Afterglow

"Just leave the briefcase and I'll let you go."

Let me go?

Taking a deep breath, Knife-Guy summoned up his courage and came at me. I blocked the knife with the briefcase and kicked his calf. He backed off, limping. Waving the knife in front of me like a third rate snake charmer, he moved in again. Thrusting the briefcase into his forearm, his slicing movement halted and I slammed my elbow into his head in a side arc. As he wobbled, I kicked his calf again, crushing into it with my shin.

My arm was warm with my blood and I wanted to end this farce. He shook his head to clear out the cobwebs, moved in again and I feinted with the briefcase. When he pulled the knife hand and arm out of my reach, I used that roundhouse kick to the head I'd contemplated earlier. He immediately fell to the ground and lay there unmoving. I hoped that I didn't break his neck, but it was a real possibility.

Picking up the knife, I put it between two of the bars on the window and yanked back, snapping the blade in two. I left the broken men and weapon on the ground. The briefcase was in my hand, sprayed crimson with thug blood. I was satisfied.

I hired a rickshaw to take me to 6 Chatterjee Road in Downtown Lahore, only eleven-minutes from the Badshahi Masjid. It was the location of Hotel One, which was where I planned to spend the night under one of my many aliases. I currently had six passports sewn into my blazer. I only needed a name and some cash, both of which I was ready to provide. When we arrived, I paid and tipped the driver, and ducked my head as I made my way into the hotel.

It was time to get myself a room and open the briefcase.

—

The Drug Mule

—

I was flying Turkish Airlines again, headed back to a stop in Istanbul and then ultimately landing in Islamabad, Pakistan without even the chance of saying goodbye to the kids. I rang Ashley from a payphone at the airport and told her I'd be back in a couple of days. She was disappointed, but she wished me a safe journey and promised to look after Danny and Sophie. I felt guilty as hell; she was too young to be doing all of this. She wasn't getting the chance to be a kid. I was glad that this was going to be my last job. After this, I was going to find a normal career, something that wouldn't take me away for days or weeks at a time.

Customs and Border Patrol officers were patrolling the area as I waited for my flight. I paid them no attention, hardly sparing them a glance. I had nothing to hide. This was going to be a strange operation.

"No drugs," Sergio had said.

"No drugs?"

"None."

I was tasked with picking up a package from Murree and delivering it to Lahore, Pakistan. It sounded easy enough, but I'd been in Pakistan hundreds of times, and I knew that it was a 6-7 hour drive from Murree to Lahore with military checkpoints in between. I didn't know what was going to be in the package, but I couldn't imagine that it was going to be legal. I could end up in a Pakistani jail, and there would be no one to bail me out. I was a nobody. I doubted the embassy would even bother to help me if I called them. They weren't sympathetic to drug mules.

This wasn't going to be easy.

—

The flight attendant was pouring me a glass of Sprite when I first noticed him. He wasn't much taller than me, probably about 5'8", and had a hardened expression that never left his pinched, ugly face. His wide shoulders made him look a little funny, like he was an action figure, but I wasn't laughing. I was spooked.

I was hyperaware of my surroundings, and I always knew when I was being followed. I'd get this itchy feeling at the base of my neck and an urge to immediately stop all movement and carefully look around. I felt his eyes on me when I went to the bathroom. I tested him and made more moves. I went to the flight attendant to ask for a Sprite refill. I went to another seat and grabbed a magazine. I went to use the bathrooms in the back of the plane. No matter what I did, his eyes never left me. We were in a metal tube over the Pacific. Where did he think I was going to go? I was slightly reassured by what seemed to be his amateurish behavior but spooked by his dead eyes.

I'd have to lose him in Istanbul. Leave the airport and then double back for a later flight to Islamabad. This wouldn't be the first time. I'd been tagged by competitors before, and followed so that they could find our distribution center. In places like Pakistan, distribution didn't really move from location to location. Local law enforcement took bribes, and the kind of money our operation paid was substantial. Still, it left the centers vulnerable. They were heavily armed, but there was the chance of a raid at any time.

I knew this mean motherfucker across the aisle from me was ready to torture me for information. He'd start by intimidating me, and end by breaking each of my fingers, one by one. Then he'd beat me until I broke, and if I still didn't talk, he'd deny me water for a few days and then wait for me to beg for a drink. I'd been prepped for this, tortured by Sergio's guys, denied food and water, had my bones broken and then carefully bandaged. They'd made me tough. I was no snitch. I could take a secret to the grave. If I didn't, I put three kids' lives in danger.

I didn't sleep. Fourteen hours to Istanbul, and I didn't get a wink. I drank a lot of caffeine and helped myself to snacks from the galley, hoping that'd give me some energy, and it worked for a while. By the last three hours, I was exhausted. I watched the screen, viewing the pixel plane fly closer and closer to the destination. It was the only thing I could do because I had to stay aware, and that meant no real distractions.

When the plane landed, I was the first one off. All I had was a backpack, and I'd taken it and myself to the lavatory to the front of the plane and waited out the landing in the cramped restroom. When I popped out, the plane had barely landed and people hadn't even undone their seatbelts yet. The nearest flight attendant was mortified and asked me to return to my seat. I refused until the doors opened, and then I left.

Istanbul was muggy, even inside of the airport. I fanned myself as I weaved in and out of the crowd, moving fast enough that I hoped I was at least confusing the asshole who was following me. I knew he was there, that he'd likely fought his way off the plane after he realized I wasn't coming back from the lavatory. I made my way to Customs, but before that, I ducked into a crowded bathroom.

"Who has a burqa?" I asked in English. "I will pay one hundred US dollars."

A young student around my age pushed through the crowd and approached me. She opened up her carry-on duffle bag with surprising speed. She pulled out three fabrics and pushed them into my arms.

"I only have kaftan abayas," she said in English. "Will it do?" They were beautiful, the abayas. They were basically long, loose dresses in an Islamic style. I picked a black one out and handed her back the rest. I only needed one.

"Do you have a niqāb?" I asked. I would need the garment that would cover my face. That was most important.

"No, but I have a scarf," she said. That would have to do. I moved my backpack to my stomach, putting it on backward and then put the abaya on over my clothes. I let the girl help me wrap the scarf over my head and then my face, leaving only a slit for my eyes. My hair, nose, mouth, and forehead were covered. I looked like a pregnant Muslim woman. It was just the disguise I needed. I paid the girl and slipped back out into the airport, making my way down to Customs.

There was no way I could get on my connecting flight. For all I knew, another guy was waiting for me there. Instead, I decided my safest bet was to leave the airport for a couple of hours and then double back. I would've hired drivers to take me through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and into Pakistan, but in those days, the Taliban occupation was in Afghanistan. It was a war-torn country, and too dangerous to take by road. It was impossible for a woman to travel in Iran by herself, and getting to the Persian Gulf to take a speedboat to Pakistan would mean going through Iraq, which was just as dangerous.

I knew my way around these parts. I was a smuggler, and I've had to change plans and routes before. This time I was truly stuck. The only upside was that I wasn't smuggling drugs or laundering money this time.

The moment I walked out of the airport, I realized that "he" had become "they". I knew gang members when I saw them, and it was obvious that they were from US soil. It was easy to pick them out in a crowd because the Americans were the only ones searching the crowd, pulling people aside, opening up bags, stopping taxis. As I sought a taxi, I realized quite quickly that one gang member was approaching me to harass me. I had to think fast.

I turned around, located the biggest guy I could find, and rushed to him. "Yardım," I said to him in Turkish. Help.

The gang member had stupidly followed me. The big guy took one look at him and then began yelling in Turkish, cursing at him. I slipped around him, ducked under two pedestrians, and hid behind them, walking slowly back toward the taxis. Within seconds, I pried open the door of a yellow cab and slid inside.

"Go," I said to the driver. "Grand Bazaar." It was the first thing that popped into my head. I'd been there before. The Grand Bazaar was one of the world's largest and oldest covered markets. It was located inside the Walled City of Istanbul, situated between two mosques, Bey zit, and Nuruosmaniye. It covered 61 streets and had over 4,000 shops, attracting between 250,000 to 400,000 visitors each day. If there was one place I could disappear, it'd be there.

"Hey!" someone suddenly yelled. "Stop that taxi! We didn't check it!"

"GO!" I screamed at the driver. He seemed frozen by fear. I was panicking now. It was all over.

The driver door flung open and the driver was forced out of the car. I closed my eyes, ready to have the same happen to me, but instead, the car jerked forward. My eyes snapped open. In the driver's place was another man, built like a fighter with corded muscles on a body that looked hard even from the back seat. He glanced at the rearview mirror and for a moment our eyes met. His expression was so fierce that I had to look away. Something told me that he wasn't one of the bad guys, but that didn't mean he wasn't bad.

"Get down," he said in an American accent, suddenly putting the car in reverse. I ducked just as he threw an arm over the passenger seat headrest, looked over his right shoulder, turned the wheel and backed up. There was a sickening thud; he'd just run someone over.

"Stay down," he ordered sternly, putting the car into drive.

"Who are you?" I asked, keeping my head down. He never responded, just drove with intense speed, weaving in and out of traffic. I had to grip the sides of my seat because there were no seatbelts in the back seat. I was jerked left and right, and occasionally the car would come to a screeching halt due to traffic. It didn't take long before there were gunshots.

"Lose them!" I cried, covering my ears. A bullet came flying through the rear window, cracking it. The bullet grazed the driver's arm, but he didn't even flinch. Who the fuck was this guy? I didn't have too long to think about it. A moment later a black SUV pulled up next to us, windows rolled down. The driver was pointing a gun at us, screaming at us to pull over.

"Move to the left," my driver said, and as soon as I did, he slammed our taxi into the SUV, causing it to veer off into an exit. The timing was incredible.

"Why should I trust you?" I asked.

The driver's eyes met mine from the rearview mirror again. His eyes were almost golden, like dark honey illuminated by the sun. His shock of dark hair was neatly brushed back. He had light skin, but he wasn't white. I'd seen guys like him before. Tall, red-blooded and fair-skinned. He had to be a Pashtun from Pakistan or Afghanistan. Pashtuns are fighters. If I could trust him, I was in good hands.

"You shouldn't," was all he said.

—

The Hitman

—

I uncuffed the briefcase from my wrist and took a seat on the edge of my hotel bed, entering the code to snap it open. I found a single file inside. In it was some intel—copies of a birth certificate, social security number, driver's license, some papers detailing a personality, strengths, weaknesses. There was also a picture of a girl; blonde-haired and blue-eyed with an innocent face, making her look like a young teen. In reality, she was a baby-faced twenty-three-year-old. I read further into her file, studying all the details, memorizing them—when I came across her occupation: a world-class drug mule, worth a fortune to her organization. She was owned by a kingpin in Los Angeles.

My assignment was this girl.

"Don't hurt me."

It was her voice again, small and scared, lips quivering from the cold. She was parched and weak, eyeing my gun as I approached her. I pointed it at her head. The scream filled my ears, louder than the sound of the gunshot. Her eyes were brown, glassy—lifeless.

Mistake. I'd made a mistake.

—

The farmhouse was located just outside of Lahore, a fifteen-minute drive. It was not so much a house as it was a mansion, a four-story building with arches and pillars, gleaming white marble and turquoise tile work. It was a grand home, belonging to the leader of the society, Naeem Badrashi, a man with more power than most politicians. His grounds were heavily guarded and he was not expecting me.

"What is your business here?" A guard asked in Urdu when I stopped at the gate. He was holding an AK-47 lazily, pointed to the sky.

"I am here to see Naeem Badrashi."

"I have no orders of him expecting anyone today."

"He isn't expecting me."

"Then you must leave."

I leaned my head out of the car window, looking him square in the eyes when I said, "Ahmad Gahez does not leave." The guard's knees almost buckled. He immediately radioed in Head of Security and had the gates opened within seconds. He lowered his head in respect as I drove past him.

I parked by the front steps, handing my keys off to Naeem's driver. He would move the car to the lot out back and give me a fresh one to drive when I left. The one I'd brought had too many bullet holes.

The door was answered by the mülazım, or butler, who knew better than to ask me for my coat.

"Asalamu 'Alaikum, Ahmad sahib," he said. Peace be with you, sir Ahmad.

"Walaikum 'Assalam." And peace be unto you. "Where can I find Naeem?"

"He is praying Asr as we speak."

"I think I will join him," I said, and slipped out of my shoes by the front door. It was custom in Pakistan to take shoes off in the home. The mülazım led me to an immaculate parlor, and turned toward Mecca was Naeem. He was just starting prayer. I shook a prayer mat open beside him and began to pray. He sensed my presence but said nothing. Prayer came first.

I closed my eyes and saw lifeless brown eyes.

—

"Sit," Naeem said, gesturing to a sofa across from him. There was a tray of chai and biscuits in between us. "Drink. Eat."

I sat but did not help myself to the chai or the biscuits. Naeem himself had taught me to never accept food or drink from my enemies. In those days, he had been my friend, but that was a long time ago.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Naeem asked. He picked up a cup of chai and settled back on his plush chair.

"The job," I said, cutting to the chase. "I can't accept it."

Naeem raised an eyebrow and looked a little amused. He took a sip of his chai, watching me with his dark eyes, the color of coal and soot. His white beard was neatly trimmed, but there was something wild about him.

"That is unacceptable, Ahmad."

We did not speak for a moment, sitting in the silence with our eyes doing much of the talking. Naeem was displeased with me, that much I could tell, but there was something more, something that filled me with dread.

"How is Jibril?" I asked suddenly.

"Your son," Naeem said, his eyes sparkling. "He is at madrassa."

"Madrassa?" I fought to keep my sudden anger under control. "I never gave permission to have him educated at a madrassa."

"You forget so easily that your permission is not needed here."

"I'll not have you turn my son into some kind of radical extremist!" I snarled, unable to keep my temper under control. I knew madrassas, and I'd been schooled in one myself. They beat the religion into the child. I didn't want that for my son. I wanted him to be taught our religion with love, with patience, and with kindness because after all, the meaning of the word Islam was "Peace". Places like madrassas gave Islam a bad name. There were 2 billion Muslims in this world, and yet that less than 1% made us look like barbarians. I didn't want my son to become one of them.

"As I recall, you were raised in a madrassa for seven years. You turned out... fine."

"I'm the most fucked up person you know," I reminded him.

"Men piss themselves when you walk into a room. Don't you want Jibril to be as powerful as you?"

"No," I said. "I don't want him to pay the cost. My son will not be a killer."

"Then you will do the jobs I give you, Ahmad."

"I don't kill women."

"You've done it before," Naeem said, looking amused again. I had the urge to beat him into the ground, but I knew better. Naeem owned me. I was his slave.

"Not again. Never again."

"All this fuss over one woman?" Naeem looked bewildered. "She was a nobody! A banker's daughter!"

"She was a person."

"So are all your victims, Ahmad," Naeem said coldly.

"I don't kill innocents."

"Don't worry. We paid the family. Gave that banker's daughter a prime minister's funeral," he said. "Now, the assignment. That girl is no innocent."

"She's only a mule," I said. A criminal, yes, but not one deserving of death by my hands.

"You think that little bitch has never killed a person before? Those filthy American gangs kill everyone, even their own," Naeem said. Then he smiled wide. "Your current objective is not to kill this girl, anyway. Which you would have known if you'd read your file thoroughly. You need only get her from Istanbul to Islamabad, Islamabad to Murree and then Murree to Old Lahore."

"I am not a babysitter."

"You're a killer. There will be much killing. She will be followed by rivals everywhere she goes. If she is captured, her organization will go belly-up in Asia. We're being paid handsomely to deliver her to Old Lahore. Do not fail this one, or you will ruin my hand in the drug trade."

"I have never failed a mission before."

"That is why I picked you, Ahmad."

"I won't kill any women."

"I'm sure our assignment can hold her own in a fight with a woman. I've heard she's quite the fighter herself."

There was no getting out of this assignment. Naeem was intent on completing this job, and he wanted me to do it. I thought about my son, about his golden lion's eyes, his bright smile, and those little legs, running toward me when I'd get a chance to see him. I prayed that he would be strong. I would get him out of that madrassa, one way or another.

"Look after my son, Naeem," I said. "I will accept this contract."

Naeem smiled wide and put his tea back on the tray. He poured some juice, but only one glass. I knew that I was being dismissed.

—

I was in Istanbul, gunning it, driving from side to side, cutting off cars left and right. There were at least four cars on our tail, and they weren't about to give up capturing this girl. Naeem had been wrong about her. She was no fighter; she was small, weak and pregnant. I looked over my shoulder and looked her right in the eyes.