The Right Reason Read online

  Masood hurried through the archway and into the trashed front room. Sam had heard the commotion but felt the anger pulse through his body at the state of Farhad’s possessions.

  The man lay dead less than fifty feet from the house, but the lack of respect they had had for him was disgusting.

  His life turned upside down.

  His son turned against him.

  His world shut down.

  Sam felt his knuckles crack as he clenched his fist and he slowly ambled into the front room, just in time to see Masood venture into the bedroom, dive onto the mattress on the floor and, as requested, slid under the cover.

  Sam sighed.

  One child safe.

  Now, he had to rescue the other.

  The heat rode in on a stale, musky breeze as he pulled open the door. The sun was still beating mercilessly on the small village, and Sam could see in the distance, a number of neighbours were curiously beginning to head towards Farhad. They had been hidden behind their doors, abandoning the man who had done so much for them when he needed them most.

  Sam quickened his pace, each step shooting a sharp pain through his broken body and to his brain. Every thought was focused on Tahir, knowing the longer the kid stared at his father’s body, the stronger the hate would be.

  The need to fight back.

  The desire for vengeance.

  Sam could hear the boy weeping as he stepped towards him and Sam dropped to his knees, reached out, and placed a hand on Tahir’s shoulder. To Sam’s surprise, there was no hesitation and the boy turned and fell into Sam’s broken body, wrapping his arms around him and wailing uncontrollably.

  The boy shook, the pain rocking through him like a hurricane.

  Sam held him tight, gently rubbing his back, allowing the boy all the time he needed.

  He looked to the ground.

  The M4 Carbine lay next to the motionless body of Farhad.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s okay,’ Sam repeated, feeling Tahir’s convulsions slow down. After a few more moments, Tahir was still, but clung to Sam like his life depended on it. The shock had taken control and with all his strength, Sam tried to push himself to his feet. His leg crumbled beneath the pressure and he dropped to his knee again.

  ‘Here.’

  An unfamiliar voice caught Sam by surprise, and he looked up into the fearful eyes of one of the neighbours. Sam regarded him with suspicion but then took the hand being offered and struggled to a vertical base, the teenage boy latching onto him like a koala bear.

  ‘He good man,’ the man said. Behind him, a couple more locals had gathered. They were crying at the sight of the good doctor’s body, knowing that an innocent man had, once again, been crushed under the oppressive boot of terrorism.

  They would be back.

  Without a doubt, Sam knew that the leader would return with his loyal followers, ready to turn the whole village to ash to find him.

  Their loyalty would not save his life.

  Nor would it save the lives of Tahir and Masood.

  ‘Do the man one honour. Bury him. Outback by his well,’ Sam demanded, eyeing the three men with a look a disappointment. ‘It’s the least he deserves.’

  The ringleader seemed to understand and barked some orders in his native tongue. The other two joined him and then knelt beside the recently deceased and began to say a prayer. Sam turned, hobbling back towards the broken home he had turned upside down.

  Fuzzy memories of what had happened flickered through his mind like an incomplete slideshow.

  The vague image of a helicopter.

  A person screaming for him before being wiped out by a large explosion.

  Someone close.

  The pain and guilt that pumped through him wasn’t completely reserved for the Nabizada family. It was for someone he had left behind.

  Sam’s chances of returning to Lucy were slim and fast diminishing.

  The bus to the market town was to leave the next morning at sunrise. It was his only chance to get to somewhere remotely safe, where hopefully a fellow brother in arms would see him and take him back to safety.

  Back to Lucy.

  That bus was his ticket out of this nightmare and out of the hell he had fallen into.

  He wouldn’t be on it.

  Sam knew his body was broken, that the burns and cracks he had suffered had reduced him to a shell of the soldier he had always been.

  But he was built to survive.

  And while he couldn’t save Farhad, he would not break his promise. He would keep the two boys safe.

  Sam lowered Tahir to the ground as they approached the front door and offered him a caring smile. Tahir wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and shuffled with a slight embarrassment. Despite watching his father’s brutal murder, the boy was still ashamed to cry in front of Sam.

  He was the man of the house now.

  Sam spoke calmly as he stared at Tahir.

  ‘Tahir, I can’t tell you how to deal with the pain. I can’t tell you that you will ever forget what happened. But you have a young brother in there who needs you. Who needs to know you will look after him. Can you do that?’

  Tahir sniffed, his body shaking slightly, but he nodded. Sam reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. A sign of reassurance.

  Of pride.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, there is a bus that leaves for the market town. Take whatever you can, take Masood and make sure you get on that bus.’ Sam looked at the house. The ramshackled place Farhad had made their home. ‘You cannot stay here anymore. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tahir said angrily. ‘You’re not coming with us?’

  Sam retracted his hand and shot a glance over his shoulder to the horizon where the car had disappeared. His eyes then landed on the three men in the garden as they lifted Farhad’s body and respectfully walked at a careful pace.

  Sam’s eyes rested on the empty M4 Carbine.

  He turned back to Tahir.

  ‘No. I’ve got something to take care of.’ With a grimace, he turned back to Tahir, who regarded him with a mixture of gratitude and disdain. ‘Now, go and get me that ammo clip and you will never see me again.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Each step had been a struggle.

  Sam was under no illusion that he was in a bad way. The burns scorching the right side of his body hummed with pain, and every step shot a bolt of pain up through his spine and to his brain. His ribs ached. His shoulder ached.

  His heart ached.

  He had walked for over two miles, the village of Chakari a grey speck behind him. The sun hung above like a vulture, stalking Sam as he trudged towards a likely death.

  The guilt hung from him like a leaded necklace.

  Farhad was in the ground now, the local residents granting Sam’s final wish. He knew it was more out of fear than respect for the doctor, despite the man’s dedication to their health.

  Like Tahir, they had wanted Sam gone.

  Every moment he had remained in the town meant the possible return of their oppressors.

  Meant a high probability of death.

  Sam knew he was a magnet for violence. His profession had brought him to that fascinating edge of morality. He was trained to send a bullet through the skull of a man his superiors had deemed a target without flinching.

  In fact, he did it proudly.

  But watching a good man and a loving father meet the same demise had caused his heart to break. It had planted a seed of doubt for all the men that Sam had sent to the afterlife.

  The rough strap of the M4 Carbine chafed against Sam’s chest, the thin shirt Farhad had given him offering little protection. Underfoot, every crunch of the dry land caused him to wince.

  Sam should have been heading home. The lure of his wonderful girlfriend was strong. He should have been on the bus with Tahir and Masood, leaving behind this blood-soaked detour. But Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to, ironically due to one of the main things that drew Lucy to him.

&nbs
p; His compulsion to do the right thing.

  It was a trait that had seen him chastised by his commanding officers, especially Wallace, who lacked a single compassionate bone in his body. Sam’s current commander, Sergeant Carl Marsden, saw it as a necessary attribute.

  It was what separated Sam from the terrorists he hunted.

  And now, as the heat pressed down on him and the pain echoed through his body, it was what compelled him forward.

  To avenge those who had been wronged.

  To eliminate those responsible.

  Sam would survive. He was built for it.

  But as he saw the rising smoke of a campfire in the distance, he promised himself that the men responsible for the death of Farhad would not.

  As four of his men laughed around the campfire, the leader felt a wry smile form across his face. It had been a successful day. Strong leadership was necessary in the position he held as a recruiter for the Taliban and nothing sent the command of respect than a public execution. Fear was a powerful ally in his quest to dominate and the sight of him ending Dr Nabizada’s life would echo in the memories of all those who resided in the town.

  The shooter was there, he was sure of it and, when they returned tomorrow, he expected the man to be hand delivered.

  That would be the beginning of what would be a slow and arduous death for the infidel.

  He would let his men have their fun with him, for sure. They would beat him, torture him, maybe even rape him, but they wouldn’t kill him. They would pass him onto their leaders, who would most likely behead the soldier for the world to see. It would be another terrifying message sent to the western world, one which would have them shaking in their boots.

  The leader grinned, displaying his yellow stained teeth and raised the cigarette to his lips.

  To the right of the fire was a makeshift shelter, constructed of scrap metal and a few sheets of plastic tarp. Inside, a stack of automatic rifles lay on the tables, shielded from the hot sun.

  To the left, two more trusted followers were slicing vegetables, readying a meal.

  The leader was a deeply religious man and ensured that all his followers not only followed his orders but also his beliefs. He ensured they prayed at the same time, ate the right foods, and gave thanks to those who were worthy of worship.

  It was through his words and his strong, powerful delivery that he drew them from their villages, sold them on the cause, and recruited them to die for it.

  The only black mark on the day was the behavior of Tahir.

  The young boy had shown such promise, his anger bubbled beneath the surface like a ticking time bomb. However, the fury came not from the hideous way of the western world but from being separated from it.

  It was a drug that the leader knew many men had struggled to quit, but never had he encountered a young soldier who had grown up within the bright lights of the cities. There had been a few who had left their lives willingly, travelled back to the homeland and nobly joined the cause. But never had a young boy been pulled from an easy life and thrust into the middle of such a war.

  The boy’s anger came from where he was.

  Not where he had been.

  Over the previous weeks, the leader had felt he had made great progress with Tahir, shaping his mind and pushing his hatred down a different path.

  A darker path.

  When they watched the helicopter eviscerate the mountain face, the leader had demanded he be notified if the shooter was found.

  It was Tahir who brought him the good news.

  The young boy was willing to betray his father’s trust, just like his father had his. Apparently, Dr Nabizada had promised him they would return for two weeks. Now, Tahir never expected to return home.

  Therefore, the leader would offer him a new one.

  But instead of reveling in his own father’s demise, Tahir had resorted to tears, the regret of his actions clearly signaling that he was not ready for war.

  Not ready to be a man.

  It was a shame, but not the end.

  The boy would be waiting tomorrow, sat outside his home, waiting for them to arrive.

  The younger brother, sadly, wouldn’t be a viable recruit but they would ensure Tahir wasn’t watching when they disposed of that problem. It would be quick, at least.

  The thought of it sent a shudder down his spine, but the leader believed in the cause. Believed that what he and his followers were doing was for the good of the world.

  He took another drag on his cigarette, the smoke drifting past his headscarf and towards the hot, cloudless sky.

  His men were good men.

  They would never be soldiers, he knew that, but they were loyal as dogs.

  Watching them excitedly discussing the day’s events around the fire made his chest fill with pride.

  A gunshot cracked the jovial scene.

  The noise echoed in the distance and as the leader and his six men turned their attention to the direction, the sickening thud of a bullet embedding in flesh quickly followed.

  One of the men fell backwards, the bullet splitting the front of his skull on impact and exploding through the back, sending him sprawling to the ground and blood into the fire.

  Panic erupted around the campsite like volcano.

  After a millisecond of shock, the leader screamed furious orders at his men, realising that a man who could shoot that well would not be admiring the shot.

  He would be reloading.

  The reduced squadron scrambled to their feet, their panic causing them to collide with each other as they headed for the tarp covered haven.

  Another gunshot.

  And another.

  The bullets zipped through the plastic sheet like it was wet tissue paper.

  One of them missed everything.

  The other sliced through the neck of one of the men, who collapsed to the ground clutching at a throat that was no longer there. Thick, deep-red blood pumped out over his fingers as the other men reacted in a cacophony of terror and rage. They grabbed their weapons and the leader watched as his two most trusted men seemed to thrive on the situation, quickly arming their weapons and dashing around the corner of the hut towards the entrance of their camp which was just beyond two large boulders which offered them what was clearly inadequate protection. Another two men were shaking, and the leader sighed deeply as he reached for his own rifle.

  It had already ended one life today.

  He was more than happy for it to pull double duty.

  Offering the more shaken men some confidence, he barked at them to approach the entrance with the others.

  Before they could step forward, the leader’s loyalists squeezed their triggers, opening fire on whatever was before them.

  Behind a large rock was the shooter.

  The infidel.

  They yelled manically as they unloaded, their bullets zipping randomly into the horizon. As they emptied their clips the leader slowly retreated towards the back of the camp, ducking down behind an array of cracked rocks. He wedged the rifle into the gap and then peered his covered head just above.

  He watched his men fire wildly into the distance.

  Suddenly, the gun clicked empty. Panicked, they searched their robes for their replacement magazines.

  It didn’t matter.

  Beyond them, the shooter pushed himself up from behind the rock, his rifle expertly pressed against his shoulder, one eye closed. The other glared down the sight with fatal efficiency.

  He pulled the trigger.

  A blast of bullets riddled the first man at the entrance, ripping through his thigh, stomach, and chest with remarkable ease. Blood sprayed from each exit wound and the man collapsed to the ground, gasping for the air escaping his punctured lung and trying desperately to hold in his stomach before it fell to the ground.

  His friend slammed the new magazine into his rifle, but the shooter swiveled on the spot, his back straight and his aim strong.

  One bullet this time.


  After it passed out the back of the man’s skull, his body dropped limp and lifelessly to the blood covered stone below.

  The leader swallowed with fear.

  Beyond the last two of his terrified followers, the shooter slowly ventured around the rock, the rifle still clasped to his shoulder, the barrel facing the camp. With careful steps, the man approached, ready to eradicate them clinically and mercilessly.

  The leader had one final card to play.

  Steadying his voice, he demanded that the two cowering men face their death like men and to remember the cause.

  He demanded they stand up.

  They obliged.

  Gunshots echoed out and both men were soon dead, their bodies expertly riddled with bullets.

  The leader was alone.

  His men had all been eradicated, dispatched with a brutal efficiency that was both awe-inspiring and harrowing. While he knew they were often seen as dangerous people for their ideals and their actions, the leader desperately wished those who fear the Taliban could see this. Witness one of their own slaughter six men in the dead, empty wastelands of Afghanistan because they believed in something different.

  To show them that they were the real terrorists.

  Alas, the man would be seen as a hero whether he lived or died.

  The western Press made heroes of them all. Even those who drop bombs on innocent villages.

  The leader knew what he had to do to ensure a seat at the table in the afterlife and to show the world that their cause was one worth dying for.

  Death was almost a certainty, but the leader could negotiate the terms.

  The shooter’s boots crunched on the dried land of the camp, treading in the blood he had so easily spilled.

  The man was a weapon.

  A weapon of war.

  The leader held one hand tightly behind his back, held one hand up in the air, and stood slowly, begging for surrender.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The recoil of the rifle sent a shudder through Sam’s shoulder, the pain merging with the ongoing agony in his right side. The fifth man had fallen quickly, the three-bullet burst Sam rattled him with had turned him inside out.