Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8) Read online

  Savage Recruit

  Ryan Savage Thriller Series | Book 8

  Jack Hardin

  First Published in the United States by The Salty Mangrove Press.

  Copyright © 2021 by Jack Hardin. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Get Notified

  “The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive,

  but in finding something to live for.”

  ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Prologue

  Helmand Province, Afghanistan

  April 2012

  Time was mocking when you were forced to wait for it.

  For the tenth time in as many minutes, Bahar Shakor glanced at the clock on the wall. He felt like he was watching paint dry in a humid room or waiting for water to boil over a weak flame. The nerves in his fingers felt frayed and jittery. His stomach was in knots.

  He stood up and slowly paced the floor of the small mud house before stealing another glance at the old clock.

  “Why are you nervous, Bahar?”

  His grandmother was sitting on the sofa across the room, his sister’s colorful partug in her lap, a needle and thread clutched between her skillful fingers. She had fallen asleep several minutes ago. Even now, her head was still resting back, her eyes closed. Still, she didn’t miss a thing.

  He lifted his chin and faked his best smile. “I am not nervous, Bibijan. Just thinking.”

  “It is not polite to lie to your elders. You have been taught better than that.”

  “I will sell some of the goats this week. I am hoping that Jahir offers enough for them. We need the money.”

  It was silent for the better part of a minute. Just when Bahar thought she had accepted the answer and had drifted back to her nap, she said, “It is not that, Bahar. If you do not wish to tell me, then say nothing. Only do not lie to an old lady.”

  Bahar felt his face redden with shame, and he looked away. He stepped into the doorway that led to the common room and looked out the glassless window. There was nothing to see but an endless expanse of clay rock and low-lying sand masses: the Dasht-e Margoh—the Desert of Death. One hundred fifty thousand kilometers of barren wasteland. Two kilometers south lay a cool oasis boasting over twenty palm trees and a narrow stretch of water that had provided drink for local shepherds, their flocks, and their families for millennia. But across this last generation, Bahar had watched with his own eyes as the oasis shrank year by year, diminishing from the once plentiful body of water to a shallow, muddy pool a third of its former size. The palm trees had withered away until now only three remained. Those, too, were wilting. Next year, they would fail to fruit their dates.

  Just as his country had.

  Afghanistan had once been the home to extensive and thriving dynasties, enduring Islamic conquests and the cultural destruction brought on by Genghis Khan and his Mongol army. In the modern era, they had successfully withstood British and Russian occupation, maintaining their ancient heritage as a peaceful people who were content to enjoy a quiet way of life.

  But all this evaporated only a decade before Bahar was born, when Daoud Khan brought about the Saur Revolution, usurping the throne and permanently abolishing the monarchy. Five years later, the communist faction in Afghanistan seized power in a bloody coup d'état, the events of which would see Afghanistan change from a peaceful and secluded country to a hotbed of international terrorism.

  The country plunged into civil war and became the scene of a brutal proxy war between Pakistan, the United States, and the Soviet Union, destabilizing the entire region. The Soviets finally forced their way in from the north, kicking off the Soviet-Afghan War. The conflict would rage for almost a decade and leave close to 2 million of Bahar’s countrymen dead and as many landmines left behind, all of them inserted just below the sand for young children and animals to stumble upon.

  Power abhors a vacuum, and after the Soviets finally pulled out, the Taliban emerged. Their merciless enactment of Sharia law and their scorched earth policy left tens of thousands homeless, starved, and all under a tyrannical regime that cared nothing for human freedom and flourishing.

  After that, it was the Americans. They had arrived like a plague of locusts when Bahar was a teenager and quickly dispossessed the Taliban. But like a thirsty goat standing before the water of an oasis, they appeared to have no intentions of leaving any time soon. To this day the region remained destabilized, aggressive factions continued to fight in every province, and peace had departed, seeming to leave the country of his ancestors under a curse of eternal bloodshed and suffering. The very air seemed to be filled with hate and disdain, a weighty anxiety that you could not escape.

  The Soviets were bad.

  The Taliban was worse.

  And in Bahar’s estimation, the Americans were no better.

  For Bahar, it had all come to a tipping point five months ago. His beloved father and older brother were working in the market when a gunfight broke out between angry radicals and an American patrol. His father and brother were caught in the crossfire. When the dust and the smoke cleared, both of them were dead, as were seven other locals, leaving Bahar in charge of their small flock and providing for his grandmother and sister.

  His grief had nearly overtaken him, but as the days and weeks went on, his sheik had patiently counseled him, helping him to see the true path. His father’s and his brother’s deaths need not be in vain. God intended to use the event to spur Bahar into action, to help regain his country from the opposing forces of invading infidel armies.

  His grief smoldered into a steadily growing anger, giving birth to a flame of all-consuming rage that now dominated his every thought. It was time to join the fight. No longer would he sit passively aside and watch for another tragedy to hit those he loved. No longer would he leave the fate of his country to those who only lusted after power and money.

  Across the dirt yard, the rising sun nudged the goats toward the shade of the aluminum awning, their bells rattling a sound that was as familiar to Bahar as the warmth of the sun itself. He loved this simple life. Neither he nor his brother had ever wanted anything else. Despite the political turmoil surrounding them, they had always been happy as a family, part of a long line of goat herders that stretched back generations. And they were good at it. They knew the barren land, the animals, and how to maximize their profit for each.

  But everything was different now. Since his family had been taken from him, Ba
har had come to different conclusions about the nature of the world, the events of the last two decades, and his personal role in it all.

  He wasn’t a boy anymore. He had not been for many years.

  It was time to play the man.

  “Bahar.”

  He set his jaw. He could feel her eyes on the back of his neck. “Yes, Bibijan.”

  “Do not be foolish. Nothing will bring them back. Let Allah deal with those who are responsible.”

  Behind him, the clock gently chimed the hour.

  Bahar huffed quietly to himself and replied as he pushed open the front door. “I am going out. I will return later.”

  Bahar rode across the monotonous hardpan for close to an hour before the peaks of the Hindu Kush asserted themselves on the horizon. Behind him, a high rooster tail of dust drifted into a nebulous cloud that dissipated within a steady breeze.

  His grip on the steering wheel grew tighter with every passing kilometer, the tension bringing a dull ache into his arms and shoulders. He felt childish for the way his nerves were assaulting him, making him second-guess himself and wonder if he should have just stayed back home with his grandmother.

  But there was no turning back now. He was part of a greater whole, an entire series of events that had been set in motion. Should he fail to perform the task given to him, the plan would stall, and they would hold him responsible.

  No, he must do this. He would do this.

  For the hundredth time, Bahar reminded himself that he had gone down this path for the sake of his country, for the memory of his father and his brother. There was no cost too great, no deed too grand, that was not worthy of the two men he had loved most in this world.

  He swallowed hard and cranked down the window of the ancient Toyota Tacoma. The hot wind whipped through the cab and dried the sweat that had gathered on his temples and arms. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax in his seat.

  He continued on, the mountains growing higher before him as he entered the outskirts of Kandahar. Pomegranate groves rolled by on his right, dozens of tents belonging to traveling herdsmen—bedouins—on his left. Before him lay the ancient city, tucked in against the foot of the mountains. It had yet to modernize. Unlike Kabul in the distant north, Kandahar had no steel structures; the highest points were the dozens of minarets standing tall across the sprawl of mudbrick buildings that, for the most part, went unpainted. You could almost feel the age of the city as you entered, expecting it to expel a tired creak or sigh. Were it not for the noise and bustle of bicycles, mopeds, tuk-tuks, and cars, then it would take little imagination to think you were living in the eighteenth century or before.

  Bahar continued down the main road and slowed as traffic condensed in front of him. He passed the market, turned before he reached his favorite mosque, and crawled ahead for another half kilometer before pulling to the side and getting out. It was midday now, and the sun’s rays were relentless. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he opened the door to a corner cafe and went inside. The room was small and smelled of freshly baked sheer pira and simmering haft mewa. Bahar’s stomach growled. He was hungry. But one glance across the room told him he would have to wait. His appointment was already here.

  The man’s head was crowned with a white Kandhari cap and his long black bread hung down over his teacup. Bahar approached the table, pulled out the chair across from the man, and sat down.

  The man did not look at him. He reached into a satchel at his feet and then slid his hand across the table to Bahar. Bahar set his hand atop the other man’s and palmed the small device, sliding it off the table and slipping it into a pocket of his pants.

  The man took a sip of his tea and finally looked at Bahar after he had returned his cup to its saucer. “You have one hour,” he said.

  “Yes,” Bahar acknowledged. It took everything in him not to swallow hard. This was not the time to reveal his unease.

  His associate did not smile, but said, “You are doing very well, Bahar. We are happy you have joined us. Since you have, much good has come of it.”

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  “Complete your task today, and we will bring your grandmother and sister here to the city. They will be taken care of. As will you. You will no longer have to concern yourself with those pitiful goats.”

  Bahar actually enjoyed shepherding “those pitiful goats,” but he kept it to himself. “The car will be waiting for me?”

  “Yes. I have already confirmed it.” He nodded toward the front door. “Leave your truck where it is. Someone will get it later.” The man placed a hand on Bahar’s forearm. “You are one of us now. God be with you.”

  Bahar nodded. The man stood up, returned his teacup to the front counter, thanked the owner, and, without another glance at Bahar, left through the front door.

  Bahar took in a deep breath and smiled. He found that his nerves had calmed. Everything felt right now. He was doing what God had intended for him all along. Who was he to doubt that?

  His chair legs scraped across the floor as he stood up. Next week he would return here and purchase an entire plate of sheer pira for his grandmother and sister. They would all enjoy it together. The heat hit him again as he stepped back onto the sidewalk. Opening the side door of his truck, he tucked the keys under the worn floor mat and slammed the door shut.

  As he turned and started down the narrow sidewalk, the device in his pocket suddenly seemed heavy. It was all Bahar could think about as he reached the next corner and turned east down a side alley. The job was simple, really; he knew it was a test. Anyone could push a simple button, throw a switch. But only one truly committed to the cause would do it knowing the implications and the risks.

  He skirted a dumpster and took shallow breaths as he passed through an invincible cloud that smelled of rotting lamb and discarded cheese. The alley narrowed at the end, and he stepped out into the sunlight that brightened an empty street. The stairwell was just ahead now. Bahar would take it to the rooftop, and from there, he would keep watch. And when the time came, he would do what he was expected to do.

  A soft shuffle came from behind him. Bahar turned to see what it was when, with no other warning, his shoulders were seized by strong hands that jerked him away from the stairs with such force that his teeth clicked together. Before he could protest, a black hood dropped over his head, and his accoster, pinning Bahar’s arms behind his back, leaned in and whispered a quiet but menacing, “Shhhhhh…” The man was strong, and Bahar could not resist. As the man pulled a plastic zip tie tight across Bahar’s wrists, his veins iced over, and his heartbeat thumped wildly in his ears. He complied without resisting and was escorted to a waiting vehicle. The man forced Bahar inside, got in beside him, and slammed the door. Bahar heard two more people get in the front. The engine growled to life, and Bahar’s head fell into the headrest as the driver floored the gas and the vehicle lurched forward into the street.

  A raw panic crept over his chest, up his neck, and then back down this throat. Fear prevented him from asking them who they were, what he had done, and where they were taking him. There was nothing to do but wait. They could take him to the edge of the city where they would shoot him and leave his body. He wouldn’t be the first. Maybe an opposing sheik had gotten wind of their plan and was seeking to undermine it.

  Bahar’s thoughts naturally turned to his grandmother. To his sister. Should he die, they would have no one to provide for them.

  “Do not be foolish.” His grandmother’s words, spoken not three hours before, now echoed in his mind. He should have listened. Perhaps he had been wrong about God’s call, calling him to join the resistance. He just didn’t know anymore.

  They drove for twenty minutes, no one speaking a word as they crawled through traffic and paused for passing pedestrians. Soon enough, the sounds of the city faded, and all Bahar could hear was the steady hum of tires rolling over dirt.

  A wave of lightheadedness forced him to pay special attention to his breathing, and he d
rew in steady, controlled breaths. It was no use. The air in the sack was warm and stale with his own exhalations, and tiny stars danced across his vision as Bahar contemplated an imminent death. Once, when he was a boy, he had seen his mother experience what she called a panic attack. She was panicked, frightened, and unable to breathe. Bahar thought that he was about to experience the same thing.

  His body lurched against the door as the driver took a hard left turn. The tires skidded as the brakes were engaged. The vehicle slid forward and no sooner had they come to a hard stop than the doors flew open.

  Bahar’s lips trembled under the hood. He wanted to plead for his life, but no words would come. He was too scared, too frightened by the imminent specter of death.

  Strong hands once again grabbed him and pulled him out of the vehicle. He stumbled to regain his footing and was pushed forward before a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and led him to their destination. Only a dim haze of light permeated through the hood. Not enough for him to orient himself.

  They stopped, and a door directly in front of him was unlocked. Bahar felt the direct warmth of the sun leave his skin as they stepped inside. Their footfalls echoed across a concrete floor; lingering smells he did not recognize drifted through the hood—cleaning agents and foods he was unfamiliar with.

  They stopped before another door. The latch was thrown, and Bahar led through. Several paces in, he was brought to a stop and pushed down into a hard chair. The hood was plucked from his head just before the door slammed shut and he was left alone.