Hail Strike: Hail, #3

By Brett Arquette

For those of you who have read both Hail 1 and 2, then you can think of Hail Strike as Kara's revenge. In just about every sense of the word, Kara goes ballistic!  Having left Hail without warning, she tracks down the men who killed her parents, and in doing so puts herself in a no-win situation. Will she call Hail to help her or will she find a way to push through with nothing more than a cache of weapons and a truckload of guts.  If you love a book that has non-stop action, then congrates - you found it. Welcome aboard the Nucleus. Your stateroom is waiting, so dig in, get comfy and prepare yourself for another healthy does of HAIL revenge, served up with a heaping side of kick ass.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Arquette
• Release date: Jul 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386773016

Brett Arquette

Dubbed, "the father of the drone thriller," by his fans, the middle child of five, Brett Duncan Arquette was born in 1960 in Florida.  Brett was anointed with his mother’s pen name “Duncan”, given to him by Mystery Writer's of America Grand Master award winner, author Lois Duncan. During her career, his mother Lois has written over 32 best selling young adult books, some of which have been made into movies, including the movie “I Know What You Did Last Summer" and "Hotel for Dogs".  Brett was raised in New Mexico and moved to Florida on his 30th birthday. Arquette spent most his career working as the Chief Technology Officer for one of the largest Circuit Court Systems in Florida. In 2002, Computerworld Magazine selected Arquette as one of the “Premier 100 IT Leaders” in the world, describing him as a “visionary” in reference to the cutting-edge technology. His books are peppered with technology acquired from his vast experience in advanced computers and audio/video systems. Arquette is also the Editor in Chief of the Court Technology Forum, Contributing Editor for eWeek Magazine, columnist for ComputerWorld and SmartComputing magazines, all of which has helped to create a loyal fan base and lots of traffic on his website. Writing on the weekends, Arquette’s first book, "Deadly Perversions", was published in 2002. His additional titles are "Seeing Red", "Tweaked", "The Pandemic Diary"  and "Soundman for a B-Band".  He is proofing his new adventure into Young Adult writing with a series of "HAIL" books with the first one called "Operation Hail Storm".  Mr. Arquette's primary aspirations are to quit the 9 to 5 grind and become a best-selling author, following in his famous mother’s footsteps. Mr. Arquette currently resides in the Sunshine State with his wife and three children.  

Book preview

Prologue

Port Autonome de Lomé –  Lomé, Togo

The cargo ship, Hail Proton, was docked in Lomé, Togo. The crew was unaware that they were under intense scrutiny and surveillance—by a rat. Like most rats, this rat was hungry. From the darkness of the small drainage pipe, the rodent watched as a large door opened on the dock level. It watched the men load tons of food onto the large ship. A forklift was busy making a procession of back-and-forth trips from the truck to the ship, delivering what seemed to be endless pallets of wonderful-smelling food the rat would love to sink its tiny yellow teeth into. The rat stuck its furry little head out of the drainpipe and tentatively lifted its wet nose into the air. It inhaled deeply and salivated at the smells of seafood, produce, meat and many other wonderful aromas wafting on the night air. The rat hesitated, contemplating making a break for the cavernous opening on the side of the ship. But deep down instinct warned that it would never make it. One of the men responsible for the loading of the ship might see it, and it would be lights out for the rat once it met the business end of either a broom or stick. But more than likely, within this less populated and violent country of Togo, a man brandishing a gun would accomplish the rat’s demise.

Thus, the rat lurked in the shadows because otherwise the bright light would expose it. The rat rarely ventured from the obscurity of the shadows, which provided the rat a measure of safety. The light had cornered many of the rat’s comrades. Their transgressions were met with quick and violent deaths. Running around at night had other associated risks that did not involve humans. Many animals preyed upon rats. The main enemies of the rat included hawks, eagles, kites, harriers and Old-World vultures. In addition, there were also 91 species of snakes, which represented ten families that would rejoice over a fat rat for supper.

The area around the large ship was well lit. It was so bright that, to the rat’s little brain, it almost resembled daylight—a time of day when it was typically sleeping in a cool underground burrow.

No sooner had the food truck driver closed the big vehicle’s back doors and driven away than a dirty garbage truck took its place under the dock’s sodium vapor lights. The smells from the garbage truck were equally tantalizing to the rat. Maybe even more so. Once again, the rat twitched its nose into the air and was instantly rewarded with the smells of stale and rotting food remnants. Most of it was sitting in the open doorway of the ship. The forklift picked up its first load of compacted trash that was strapped together with baling wire. The machine delivered the first block of trash to the garbage truck, and then it returned for the next block of rubbish. Several more trips were made loading trash blocks. The rat was delirious in its desire to scuttle either onto the ship or into the garbage truck.

Alas, the driver of the garbage truck closed its back doors. Just like that, the garbage truck disappeared into the night. By this time, the rat was going out of its food-starved mind. It had seen such an immense buffet of food in both wonderfully fresh and spoiled block form. The rat had to make a move fast.

A scratching metal-on-metal sound broke the silence of the night and startled the rat. The doors of the big ship were closing. Seeing its opportunity slipping away, the rat darted out from the protection of the drainage pipe. It began scampering along the edge of the dock, desperately seeking an entrance to the ship. But the rat had to get out of the bright light before Death grasped it.

As it scurried along, doing its best to stay within the shadows, it was mindful of humans and other predators. After several terrifying moments running toward the vessel, the rat came upon a thick rope connecting the huge ship to the dock. In spite of having tried this method in the past only to discover disks had been placed on the rope acting as a barrier to prevent vermin from boarding the ship, to the rat’s amazement—this rope—this bridge to all the food it could ever hope to eat didn’t have any type of blockade affixed to it. Maybe the humans had forgotten to add the deterrent. Maybe they didn’t mind sharing food with the rats. Right now, none of that really mattered. The rat had already ascended fifty feet up the rope.

Looking down, the rat didn’t see any further activity on the dock. The trucks were long gone, and everything was still. Both deliriously happy and excited, the rat continued its climb up the rope extending from the great vessel like a giant’s umbilical cord. It slowed only once it had reached the top. Ten feet ahead was the wide opening offering the rat sanctuary inside the ship from which light emanated. The rat heard other sounds associated with humans that, during its life on the dock, it had become accustomed to. An engine was running. Water was running through pipes. Tools clanged off metallic implements, and just at the periphery of the rat’s hearing, someone was whistling. None of these sounds particularly concerned the rat. They were not gunshots, sounds of humans yelling, or sounds of people jumping up onto chairs. The rat associated those with the possibility of imminent danger. Those noises always made the rat flee in terror. The light coming from the hole was very dim, and it gave the rat an increased measure of confidence. The rat stole up the remainder of the rope very slowly.

As the rat crossed the threshold of the hole and entered the ship, it unwittingly tripped an invisible laser beam. A plastic flapper came down over the top of the rat’s head, which knocked it from its precarious position on the rope. For an instant, the disoriented rat flailed helplessly, letting out a loud squeak, believing a human had hit it with something. Maybe a broom (which was common to the rat). Maybe something a little harder. But now the rat was falling, tumbling down a wide pipe and picking up speed. The rat’s sharp claws did nothing to abate its fall. It screeched out, unable to gain purchase against the sides of the pipe.

Three seconds later, the rat came to an abrupt stop, landing softly on something very alive. The rodent not only heard movement, but also it felt movement. The floor beneath its tiny body began to undulate and thousands of hisses surrounded the terrified rodent.

Prior to its death, the rat realized its horrible mistake. In its desire for food, it had trespassed into the rodent version of the very worst place in the world. It had landed inside a tank writhing with thousands of snakes residing at the bottom of the cargo ship Hail Proton.

Twenty years ago

Nanga Parbat Rupal Gilgit Base Camp–Baltistan, Pakistan

The great Nanga Parbat Mountain loomed over the sixteen Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan (TTP) militants. It had taken them several days to reach the base camp where the foreign tourists had settled prior to climbing the mountain. Most individuals intent on climbing the Nanga Parbat congregated at this level spot of ground to acclimate to the increased elevation before continuing the ascent. The camp was situated at the base of the ninth-highest mountain in the world. At 4,200 meters (14,000 feet) above sea level, the base camp could only be reached by foot or horseback, although most often climbers used a combination of both methods.

Horses had brought the militants to a small village within a kilometer of the base camp. From there, they walked to the camp clad in heavy boots.

Typically, more climbers frequented the base camp between the months of June and August when the weather was often more moderate and less dangerous for mountain climbing. However, the Taliban didn’t rely on mere chance in either planning or executing this mission. Days before, they had abducted two Pakistani guides who informed them who was currently at the camp. In order to protect the secrecy of this mission, both guides had been terminated and left dead on the side of the mountain. The terrorists’ main interest was in kidnapping one climber, Chen Honglu. He held both Chinese and American citizenship. The terrorists planned to trade Honglu for a Taliban commander being held in Afghanistan.

The militants huddled near the camp’s perimeter. The leader of the group, Farwan Shallah, asked his men in Pashto, their native language, Are you ready?

Yes, each of his men whispered in Pashto.

It was 10:00 P.M., and the temperature was in the single digits. Given the increased elevation, there was surprisingly little wind, which made the wind-chill tolerable.

Shallah peeked over the top of the rock to ensure there was no activity at the camp that might threaten the success of their mission.

Addressing his men once again, he said, This is in revenge for the killing of Sheikh bin Laden.

Shallah stepped from behind his hiding spot, and his men followed him into the heart of the camp. Quickly, the soldiers began rousing the climbers from their tents, yelling at them in Pashto. They jabbed their weapons at the tourists to get them to vacate their tents faster.

During the melee, a man darted from one of the tents and tackled one of the TTP soldiers. The militant scrambled to his feet, raised his rifle and shot the man. Death was mercifully instantaneous. Chen Honglu had crumpled, leaving a mass of brain matter and blood turning the virgin snow crimson.

This unexpected show of power and bravado helped further induce fear into the remaining bewildered and frightened tourists. Once all climbers had been extracted from their tents, Shallah ordered his men to tie up the hostages.

Farwan Shallah asked the terrified and subdued men, Do you have money?

All ten captives responded in unison, Yes, we have some money. A few used the word Euros instead of the word money.

Shallah approached one of the climbers and poked him in his chest with the barrel of his assault rifle. He asked the tall and lean mountaineer, Where is the money?

"In that tent," the Ukrainian responded, doing his best to remain calm and making a point not to let his voice waver.

The Ukrainian led Shallah to the tent, which contained a communal safe used for the climbers’ money and valuables. While Shallah seized the money and anything of value, the militants lined up the bound captives in the middle of the camp.

You have our money; now please, let us go, the Ukrainian urged in a composed tone. Shallah had expected the climbers to become unhinged; however, the men were climbers accustomed to facing death on the side of mountain. Each had nerves of steel.  Knowing the area’s politics, this robbery didn’t necessarily intimidate them. Nevertheless, this group of religious zealots had already killed one from their group, demonstrating they had nothing to lose.

Behind Farwan Shallah, his men were busy destroying the climbers’ cell phones, satellite phones and two-way radios. They had collected passports and personal identification papers, which were placed into a small pack one of the militants wore. The wind picked up and the climbers, who were not suitably dressed for being outside of their tents, began to tremble from both the cold and shock.

In English Shallah demanded of the climbers, Which one of you is Honglu Chen from America?

The Ukrainian pointed down at the man who now lay dead in the snow.

Shallah turned back toward his man who had shot the Chinese-American and yelled obscenities in Pashto at the soldier. He desperately wanted to shoot him. Instead, he took out his frustration on the frightened tourists standing before him.

Without warning, Shallah shot one of the Ukrainian climbers. It was a single quick shot to the man’s heart, instantly dropping him. Then, as if the blast of gunfire had signaled the beginning of a horror show, other militants began to unload their guns on the tourists. As the climbers endured serious injuries, the TTP shouted, "Allahu Akbar" (God is great) and "Osama bin Laden Zindabad" (Long live Osama bin Laden).

After several bursts of automatic weapon fire, Shallah held up his hand and called out, Stop! Stop shooting. The leader of the group turned to take inventory of the climbers who remained alive.

Surviving climbers pleaded for their lives with Shallah, exclaiming, I am not American! I am not American!

Shallah did not respond to the cries of the infidels. Instead, he walked down the line of those already dead, firing a single round into each of their heads—execution style. He addressed those who were still miraculously alive.

Today, these people were slaughtered in revenge for the killing of Osama bin Laden.

Farwan Shallah and his men clicked their weapons to full auto and fired on the remaining captives. In total, those massacred included Honglu—the Chinese-American, two Chinese, three Ukrainians, two Slovaks, one Lithuanian, one Sherpa from Nepal and a Muslim Pakistani cook. These were in addition to the two Pakistani abductees who had already been killed.

This day’s tragic execution of eleven tourists at the hands of the TTP militants at the Gilgit base camp became known as the Nanga Parbat massacre.

Washington, D.C. - The White House Rose Garden

It was raining when President Joanna Weston stepped out into the White House Rose Garden. In one hand, she clung onto a paperback romance novel and in her other was a glass of tea. Weston looked up at the new opaque glass roof that had been constructed over the garden. This was the first time she was genuinely pleased to have the dome overhead to protect her from the rain. In the past, if it had been raining, she was stuck indoors. At least now, she could enjoy being outdoors in all sorts of weather. It remained to be seen if she would still feel that way when the snows hit Washington, D.C.

The glass table in the center of the garden held a crystal vase with three roses. Weston pulled out a chair from the table, kicked off her heels and used the adjacent chair to prop her feet. She took a sip of her tea, set the drink on the glass table, and opened her book.

Fat raindrops made plinking sounds on the glass above—a relaxing sound to the President. She scrunched down a little more in her chair and let her head lean back onto the fat seat cushion.

She didn’t hear the drone until it was literally mere feet away from her. From somewhere off to her left, the drone had flown under the glass awning and made a beeline straight for her table.

The President flinched, and her heart skipped a beat when the small drone knocked over the vase, which rolled off the table’s edge and shattered to pieces on the ground.

Three tripod legs began sprouting from under the drone, and its flexible LED video screen began to unroll.

President Weston’s face distorted as anger began to boil within her when she recognized this was the same drone Hail had landed on the table just a few weeks before the glass dome had been constructed to prevent this from occurring—again. But how? How was this even possible? The opaque glass dome fully enclosed the Rose Garden, and security had all electronic signals around the White House jammed from outside interference.

In one fluid motion, the President pulled her feet off the chair and sat up straight. She slapped her book down on the table as she watched Marshall Hail’s face appear on the screen.

Hail began the conversation, Good afternoon, Madam President—I mean, Joanna. I hope I’m not interrupting you, but we need to talk.

From Marshall Hail’s perspective, the POTUS looked understandably upset. Her first words verified his assumption.

"How in the Hell were you able to land this—this—contraption on my table? Do you have any idea what extensive measures we have taken to prevent this from continually occurring?"

The President pointed up to the glass roof and sternly continued, We installed opaque glass over the garden to prevent you or anyone else, from using lasers to pilot drones onto the White House property.

Hail sensed that even though the President had run out of words, her tirade had not yet diffused her anger. She was still fuming.

Doing a remarkable job of hiding his personal amusement, Hail meekly replied, Well, the drone keeps track of the exact X and Y coordinates of its last landing spot, so it doesn’t require communication with anything in order to return. But, if you had moved the table, it might have—

The President was no longer listening. She threw her hands up in the air and looked up at the glass dome. She shook her fists and yelled, Mr. Hail, you are really trying my patience! Do you have any idea how much your drone’s unscheduled visits are costing the taxpayers?

Hail shrugged and said, If it makes your staff take more security precautions I am doing my civic duty.

The President made a face Hail thought looked a little angry, a little frustrated, and a whole lot overwhelmed.

In a tone that sounded like a woman who was trying to get rid of Hare Krishnas who had knocked on her front door, the president asked, "Why are you sitting on my table yet again, Marshall?"

Hail was pleased to get down to business. It’s really no big deal. I just need two things: First, I need the names of the Marines I got in trouble and their contact information.

You mean the Marines that you got dishonorably discharged, the President corrected.

It sounded better the way I said it, Hail insisted.

The President huffed and asked, And what’s the other thing you require?

Hail looked sheepishly at the president and stated, And I also need some weapons-grade anthrax.

I beg your pardon? The President almost choked on the tea she was drinking. She was certain she had not heard Hail correctly.

"Yeah, you see we could manufacture our own strain of anthrax in Hail’s laboratories. But each strain has its own variant that allows it be traced back to the lab that created it. For example, when the strain of anthrax sent through the U.S. Postal Service that killed five people was tested, it was determined to have originated from the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick."

This isn’t making sense to me on so many levels, President Weston responded. Why would we give you anthrax for any reason? And if we did, why would we give you a strain that could be traced back to the United States?

Hail shook his head and said, We don’t want a variant of anthrax that can be traced back to the United States, and my guess is that you probably have samples created in other countries, if for no other reason, to compare them to active strains such as the one that killed those five Americans. If not, what was the benefit of testing the origins of the anthrax?

The President understood Hail’s purpose, but she still didn’t know why he wanted it. Providing a citizen with such a deadly organism didn’t set well with her. Rules and procedures were in place to manage who had access to deadly pathogens to prevent them from being used in a manner that could cause any number of fatalities, which could occur especially if weapons-grade anthrax were ever aerosolized. Knowing the capabilities of Hail, she had deep concern over just handing that over to him without further information. But even then—

Hail patiently waited on the other end of the video conference for the President to respond to his request. The President asked for further clarification.

Why do you want anthrax? Weston asked. Her tone was like a mother asking why her child wants a toy on the shelf at the checkout line of a supermarket.

Just a project we’re working on, Hail said.

The President was at a loss for words. She understood why, in the past, the United States had provided Hail Industries with implements of war, such as Hellfire missiles. They had done so to protect the shipments of radioactive material Hail was transporting to other countries. So why did she feel this request from Hail was crazy? An attack with Hellfire missiles could kill thousands, and an attack with aerosolized anthrax could kill just as many. However at this point, no one had successfully aerosolized anthrax, so its threat of lethality was relatively low. Nevertheless, anthrax in any form was not a thing to play with.

Choosing to change the subject, the President told Hail, I’ll discuss it with my staff and let you know what we decide.

Fair enough, Hail agreed.

There was a moment of silence while Hail considered if he should press the President for further favors.

At the same time, the President was considering if she should terminate the video meeting.

You know, Joanna, we both want the same thing. We want to take out the bad guys who are causing the world an immeasurable amount of pain and unrest.

The President gave Hail a polite smile and said, Marshall, you know what I really want?

What’s that? Hail asked, believing the president would level with him.

"I want your damn drone off my table."

Peshawar, Pakistan

On the flight from Uzbekistan to Islamabad, CIA Agent Kara Ramey listened to the Victor Kornev interrogation recordings she had conducted and recorded on her phone. In Termez she had used Kornev’s phone to record the locations of the arms dealer’s many safe houses. She had verified that the records were written to the tiny SD card on his Android phone. As she had left Kornev tied up in a tunnel beneath his home, she had removed the SD cards from both his and her phones. After she pocketed the tiny flash drives, she’d placed both phones behind the rear tires of Kornev’s Hummer and backed over them. Later, she’d picked up an inexpensive phone at one of the airport’s shops and inserted the SD card into it so she could listen to the audio. Now, flying above a thick mass of dark clouds, Kara pressed the PLAY icon and used a cheap pair of ear buds. Kornev’s voice was clear. It had been recorded in Kornev’s tunnel–a quiet space with lots of dirt to absorb extraneous noises.

At times during the recording, his voice was full of hatred. Other times there was a mixture of exhaustion, despondence and possibly fear. The longer he talked, the more fatigued he sounded. While she was questioning Kornev, Kara had purposely misinformed the Russian, saying the CIA knew the locations of all safe houses, although they really only had intelligence about the one in Termez. To get the information she wanted, she’d harassed him into reciting an entire list of all the safe houses he owned including the addresses. He spilled the beans begrudgingly. It was the CIA agent’s imminent threat to leave him alone to die in his tunnel beneath his home that had loosened his tongue.

Furthermore, because Kara’s held over his head the threat of leaving him to rot in the tunnel, Kornev had told her the name of the man who had killed her parents in the terror attack everyone referred to as The Five. The men responsible were part of the TTP and lived in Peshawar, Pakistan. The surname of the brothers was burned into her brain the moment Kornev spoke it―Shallah.

Moreover, Kornev even supplied her with the address of the man he believed had pulled the trigger. Kara had not allowed the scumbag to die decomposing and at the mercy of time and vermin. She had mercifully called a doctor friend of his who lived in the city of Termez. The doctor’s tape-based answering machine had recorded her message describing Kornev’s location and his ugly fate if the doctor didn’t intervene. It was at this point, with the knowledge of her parents’ murderers finally in her possession, that Agent Ramey had gone rogue.

During the long flight to Pakistan, Kara used Google to look up the address of Zain Shallah. Using Google Earth on her phone, she studied his home and the surrounding vicinity. Realizing once her feet touched the ground she would be very busy, she took the time to Google Kornev’s safe house located in Peshawar. She was confident Kornev had acquired a bug-out location there because his best client lived in that city. If he was on the run, having that safe house and contact provided Kornev access to shelter, food, weapons, and protection from those who meant him harm.

Her plane touched down in Islamabad. With no luggage, Kara cleared customs using a fictitious CIA passport belonging to Tonya Merkalov. The photo on the paperwork matched her image, but the name was one she had used on her previous CIA undercover assignment. Dressed conspicuously in American-looking clothes, Ramey immediately hailed a cab and left the Benazir Bhutto International Airport.

Speaking Punjabi, she directed the driver to take her to the nearest market that sold clothes and electronics. It took less than fifteen minutes and thousands of beeps from the taxi’s horn to reach the shopping center. She paid the driver in American dollars and entered a clothing store.

Half of the clothing sold inside was Pakistani and Muslim in nature. It was dedicated to providing different sizes of black abayas, a gown-like garment that came with a matching head covering or scarf called a hijab.  The other half of the store sold burqas, all-encompassing garments with a headpiece to cover the entire face. It occurred to Kara if the headscarf or khimar, was pointy on top, and if the entire outfit were white, she would look like a member of the Ku Klux Klan. Shopping for clothes didn’t require much time since Kara liked the abaya’s traditional black. It would provide her excellent concealment at night. She also liked that it had several roomy interior and exterior pockets. They would provide room to hold extra magazines and an assortment of additional offensive weapons. During the day, she would look like one of the millions of women who wore the identical clothing. She pulled the traditional black Muslim abaya over her clothes and looked at herself in the mirror. The outfit covered everything except her eyes. The clothing made her feel almost invisible and consequently less vulnerable.

But even completely covered, her eyes would be an issue. With emerald green eyes against very fair skin, blending in would be difficult. Her supply of make-up would easily conceal her fair skin.  The problem was her green eyes.  If only the CIA had furnished her with brown contacts instead of assuming she wouldn’t need them in her repeated role as nothing much more than a honeypot. She considered buying sunglasses but noticed none of the women she had seen in Peshawar wore sunglasses, which made sense since the only physical characteristic the women in this region were permitted to show was their eyes. How would their husbands recognize them if they wore sunglasses? Alas, wearing sunglasses would only draw more attention to her. In the end, she decided against buying the sunglasses. She paid for the clothes and headed to the electronics store located in the same market.

Every possible square inch in the small store was packed with all the electronic contraptions known to man. Products traveled up the walls to the ceilings using hooks. The plastic packages took up every bit of space within the store and included any gadget customers could ever want, including spy cameras, listening devices, tablets and transistor radios.

Kara nodded to the middle-aged man behind the counter as she walked deeper into the store. She mulled around a little before picking up a Samsung tablet, as well as two sets of noise-cancelling headphones. She located an area that had burner cell phones encased inside thick plastic packaging and selected one of the more expensive models. She verified the phone would work as a hotspot for her tablet and that it came with 1000 minutes of voice/text as well as 10G of data. Just in case she would have company during her stay in Peshawar, she chose a headphone splitter and took her items to the counter.

The Pakistani storeowner did a classic double take when he saw her, which she realized was troublesome. Even though her abaya covered her like a nun, which should have made her invisible to him, the man must have noticed her green eyes, because he stared at her for a moment or two before he rang up the first of her purchases.

Kara asked in her best Punjabi, Do you have a collection of movies I can purchase for this tablet?

At first, the man pretended not to understand what she was asking for, and Kara assumed that even in Pakistan pirating movies was illegal. To assist with the communications gap, Kara produced an American twenty-dollar bill from the pocket of her new abaya. Suddenly the clerk was all smiles.

He placed four USB flash drives on the counter and explained, This one is all adult films, like films for adults. He laughed nervously. This one is PG-13 movies for adults, he explained, pointing his stubby finger at the second drive. This one has some PG-13 and some movies for kids; this one is just for kids―like Disney movies.

Kara placed her twenty on top of the flash drive that had the mix of adult and kid’s movies. The man rang up her items, placed then in a large plastic bag, and slipped Kara’s money in a drawer as she left.

Once outside the shop, she removed the SD card from the phone she had purchased in Termez’ airport and installed it into her new phone. Next, she stealthily pressed the old phone against the lip of a trashcan until she heard it snap in half. She got her bearings and headed to the Islamabad bus station, becoming just another faceless, powerless, hell, virtually invisible women walking the streets of Islamabad.

Knowing it was rare to see an unescorted woman walking on a Pakistani street, Kara tagged onto the first male she found headed in her direction and followed closely behind him. She maneuvered behind one unsuspecting Pakistani male after another, keeping her eyes down and avoiding direct eye contact with passing men. One hundred years ago, Kashmir had almost 50% light-colored eyes and ultra-Caucasoid features, just like their neighboring Pashtuns. Now a century later, the result of light-eyed Kashmiris mixing with black-eyed Indians rarely produced offspring with light eyes. Thus, much attention would certainly be given to her vivid green eyes, as she had already witnessed in the electronics store. For this reason, Ramey kept her eyes glued to the ground, glancing up every so often to confirm her direction and to ensure a male was still in front of her. Using this method of navigation, she eventually found her way to the bus station. Standing patiently in line for thirty minutes behind an odoriferous Pakistani man unaware of her presence, the rogue CIA agent waited her turn to purchase a bus ticket to the big city of Peshawar. An hour later she boarded the bus and sat next to the same man from the bus depot.

Ramey could have flown directly into Peshawar and landed at the Bacha Khan International Airport, but she wanted her trail to end in Islamabad since the CIA director, Jarrett Pepper, would by now consider her rogue and would deploy agents and assets to track her down. No real reason for the expenditure of taxpayers’ money, but that’s what the CIA did. A single missing agent and it was all hands-on deck. Kara had considered calling her boss to tell him she would be going AWOL, but what was the point? It wasn’t as if he was going to tell her to have a good time and to please mail the office some postcards. The CIA director would first say that her job was on the line. Jarret Pepper would mostly be concerned she might give the Agency a bad name and threaten to disavow Kara if things went sideways. If she were anyone else, Pepper would try adding a guilt trip, telling her she was leaving her family. However, Pepper knew of her parents’ death in the infamous terror attack, making such a ploy ineffective. That left Pepper with the option of pleading for her return. But, Pepper was not a pleader. He would get mad before he got sad which was too bad. In the end, her boss would tell her she was in deep doo-doo and that would be that. There was nothing to gain; Kara didn’t call him.

The crowded, hot and smelly bus only made two stops to exchange passengers. Most of them were men―half exited at the city of Wah where more dirty men who smelled to high heaven refilled the bus. Kara doubled the thickness of the scarf covering her face, especially over her nose to help mitigate the stench. In the town of Nowshera, the bus stopped again. More men got off. More men entered. A few women and children completed the mass of humanity cramming the old bus to capacity. The bus creaked and moaned on its final leg toward Peshawar.

Once off the bus in Peshawar, Kara took in a massive breath of relatively clean air and turned her attention toward flagging down a taxi. Fate was on her side.  Across the street she spotted a man dressed in a three-piece suit trying to flag down a passing taxi. Kara quickly maneuvered through the dense traffic, careful not to be hit by one of the million scooters threading the traffic like a tailor’s needle weaving in and out of fabric. When the well-dressed man had successfully gotten the attention of a taxi driver, Kara stood directly behind him. He reached down and pulled open the back door of the cab. Before he could close it, Kara scooted in next to him on the back seat, closing the door behind her.

The man gave her a queer look of disdain but decided to let it go. He barked out an address to the driver. The driver apparently assumed Kara was with the man, so he didn’t ask for her destination. Instead, with a preemptive beep of his horn, the driver stomped on the accelerator and weaved back into traffic.

Kara hadn’t bothered remembering any of the streets other than those that led to the safe house. She knew they were headed north on Charasadda Road. So far, so good. She looked out the window at old, bland, single-level homes on either side of the highway and tried to clear her mind.

She knew by now that everyone in Washington, D.C., especially her boss at the CIA, would consider her actions dangerous and even a little crazy. Maybe a lot crazy. Moreover, she also realized they were right. Straight up, she had broken away from the CIA and Marshall Hail. They would easily