Khyber Run by Amber Green Page A

didn't kick.
    I checked the buckles and ran a finger under the edge of the saddle and the cinch, admiring the smooth lay of both, and grinned at Mike. “It fits like it was made for her."
    He swung into his own saddle. “Roger that. She was bought to fit the saddle. How does it fit you?"
    I shortened the stirrups, then swung up. “Like it was made for me."
    Oscar scowled. “Close enough."
    What? What's eating you?
    He took off, raising a cloud of dust like some black hat in a movie. I held my mare in, though she danced with eagerness to follow. Echo's stocky little mare jittered beside me, but Mike wasn't up and settled yet.
    No, Mike was down and checking his girth.
    I wouldn't have mounted before checking my girth. But voicing that little fact would do no one any good. Mike also made a point of checking his mare's feet, then mounted again. His brows knotted. “Watch me a minute. Is this mare's gait uneven?"
    I watched him for only a few steps before I called halt. “She's favoring her off rear leg."
    He swung down, scowling, and ran his hands down the favored leg. “I thought so. I can't feel anything, but the old girl's probably not up to mountain scrambling. Help me catch the gray gelding with the bobbed tail, please. This saddle fits him real well too."
    I wondered again about the bobtail. My grandfather and uncles gloried in their horses’ long, sweeping tails.
    Oscar came cantering back. “OGA with tack."
    The corral had only the one unclaimed horse sound enough to catch anyone's interest.
    "Shit,” Mike said succinctly, flipping the halter off his mare's ears and tossing it in Oscar's direction. “Grab Bob."
    Oscar backed three paces and jumped the corral wall like it was waist high instead of chest high. I urged my mare close to the wall to watch him approach the gray and snag the halter neatly over its head. He leaned over and bucked the halter and led the horse to the gate.
    He looked over the wall at me. “Face covered, mouth shut. Even if they take you, I'll get you back. Count on it.
    I heard the theme song from Terminator and turned slowly, holding in my suddenly antsy mare more with my legs than my hands. Why might they take me? And why I'll get you back, not we'll get you back?
    Five men, their faces concealed by shemaghs that covered everything but their Oakley sunglasses, piled out of the crew cab of—surprise!—a Toyota pickup! The driver and the gunner standing behind the cab held their positions.
    The five who came out moved like their joints were all loose, like stoned cowboys, and every one wore a pistol harness. “Y'all can dismount now, fellahs. We need these horses for the day."
    "They're not for hire, sir,” Mike said crisply. “They're my personal property. Some ID, gentlemen?"
    The guy in the lead struck a hipshot pose. “Then we're commandeering them. Buying them, if you prefer. Either way, get down. We have a curtain call half a mile away in fifteen minutes."
    Echo maneuvered between me and them, his machine gun off his back and laid casually over one thigh. His poorly tied shemagh caught the wind and whipped against his face.
    Interesting. He had a free hand and a gun hand. His mare didn't need reining for guidance.
    "I still haven't seen ID,” Mike observed.
    The loose-jointed men flipped open ID wallets. I couldn't see anything of what was in them, but the men flipped them shut again with supreme confidence. The one in the lead cocked his head. “I'm guessing you're an NCO, am I wrong? ‘Cause if you are, I outrank you."
    Mike gave a slight tilt to his head, and they went for their guns.
    In the clatter, Mike raised one hand. “You don't want to do this, and for the record, it doesn't matter what your rank is. I don't care if you're CIA, Special Ops, or sanitation engineers. What matters these days is the rank of the top guy who's willing to put his ass on the line to back you up in whatever you're currently doing. I'm guessing your boss is not as intimately acquainted