Rapp could have just interrogated CYCLONE in J-Bad, but since the warlord had been captured at the same time the Ranger went missing, Rapp had been worried that the HIG commander would not know Saxton’s location. Instead, Rapp had gambled that once CYCLONE was reunited with his men, they would either take their commander to where the Ranger was being held or tell him Saxton’s location.
So far, this gamble had not paid off. If something didn’t break loose in the next couple of minutes, Rapp intended to separate the warlord from his bodyguards and question him about the missing Ranger.
Forcefully.
Then Rapp would commandeer one of the Hilux trucks he’d seen parked beneath camouflage netting outside the compound and conduct his own search for Saxton using CYCLONE’s best guess as his starting point. As long as the drone continued to float through the sky above him, Rapp had a way to signal Coleman and his hitters.
A way that could only be used once during a window that was rapidly closing thanks to the drone’s prodigious fuel consumption.
And if this wasn’t enough pressure, by now Ashani would have landed in Kabul. Rapp had to get this show on the road. In a world populated by dirtbags who needed killing, Rapp often felt busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
“If you have something to discuss, let’s hear it,” Rapp said. “Otherwise, I’m leaving.”
“Arabs,” CYCLONE said with another smile, “always so anxious. In some ways, you remind me of the Americans. They might have the watches, but we have all the time.”
The word Americans sent a tendril of worry snaking through Rapp’s gut.
Was CYCLONE trying to elicit some sort of reaction?
Rapp didn’t know, nor did he intend to play mind games with the warlord. Rather than take the bait, he got to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality. I need a phone. Now.”
Hospitality wasn’t just a quaint notion in this part of the world.
According to tribal tradition, CYCLONE had extended hospitality to Rapp by providing him with shelter and food. This meant that the HIG warlord was honor-bound to protect and aid Rapp. Still, the notion that there was no honor among thieves was doubly true for Afghan warlords who’d fought for the Northern Alliance, the Taliban, the HIG, and now perhaps the Iranians.
“Of course,” CYCLONE said, standing as well. “Of course.”
The warlord directed a stream of Pashtu at Ferret Face.
The man’s disposition didn’t grow any sunnier, but the fighter nodded and moved his finger away from the AK’s trigger guard.
Progress.
Digging into his pocket, Fence Post produced a simple flip phone, which he handed to CYCLONE, who then passed it to Rapp.
Rapp was preparing to activate the device when the warlord spoke.
“Just one more thing.”
Rapp paused with his thumb hovering over the dial button. “What?”
“Before you leave, I thought we might discuss a business proposition.”
Rapp sighed.
The HIG, like the Taliban, wasn’t exactly an industrial powerhouse. Rapp assumed this conversation would center around the organization’s one reliable export—opium. While it would be interesting to hear what the little toad was willing to offer, neither Rapp’s timeline nor his legend permitted such a discussion. Farid Saeed wouldn’t be interested in a deal to export poppy.
Rapp wasn’t either.
“I don’t traffic opium,” Rapp said.
“Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t,” CYCLONE said with a laugh, “but I have something even more valuable than heroin.”
“What?” Rapp said.
“An American.”
CHAPTER 28
RAPP stared at the Taliban commander, waiting for the punch line.
CYCLONE grinned.
Had he not been in the troop transport truck with the jihadi, Rapp would have never guessed that just hours ago CYCLONE had been on his way to one of Afghanistan’s most notorious prisons. Now the little shit looked positively serene. Like some version of an Afghan Buddha. When it became obvious that CYCLONE was content to wait all day if that’s what it took, Rapp bit the bullet. “What American?”
“Ahh,” CYCLONE said. “I thought that might interest you.”
“Maybe,” Rapp said. “Captured Americans bring with them a unique set of problems.”
“What sort of problems?”
“Men with guns who drop on your head from helicopters in the dead of the night.”
The wattage on CYCLONE’s grin dimmed. “This American is worth the risk.”
CYCLONE’s reply sounded defensive.
Petulant even.
