Khyber Run by Amber Green Page B

with your mission as mine is with mine. Who you wanna call?"
    The guy in the front pulled down his shemagh to show his grin. Perfect white teeth. They looked fake. “You guess wrong. We have orders from on high: Put ‘Nice American’ face on for any local charity do-wah-wah that comes up. Especially this one, since CNN is setting up their satellite feeds now. There will be a Coalition presence. But guess what? We need horses, and we need zero risk of some rag-head fanatic with tears running down his face jabbering on CNN about how we stole his horses, just when he bizmah-fucking-lah needed them to take a load of sheep turds to the bakery. And these here are the only registered US-owned—"
    "Personally owned!” Echo snapped.
    Don't interrupt the elders . I chided him mentally.
    "What ev -ah, Blondie. We have the authority to confiscate your left nut if we want it, but—lucky you!—we only want the horses. If you're white about it, we might even return them this evening."
    "Dismount,” another clarified. “Or face immediate arrest."
    I caught a flicker of movement and turned. Oscar was handing something book-sized over the wall of the corral. He gestured past me. I took the thing—an iPad mirroring my masked face—and then the sky and handed it to Echo. He snorted softly and passed it on to Mike.
    "Drop it or lose a kneecap,” someone snarled.
    Mike angled the screen at them. “Smile, boys. You're on live feed. Eleven hundred viewers now, and no telling how many more coming in over the next thirty seconds. Especially if things get exciting."
    "Bluff,” a man in the rear muttered. One of them, maybe the same one, whipped out a phone the size of a deck of cards and went into thumb-typing overdrive.
    The faceman looked at Mike's screen, his smile losing its smug menace. “As I was saying, soldiers, the children's burn ward will have to close tomorrow unless our contributions can keep it open. The Coalition has organized a game of buzkashi, the national game here in Afghanistan, in order to raise enough money to keep the children under medical care, to give them some relief from the unspeakable pain and scarring. No little kid should suffer that kind of pain."
    The thumb-typer showed him a screen, and he took off his sunglasses to smile again. This smile oozed insincerity, which I hope transmitted well. “We deeply appreciate your volunteering your horses to allow us to field a team. The need is critical; the need is now; and surely the children's cries would melt your heart."
    "No man forks my horse,” Mike drawled, “unless I trust him. If the Coalition needs my horses, they get my men to ride them. Sorry for any confusion you gentlemen might have suffered, but if you boys want to ride, you can bring your own mounts. Lead the way."
    Echo looked past me at Oscar. I threw a glance back too. His face was invisible behind sunglasses and shemagh, and neither hand was visible. His rifle's muzzle didn't project from behind his shoulder. So Echo wasn't the only one with rifle in hand.
    Echo eased his mount toward mine, surreptitiously pushing me out of the line of fire.
    Were they always this paranoid, or was I missing something? Best to go with their instincts instead of the ones I'd let get dulled with too many years on ships.
    The faceman tried to catch Mike's bridle, only to find Mike's arm in the way. “You can't seriously mean to play instead of us. This is a very rough game. Injuries are expected. We don't have time to train you!"
    "Nor I you,” Mike pointed out. “You cannot have my horses, which are personal property and specially trained. Didn't you say fifteen minutes? How far do we need to ride to get to the game? You don't want the US team to lose by default, do you?"
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Chapter Seven
    The field was maybe half a mile long, with rapidly filling stadium seating along one side, right in front of the circle of justice. It seemed small, but I hadn't been on a game field since I was