyd looked back to see the Englishman slump forward. He reined in his horse, but John raised his head.

“Go!” he barked through gritted teeth. “Don’t let this be for nothing.”

Chris pulled up. “I can’t leave him,” she said as Floyd passed her. “Head south. There’s a map of the passes in your bag.”

Floyd urged his horse on. It galloped out of the alleyway onto the main road through Kamdesh. Floyd glanced back to see Chris tending to John as a gang of men closed in on them.

Adrenalin surging, heart thumping, Floyd flicked the reins and turned the horse south. His mount raced forward at full pelt and didn’t seem to need further encouragement, but if there was more speed to be had, Floyd wanted it.

“Yah!” he yelled.

He heard more shouts behind him, but didn’t look back. Soon he and the horse were lost to the darkness.